A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(23)

CHAPTER 5


Neither Peter nor Sasha showed up for lunch, and as if an appropriate response to this had been agreed upon in advance, no one mentioned the fact. Instead, everyone concentrated on passing round platters of prawn salad, cold chicken, asparagus, and artichokes gribiche while completely overlooking the two empty chairs that faced one another at the far end of the table.

Lynley welcomed his brother’s absence. He wanted distractions.

One presented itself less than five minutes into the meal when Lynley’s estate manager came round the south wing of the house and strode directly towards the oak tree. His attention, however, did not seem given to the party gathered beneath it. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the distant stables where a young man jumped nimbly over the dry stone wall and came across the park at a jog. The sun wove streaks of colour against him as he passed in and out of the shade of the trees.

From the table, Sidney St. James called out happily, “What a fine horseman your son is, Mr. Penellin. He took us out for a ride this morning, but Justin and I could hardly keep him in sight.”

John Penellin flicked her a cursory nod of acknowledgement, but his dark, Celtic features were rigid. Lynley had known Penellin long enough to recognise when he was hard put keeping a tight rein on fury.

“And Justin generally rides quite well—don’t you, darling? But Mark dazzled us both.”

Brooke said only, “He’s good, all right,” and went back to his chicken. Faint beads of perspiration stood out on his swarthy skin.

Mark Penellin came under the oak in time to hear the last two comments. “I’ve just had lots of practice,” he said generously. “You both did great.” He ran the back of his hand across his damp forehead. A smudge of dirt discoloured his cheek. He was a softer, lighter version of his father. Penellin’s grey-streaked black hair was brown in Mark, his craggy features unscored in Mark’s youth. The father was sapped by age and anxiety. The boy looked energetic, healthy, alive. “Peter’s not here?” he asked, looking the length of the table. “That’s odd. He phoned me at the lodge just a bit ago, said I was to come up.”

“To join us for lunch, no doubt,” Lady Asherton said. “How very good of Peter. We were in such a rush this morning that I didn’t think to phone you myself. I’m so sorry, Mark. Sometimes I think my mind is splintering away altogether. Do join us. Mark. John. Please.” She indicated the places that had been intended for Sasha and Peter.

It was obvious that John Penellin did not intend to brush off what was bothering him by sitting down to lunch with his employers and their weekend guests. This was a workday for him, like any other. And he had not come out of the house in order to signal his displeasure at being excluded from a luncheon to which he had no desire to be invited in the first place. Plainly, he had come to intercept his son.

Fast childhood friends, Mark and Peter were of an age. They had spent long years in each other’s company, sharing games and toys and adventures along the Cornish coast. They had played together, swum together, sailed together, grown up together. Only their schooling had been different, with Peter attending Eton as had every male in the family before him and Mark attending a day school in Nanrunnel and from there a secondary school in Penzance. But the separation of their school days had not been enough to divide them. They had maintained their old friendship over time and distance.

But obviously not any longer, if Penellin could prevent it. Lynley felt the regret of a loss even before John Penellin spoke. Yet it was only reasonable to expect the man to protect his only son, seeking any way possible to keep him from becoming influenced by the changes that had come over Peter.

“Nancy’s wanting you at the lodge,” Penellin said to Mark. “You’ve no need of Peter at the moment.”

“But he phoned and—”

“I’ve no interest in who phoned. Get back to the lodge.”

“Surely a quick lunch, John—” Lady Asherton began.

“Thank you, my lady. We’ve no need of it.” He looked at his son, black eyes unreadable in an inflexible mask. But his arms—bared because he wore the sleeves of his work shirt rolled up—showed veins like cords. “Come with me, boy.” And then to Lynley, with a nod to the others, “Sorry.”

John Penellin turned on his heel and walked back towards the house. After casting a look round the table—part supplication and part apology—his son followed him. They left behind that sort of uneasy reserve in which members of a party must decide whether to discuss what has just occurred or to ignore it altogether. They held true to their previous unspoken agreement to overlook anything which held the promise of blighting a weekend of bliss. Lady Helen led the way.

“Have you any idea,” she said as she speared a fat prawn, “what a compliment it is to be enthroned—there’s simply no other word for it, Deborah—in Great-Grandmama Asherton’s bedroom for your engagement weekend? Considering the manner in which everyone’s tiptoed reverentially by it when I’ve been here in the past, I’ve always got the distinct impression they’ve been saving that room for the Queen should she ever pop in for a visit.”

“That’s the room with the terrifying bed,” Sidney put in. “Draperies and geegaws. Ghoulies and banshees carved right into the headboard like a Grinling Gibbons nightmare. This must be the test of true love, Deb.”