A Suitable Vengeance

“You’re not sealing Wheal Maen!” The exclamation rose like a wail, emitted from Lady Augusta, Lynley’s maiden aunt. His father’s sister had always maintained a proprietary interest and watchful eye over Howenstow. As she spoke, she cast a look of outrage upon John Penellin on her right, who remained detached from the conversation.

St. James had been surprised to see Penellin among the guests. Surely a death in the family would have been excuse enough to allow him to beg off a dinner party in which he appeared to have little interest. The estate manager had spoken less than ten words during drinks in the hall, spending most of the time standing at the window and gazing gravely in the direction of the lodge. However, from what he had seen and heard last night, St. James knew Penellin had no love for his son-in-law. So perhaps it was his indifference to Mick Cambrey which prompted him to take part in the gathering. Or perhaps it was an act of loyalty to the Lynleys. Or a behaviour he wished to be seen as such.

Lady Augusta was continuing. She was a woman wells-killed in the art of dinner table dialogue, devoting half her time to the right, the other to the left, and throwing a remark right down the centre whenever she deemed it appropriate. “It’s bad enough that Wheal Maen must be closed. But cows were actually grazing in the park when I arrived! Good heavens, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My father must be spinning in his grave. I don’t understand the reason, Mr. Penellin.”

Penellin looked up from his wine glass. “The mine’s too close to the road. The main shaft’s flooded. It’s safer to seal it.”

“Piffle!” Lady Augusta proclaimed. “Those mines are individual works of art. You know as well as I that at least two of our mines have beam-engines that are perfectly intact. People want to see that sort of thing, you know. People pay to see it.”

“Guided tours, Aunt?” Lynley asked.

“Just the thing!”

“With everyone wearing those wonderful cyclops hats with little torches attached to their foreheads,” Lady Helen said.

“Yes, of course.” Lady Augusta rapped the table sharply with her fork. “We don’t want the Trust here, sniffing round for another Lanhydrock, putting everyone out of house and home, do we? Do we?” She gave a quick nod, accepting no response as agreement. “Quite. We don’t. But what other way do we have of avoiding those little beasts than by dealing with the tourist trade ourselves, my dears? We must make repairs, we must open the mines, we must allow tours. Children love tours. They’ll be wild to go down. They’ll give their parents no peace until they’ve had a look.”

“It’s an interesting idea,” Lynley said. “But I’ll only consider it on one condition.”

“What’s that, Tommy dear?”

“That you run the tea shop.”

“That I…” Her mouth closed abruptly.

“In a white cap,” Lynley went on. “Dressed as a milkmaid.”

Lady Augusta pressed against the back of her chair and laughed with the heartiness of a woman who knew she’d been bested, if only for the moment. “You naughty boy,” she said and dipped into her soup.

Conversation ebbed and flowed through the remainder of the meal. St. James caught only snatches here and there. Lady Asherton and Cotter talking about a large brass charger, caparisoned and prancing, that hung on the room’s east wall; Lady Helen relating to Dr. Trenarrow an amusing tale of mistaken identity at a long ago house party attended by her father; Justin Brooke and Sidney laughing together over a remark Lady Augusta made about Lynley’s childhood; the Plymouth MP and the Reverend Mrs. Sweeney wandering in a maze of confusion in which he discussed the need for economic development and she responded with a dreamy reverie about bringing the film industry to Cornwall apparently in order to feature herself in a starring role; Mr. Sweeney—when his eyes were not feasting upon his spouse—murmuring vague responses to the MP’s wife, who was speaking about each of her grandchildren in turn. Only Peter and Sasha kept their voices low, their heads together, their attention on each other.

Thus the company moved smoothly towards the end of the meal. This was heralded by the presentation of the pudding, a flaming concoction that looked as if its intended purpose was to conclude the dinner by means of a conflagration. When it had been duly served and devoured, Lynley got to his feet. He brushed back his hair in a boyish gesture.