'Bring Nancy inside,' St James said.
Lady Helen led her across the front garden and into the cottage where she hesitated only a moment before directing Nancy towards the kitchen, an oblong room with an odd, sloping ceiling and a grey linoleum floor sporting great black patches of wear. She sat her down on a chair that stood at one side of a stained pine table. Kneeling by her side, she looked closely at her face, reached for her arm and held her thin wrist between her own fingers. She frowned, touching the back of her hand to Nancy's cheek.
'Tommy,' Lady Helen said with a remarkable degree of calm, 'ring Dr Trenarrow. I think she's going into shock. He can deal with that, can't he?' She prised the baby from Nancy's grasp and handed her to Deborah. 'There must be baby milk in the refrigerator. Will you see to warming some?'
'Molly…' Nancy whispered. 'Hungry. I… feed.' 'Yes,' Lady Helen said gently. 'We're seeing to her, dear.'
In the other room, Lynley was speaking into the telephone. He placed a second call and spoke even more briefly, but the altered formal sound of his voice was enough to tell the others that he was speaking to the Penzance police. After a few minutes, he returned to the kitchen with a blanket which he wrapped round Nancy in spite of the heat.
'Can you hear me?' he asked her.
Nancy's eyelids fluttered, showing nothing but white. 'Molly… feed.'
'I've got her right here,' Deborah said. She was crooning to the baby in a far corner of the kitchen. 'The milk's warming. I expect she likes it warm, doesn't she? She's a pretty baby, Nancy. I can't imagine a prettier one.'
It was the right thing to say. Nancy relaxed in her chair. St James nodded gratefully to Deborah and went back to the sitting room door. He pushed it open and stood on the threshold. He spent several minutes studying, thinking, evaluating what he saw. Lady Helen finally joined him.
Even from the doorway, they could see the nature of the material that lay in disorder across the floor, upon the desk, against the legs of furniture. Notebooks, documents, pages of manuscript, photographs. At the back of his mind, St James heard Lady Asherton's words about Mick Cambrey. But the nature of the crime did not support the conclusion he otherwise might have naturally drawn from a consideration of those words.
'What do you think?' Lady Helen asked him.
'He was a journalist. He's dead. Somehow those two facts ought to hang together. But the body says no a thousand times.'
'Why?'
'He's been castrated, Helen.' 'Heavens. Is that how he died?' 'No.'
"Then, how?'
A knock at the door precluded reply. Lynley came from the kitchen to admit Roderick Trenarrow. The doctor entered wordlessly. He looked from Lynley to St James and Lady Helen, and then beyond them to the sitting-room floor where, even from where he stood, Mick Cambrey's body was partially visible. For a moment, it appeared that he might step forward and attempt to save a man who was beyond all rescue.
He said to the others, 'Are you certain?'
'Quite,' St James replied.
'Where's Nancy?' Without waiting for an answer, he went on to the kitchen where the lights shone brightly and Deborah chatted about babies as if in the hope that doing so would keep Nancy anchored in the here and now. Trenarrow tilted Nancy's head and looked at her eyes. He said, 'Help me get her upstairs. Quickly. Has anyone telephoned her father?'
Lynley moved to do so. Lady Helen helped Nancy to her feet and urged her out of the kitchen as Dr Trenarrow led the way. Still carrying the baby, Deborah followed them. In a moment, Trenarrow's voice began asking gentle questions in the bedroom upstairs. These were followed by Nancy's querulous replies. Bedsprings creaked. A window was opened. The dry wood of the sash grated and shrieked.
'There's no answer at the lodge,' Lynley said from the telephone. 'I'll ring on to Howenstow. Perhaps he's gone there.' But, after a conversation with Lady Asherton, John Penellin was still unaccounted for. Lynley frowned at his watch. 'It's half-past twelve. Where can he possibly be at this time of night?'
'He wasn't at the play, was he?'
'John? No. I can't say the Nanrunnel Players hold any charms for him.'
Above them, Nancy cried out. As if in response to this single demonstration of anguish, another knock thudded against the front door. Lynley opened it to admit the local police, represented in the person of a plump, curly-haired constable in a uniform that took its distinction from large crescents of sweat beneath the arms and a coffee stain on the trousers. He looked about twenty-three years old. He didn't bother with any immediate introductions or with any of the formalities inherent to a murder investigation. It was obvious within seconds that, in the presence of a corpse, he was in over his head and delighted to be there.
'Gotcherself a murder?' he asked conversationally, as if murders were a daily affair in Nanrunnel. Perhaps to give credence to nonchalance, he unwrapped a piece of chewing gum and folded it into his mouth. 'Where's the victim?'
'Who are you?' Lynley demanded. 'You aren't CID.'
The constable grinned. 'T.J. Parker,' he announced. 'Thomas Jefferson. Mum liked the Yanks.' He elbowed his way into the sitting room.
'Are you CID?' Lynley asked as the constable kicked a notebook to one side. 'Christ almighty, man. Leave the scene alone.'
'Don't getcher knickers in a twist,' the constable replied. 'Inspector Boscowan sent me ahead to secure the scene. He'll be along soon's he's dressed. Not to worry. Now. What d'we have?' He took his first look at the corpse and chewed more rapidly upon his gum. 'Someone had it in for this bloke all right.'
That said, he began to saunter round the room. Gloveless, he fingered several items on Cambrey's desk.
'For God's sake,' Lynley said hody. 'Don't touch anything. Leave it for your crime team.'
'Robbery,' Parker announced as if Lynley had not spoken. 'Caught in the act, I'd say. A fight. Some fun afterwards with the secateurs.'
'Listen, damn you. You can't-'
Parker cocked a finger at him. 'This is police work, mister. I'll thank you to step back into the hall.'
'Have you your warrant card?' St James asked Lynley quietly. 'He's liable to make a mess of that room if you don't do something to stop him.'
'I can't, St James. I have no jurisdiction.'
As they were speaking, Dr Trenarrow came back down the stairs. Inside the sitting room, Parker turned to the door, caught a glimpse of Trenarrow's medical bag, and smiled.
'We got quite a mess here, Doc,' he announced. 'Ever seen anything like it? Have a look, if you like.'
'Constable.' Lynley's voice attempted reason and patience.
Trenarrow seemed to realize how inappropriate the constable's suggestion was. He said softly to Lynley, 'Perhaps I can do something to fend off disaster,' and walked to the body. Kneeling, he examined it quickly, feeling for pulse, gauging for temperature, moving an arm to check the extent of rigor. He changed his position to the other side and bent to study the extensive wounds.
'Butchered,' he muttered, looked up, and asked, 'Have you found any weapon?' He looked round the room, feeling among the papers and debris that were nearest to the body.
St James shuddered at the disruption of the crime scene. Lynley cursed. The constable did nothing.
Trenarrow nodded towards a poker that lay on its side by the fireplace. 'Could that be your weapon?' he asked.
Constable Parker grinned. His chewing gum popped. He chuckled as Trenarrow got to his feet. 'To do that business?' he asked. 'I don't think it's near sharp enough, do you?'
Trenarrow didn't look amused. 'I meant as a murder weapon,' he said. 'Cambrey didn't die from the castration, Constable. Any fool can see that.'