A Suitable Vengeance

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice.”


“Did he say anything?”

“He was restless. He said he couldn’t sleep. He’s like that sometimes. He’s been like that before. We make love and he gets all wound up. Sometimes he wants to do it again right away.”

“But not Saturday night?”

“He said he thought he could sleep better in his own room.”

“Did he dress?”

“Did he…yes, he dressed.” She drew the conclusion herself. “So he was meeting Peter. Because why would he have dressed when his own room was right across the hall? And he did dress, Simon. His shoes and socks, his trousers and shirt. Everything but his tie.” She clenched at the material of her skirt. “Peter’s bed wasn’t slept in. I heard that this morning. Justin didn’t fall. You know he didn’t fall.”

St. James didn’t argue with her. He reflected upon the possibilities suggested by the simple act of donning clothes. If Peter Lynley had wanted to have an innocent conversation with Brooke, it would have been more sensible for them to have had it somewhere in the house. If, on the other hand, he had wanted to be rid of Brooke, far wiser to do it in a location where it would look like an accident. But if that were the case, why on earth would Justin agree to meet Peter anywhere alone?

“Sid, it doesn’t make sense. Justin wasn’t a fool. Why would he agree to meet Peter at the cliff? And in the middle of the night? After his conversation with Tommy, for all he knew, Peter was out for his blood.” Then he thought about Friday afternoon’s scene on the beach. “Unless, of course, Peter got him down there on false pretences. With some sort of bait.”

“What?”

“Sasha?”

“That’s absurd.”

“Then cocaine. They’d gone to Nanrunnel looking for it. Perhaps that was the carrot Peter used.”

“It wouldn’t have worked. Justin wasn’t going to use any longer. Not after what happened between us on the beach. He apologised for that. He said he was off it. He wouldn’t use again.”

St. James could not keep the scepticism from his face. He saw the hard edge of his sister’s features begin to disintegrate as she read his reaction.

“He promised, Simon. You didn’t know him as I did. You wouldn’t understand. But if he promised when we were making love…especially when…There were certain things he liked me to do.”

“My God, Sidney.”

She began to cry. “Of course. My God, Sidney. What else can you say? Why should you of all people even begin to understand? You’ve never been close to feeling anything for anyone. Why on earth should you? After all, you’ve got science. You don’t have to feel passion. You can feel busy instead. With projects and conferences and lectures and the guidance of all those future pathologists who come to worship at your knee.”

Here was the need to wound that he’d recognised before. Still, it came out of nowhere. He hadn’t expected it. And whether the attack was accurate or not, he found that he could not summon a response.

Sidney drew a hand across her eyes. “I’m leaving. Just tell little Peter when you find him that I have lots to discuss with him. Believe me, I can hardly wait for the opportunity.”



Trenarrow’s house was easy enough to find, for it sat just off the upper reaches of Paul Lane on the outskirts of the village, the largest structure within view. By the standards of Howenstow, it was a humble enough dwelling. But in comparison to the cottages that stacked one upon the other on the hillside beneath it, the villa was very grand, with broad bay windows overlooking the harbour and a stand of poplar trees acting like a backdrop against which the house’s ashlar walls and white woodwork were displayed to some considerable effect.

With Cotter at the wheel of the Rover, St. James saw the villa at once as they came over the last rise of the coastal road and began their descent into Nanrunnel. They wound past the harbour, the village shops, the tourist flats. At the Anchor and Rose, they made the turn onto Paul Lane. Here debris from yesterday’s storm littered the pitted asphalt: rubbish from cottage dustbins, assorted food wrappers and tins, a wrecked sign that once had advertised cream teas. The road twisted on itself and climbed above the village, where it was strewn with broken foliage from hedges and shrubs. Pools of rainwater reflected the sky.

A narrow drive branching north off Paul Lane was discreetly marked The Villa. Fuchsias lined it, drooping heavily over a dry-stone wall. Behind this, a terraced garden covered much of the hillside where a carefully plotted, meandering path led upward to the house, through beds of phlox and nemesia, bellflowers and cyclamen.

The drive ended in a curve round a hawthorn tree, and Cotter parked beneath it, a few yards from the front door. A doric-columned portico sheltered this, with two urns of vermilion pelargoniums standing on either side.