A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(34)
Peter gave no indication that he saw his mother or anyone else. He merely wiped his nose on the back of his hand and went to the drinks tray. He poured himself a whisky, which he gulped down quickly, then poured himself another and Sasha some of the same.
They stood, an isolated little unit apart from the others, with the spirit decanters within easy reach. As she took a sip of her drink, Sasha slipped her hand under Peter’s loose shirt and pulled him towards her.
“Nice stuff, Sash,” Peter murmured and kissed her.
Lynley set his glass down. Lady Asherton spoke quickly. “I saw Nancy Cambrey on the grounds this afternoon, Tommy. I’m rather concerned about her. She’s lost a great deal of weight. Did you happen to see her?”
“I saw her.” Lynley watched his brother and Sasha. His face was unreadable.
“She seems terribly worried about something. I think it’s to do with Mick. He’s working on a story that’s taken him away from home so much these last few months. Did she talk to you about it?”
“We talked.”
“And did she mention a story, Tommy? Because—”
“She mentioned it. Yes.”
Lady Helen attacked the issue of diversion from a new angle. “What a lovely dress that is, Sasha. I envy your ability to wear those wonderful Indian prints. I look like a cross between Jemima Puddleduck and a charwoman whenever I try them. Did Mark Penellin find the two of you? Simon and I saw him in the woods seeking you out.”
“Mark Penellin?” Peter reached out to caress a length of Sasha’s thin hair. “No, we never saw him.”
In some confusion, Lady Helen looked towards St. James. “But we saw him. He didn’t find you in the cove? This afternoon?”
Peter smiled a lazy, satisfied smile. “We weren’t in the cove this afternoon.”
“You weren’t…”
“I mean, I suppose we were, but we weren’t. So if he wanted to find us, he would have seen us but not seen us. Or maybe it was after we went in the water. And then he wouldn’t have seen us at all. Not where we were. And I don’t think I’d have wanted him to. What about you, Sash?”
He chuckled and traced the bridge of Sasha’s nose. He ran his fingers across her mouth. Catlike, she licked them.
Wonderful, St. James thought. It’s only Friday.
Nanrunnel was a successful combination of two disparate environments: a centuries-old fishing village and a modern tourist haunt. Built in a semicircular fashion round a natural harbour, its structures twisted up a hillside dotted with cedar, cypress, and pine, their exteriors hewn from rocks quarried in the district, some whitewashed and others left a natural, weather-streaked mixture of grey and brown. Streets were narrow—wide enough to allow only the passage of a single car—and they followed a strangely convoluted pattern which met the demands of the hills rather than the requirements of automobiles.
Fishing boats filled the harbour itself, bobbing rhythmically on the incoming tide and protected by two long crescent-shaped quays. Curiously shaped buildings perched on the harbour’s edge—cottages, shops, inns, and restaurants—and an uneven, cobbled walkway running along the embankment gave their inhabitants access to the water below. Above, hundreds of seabirds cried from chimneys and slate roofs while hundreds more took to the air, circled the harbour, and flew from there into the bay where, in the distance, St. Michael’s Mount rose in the failing evening light.
A considerable crowd had gathered at the primary school grounds on the lower part of Paul Lane. There, a humble open-air theatre had been created by the Reverend Mr. Sweeney and his wife. It consisted of only three elements. A sturdily crafted platform served as stage. Accommodation for the audience comprised folding wooden chairs of prewar vintage. And at the far side of the grounds, next to the street, a refreshment booth was already doing a respectable business with libations supplied by the village’s largest pub, the Anchor and Rose. Nancy Cambrey, Lynley saw, was working the taps.
The rector himself met Lynley’s party at the entrance to the school grounds, his portly face beaming with a rapturous smile of welcome. He wore a heavy layer of theatrical makeup through which he was perspiring heavily. In costume already, he was an incongruous sight in doublet and stockings, his bald head aglow under the strands of lights which crisscrossed the school yard.
“I shall wear a wig for Benedick, of course,” Mr. Sweeney mocked himself gently. He greeted St. James and Lady Helen with the fondness of an old friend and then presented himself eagerly to be introduced to Deborah, a social nicety which he brushed aside almost as soon as he adopted it by bursting out with, “My dear, we are so pleased to have you here tonight. Both of you. It’s grand,” before Lynley could say a word. He might well have gone on to bow with a flourish had not the precarious position of his codpiece precluded any sudden movement. “We’ve put you right in front so you won’t miss a thing. Come, it’s just this way.”
Missing a thing, missing several things, missing the entire play would have been too much blessing to hope for since the Nanrunnel Players had long been known for the stentorian nature of their performances rather than for their histrionic flare. However, led by Mr. Sweeney—with his wife as a short, plump Beatrice who managed to display a remarkably heaving bosom during speeches far more impassioned than required by the role—the drama proceeded with fiery enthusiasm to the interval. At this point, the audience rose to its feet as one and headed towards the refreshment booth to make the most of a respite filled with lager and ale.