A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(6)

“I knew I’d find you in here,” Sidney St. James announced, brushing a kiss against his cheek. She flopped onto a stool and said by way of greeting her brother’s companion, “I do love that dress, Helen. Is it new? How can you manage to look so put together at a quarter past four in the afternoon?”

“While we’re talking of being put together…” St. James eyed his sister’s unusual attire.

Sidney laughed. “Leather pants. What d’you think? There’s a fur as well, but I left it with the photographer.”

“Rather a warm combination for summer,” Lady Helen said.

“Isn’t it beastly?” Sidney agreed happily. “They’ve had me on Albert Bridge since ten o’clock this morning in leather pants, a fur coat, and nothing else. Perched on top of a 1951 taxi with the driver—I wish someone would tell me where they get these male mannequins—leering up at me like a pervert. Oh yes, and a bit of au naturel showing here and there. My au naturel, if it comes to that. All the driver has to do is look like Jack the Ripper. I borrowed this shirt from one of the technicians. We’re breaking for now, so I thought I’d pop over for a visit.” She looked round the room curiously. “So. It’s past four. Where’s tea?”

St. James nodded towards the package which Lady Helen had left leaning against the wall. “You’ve caught us in disarray this afternoon.”

“Deborah’s coming home tonight, Sid,” Lady Helen said. “Did you know?”

Sidney’s face lit. “Is she at last? Then those must be some of her snaps. Wonderful! Let’s have a peek.” She hopped off her stool, shook the package as if it were an early Christmas gift, and blithely proceeded to remove its outer wrapping.

“Sidney,” St. James admonished her.

“Pooh. You know she wouldn’t mind.” Sidney tossed away the sturdy brown paper, untied the cords of a black portfolio, and picked up the top portrait from the stack within. She looked it over, whistling between her teeth. “Lord, the girl’s handier with a camera than she’s ever been.” She passed the photograph to Lady Helen and went on with her perusal of the others in the stack.

Self and Bath. The three words were scrawled in haphazard script across the bottom edge of the picture. It was a nude study of Deborah herself, arranged in three-quarter profile to the camera. She had composed the piece cleverly: a shallow tub of water; the delicate arch of her spine; a table nearby on which sat a pitcher, hair brushes, and comb; filtered light striking her left arm, her left foot, the curve of her shoulder. With a camera and using herself as a model, she had copied The Tub by Degas. It was lovely.

Lady Helen looked up to see St. James nod as if in appreciation of it. He walked back to his equipment and started sorting through a stack of reports.

“Did you? Did you know it?” Sidney was asking them impatiently.

“Know what?” Lady Helen said.

“That Deborah’s involved with Tommy. Tommy Lynley! Mummy’s cook told me, believe it or not. From what she said, Cotter’s quite up in arms about it. Honestly, Simon, you must talk some sense into Cotter. For that matter, talk some sense into Tommy. I think it’s completely unfair of him to choose Deb over me.” She resumed her stool. “That reminds me. I’ve got to tell you about Peter.”

Lady Helen felt a margin of relief at this welcome change of subject. “Peter?” she said helpfully.

“Imagine this.” Sidney used her hands to dramatise the scene. “Peter Lynley and a lady of the night—dressed all in black with flowing black hair like a tourist from Transylvania—caught in flagrante delicto in an alley in Soho!”

“Tommy’s brother Peter?” Lady Helen clarified, knowing Sidney’s proclivity for overlooking pertinent details. “That can’t be right. He’s in Oxford for the summer, isn’t he?”

“He looked involved in things far more interesting than his studies. History and literature and art be damned.”

“What are you talking about, Sidney?” St. James asked as she hopped off the stool and began to prowl round the lab like a puppy.

She switched on Lady Helen’s microscope and had a look through it. “Crikey! What is this?”

“Blood,” Lady Helen said. “And Peter Lynley?”

Sidney adjusted the focus. “It was…let me see. Friday night. Yes, that’s right because I’d a grim little drinks party to attend in the West End on Friday and that was the night I saw Peter. On the ground in an alley. Scuffling with a prostitute! Wouldn’t Tommy be pleased if he heard about that?”

“Tommy’s not been happy with Peter all year,” Lady Helen said.

“Doesn’t Peter know it!” Sidney looked at her brother plaintively. “What about tea? Is there hope?”

“Always. Finish your saga.”

Sidney grimaced. “There’s not much else to tell. Justin and I came upon Peter grappling with this woman in the dark. He was punching her in the face, as a matter of fact, and Justin pulled him off. The woman—now this was a bit odd—began to laugh and laugh. Of course, she must have been hysterical. But before we had a chance to see if she was fit, she ran off. We drove Peter home. Squalid little flat in Whitechapel, Simon, with a yellow-eyed girl in filthy blue jeans waiting for Peter on the front steps.” Sidney shuddered. “Anyway, Peter wouldn’t say a word to me about Tommy or Oxford or anything. Embarrassed, I suppose. I’m sure the last thing on earth he expected was to have a friend stumble upon him as he rolled round an alley.”