A Suitable Vengeance

“I imagine so.”


“What a disappointment. To think one’s clever and to find out just the opposite.” He turned from the fireplace for the first time and held his glass up in a rakish salute. “The best, Tommy. Weren’t you lucky to have found her.”

At that, Lynley noticed his brother’s eyes. They were unnaturally bright. He felt a twinge of apprehension. Stifling it, he merely said thank you, and watched as Peter wandered to the desk that abutted the wide bay window. There, he began to play with the items arranged on the leather-edged blotter, spinning the letter opener on its ivory handle, lifting the top of an empty silver inkstand, joggling a rack of cherrywood pipes. Still sipping his whisky, he picked up a photograph of their grandparents and yawned as he idly studied their faces.

Seeing this and knowing it for what it was—an attempt to construct a barrier of indifference—Lynley realised there was no point in temporising. “I’d like to ask you about the mill.”

Peter replaced the photograph and picked at a worn spot on the back of the armchair that sat before the desk. “What about the mill?”

“You’ve been using it, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been there in ages. I’ve been by it, of course, to get down to the cove. But I’ve not been inside. Why?”

“You know the answer to that.”

Peter’s face remained blank as Lynley spoke, but a muscle spasm pulled at the corner of his mouth. He made his way to a row of university photographs that decorated one of the walls. He began gliding from one to the next as if he were seeing them for the very first time.

“Every Lynley for one hundred years,” he remarked, “crewing at Oxford. What a black sheer I’ve been.” He came to a blank spot on the wall and touched the palm of his hand to the panel. “Even Father had his day, didn’t he, Tommy? But of course, we can’t have his picture here. It wouldn’t do if Father were able to look down from the walls and observe our wicked ways.”

Lynley refused to allow the honeyed words to provoke him. “I’d like to talk about the mill.”

Peter threw back the rest of his whisky, put his glass on a lowboy, and continued his perusal. He stopped before the most recent photograph and flicked his index finger against his brother’s picture. His nail snapped sharply upon the glass like a slap in miniature.

“Even you, Tommy. You’ve fit the mould. A Lynley to be proud of. You’re a regular swell.”

Lynley felt his chest tighten. “I’ve no control over the kind of life you’ve chosen to lead in London,” he said, hoping to sound reasonable and knowing how poor a job he made of it. “You’ve chucked Oxford? Fine. You’ve your own digs? Fine. You’ve taken up with this…with Sasha? Fine. But not here, Peter. I won’t have this business at Howenstow. Is that clear?”

Peter turned from the wall, cocking his head slightly. “You won’t have it? You drop into our lives once or twice a year to announce what you will and won’t have, is that it? And this is just one of those momentous occasions.”

“How often I’m here makes no difference to anything. I’m responsible for Howenstow, for every person on the grounds. And I’ve no intention of putting up with the sort of filth—”

“Oh, I see. Some local drug action’s going on at the mill, and you’ve placed me at the centre in your best DI fashion. Well. Nice job. Have you dusted for prints? Found a lock of my hair? Did I leave behind spittle for you to analyse?” Peter shook his head in eloquent disgust. “You’re a fool. If I want to use, I sure as hell won’t go all the way down to the mill. I’ve nothing to hide. From you or from anyone.”

“There’s more than using going on and you know it. You’re in over your head.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The disingenuous question rubbed Lynley raw. “You’re bringing it onto the estate. That’s what it means. You’re cutting it in the mill. That’s what it means. You’re taking it to London. To use. To sell. Have I painted the picture well enough for you? God in heaven, Peter, if Mother knew, it would kill her.”

“And wouldn’t that be convenient for you? No more worrying about whether she’s going to disgrace you by running off with Roderick. No more wondering how much time he’s been spending in her bed. If she’d only have the good grace to drop dead because of me, you might even celebrate by bringing Father’s photographs back. But that’d be a tough one, wouldn’t it, Tommy? Because you’d have to stop acting like such a bleeding little prig and how on earth could you ever manage it?”