A Suitable Vengeance

“It’s a private matter, concerning your family.” Brooke canted his head towards St. James, an indication of his desire that this conference be held out of the other man’s presence. St. James made a move to go.

“No, it’s fine,” Lynley said to him, finding himself perversely unwilling to allow Brooke the degree of control that would be implied by St. James’ departure. There was something about the man that he didn’t like: an ease of manner contravened by a flicker of malice in his expression.

Brooke reached for the decanter of whisky and Nancy’s glass that were standing on a circular table next to his chair. He poured himself some, saying, “Very well then. I could use a drink. You?” He held the decanter first to Lynley, then to St. James. There were no other glasses in the room, so the invitation was meaningless, as Brooke no doubt knew. He drank appreciatively, said, “Good stuff,” and poured himself more. “Word came back to the drawing room fast enough that Penellin’s been arrested. But Penellin couldn’t have killed this Mick Cambrey.”

It was certainly not the sort of pronouncement which Lynley had been expecting. “If you know something about this affair, you need to tell the police. It’s only indirectly my concern.”

Brooke said, “It’s more direct than you think.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your brother.”

The clink of decanter upon glass seemed unnaturally grating and loud, as Brooke took more whisky. Lynley refused to think the patently unthinkable, or to draw the conclusion for which those two simple words asked.

“People in the drawing room just now were saying Penellin had an argument with Cambrey before his death. That was the main cause for suspicion, they said. Someone had heard about it in the village today.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with my brother.”

“Everything, I’m afraid. Mick Cambrey didn’t have an argument with Penellin. Or if he did, it didn’t compare with the row he had with Peter.”

Lynley stared at the man. He felt a sudden urge to throw him from the room and recognised how closely the desire was tied to an incipient dread and to the unwanted realisation that somehow this piece of information was not a surprise to him.

“What are you talking about? How do you know?”

“I was with him,” Brooke replied. “And it was after Penellin. Cambrey said that much.”

Lynley reached for a chair. “The story, please,” he said with marked courtesy.

“Right.” Brooke nodded his approval. “Sid and I had a bit of a blowup yesterday. She didn’t much want to see me last night. So I went into the village. With Peter.”

“Why?”

“For something to do, mainly. Peter was low on cash and he wanted to borrow some. He said he knew a bloke who’d be dealing with money that night, so we went to see him. It was Cambrey.”

Lynley’s eyes narrowed. “What did he need money for?”

Brooke tossed a look in St. James’ direction before he replied, as if he expected a reaction from that quarter. “He wanted some coke.”

“And he took you with him? Wasn’t that rather shortsighted?”

“It was safe enough. Peter knew he could trust me.” Brooke seemed to feel a more direct revelation was in order. “Look, I’d a stash with me yesterday, and I’d given him some. It was gone. We wanted more. But I didn’t have any more money than he did, so we were on the look for it. We wanted to get high.”

“I see. You’ve managed to get to know my brother with remarkable ease this weekend.”

“People get to know others when their interests are the same.”

“Quite. Yes.” Lynley ignored the need to clench his fist, to strike. “Did Mick lend him money?”

“He wouldn’t hear of it. That’s what started the row. Peter could see it—I could see it—right there on his desk in six or ten stacks. But he wouldn’t part with as much as two quid.”

“What happened then?”

Brooke grimaced. “Hell, I didn’t even know this bloke. When Mick and Peter started in, I just left the place. I would have liked the dope, yes. But I didn’t want to get into a brawl.”

“What did you do when you left?”

“Wandered round a bit till I found the pub. Had a drink and hitched a ride back later.”

“Hitched a ride? With whom?”

“Farmer and his wife.” Brooke grinned and added unnecessarily, “By the smell of them. Dairy, I’d guess.”

“And Peter?”

“I left him arguing with Cambrey.”

“Where was Sasha all this time?”

“Here. She and Peter’d gone round about a promise he’d made in London to get her some dope on his own. I think she was waiting for him to make good.”

“What time did you leave the cottage?” St. James asked. His expression was stony.

Brooke looked at the room’s white cornice, fixated upon its egg and dart pattern. Thinking, remembering, or playing at both. “It was ten when I got to the pub. I remember that. I checked the time.”