A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(69)

Lady Asherton spoke quietly as the gardener went back to his work, clipping off the ruined branches and stowing them in a plastic rubbish sack tucked under his arm. “There’s a margin of relief in all this, Simon. At least we know no one from the house took the cameras.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It hardly makes sense that one of us would take them and drop them outside. Far easier to hide them in one’s room and slip off with them later, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Easier, yes. But not as wise. Especially if someone inside the house wanted to make it look as if an outsider took the cameras in the first place. But even that’s not a wise plan. Because who were the technical outsiders last night? Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney, Dr. Trenarrow, your sister-in-law, the MP from Plymouth.”

“John Penellin,” she added. “The daily help from the village.”

“An unlikely lot to be stealing cameras.” From her expression, he could tell that Lady Asherton had already done some considerable thinking about Deborah’s cameras, about where they might be, about who had taken them. Her words, however, acted to camouflage this.

“I’m having difficulty understanding why they were stolen in the first place.”

“They’re valuable. They can be sold by someone who needs money.”

Her face crumpled momentarily then regained composure.

St. James showed mercy by saying, “The house was open during the party. Someone could have got in while we were in the dining room. It would have been no large matter to slip up to Deborah’s room and take the cameras then.”

“But why take the cameras at all, Simon, if it’s a matter of money? Why not take something else? Something even more valuable?”

“What?” he asked. “Everything else is too easily associated with Howenstow. The silver’s marked. The family crest is on everything. Surely you wouldn’t expect someone to cart off one of the paintings and hope it wouldn’t be noticed as missing until the next day.”

She turned her head to look out at the park, a movement designed merely to avert her face for a moment. “It can’t be a question of money,” she said, twisting her gardening gloves in her hands. “It can’t, Simon. You do know that.”

“Then perhaps Mrs. Sweeney objected to having her photograph taken after all,” he suggested.

She smiled bleakly at that but went along with his effort to divert her. “Could she have slipped out to the loo sometime after dinner and trundled through the house looking for Deborah’s room?”

Her question brought them back to the inescapable reality. Whoever had taken the cameras had also known which room was Deborah’s.

“Has Tommy spoken to Peter this morning?” St. James asked.

“Peter’s not up yet.”

“He vanished after dinner, Daze.”

“I know.”

“And do you know where he went? Where Sasha went?”

She shook her head. “A walk on the grounds, down to the cove, for a drive. Perhaps to the lodge to see Mark Penellin.” She sighed. The effort seemed too much. “I can’t believe he’s taken Deborah’s cameras. He’s sold most of his own things. I know that. I pretend not to, but I know it. Still, I don’t believe he’d actually steal things and sell them. Not Peter. I won’t believe that.”

A shout rose from the park as she finished speaking. Someone was coming towards the house at a hobbling run, a man who alternately clutched his side then his thigh with one hand while with the other he waved a cap in the air. All the time he continued to shout.

“Jasper, m’lady,” the gardener said, joining them with his rubbish sack trailing behind him.

“Whatever is he up to?” As he reached the gatehouse, Lady Asherton raised her voice. “Stop shouting like that, Jasper. You’re frightening us all to death.”

Jasper dashed to her side, wheezing and gasping. He seemed unable to gather enough breath to put together a coherent sentence.

“’Tis ’im,” he panted. “Down the cove.”

Lady Asherton looked at St. James. They shared the same thought. Lady Asherton took a step away as if to distance herself from information she couldn’t bear to hear.

“Who?” St. James asked. “Jasper, who’s at the cove?”

Jasper bent double, coughed, “’N the cove!”

“For heaven’s sake—”

Jasper straightened, looked around, and pointed an arthritic finger at the front door where Sidney stood, apparently seeking the source of the disturbance.

“’Er man,” he gasped. “He be dead down the cove.”





CHAPTER 15


When St. James finally caught up with her, his sister had already reached the cove, far in advance of everyone else. Somewhere in her desperate flight through the park and the woodland, she had fallen, and blood streaked in a furcate pattern down one arm and along one leg. From the cliff top, he saw her fling herself at Brooke’s body, snatching him up as if by that action she could infuse him with life. She was speaking in an incoherent fashion—inarticulate words, not sentences—as she held his body to hers. Brooke’s head hung in an impossible position, testimony to the manner in which he had died.

Sidney lowered him to the ground. She opened his mouth, covering it with her own in a useless attempt at resuscitation. Even from the cliff top, St. James could hear her small, frantic cries as each breath she gave him produced no response. She pounded on his chest. She pulled open his shirt. She threw herself the length of his body and pressed against him as if to arouse him in death as she had done in life. It was a mindless, grim mimicry of seduction. St. James grew cold as he watched. He said her name, then called to her, to no avail.