A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(70)

Finally, she looked up the face of the cliff and saw him. She stretched out one hand as if in supplication, and at last she began to cry. It was a horrible ululation, part despair and part grief, a weeping the source of which was as primordial as it was timeless. She covered Brooke’s bruised face with kisses before she lowered her head and rested it on his chest. And she wept, in sorrow, in anger, in rage. She grabbed the body by the shoulders, lifted and shook it as she shouted Brooke’s name. In reply the lifeless head bobbed ghoulishly on its splintered neck in a danse macabre.

St. James stood motionless, forcing himself to keep his eyes on his sister, making himself a witness to the worst part of her grief, accepting the watching as punishment, just and true, for the sin of possessing a body so ruined that it would not allow him to go to her aid. Immobilised and inwardly cursing with a rising ferocity that was fast approaching panic, he listened to Sidney’s keening wail. He swung round viciously at the touch of a hand on his arm. Lady Asherton stood there, behind her the gardener and half a dozen others from the house.

“Get her away from him.” He barely managed the words. But his speaking released the rest of them into action.

With a final, worried look at his face, Lady Asherton began a nimble descent of the cliff. The others followed, carrying blankets, a makeshift stretcher, a thermos, a coil of rope. Although they all climbed down quickly, it seemed to St. James that they moved in slow motion in the manner of mimes.

Three of them reached Sidney simultaneously, and Lady Asherton pulled her away from the body which she continued to shake with a wild futility. As Sidney fought to go back to it, beginning to scream, Lady Asherton shouted something over her shoulder which St. James could not distinguish. In answer, one of the men handed her an open vial. She pulled Sidney to her, grabbed her by the hair, and thrust the vial under her nose. Sidney’s head flew back. Her hand went to her mouth. She spoke brokenly to Lady Asherton, who in answer pointed up the cliff.

Sidney began to climb. The gardener helped her. Then the others from the house. All of them saw that she neither stumbled nor fell. And within a few moments, St. James was pulling her fiercely into his arms. He held her, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and fighting back an emotional reaction of his own that promised to overwhelm him if he gave it free rein. When the worst of her weeping had subsided, he began to lead her in the direction of the house, both his arms round her, somehow afraid that if he released her, he would be giving her back to hysteria, back to the body of her lover on the beach.

They passed under the trees of the woodland. St. James was hardly aware of the progress they made. Nor was he aware of the rushing sound of the river, the rich scent of vegetation, the springy feel of the loamy ground beneath their feet. If his clothing was caught or snagged by the bushes that encroached upon the narrow path, he took no notice.

The air had grown quite heavy with an approaching storm by the time they reached the Howenstow wall and went through the gate. The tree leaves susurrated as the swelling wind tossed them, and up the trunk of one ash a grey squirrel scampered, disappearing into its branches for shelter. Sidney raised her head from her brother’s chest.

“It’ll rain,” she said. “Simon, he’ll get wet.”

St. James tightened his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “No, it’s all right.” He attempted to sound more like the older brother she knew, the one who had taken care of her nighttime monsters, the one who could make bad dreams go away. But not this one, Sid. “They’ll take care of him. You’ll see.”

Large, heavy drops splattered noisily on the leaves. In his arms, Sidney shivered.

“How Mummy shouted at us!” she whispered.

“Shouted? When?”

“You opened all the nursery windows to see how much rain would come into the room. She shouted and shouted. She hit you as well.” Her body heaved with a sob. “I never could bear to see Mummy hit you.”

“The carpet was ruined. No doubt I deserved it.”

“But it was my idea. And I let you take the punishment.” She brought her hand to her face. Blood had streaked between her fingers. She began to weep again. “I’m sorry.”

He stroked her hair. “It’s all right, love. I’d quite forgotten. Believe me.”

“How could I do that to you, Simon? You were my favourite brother. I loved you best. Nanny told me how bad it was to love you more than Andrew or David, but I couldn’t help it. I loved you best. Then I let you take a beating and it was my fault and I never said a word.” Her raised face was wet with tears that, St. James knew, in reality had nothing to do with their childhood disputes.

“Let me tell you something, Sid,” he confided, “but you must promise never to say anything to David or Andrew. You were my favourite as well. You still are, in fact.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

They came to the gatehouse and entered the garden as the wind picked up, tearing at the heads of roses, sending a shower of petals into their path. Although the rain began to beat against them aggressively, they didn’t hurry their pace. By the time they reached the doorway, they were both quite wet.

“Mummy will shout at us now,” Sidney said as St. James closed the door behind them. “Shall we hide?”

“We’ll be safe enough for now.”

“I’ll not let her beat you.”