A Suitable Vengeance

Beauty, contemplation, the colours of the sky, a sudden new idea, the sight of a swan. He knew, had always known. And he needed to forget. His bedroom door opened, promising escape. Sidney entered, but with the wardrobe door obstructing his vision, Cotter didn’t seem to notice that he and St. James were no longer alone.

“You can’t say you feel nothing,” Cotter asserted vigorously. “I c’n see it all over you. I have done for ages, no matter what you say.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Sidney asked.

Cotter swung the wardrobe door home. He looked from St. James to his sister, then back to St. James.

“I’ll see to the car,” he said abruptly, excused himself, and left them alone.

“What was that about?” Sidney asked.

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

“It was.”

“I see.”

She remained by the door, the knob beneath her hand. St. James felt a stirring of concern at the sight of her. She looked caught somewhere between numb and ill, with blue-black crescents beneath her eyes providing the only colour on her face and her eyes themselves holding no expression, reflecting rather than absorbing the light. She wore a faded denim skirt and an oversized pullover. Her hair looked uncombed.

“I’m off,” she said. “Daze’s taking me to the station.”

What had seemed reasonable only last night seemed out of the question when he saw his sister in the light of day. “Why don’t you stay, Sid? I can take you home myself later on.”

“This is best. I really want to go. It’s better this way.”

“But the station will be—”

“I’ll take a cab home. I’ll be all right.” She turned the knob of the door, as if experimentally. “I understand Peter’s missing,” she said.

“Yes.” St. James told her what had happened since he’d taken her to her room the previous morning. She listened without looking at him. As he spoke, he could sense her increasing tension, and he knew that it took its definition from an anger growing out of her comment about Peter Lynley. After the docility which shock had produced in her yesterday, he wasn’t prepared for the change even though he knew that her anger was natural, a need to strike out and wound so that someone, somehow, would feel some of her pain. The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing, beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it—be they family, friends, or even an entire nation—no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone. How much worse for Sidney, who was experiencing it alone, who was the sole mourner of Justin Brooke.

“How convenient,” she said when he’d completed his story.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he told me.”

“Told you?”

“Justin told me, Simon. Everything. About Peter’s being at Mick Cambrey’s cottage. About the row Mick and Peter had. He told me. He told me. All right? Am I being clear?” She didn’t move beyond the door. Had she done so, had she flung herself into the room, had she begun to tear at curtains and bedclothes, had she dashed the single vase of flowers to the floor, St. James would have felt less disturbed. All of those behaviours were decidedly Sidney. This was not. Only her voice gave testimony to the state of her spirit, and even it was only a fraction away from being perfectly controlled. “I told him that he had to tell you or Tommy,” she went on. “Once John Penellin was arrested, I told him he had to say something. He couldn’t keep quiet. It was his duty, I said. He had to tell the truth. But he didn’t want to get involved. He knew he’d be making things bad for Peter. But I insisted. I said, ‘If someone saw John Penellin at Gull Cottage, then someone probably saw you and Peter as well.’ Better come forward with the story, I told him, rather than let the police drag it out of some neighbour.”

“Sid—”

“But he was worried because he’d left Peter with Mick. He was worried because Peter was getting wild about the cocaine. He was worried because he didn’t know what had happened after he left them. But I convinced him that he had to speak to Tommy. So he did. Now he’s dead. And how perfectly convenient that Peter’s disappeared just at a moment when we all have so many questions we’d like to put to him.”

St. James crossed the room to her and shut the door. “CID think Justin’s death was an accident, Sid. They’ve nothing at all to suggest it was murder.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Was he with you Saturday night?”

“Of course he was with me.” She flung her head back and stated it like a fine point of honour. “We made love. He wanted to. He came to me. I didn’t ask him. He came to me.”

“What excuse did he give for leaving you afterwards?”

Her nostrils flared. “He loved me, Simon. He wanted me. We were good together. But you can’t accept that, can you?”

“Sid, I don’t want to argue about—”

“Can you? Can you?”

Somewhere in the corridor two women were talking, having a mild argument over who would vacuum and who would clean the baths. Their voices grew louder for a moment, then faded away as they descended the stairs.

“What time did he leave you?”