A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(63)

The gesture, when it came, was hers. She touched his hand lightly, an innocent contact that broke through his barriers. The movement meant nothing, it promised even less. He knew that quite well. But despite this, his fingers caught hers and held.

“I do want to know why you said it,” she repeated.

There was no point. It could only lead nowhere. Or worse, it could lead to an unbridled bout of suffering he’d prefer not to face.

“Simon—”

“How can I answer you? What can I possibly say that won’t make us both miserable and end up leading to another row? I don’t want that. And I can’t think you do.”

He told himself that he would adhere to every resolution he had made regarding Deborah. She was committed, he thought. Love and honour bound her to another. He would have to take solace in the fact that, in time, they might once again be the friends they had been in the past, taking pleasure in each other’s company and wanting nothing more. A dozen different lies rose in his mind about what was right and possible in their situation, about duty, responsibility, commitment, and love, about the anchors of ethics and morals that held each of them fast. And still he wanted to speak, because the reality was that anything—even anger and the risk of estrangement—was better than the void.

A sudden commotion at the drawing room door precluded the possibility of further conversation. Hodge was speaking urgently to Lady Asherton while Nancy Cambrey pulled upon his arm as if she would drag him back into the corridor. Lynley went to join them. St. James did likewise. In the hush that descended upon the company, Nancy’s voice rose.

“You can’t. Not now.”

“What is it?” Lynley asked.

“Inspector Boscowan, my lord,” Hodge replied in a low voice. “He’s down in the hall. Wanting to speak to John Penellin.”

Only part of Hodge’s statement proved true, for as he spoke, Boscowan stepped into the drawing room doorway as if he expected some sort of trouble. He looked the group over, his face apologetic, and his eyes came to rest upon John Penellin. It was clear that a duty which gave him no pleasure had brought him to interrupt the party.

The room was absolutely still. John Penellin walked towards them. He handed his brandy to Dr. Trenarrow.

“Edward,” he said to Boscowan with a nod. Nancy had faded into the corridor where she slumped against a mule chest and watched the encounter. “Perhaps we can go to the estate office.”

“There’s no need for that, John,” Boscowan said. “I’m sorry.”

The implication behind the apology was obvious. Boscowan would never have come to Howenstow in this manner unless he was certain that he had his man.

“Are you arresting me?” Penellin asked the question in a manner that sounded at once both resigned and curiously without panic, as if he’d been preparing himself for this eventuality all along.

Boscowan glanced around. Every eye was fastened on the little group. He said, “Out here please,” and walked into the corridor. Penellin, St. James, and Lynley followed. Another plainclothes policeman was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was bulky, with the physique of a boxer, and he watched them warily, arms crossed, hands balled into fists.

Boscowan faced Penellin, his back to the other officer. In speaking next, he crossed the line that divides police and civilian, breaking rules and regulations. But he didn’t seem to be fazed by this, his words having their roots in friendship rather than in duty.

“You need a solicitor, John. We’ve the first of the forensic reports. It doesn’t look good.” And then again and in a way that left no doubt as to Boscowan’s sincerity, “Truly I’m sorry.”

“Fingerprints, fibres, hairs? What have you?” Lynley asked.

“The lot.”

“Dad’s been inside the cottage in the past,” Nancy said.

Boscowan shook his head. St. James knew what that sign of negation meant. Penellin’s fingerprints in the cottage could indeed be argued away by the fact that he’d been there before. But if Boscowan had fibres and hairs in his possession, the probability was that they’d come from one source: Mick Cambrey’s corpse. If that was the case, the reality was that Penellin had indeed lied about his whereabouts the previous night.

“If you’ll come now,” Boscowan said in a more normal tone of voice. This appeared to be the signal for the other policeman. He walked to Penellin’s side and took his arm. In a moment it was over.



As their steps faded down the stairs, Nancy Cambrey fainted. Lynley caught her before she hit the floor.

“Get Helen,” he said to St. James and when Lady Helen was with them, they took Nancy down to Lady Asherton’s day room in the east wing of the house. It offered the double benefit of being both private and comfortable. A few minutes among its family memorabilia and friendly furniture would no doubt restore Nancy to herself, Lynley decided. And he allowed himself a moment of gratitude that his mother would carry on upstairs without him until such a time as she could deal with John Penellin’s arrest privately and face the turmoil that would arrive in its wake.

St. James had possessed the foresight to bring the whisky decanter from the drawing room. He pressed a glass upon Nancy. Lady Helen steadied her hand. She’d only taken a tiny sip when a tentative knock sounded on the door. It was followed, unaccountably, by Justin Brooke’s voice.