A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(102)

“Overdose,” Lynley said. “What’s she taken, Peter?”

He went back to his brother. St. James remained with the body. The hypodermic, he noticed, was empty, the plunger down, as if she’d mainlined a substance that had killed her in an instant. It was hard to believe. He looked for some indication of what she had taken to bring about such a death. There was nothing on the packing crate next to the bed, save an empty glass with a tarnished spoon inside it and a residue of white powder on its rim. The bed itself held nothing other than the corpse. He stepped back, looking on the floor between the bed and the crate. And then, with a rush of horror, he saw it.

A silver bottle lay on its side, almost out of sight. It spilled forth a white powder, undoubtedly the same substance which clung to the rim of the glass, the same substance which ended Sasha Nifford’s life. Unprepared for the sight, St. James felt his heart begin to pound. He felt burned all at once by a sudden heat. He refused to believe it.

The bottle was Sidney’s.





CHAPTER 21


Get control of yourself, Peter,” Lynley was saying to his brother. He took Peter’s arm, pulling him to his feet. Peter clung to him, weeping. “What’s she taken?”

St. James stared at the bottle. He could hear Sidney’s voice with utter clarity. She might have been standing right there in the room. “We drove him home,” she had said. “Squalid little flat in Whitechapel.” And then later, more damning and completely undeniable, “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.”

In the light from the lamp the bottle glinted, winking at him and demanding recognition. He gave it, admitted it without hesitation. For from where he stood, St. James could see part of the engraving that comprised her initials, and he’d insisted upon the delicacy of that engraving himself because he’d given the bottle to his sister four years ago on her twenty-first birthday.

“You were my favourite brother. I loved you best.”

There was no time. He did not have the luxury in which to consider his various options and weigh the relative morality of each. He could only act or let her face the police. He chose to act, bending, reaching out his hand.

“Good. You’ve found it,” Lynley said, coming to his side. “It looks like—” He suddenly seemed to recognise the significance of St. James’ posture, of his outstretched hand. Certainly, St. James thought, from the chill that had rapidly followed the heat in his body, Lynley must have seen something in the pallor of his face. For directly after his words faded away, Lynley drew St. James back from the bed. “Don’t protect him for my sake,” he said quietly. “That’s finished, St. James. I meant what I said in the car. If it’s heroin, I can only help Peter by allowing him to face the consequences. I’m going to telephone the Met.” He walked from the room.

Heat returned, a wave of it. St. James felt it on his face and in his joints. Oblivious of Peter, who leaned against the wall, weeping into his hands, he moved woodenly to the window. He fumbled behind the bedsheet curtain to open it, only to find that sometime in the past it had been painted shut. The room was stifling.

Less than twenty-four hours, he thought. The bottle was marked with the silversmith’s identification, a small, fanciful escutcheon worked into its base. It wouldn’t take long for the police to trace the piece back to Jermyn Street where he’d bought it. Then, it would be a simple matter. They would go through the files and look at orders. These they would compare to the bottle itself. After making some telephone calls to patrons, they would follow up with discreet enquiries at those patrons’ homes. The most he could hope for was twenty-four hours.

Dimly, he heard Lynley’s voice, speaking into the telephone in the hallway, and nearer, the sound of Peter’s weeping. Above that, the harsh grating of stertorous breathing rose and fell. He recognised it as his own.

“They’re on their way.” Lynley closed the door behind him. He crossed the room. “Are you all right, St. James?”

“Yes. Quite.” To prove this beyond doubt, he moved—it took an effort of will—away from the window. Lynley had dumped the clothes from the room’s only chair and placed it at the foot of the bed, its back towards the body.

“The police are on their way,” he repeated. Firmly, he led his brother to the chair and sat him down. “There’s a bottle of something over by the sofa that’s likely to get you arrested, Peter. We’ve only a few minutes to talk.”

“I didn’t see a bottle. It isn’t mine.” Peter wiped his nose on his arm.

“Tell me what happened. Where have you been since Saturday night?”

Peter squinted as if the light hurt his eyes. “I’ve been nowhere.”

“Don’t play games with me.”

“Games? I’m telling—”

“You’re on your own in this. Are you capable of understanding that? You’re entirely on your own. So you can tell me the truth or talk to the police. Frankly, I don’t care one way or the other.”

“I’m telling you the truth. We’ve been nowhere but here.”

“How long have you been back?”

“Since Saturday. Sunday. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”