A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(87)

“Nancy?” Trenarrow said incredulously. “I can’t see her hurting anyone, can you? And even if she had somehow been driven beyond endurance—it was no secret, after all, that Mick saw other women—when could she have done it? She couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“She was gone from the refreshment booth for a good ten minutes or more.”

“Time to run home, murder her husband, and reappear as if everything were well? The thought’s a bit absurd, considering the girl. Someone else might have managed it with aplomb, but Nancy’s no actress. If she’d killed her husband during the evening, I doubt she could have hidden it from a soul.”

There was certainly a weight of evidence to support Trenarrow’s declaration. From start to finish, Nancy’s reactions had borne the unmistakable stamp of authenticity. Her shock, her numb grief, her rising anxiety. None of them had seemed in the least bit factitious. It hardly seemed likely that she’d run home, killed her husband, and feigned horror later. That being the case, St. James considered the problem of suspects. John Penellin had been in the area that night, as had Peter Lynley and Justin Brooke. Perhaps Harry Cambrey had paid a visit to the cottage as well. And Mark Penellin’s whereabouts were still unaccounted for. Yet a motive for the crime was not clearly emerging. Each one they considered was nebulous at best. And more than anything, a motive needed clear definition if anyone was to understand the full circumstances of Mick Cambrey’s death.



St. James noticed Harry Cambrey almost immediately as Cotter pulled the car back onto Paul Lane. He was climbing towards them. He waved energetically as they approached. The cigarette between his fingers left a tiny plume of smoke in the air.

“Who’s this?” Cotter slowed the car.

“Mick Cambrey’s father. Let’s see what he wants.”

Cotter pulled to the side of the road, and Harry Cambrey came to St. James’ window. He leaned into the car, bringing with him the mixed odours of tobacco smoke and beer. His appearance had undergone some improvement since St. James and Lady Helen had seen him on Saturday morning. His clothes were fresh, his hair was combed, and although a few overlooked whiskers sprouted here and there like grey bristles on his cheeks, his face was largely shaven as well.

He was panting, and he winced as if the words hurt him when he spoke. “Howenstow folks said you’d be here. Come down to the office. Something to show you.”

“You’ve found notes?” St. James asked.

Cambrey shook his head. “Worked it all out, though.” When St. James opened the car door, Cambrey clambered inside. He nodded at the introduction to Cotter. “It’s those numbers I found. The ones from his desk. I’ve been playing with them since Saturday. I know what they mean.”



Cotter remained in the pub with Mrs. Swann, chatting amiably over a pint of ale. He was saying, “I wouldn’t say no to one o’ them Scotch eggs,” as St. James followed Harry Cambrey up to the newspaper office.

Unlike his former visit to the Spokesman, on this morning the staff was at work. All the lights were on—creating an entirely different atmosphere from the previous gloom—and in three of the four cubicles newspaper employees either pecked at typewriters or talked on the phones. A long-haired boy examined a set of photographs on a display board while next to him a compositor engaged in the process of laying out another edition of the newspaper on an angled green table. He held an unlit pipe between his teeth and tapped a pencil in staccato against a plastic holder of paperclips. At the word processor on the table next to Mick Cambrey’s desk, a woman sat typing. She had soft, dark hair drawn back from her face and—when she looked up—intelligent eyes. She was very attractive. Julianna Vendale, St. James decided. He wondered how and if her responsibilities at the newspaper had altered with Mick Cambrey’s death.

Harry Cambrey led the way to one of the cubicles. It was sparsely furnished, hung with wall decorations which suggested that not only was the office his own, but nothing had been done to change it during his convalescence after heart surgery. Everything spoke of the fact that, no matter Harry Cambrey’s desire, his son had not intended to assume either his office or his job. Framed newpaper clippings, gone yellow with age, appeared to represent the older man’s proudest stories: a piece on a disastrous sea-rescue attempt in which twenty of the would-be rescuers had drowned; an accident which dismembered a local fisherman; the rescue of a child from a mine shaft; a brawl during a fete in Penzance. These were accompanied by newspaper photographs as well, the originals of those which had been printed with the stories.

On the top of an ancient desk, the most recent edition of the Spokesman lay open to the editorial page. Mick’s contribution had been heavily circled in red. On the wall opposite, a map of Great Britain hung. Cambrey directed St. James to this.

“I kept thinking about those numbers,” he said. “Mick was systematic about things like that. He wouldn’t have kept that paper if it wasn’t important.” He felt in the breast pocket of his shirt for a packet of cigarettes. He shook one out and lit it before going on. “I’m still working on part of it, but I’m on my way.”

St. James saw that next to the map Cambrey had taped a small piece of paper. On it he had printed part of the cryptic message which he’d found beneath his son’s desk. 27500-M1 Procure/Transport and, beneath that, 27500-M6 Finance. On the map itself, two motorways had been traced in red marking pen, the M1 heading north from London and the M6 heading northwest below Leicester towards the Irish Sea.