A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(9)

She waited until hearing his door close on the floor below before she moved away from her own and went—as she could not know he had done himself only minutes before—to the window.

Three years, she thought. How could he possibly be thinner, more gaunt and ill, an utterly unhandsome face of battling lines and angles on which was engraved a history of suffering. Hair, always too long. She remembered its softness between her fingers. Haunted eyes that spoke to her even when he said nothing himself. Mouth that tenderly covered her own. Sensitive hands, artist’s hands, that traced the line of her jaw, that drew her into his arms.

“No. No more.”

Deborah whispered the words calmly into the coming dawn. Turning from the window, she tugged the counterpane off the bed and, fully clothed, lay down.

Don’t think of it, she told herself. Don’t think of anything.





CHAPTER 2


Always, it was the same miserable dream, a hike from Buckbarrow to Greendale Tarn in a rain so refreshing and pure it could only be phantasmagorical. Scaling outcroppings of rock, running effortlessly across the open moor, sliding helter-skelter down the fell to arrive, breathless and laughing, at the water below. The exhilaration of it all, the pounding of activity, the rush of blood through his limbs that he felt—he would swear it—even as he slept.

And then awakening, with a sickening jolt, to the nightmare. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, willing desolation to fade into disregard. But never quite able to disregard the pain.

The bedroom door opened, and Cotter entered, carrying a tray of morning tea. He placed this on the table next to the bed, eyeing St. James guardedly before he went to open the curtains.

The morning light was like an electrical current jolting directly through his eyeballs to his brain. St. James felt his body jerk.

“Let me get your medicine,” Cotter said. He paused by the bed long enough to pour St. James a cup of tea before he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.

Alone, St. James dragged himself into a sitting position, wincing at the degree to which sounds were magnified by the pounding in his skull. The closing of the medicine cabinet was a rifle shot, water running into the bath a locomotive roar. Cotter returned, bottle in hand.

“Two of these’ll do it.” He administered the tablets and said nothing more until St. James had swallowed them. Then, casually he asked, “See Deb last night?”

As if the answer didn’t really matter to him, Cotter returned to the bathroom where, St. James knew, he would test the heat of the water pouring into the tub. This was a completely unnecessary civility, an act giving credence to the manner in which Cotter had asked his question in the first place. He was playing the servant-and-master game, his words and actions implying a disinterest which he didn’t feel.

St. James sugared his tea heavily and swallowed several mouthfuls. He leaned back against the pillows, waiting for the medicine to take effect.

Cotter reappeared at the bathroom door.

“Yes. I saw her.”

“A bit different, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s to be expected. She’s been gone a long time.” St. James added more tea to his cup. He forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes. The determination written across Cotter’s face told him that if he said anything more, he would be extending a blanket invitation to the sort of revelations he would rather not hear.

But Cotter didn’t move from the doorway. It was a conversational impasse. St. James surrendered. “What is it?”

“Lord Asherton and Deb.” Cotter smoothed back his sparse hair. “I knew that Deb would give ’erself to a man one day, Mr. St. James. I’m no fool about the ways of the world. But knowing ’ow she always felt about…well, I suppose I’d thought that…” Cotter’s confidence seemed to dwindle momentarily. He picked at a speck of lint on his sleeve. “I’m that worried about ’er. What’s a man like Lord Asherton want with Deb?”

To marry her, of course. The response came like a reflex, but St. James didn’t voice it even though he knew that doing so would give Cotter the peace of mind he sought. Instead, he found himself wanting to voice warnings of Lynley’s char acter. How amusing it would be to limn his old friend as a Dorian Gray. The desire disgusted him. He settled on saying, “It’s probably not what you think.”

Cotter ran his finger down the doorjamb as if testing for dust. He nodded, but his face remained unconvinced.

St. James reached for his crutches and swung himself to his feet. He headed across the room, hoping Cotter would see this activity as a conclusion to their discussion. But his design was foiled.

“Deb’s got ’erself a flat in Paddington. Did she tell you that? Lord Asherton’s keeping the girl like she was some tart.”

“Surely not,” St. James replied and belted on the dressing gown that Cotter handed him.

“What money’s she got, then?” Cotter demanded. “How else is it paid for, if not by ’im?”

St. James made his way to the bathroom where the rush of water told him that Cotter—in his agitation—had forgotten that the tub was rapidly filling. He turned off the taps and sought a way to put the discussion to an end.

“Then you must talk to her, Cotter, if that’s what you think. Set your mind at rest.”

“What I think? It’s what you think as well and there’s no denying it. I c’n see it plain as plain on your face.” Cotter warmed to his topic. “I tried talking with the girl. But that was no good. She was off with ’im last night before I’d the chance. And off again this morning as well.”