A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(143)

“You misplaced this,” he said.

She grabbed it, delighted. “Where did you find it? Don’t tell me it was in the Howenstow wardrobe. I can accept that for shoes but for nothing else.”

“Justin took it from your room, Sid.”

Such a simple statement, seven words, no more. Their effect upon his sister was immediate. Her smile faded. She tried to hold onto the edges of it, but her lips quivered with the effort. Liveliness left her. Her body seemed to shrink. The quick end to her insouciance told him how precarious a hold she had on her emotions. Her present madcap demeanour merely acted as a shield to fend off a mourning she had not begun.

“Justin?” she said. “Why?”

There was no easy way for him to tell her. He knew that the knowledge would only add to her sorrow. Yet telling her seemed to be the only way that she might start the process of burying her dead.

“To frame you for murder,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“He wanted to murder Peter Lynley. He got Sasha Nifford instead.”

“I don’t understand.” She rolled the perfume bottle over and over in her hand. She bent her head. She brushed at her cheeks.

“It was filled with a drug she mistook for heroin.” At that she looked up. St. James saw the expression on her face. The use of a drug as a means of murder did indeed make the truth so unavoidable. “I’m sorry, love.”

“But Peter. Justin told me Peter was at Cambrey’s. He said they had a row. And then Mick Cambrey died. He said that Peter wanted to kill him. I don’t understand. Peter must have known Justin told you and Tommy about it. He knew. He did know.”

“Peter didn’t kill Justin, Sid. He wasn’t even at Howenstow when Justin died.”

“Then why?”

“Peter heard something he wasn’t supposed to hear. He could have used it against Justin eventually, especially once Mick Cambrey was killed. Justin got nervous. He knew Peter was desperate about money and cocaine. He knew he was unstable. He couldn’t predict his behaviour, so he needed to be rid of him.”

Together, St. James and Lady Helen told her the story. Islington, oncozyme, Trenarrow, Cambrey. The clinic and cancer. The substitution of a placebo that led to Mick’s death.

“Brooke was in jeopardy,” St. James said. “He took steps to eliminate it.”

“What about me?” she asked. “It’s my bottle. Didn’t he know that people would think I was involved?” Still she clutched the bottle. Her fingers turned white round it.

“The day on the beach, Sidney,” Lady Helen said. “He’d been humiliated rather badly.”

“He wanted to punish you,” St. James said.

Sidney’s lips barely moved as she said, “He loved me. I know it. He loved me.”

St. James felt the terrible burden of her words and with it the need to reassure his sister of her intrinsic worth. He wanted to say something but couldn’t think of the words that might comfort her.

Lady Helen spoke. “What Justin Brooke was makes no statement about who you are, Sidney. You don’t take your definition of self from him. Or from what he felt. Or didn’t feel, for that matter.”

Sidney gave a choked sob. St. James went to her. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, putting his arm tightly round her. “I think I’d rather you hadn’t known. But I can’t lie to you, Sidney. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

She coughed and looked up at him. She offered a shattered smile. “Lord, how hungry I am,” she whispered. “Shall we have lunch?”



In Eaton Terrace, Lady Helen slammed the door of her Mini. She did it more to give herself courage—as if the action might attest to the fittingness of her behaviour—than to assure herself that the car door was securely locked. She looked up at the darkened front of Lynley’s townhouse, then held up her wrist to the light of a streetlamp. It was nearly eleven, hardly the time for a social call. But the very unsuitability of the hour gave her an advantage which she wasn’t willing to relinquish. She climbed the marble-tiled steps to his door.

For the past two weeks, she had been trying to contact him. Every effort had received a rebuff. Out on a job, working a double shift, caught at a meeting, testifying in court. From a series of unquestionably polite secretaries, assistants, and junior officers, she had heard every permutation of a job-related excuse. The implicit message was always the same: He was unavailable, alone, and preferring it so.

It would not be so tonight. She rang the bell. It sounded somewhere in the back of the house, resonating oddly towards the front door as if the building were empty. For a fleeting, mad moment, she actually harboured the thought that he had moved from London—running away from everything once and for all—but then the fanlight above the door showed a sudden illumination in the lower hallway. A bolt was drawn, the door opened, and Lynley’s valet stood blinking owlishly out at her. He was wearing his bedroom slippers, Lady Helen noted, and a plaid flannel bathrobe over paisley pyjamas. Surprise and judgement played spontaneously across his face. He wiped them off quickly enough, but Lady Helen read their meaning. Well brought up daughters of peers were not supposed to go calling on gentlemen in the late of night, no matter which part of the twentieth century this was.

“Thank you, Denton,” Lady Helen said decisively. She stepped into the hall every bit as if he’d asked her in with earnest protestations of welcome. “Please tell Lord Asherton that I must see him at once.” She removed her light evening coat and placed it along with her bag on a chair in the foyer.