A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(116)

“And then Mick died. Trenarrow was in the vicinity that night.”

“He has no motive, Tommy. Justin Brooke did.” St. James explained. His theory—the product of those minutes brooding alone in the study—was simple enough. It involved the promise of cocaine in exchange for key background information from an unnamed source that would evolve into an important story about a potentially dangerous drug. A deal between Cambrey and Brooke that had somehow gone bad, coming to a head on the night Brooke had gone with Peter to Gull Cottage.

“But that doesn’t account for Brooke’s death.”

“Which the police have said from the first was an accident.”

Lynley took his cigarette case from his jacket pocket, staring down at it thoughtfully before he spoke. He flipped open his lighter but did not use it at once. “The pub,” he said. “Peter said Brooke wasn’t in the Anchor and Rose on Friday night, St. James.”

“After he left Gull Cottage?”

“Yes. Peter went to the pub. He was there at a quarter to ten and beyond. Brooke never showed up.”

“So it fits, doesn’t it?”

Deborah spoke. “Did Justin Brooke know Peter was taking him to see Mick Cambrey? Did Peter name Mick before they left for the village? Or did he just say it was someone in Nanrunnel?”

“He must not have known in advance,” St. James said. “He’d hardly have gone had he known Mick Cambrey was the man with the money Peter intended to borrow. He wouldn’t have wanted to run the risk of exposure.”

“It seems that Mick was in more danger of exposure than Justin Brooke,” Deborah said. “The cocaine, the cross-dressing, his second life in London. God knows what else you’ve yet to tumble up.”

Lynley lit his cigarette, spoke with a sigh that expelled a gust of smoke. “Beyond that, there’s Sasha Nifford. If Brooke killed Cambrey and then fell to his death, what happened to Sasha?”

St. James attempted to look noncommittal. He made himself ask, “What did the Met have to say about Sasha?”

“It was ergotamine and quinine.” Lynley took a white envelope from his inner breast pocket. He handed it to St. James. “She seems to have thought it was heroin.”

He read the brief report, finding it all at once difficult to assimilate technical information that should have been like a natural second language. Lynley was continuing to speak, giving facts which St. James had himself possessed for years.

“A massive dose constricts all the arteries. Blood vessels rupture in the brain. Death is immediate. But we saw that, didn’t we? She still had the needle in her arm.”

“The police aren’t calling it an accident.”

“Quite. They were still questioning Peter when I left.”

“But if it wasn’t an accident,” Deborah said, “doesn’t that mean…”

“There’s a second killer,” Lynley concluded.

St. James went to his bookshelves once again. He was sure his movements, jerky and awkward, gave him away.

“Ergotamine,” he said. “I’m not entirely sure…” He let his voice drift off, hoping for a display of natural curiosity, the reaction typical to a man of science. But all the time, dread and knowledge were seeping through his skin. He pulled down a medical volume.

“It’s a prescription drug,” Lynley was saying.

St. James flipped through the pages. His hands were clumsy. He was at G and then H before he knew it. He aimlessly read without seeing a word.

“What’s it for?” Deborah asked.

“Migraine headaches mostly.”

“Really? Migraine headaches?” St. James felt Deborah turn towards him, willed her not to ask. Innocently, she did so. “Simon, do you take it for your migraines?”

Of course, of course. She had known he took it. Everyone knew. He never counted the tablets. And the bottle was large. So she had gone to his room. She’d taken what she needed. She’d crushed them. She’d mixed them. She’d created the poison. And she’d handed it over, intending it for Peter, but killing Sasha instead.

He had to say something to direct them back to Cambrey and Brooke. He read for another moment, nodded as if caught in heavy contemplation, then shut the book.

“We need to go back to Cornwall,” he said decisively. “The newspaper office should give us the definite connection between Brooke and Cambrey. Harry was looking for a story right after Mick’s death. But he was looking for something sensational: gunrunning into Northern Ireland, call girls visiting Cabinet ministers. That sort of thing. Something tells me he would have overlooked oncozyme.” He didn’t add the fact that leaving London by tomorrow would buy him time, making him unavailable to the police when they came calling to question him about a silver bottle from Jermyn Street.

“I can manage that,” Lynley said. “Webberly’s been good enough to extend my time off. And it’ll clear Peter’s name. Will you come as well, Deb?”

St. James saw that she was watching him closely. “Yes,” she said slowly. Then, “Simon, is there—”

He couldn’t allow the question. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’ve a number of reports to see to in the lab,” he said. “I’ve got to make at least some sort of start on them before tomorrow.”