A Suitable Vengeance

“How was he dressed?”


Boscowan’s shoulders lifted, a partial acknowledgement of the accuracy of Lynley’s question. “In his evening clothes. But no one’s to say he wasn’t up until dawn with one member of the party or another. Until we have a time of death, we can be certain of nothing. Except the fact that he’s dead. And we’re certain of that.” He nodded and joined his men by the trolley.

“A thousand and one questions he’s not asking, St. James,” Lynley said.

The other man listed them. “Who saw him last? Has anyone else gone missing from the estate? Who was here at the party? Who else was on the grounds? Is there any reason why someone might want to harm him?”

“Why isn’t he asking?”

“He’s waiting for the postmortem, I should guess. It’s to his advantage that this be an accident.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s got his man for Cambrey’s murder. And John Penellin couldn’t have killed Brooke.”

“You’re implying there’s a connection.”

“There is. There must be.” A blur of movement on the drive outside caught their attention. “Jasper,” St. James noted.

The old man was trudging through puddles, heading towards the west wing of the house.

“Let’s see what he has to say,” Lynley said.

They found him just outside the servants’ hall where he was shaking the rain off a battered sou’wester. He did the same to an antique mackintosh and hung both on a wall peg before he struggled out of dark green gumboots that were caked with mud. He nodded curtly at Lynley and St. James, and when he was quite ready, followed them back to the smoking room, where he accepted a whisky to ward off the cold.

“Nowheres to be found,” he told Lynley. “But ’r boat’s gone from Lamorna Cove.”

“It’s what?” Lynley said. “Jasper, are you certain?”

“Course I be certain. ’Tain’t there.”

Lynley stared at the fox on the overmantel and tried to understand, but all that came to mind were details. They refused to coalesce. The family’s thirty-five-foot sloop was docked at Lamorna. Peter had been sailing since he was five years old. The weather had been promising a storm all day. No one with any sense or experience would have taken a boat out. “It must have broken loose of its mooring somehow.”

Jasper made a sound of derision, but his face was blank when Lynley swung towards him again. “Where else did you check?”

“Ever’place. ’Tween Nanrunnel and Treen.”

“Trewoofe? St. Buryan? Did you go inland?”

“Aye. A bit. No need t’ go far, m’lord. If the lad be on foot, someone’s like to see him. But no one makes the claim.” Jasper pulled on his jaw, rubbing his fingers through the stubble of his beard. “Way I see, either him and the lady’s in hiding round here or they got a ride direct soon’s they left Howenstow. Or they took the boat.”

“He wouldn’t have done it. He knows better than that. He’s not entirely…” Lynley stopped. There was no need for Jasper to hear the worst of his fears. No doubt the man knew every one of them already. “Thank you, Jasper. Make sure you get something to eat.”

The old man nodded and headed for the door. He paused at the threshold, however. “John Penellin got took last night, I hear.”

“Yes. He did.”

Jasper’s mouth worked, as if he wished to say more but was hesitant to do so.

“What is it?” Lynley asked.

“He oughtn’t take blame for nobody, you ask me,” Jasper said and left them.

“What more does Jasper know?” St. James asked when they were alone.

Lynley was staring at the carpet, lost in thought. He roused himself to say, “Nothing, I should guess. It’s just what he feels.”

“About John?”

“Yes. Peter as well. If there’s guilt to be assessed, Jasper knows where it should lie.” Lynley had never felt so incapable of either action or decision. It seemed as if his life were spinning out of control and all he could do was watch the various pieces fly haphazardly into space. All he could say was, “He wouldn’t take the boat. Not in this weather. Where would he go? And why?”

He heard St. James move and looked up to see the compassion on his face. “Perhaps he’s still somewhere on the estate, Tommy. Perhaps he doesn’t even know what’s happened and his disappearance is altogether unconnected to Justin Brooke.”

“And to the cameras?”

“To those as well.”

Lynley looked away, to the pictures on the wall, all those generations of Lynleys who fit the mould, did their crewing at Oxford, and took their places at Howenstow without a single howl of protest.

“I don’t believe that, St. James. Not for a moment. Do you?”

His friend sighed. “Frankly? No.”





CHAPTER 16