A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(31)

There had been no anger contained in his words, only humiliation, which was infinitely worse.

She had shouted at him. No one cares about it! No one ever has but you!

She spoke only the truth, but that truth did nothing to mitigate the fact that his own caring about it so unforgivingly was a permanent scar on the fragile surface of his self-esteem.

“What is it?” he was asking her now. “A darts tournament at the Anchor and Rose?”

“No. Something better. A sure-to-be-dreadful performance of Much Ado About Nothing, put on by the village players on the grounds of the primary school. In fact, it’s a special performance tonight in honour of Tommy’s engagement. Or so, according to Daze, the rector said when he came to call today, complimentary tickets in hand.”

“Isn’t that the same group—”

“Who did The Importance of Being Earnest two summers ago? Darling Simon, yes. The very same.”

“Lord. How could this current production match Nanrunnel’s gallant bow to Oscar Wilde? The Reverend Mr. Sweeney waxing eloquent as Algernon with cucumber sandwiches sticking to the roof of his mouth. Not to mention the muffins.”

“Then what do you say to Mr. Sweeney as Benedick?”

“Only a fool would pass that up.” St. James reached for his crutches, swung himself to his feet, balanced, and adjusted his long dressing gown.

Lady Helen averted her eyes as he did so, using as an excuse the need to pick up three rose petals which had fallen from an arrangement that sat on the shelf of a cheveret to one side of the window. They felt like small pieces of down-covered satin against her palm. She looked for a rubbish basket and thus circumvented an open acknowledgement of St. James’ primary vanity, a need to hide his bad leg in an attempt to appear as normal as possible.

“Has anyone seen Tommy?”

Lady Helen read the meaning underlying St. James’ question. “He doesn’t know what happened. We’ve managed to avoid him.”

“Deborah’s managed as well?”

“She’s been with Sidney. She saw to her bath, got her to lie down, took her some tea.” She gave a brief, humourless laugh. “The tea was my profound contribution. I’m not sure what effect it was supposed to have.”

“What about Brooke?”

“Can we be so lucky as to hope he’s taken himself back to London?”

“I doubt it. Don’t you?”

“Rather. Yes.”

St. James was standing next to the bed. Lady Helen knew she should leave the room to give him privacy to dress, but something in his manner—a meticulous control too brittle to be believed—compelled her to stay. Too much remained unsaid.

She knew St. James well, better than she had known any other man. She had spent the last decade becoming acquainted with his blind devotion to forensic science and his determination to stake out ground upon which he could build a reputation as an expert. She had come to terms with his relentless introspection as well as with his desire for perfection and his self-castigation if he fell short of a goal. They talked about all of this, over lunch and dinner, in his study while the rain beat against the windows, on their way to the Old Bailey, on the stairs, in the lab. But what they did not talk about was his disability. It had always represented a polar region of his psyche that brooked no one’s intrusion. Until today on the clifftop. Even then, when he had finally given her the opening she had long awaited, her words had been inadequate.

What, then, could she say to him now? She didn’t know. Not for the first time did she wonder what sort of bond might have developed between them had she not left his hospital room eight years ago simply because he asked her to do so. And to obey him then had been so much easier than taking the chance of walking into the unknown.

Still, she couldn’t leave him now without attempting to say something that gave him—even in small measure—back to himself.

“Simon.”

“My medication is on the counter above the wash basin, Helen,” St. James said. “Will you fetch me two tablets?”

“Medication?” Lady Helen felt a quick surge of concern. She didn’t think she had misread his reasons for locking himself away in his room for the afternoon. He hadn’t been acting as if he was having any pain at all, despite Cotter’s admonition to her earlier.

“It’s just a precaution. Above the wash basin.” He smiled, a flicker that passed across his face and was gone in an instant. “I take it that way sometimes. Before instead of during. It works just as well. And if I’m to put up with Mr. Sweeney as a thespian for an evening, I ought to be prepared.”

She laughed and went to get it for him, calling back into the bedroom, “Actually, this isn’t a bad idea. If tonight’s production is anything like the other we saw, we’ll all be popping pain killers before the evening’s through. Perhaps we should take the bottle along with us.”

She brought the tablets back into the bedroom. He had gone to the window where he was leaning forward on his crutches, looking out at the southern view of the grounds. But she could tell from his profile that his eyes registered nothing.

The sight of him like this negated his words, his polite cooperation, and the lightness of his tone. She realised that even his smile had been a device to cut her off completely, while all along he existed, as he always had done, alone.