A Suitable Vengeance

“Damn and blast,” Lynley muttered. “What next?” He put his arm round Deborah’s shoulders and hugged her to him briefly before he knelt next to the stool and gazed into her face.

His own, she could see, was lined by fatigue. He didn’t look as if he’d slept at all the previous night. She knew how worried he must be about John Penellin, and she felt a twinge of shame that she should be causing him additional distress.

“Deb darling,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

So he knew that the cameras had been stolen. Unlike Lady Helen, he didn’t even offer the excuse that the equipment had somehow been misplaced.

“When did you last see them, Deborah?” St. James asked.

Lynley touched her hair, smoothed it back from her face. Deborah could smell the clean, fresh scent of his skin. He hadn’t smoked yet, and she liked the smell of him when he hadn’t yet had his first cigarette. If she could concentrate on Tommy, everything else would go away.

“Did you see them last night when you went to bed?” St. James persisted.

“They were here yesterday morning. I remember that because I replaced the camera I’d used at the play. Everything was here, right by the dressing table.”

“And you don’t remember seeing them after that? You didn’t use them during the day?”

“I didn’t use them. I wasn’t even in the room until it was time to dress for the party. I might have noticed them then. I ought to have. I was in here, after all. I was right by the dressing table. But I didn’t notice them last night at all. Did you, Simon?”

Lynley got to his feet. His glance went from Deborah to St. James in a curious look, perplexed but nothing more.

“I’m sure they were here,” St. James said. “It was your old metal case, wasn’t it?” When she nodded, he said, “I saw it by the dressing table.”

“Saw it by the dressing table.” Lynley repeated the comment more to himself than to the others. He looked at the spot on the floor. He looked at St. James. He looked at the bed.

“When, St. James?” He asked the question easily, three simple words. But the fact of his saying them and the deliberation of their tone added a new dimension to the conversation.

Lady Helen said, “Tommy, shouldn’t we be off to the train?”

“When did you see the camera case, St. James? Yesterday? The evening? Sometime during the night? When? Were you alone? Or was Deborah—”

“Tommy,” Lady Helen said.

“No. Let him answer.”

St. James didn’t reply. Deborah reached for Lynley’s arm. She looked to Lady Helen in eloquent entreaty.

“Tommy,” Lady Helen said, “this isn’t—”

“I said let him answer.”

A moment passed, a small eternity before St. James gave an emotionless recitation of the facts. “Helen and I managed to get a picture of Mick Cambrey yesterday from his father, Tommy. I brought it to Deborah before dinner last night. I saw her camera case then.”

Lynley stared at him. A long breath left his body. “Christ,” he said. “I’m sorry. That was so bloody stupid. I can’t think what made me say it.”

St. James could have smiled. He could have brushed off the apology or laughed off the implied insult as an understandable error. He did nothing, said nothing. He looked only at Deborah, and even then it was a glance of a moment before he looked away.

As if seeking to relieve the situation, Lady Helen said, “Were they terribly valuable, Deborah?”

“They’re worth hundreds of pounds.” Deborah went to the window where the light would be behind her, leaving her face in shadow. She could feel the blood pounding in her chest, on her neck, on her cheeks. She wanted, absurdly, to do nothing more than cry.

“Then someone must hope to sell them. But not in Cornwall, I dare say, at least not locally where they could be tracked down. Perhaps in Bodmin or Exeter or even in London. And if that’s the case, they’d have been taken last night, during the party, I should guess. After John Penellin was arrested, things did tend to fall apart, didn’t they? People were coming and going from the drawing room all the rest of the evening.”

“And not everyone was in the drawing room in the first place,” Deborah said. She thought of Peter Lynley and the cruelty of his toast at dinner. What better person to want to hurt her than Peter? What better way to get at Tommy than by hurting her?

St. James looked at his watch. “You ought to get Helen and Deborah to the train,” he told Lynley. “There’s no real point to their remaining, is there? We can deal with the cameras ourselves.”

“That’s best,” Lady Helen agreed. “I suddenly find myself absolutely longing for the soot and grime of London, my dears.” She walked towards the door, briefly grasping St. James’ hand as she passed him.

When St. James started to follow her, Lynley spoke. “Simon. Forgive me. I have no excuse.”

“Except your brother and John Penellin. Exhaustion and worry. It doesn’t matter, Tommy.”

“It does. I feel a perfect fool.”

St. James shook his head, but his face was drawn. “It’s nothing. Please. Forget it.” He left the room.