A Suitable Vengeance

“Do.” Lady Helen came to look over her shoulder. “I’m beginning to admire her. Here I am, so attached to my appearance that I wouldn’t even consider venturing anywhere without at least one vanity case crammed to the brim with cosmetics. And there she is. The all-or-nothing woman. Either casual to a fault or dressed to…” Lady Helen faltered.

Deborah looked up. Her mouth felt dry. “Helen, she couldn’t have killed him.” Yet even as she said it, her discomfort grew. What, after all, did she know about Tina? Nothing really, beyond a single conversation which had revealed little more than a weakness for men, an affinity for nightlife, and a concern about ageing. Still one could certainly sense evil in people, no matter their attempts to disguise it. One could certainly sense the potential for rage. And none of that had been present in Tina. Yet as she considered Mick Cambrey’s death and the very fact of his presence in Tina Cogin’s life, Deborah had to admit that she wasn’t so sure.

She reached blindly for the folder as if it contained a verification of Tina’s lack of guile. Prospects was printed across the tab. Inside, a clip held together a sheaf of papers.

“What is it?” Lady Helen asked.

“Names and addresses. Telephone numbers.”

“Her client list?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Look. There are at least a hundred names. Women as well as men.”

“A mailing list?”

“I suppose it might be. There’s a savings book as well.” Deborah slid this out of its plastic folder.

“Tell all,” Lady Helen said. “Is her lifestyle profitable? Shall I change my line of work?”

Deborah read the list of deposits, flipped back to the name. She felt a rush of surprise. “This isn’t hers,” she said. “It belongs to Mick Cambrey. And whatever he was doing, it was wildly profitable.”



“Mr. Allcourt-St. James? This is a pleasure.” Dr. Alice Waters rose from her chair and shooed off the lab assistant who had shown St. James to her office. “I thought I recognised you at Howenstow this morning. Hardly the time for introductions, however. What brings you to my den?”

It was an apt choice of words, for the office of Penzance CID’s forensic pathologist was little more than a windowless cubicle on the verge of being overcome by bookshelves, an ancient roll-top desk, a medical school skeleton wearing a World War II gas mask, and stacks of scientific journals. All that remained of the floor space was a trail that led from the doorway to the desk. A chair sat next to this—curiously out of place and intricately carved in a design of flowers and birds that was more suggestive of a country house dining room than a department of forensic pathology—and after offering St. James her hand in a cool, firm shake, she waved him into it.

“Take the throne,” she said. “Circa 1675. It was a good period for chairs if one doesn’t mind a bit of excessive ornamentation.”

“You’re a collector?”

“Takes one’s mind off the job.” She sank into her own chair—a piece of wounded leather whose surface was cracked and wrinkled—and rooted through the papers on her desk until she found a small carton of chocolates which she presented to him. When he had made his selection, a process she watched with a good deal of interest, she took a chocolate herself, biting into it with the satisfaction of a discerning gourmet. “Just read your piece on A-B-O secretors last week,” she said. “I hardly thought I’d be having the pleasure of meeting you as well. Have you come about this Howenstow business?”

“The Cambrey death, actually.”

Behind her large-framed spectacles, Dr. Waters’ eyebrows rose. She finished her chocolate, wiped her fingers on the lapel of her lab coat, and took a folder from beneath an African violet that looked as if it hadn’t been watered in months.

“Not the smallest indication of activity for weeks, and suddenly I’ve two corpses on my hands in less than forty-eight hours.” She flipped the folder open, read for a moment, then snapped it shut. She reached for a skull which grinned at them from one of the bookshelves and dislodged a paper-clip from its eye socket. It had obviously been a demonstration piece in many previous explanations, for pen marks dotted it liberally and a large red X had at one time been drawn directly upon the squamosal suture. “Two blows to the head. He took the more severe of the two here on the parietal region. A fracture resulted.”

“Have you an idea of the weapon?”

“I wouldn’t say weapon so much as source. He fell against something.”

“He couldn’t have been struck?”

She took another chocolate, shaking her head and pointing to the skull. “Look at where the fracture would be, my good man. He wasn’t overly tall—between five-eight and five-nine—but he’d have to be sitting for anyone to hit him there with enough force to kill him.”

“Someone creeping up on him?”

“Couldn’t have happened. The blow didn’t come from above. Even if it had, to have placed a blow there, the killer would have had to stand in such a way that Cambrey would have seen him in his peripheral vision. He would have made an attempt to block the blow in some way and we’d have evidence on the body. Bruising or abrasions. But we’ve neither.”