A Suitable Vengeance

Lynley went to sit in her father's chair. 'It's good to see you. I'm glad you came by.'

She moved her large grey eyes to the windows, speaking to them rather than to him. 'I need to ask you something. It's difficult for me. How to begin.'

'Have you been ill? You've got awfully thin, Nancy. The baby. Has it-?' He was mortified to realize that he had no idea of the baby's sex.

'No. Molly's fine.' Still she would not look at him. 'But I'm eaten by worry.'

'What is it?'

'It's why I've come. But…' Tears rose to her eyes without spilling over. Humiliation mottled her skin. 'Dad mustn't know. He can't.'

'Then, it's between us, whatever we say.' Lynley fished out his handkerchief and passed it across the desk. She pressed it between her hands but did not use it, controlling the tears instead. 'Are you at odds with your father?'

'Not I. Mick. Things've never been right between them. Because of the baby. And me. And how we married. But it's worse now than before.'

'Is there some way I can help? Because, if you don't want me to intercede with your father, I'm not sure what else…' He let his voice drift off, waiting for her to complete the sentence. He saw her draw her body in, as if she were garnering courage before a wild leap into the abyss.

'You can help. Yes. With money.' She flinched involuntarily as she said the words but then went bravely on with the rest. 'I'm still doing my book-keeping in Penzance. And Nanrunnel. And I'm working nights at the Anchor and Rose. But it's not been enough. The costs…'

'What sort of costs?'

'The newspaper, you see. Mick's dad had heart surgery a year ago last winter – did you know? – and Mick's been running the paper for him ever since. But he wants to update. He wants equipment. He couldn't see how he'd be spending the rest of his life in Nanrunnel on a weekly paper with broken-down presses and manual typewriters. He has plans. Good plans. But it's money. He spends it. There's never enough.'

'I'd no idea Mick was running the Spokesman* 'It's not what he wanted. He only meant to be here a few months last winter. Just till his dad got back on his feet. But his dad didn't recover as quick as they thought. And then I…'

Lynley could see the picture well enough. What had probably begun as a diversion for Mick Cambrey – a way to make the time at his father's newspaper in Nanrunnel less boring and onerous – had evolved into a lifelong commitment to a wife and child in whom he no doubt had little more than a passing interest.

'We're in the worst possible state,' Nancy was continuing. 'He's bought word processors. Two different printers. Equipment for home. Equipment for work. All sorts of things. But there's not enough money. We've taken Gull Cottage and now the rent's been raised. We can't pay it. We've missed the last two months as it is, and if we lose the cottage' – she faltered but again drew herself together – 'I don't know what we'll do.'

'Gull Cottage?' It was the last thing he had expected her to say. 'Are you talking about Roderick Trenarrow's old place in Nanrunnel?'

She smoothed the handkerchief out along the length of her leg, plucking at a loose thread on the A embroidered at one corner. 'Mick and Dad never got on, did they? And we needed to move once the baby came. So Mick made arrangements with Dr Trenarrow for us to take Gull Cottage.'

'And you find yourselves overextended?'

'We're to pay each month. But these last two months Mick hasn't paid. Dr Trenarrow's phoned him, but Mick isn't bothered a bit. He says money's tight and they'll talk about it when he gets back from London.'

'London?'

'A story he's been working on there. The one he's been waiting for, he says. To set him up as a journalist. The kind he wants to be. He thinks he can sell it as a freelance piece the way he used to. Maybe even get a television documentary made. And then there'll be money. But for now there's nothing. I'm so afraid we'll end up on the streets. Or living in the newspaper office. That tiny room in the back with a single cot. We can't come back here. Dad wouldn't have it.'

'I take it your father knows nothing about all this?'

'Oh no! If he knew…' She raised a hand to her mouth.

'Money's not a problem, Nancy,' Lynley said. He was relieved, in fact, that it was only money she wanted from him and not an understanding little chat with her landlord. 'I'll lend you what you want. Take whatever time you need to pay me back. But I don't understand why your father mustn't know. Mick's expenditures seem reasonable if he's trying to modernize the paper. Any bank would-'

'She'll not tell you everything,' John Penellin said grimly from the doorway. 'Shame alone will stop her from telling it all. Shame, pure and simple. The best she's got from Mick Cambrey.'

With a cry, Nancy jumped to her feet, body arched for flight. Lynley rose to intervene.

'Dad.' She reached out towards him. Voice and gesture both offered placation.

'Tell him the rest,' her father said. He advanced into the room, but he shut the door behind him to prevent Nancy's escape. 'Since you've aired half your dirty linen for his Lordship, tell him the rest. You've asked for money, haven't you? Then tell him the rest so he understands what kind of man's on the receiving end of his investment.'

'It's not what you think.'

'Isn't it?' Penellin looked at Lynley. 'Mick Cambrey spends money on that newspaper, all right. There's truth in that. But the rest he spends on his lady friends. And it's Nancy's own money, isn't it, girl? Earned at her jobs. How many jobs, Nance? All the book-keeping jobs in Penzance and Nanrunnel. And then every night at the Anchor and Rose. With little Molly in a basket on the floor of the pub kitchen because her father can't be bothered away from his writing to see to her while Nancy works to support them all. Only it's not his writing he's taken up with, is it? It's his women. How many are there now, Nance?'

'It isn't true,' Nancy said. 'That's all in the past. It's the newspaper costs, Dad. Nothing else.'

'Don't make your shame worse by colouring it with a lie. Mick Cambrey's no good. Never was. Never will be. Oh, perhaps good enough to get the clothes off an inexperienced girl and plant his baby inside her. But not good enough to do a thing about it without being forced. And look at yourself, Nance, a shining example of the man's affection for you. Look at your clothes. Look at your face.'

'It's not his fault.'

'See what he's helped you become.'

'He doesn't know I'm here. He'd never let me ask-'

'But he'll take the money, won't he? And never question how you came by it. Just as long as it meets his needs. And what are his needs this time, Nancy? Has he another lady? Perhaps two or three?'

'No!' Nancy looked desperately at Lynley. 'I just… I…' She shook her head, her face dissolving into misery.

Penellin moved heavily to the wallmap of the estate. His skin was grey. 'Look at what he's done to you,' he said dully. And then to Lynley, 'See what Mick Cambrey's done to my girl.'

6

'Simon and Helen shall come with us as well,' Sidney announced. Only moments before, she had pulled a coral-coloured dress from the jumble of clothing scattered across her room. The colour should have been all wrong on her, but in this case fashion triumphed over hue. She was swirls of crepe from shoulder to mid-calf, like a cloud at sunset.

She and Deborah were heading through the garden towards the park where St James and Lady Helen walked together beneath the trees. Sidney shouted at them.

'Come and watch Deb snap away at me. At the cove. Half in and half out of a ruined dinghy. A seductive mermaid. Will you come?'

Neither responded until Deborah and Sidney reached them. Then St James said, 'Considering the volume of your invitation, no doubt you can expect quite a crowd, with everyone ready to see just the sort of mermaid you have in mind.'

Sidney laughed. 'That's right. Mermaids don't wear clothes, do they? Oh well. Pooh. You're just jealous that I'm to be Deb's subject for once and not you. However,' she admitted, twirling in the breeze, 'I did have to make her swear she'd take no snaps of you. Not that she needs any more, if you ask me. She must have a thousand in her collection already. A veritable history of Simon-on-the-stairs, Simon-in-the-garden, Simon-in-the-lab.'