A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(115)

St. James thought he knew the answer to both those questions.



Deborah was eating an apple when she entered the study ten minutes later. She had cut the piece of fruit into eighths which she’d then arranged on a plate with half a dozen unevenly sliced pieces of cheddar cheese. Because food was involved in her current activity, Peach and Alaska—the household dog and cat—attended closely at her heels. Peach kept a vigilant eye hovering between Deborah’s face and the plate while Alaska, who found overt begging beneath his feline dignity, leapt onto St. James’ desk and strolled through the pens, pencils, books, magazines, and correspondence. He settled comfortably next to the telephone as if expecting a call.

“Finished with your pictures?” St. James asked. He was sitting in his leather armchair where he had spent the time following his conversation with Trenarrow by brooding into the unlit fireplace.

Deborah sat opposite him, cross-legged on the sofa. She balanced the plate of cheese and apple on her knees. A large chemical stain ran from calf to ankle on her blue jeans, and in several places her white shirt bore spots of damp from her work in the darkroom. “For the moment. I’m taking a break.”

“Came up rather suddenly, your need to print pictures. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” she said placidly. “Indeed, I would.”

“Using them for a show?”

“Possibly. Probably.”

“Deborah.”

“What?” She looked up from her plate, brushed hair from her forehead. She held a wedge of cheese in her hand.

“Nothing.”

“Ah.” She pinched off a bit of the cheese, offered it with a portion of apple to the dog. Peach gobbled down both, wagged her tail, barked for more.

“After you left, I broke her of begging like that,” St. James said. “It took me at least two months.”

In answer, Deborah gave Peach another bit of cheese. She patted the dog’s head, tugged her silky ears, and then looked up at him. Her expression was guileless. “She’s just asking for what she wants. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

He could feel the provocation behind the words. He pushed himself out of his chair. There were phone calls to make about Brooke, about oncozyme; there was checking to do into his sister’s whereabouts; there were at least half a dozen studies unrelated to the Cambrey-Brooke-Nifford deaths awaiting his attention in the lab and half a dozen other reasons for leaving the room. But instead of doing so, he stayed.

“Would you get that blasted cat off my desk?” He walked to the window.

Deborah went to the desk, scooped up the cat, deposited him onto St. James’ chair. “Anything else?” she asked as Alaska began enthusiastically kneading the worn leather.

St. James watched the cat curling up for a lengthy stay. He saw Deborah’s mouth twitch with a smile. “Minx,” he said.

“Brat,” she responded.

A car door slammed in the street. He turned to the window. “Tommy’s here,” he said, and Deborah went to open the front door.

St. James could see that Lynley bore no good news. His gait was slow, without its natural grace. Deborah joined him outside, and they spoke for a moment. She touched his arm. He shook his head, reached for her hand.

St. James left the window. He went to a bookshelf. He chose a volume at random, pulling it down and opening it at random as well. “I wish you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul,” he read. “In my degradation I have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows…” Good God. He snapped the book shut. A Tale of Two Cities. Great, he thought wryly.

He shoved the book back among the others and considered making another selection. Far from the Madding Crowd looked promising, a good bout of psychic suffering with Gabriel Oak.

“…spoke to Mother afterwards,” Lynley was saying as he and Deborah came into the study. “She didn’t take it well.”

St. James greeted his friend with a small whisky which Lynley accepted gratefully. He sank into the sofa. Deborah perched next to him on the sofa’s arm, her fingertips brushing his shoulder.

“Brooke appears to have been telling the truth,” Lynley began. “Peter was in Gull Cottage after John Penellin left. He and Mick had a row.” He shared the information which he’d gathered from his interview with Peter. He added the Soho story as well.

“I did think that might have been Cambrey with Peter in the alley,” St. James said when Lynley had finished. “Sidney told me about seeing them. The description seemed to fit,” he added, answering the unasked question that immediately appeared on Lynley’s face. “So if Peter recognised Cambrey, there’s a good chance Justin Brooke did as well.”

“Brooke?” Lynley queried. “How? He was there with Sidney in the alley, I know, but what difference does that make?”

“They knew each other, Tommy. Brooke worked for Islington.” St. James related his own information about Brooke’s position at Islington-London, about Cambrey’s visits to Department Twenty-Five, about oncozyme and the potential for a story.

“How does Roderick Trenarrow fit into all this, St. James?”

“He’s the prime mover. He gave Mick Cambrey some key information. Cambrey used it to pursue a story. That appears to be the extent of his involvement. He knew about oncozyme. He mentioned it to Mick.”