A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(72)

The respite had been brief indeed. Lynley felt the sudden need to lie, to protect his brother in some way, but he couldn’t do it. Nor could he say what drove him to the truth, whether it was priggish morality or an unspoken plea for the other man’s help and understanding. “He’s gone.”

“Sasha?”

“As well.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

St. James’ reaction was a single word, sighed more than spoken. “Great.” Then, “How long? Was his bed slept in last night? Was hers?”

“No.” Lynley didn’t add that he’d seen as much at half past seven this morning when he’d gone to speak to his brother. He didn’t tell him that he’d sent Jasper out to search for Peter at a quarter to eight. Nor did he describe the horror he’d felt, seeing the police cars and ambulance lined up in front of Howenstow, thinking Peter had been found dead, and recognising in his reaction to that thought a small measure of relief behind the dread. He saw St. James reflectively considering Brooke’s covered body. “Peter had nothing to do with this,” he said. “It was an accident. You said that yourself.”

“I wonder whether Peter knew that Brooke spoke to us last night,” St. James said. “Would Brooke have told him so? And if he did, why?”

Lynley recognised the speculation that drove the questions. It was the very same speculation he was facing himself. “Peter’s not a killer. You know that.”

“Then you’d better find him. Killer or not, he has a bit of explaining to do, doesn’t he?”

“Jasper’s been out looking for him since early this morning.”

“I did wonder what he’d been doing at the cove. He thought Peter was there?”

“There. At the mill. He’s been looking everywhere. Off the estate as well.”

“Are Peter’s things still here?”

“I…no.” Lynley knew St. James well enough to see the reasoning that came upon the heels of his answer. If Peter had run from Howenstow with no time to lose, knowing his life was in danger, he’d be likely to leave his belongings behind. If, on the other hand, he had left after committing a murder that he knew wouldn’t be discovered for some hours, he’d have plenty of time to pack whatever possessions he’d brought with him to Howenstow. That done, he could steal off into the night, with no one the wiser until Brooke’s body was found. If he had killed him. If Brooke had been murdered at all. Lynley forced himself to keep in mind the fact that they were calling it an accident. And surely the crime-scene men knew what they were looking at when they made their observations at the site of an untimely death. Earlier in the morning, the thought of Peter having stolen Deborah’s cameras in order to sell them and purchase cocaine had been repellent, a cause for disbelief and denial. Now it was welcome. For how likely was it that his brother had been involved in both the disappearance of the cameras and Justin Brooke’s death? And if his mind was focussed on his body’s need for cocaine, why pause in his pursuit of the drug to eliminate Brooke?

He knew the answer, of course. But that answer tied Peter to Mick Cambrey’s death, a death that no one was calling an accident.

“We’ll be taking the body now.” The plainclothes sergeant had come to join them. In spite of the rain, he smelled heavily of sweat and his forehead was oily with perspiration. “With your permission.”

Lynley nodded sharply in acquiescence and longed for liquor to soothe his nerves. As if in answer, the schoolroom doors opened and his mother entered, pushing a drinks trolley on which she’d assembled two urns, three full decanters of spirits, and several plates of biscuits. Her blue jeans and shoes were stained with mud, her white shirt torn, her hair dishevelled. But as if her appearance were the least of her concerns, when she spoke, she took command of the situation.

“I don’t pretend to know your regulations, Inspector,” she told Boscowan. “But it does seem reasonable that you might be allowed something to take the edge off the chill. Coffee, tea, brandy, whisky. Whatever you’d like. Please help yourselves.”

Boscowan nodded his thanks and, having received this much permission, his officers occupied themselves at the trolley. Boscowan strolled over to Lynley and St. James.

“Was he a drinker, my lord?”

“I didn’t know him that well. But he was drinking last night. We all were.”

“Drunk?”

“He didn’t appear to be. Not when I last saw him.”

“And when was that?”

“When the party broke up. Round midnight. Perhaps a bit later.”

“Where?”

“In the drawing room.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes.”

“But not drunk?”

“He could have been. I don’t know. He wasn’t acting drunk.” Lynley recognised the intention behind the questions. If Brooke had been drunk, he fell to his death. If he had been sober, he was pushed. But Lynley felt the need to excuse the death as an accident, whatever Brooke’s condition last night. “Drunk or sober, he’d never been here before. He wasn’t familiar with the lay of the land.”

Boscowan nodded, but nothing in his manner suggested conviction. “No doubt the postmortem will tell the tale.”