A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(84)

“This is best. I really want to go. It’s better this way.”

“But the station will be—”

“I’ll take a cab home. I’ll be all right.” She turned the knob of the door, as if experimentally. “I understand Peter’s missing,” she said.

“Yes.” St. James told her what had happened since he’d taken her to her room the previous morning. She listened without looking at him. As he spoke, he could sense her increasing tension, and he knew that it took its definition from an anger growing out of her comment about Peter Lynley. After the docility which shock had produced in her yesterday, he wasn’t prepared for the change even though he knew that her anger was natural, a need to strike out and wound so that someone, somehow, would feel some of her pain. The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing, beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it—be they family, friends, or even an entire nation—no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone. How much worse for Sidney, who was experiencing it alone, who was the sole mourner of Justin Brooke.

“How convenient,” she said when he’d completed his story.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he told me.”

“Told you?”

“Justin told me, Simon. Everything. About Peter’s being at Mick Cambrey’s cottage. About the row Mick and Peter had. He told me. He told me. All right? Am I being clear?” She didn’t move beyond the door. Had she done so, had she flung herself into the room, had she begun to tear at curtains and bedclothes, had she dashed the single vase of flowers to the floor, St. James would have felt less disturbed. All of those behaviours were decidedly Sidney. This was not. Only her voice gave testimony to the state of her spirit, and even it was only a fraction away from being perfectly controlled. “I told him that he had to tell you or Tommy,” she went on. “Once John Penellin was arrested, I told him he had to say something. He couldn’t keep quiet. It was his duty, I said. He had to tell the truth. But he didn’t want to get involved. He knew he’d be making things bad for Peter. But I insisted. I said, ‘If someone saw John Penellin at Gull Cottage, then someone probably saw you and Peter as well.’ Better come forward with the story, I told him, rather than let the police drag it out of some neighbour.”

“Sid—”

“But he was worried because he’d left Peter with Mick. He was worried because Peter was getting wild about the cocaine. He was worried because he didn’t know what had happened after he left them. But I convinced him that he had to speak to Tommy. So he did. Now he’s dead. And how perfectly convenient that Peter’s disappeared just at a moment when we all have so many questions we’d like to put to him.”

St. James crossed the room to her and shut the door. “CID think Justin’s death was an accident, Sid. They’ve nothing at all to suggest it was murder.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Was he with you Saturday night?”

“Of course he was with me.” She flung her head back and stated it like a fine point of honour. “We made love. He wanted to. He came to me. I didn’t ask him. He came to me.”

“What excuse did he give for leaving you afterwards?”

Her nostrils flared. “He loved me, Simon. He wanted me. We were good together. But you can’t accept that, can you?”

“Sid, I don’t want to argue about—”

“Can you? Can you?”

Somewhere in the corridor two women were talking, having a mild argument over who would vacuum and who would clean the baths. Their voices grew louder for a moment, then faded away as they descended the stairs.

“What time did he leave you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t notice.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He was restless. He said he couldn’t sleep. He’s like that sometimes. He’s been like that before. We make love and he gets all wound up. Sometimes he wants to do it again right away.”

“But not Saturday night?”

“He said he thought he could sleep better in his own room.”

“Did he dress?”

“Did he…yes, he dressed.” She drew the conclusion herself. “So he was meeting Peter. Because why would he have dressed when his own room was right across the hall? And he did dress, Simon. His shoes and socks, his trousers and shirt. Everything but his tie.” She clenched at the material of her skirt. “Peter’s bed wasn’t slept in. I heard that this morning. Justin didn’t fall. You know he didn’t fall.”

St. James didn’t argue with her. He reflected upon the possibilities suggested by the simple act of donning clothes. If Peter Lynley had wanted to have an innocent conversation with Brooke, it would have been more sensible for them to have had it somewhere in the house. If, on the other hand, he had wanted to be rid of Brooke, far wiser to do it in a location where it would look like an accident. But if that were the case, why on earth would Justin agree to meet Peter anywhere alone?

“Sid, it doesn’t make sense. Justin wasn’t a fool. Why would he agree to meet Peter at the cliff? And in the middle of the night? After his conversation with Tommy, for all he knew, Peter was out for his blood.” Then he thought about Friday afternoon’s scene on the beach. “Unless, of course, Peter got him down there on false pretences. With some sort of bait.”