Dashing up through the garden from the sea, he'd only had a glimpse of the man passing before a first-floor window, a glance that gave him the impression of height and stature, a glance in which he saw only his father's paisley dressing-gown, a glance in which he hadn't bothered to think how impossible it was that his father – so ill – would even be out of bed, let alone sauntering round his mother's bedroom. He didn't think of that, only felt instead a sunshot bolt of joy as the words cured cured cured sang out in his mind and he ran up the stairs – pounded up the stairs calling to them both – and burst into his mother's room. Or at least tried to. But the door was locked. And, as he called out, his father's nurse hurried up the stairs, carrying a tray, admonishing him, telling him he would awaken the invalid. And he got only as far as saying, 'But Father's…' before he understood.
And then he called out to her in such a savage rage that she opened the door and he saw it alclass="underline" Trenarrow wearing his father's dressing-gown, the covers on her bed in disarray, the clothing discarded hastily on the floor. The air was heavy with the pungent odour of intercourse. And only a dressing room and bath separated them from the room in which his father lay dying.
He'd flung himself mindlessly at Trenarrow. But he was only a slender boy of seventeen, no match for a man of thirty-one. Trenarrow hit him once, a slap on the face with his open palm, the sort of blow one uses to calm a hysterical woman. His mother had cried, 'Roddy, no!' and it was over.
She had found him in the mill. From the one small window in the loft, he watched her coming through the woodland, tall and elegant, just forty-one years old. And so very beautiful.
He should have been able to maintain his poise. The eldest son of an earl, after all, he should have possessed the strength of will and the dignity to tell her that he'd have to return to school and prepare for exams. It wouldn't matter whether she believed him. The only object was to be off, at once.
But he watched her approach and thought instead of how his father loved her, how he shouted for her – 'Daze! Darling Daze!' – whenever he walked into the house. His life had revolved round making her happy, and now he lay in his bedroom and waited for the cancer to eat away the rest of his body while she and Trenarrow kissed and clung and touched and…
He broke. She climbed the ladder, calling his name. He was more than ready for her.
'Whore,' he screamed. 'Are you crazy? Or just so itchy that anyone will do? Even someone with nothing more on his mind than sucking you a good one and laughing about it with his mates in the pub when he's done. Are you proud of that, whore? Are you fucking proud?'
When she hit him, the blow came completely by surprise because she had stood there, immobile, and accepted his abuse. But with his last question she struck him so hard with the back of her hand that he staggered against the wall, his lip split open by her diamond ring. Her face never changed. It was blank, carved in stone.
'You'll be sorry!' he screamed as she climbed down the ladder. 'I'll make you sorry! I'll make both of you sorry. I will!'
And he had done so, over and over again. How he had done so. 'Tommy?'
Lynley looked up to find St James watching him over the edge of the loft.
'You might want to see what's up here.'
'Yes. Of course.'
He climbed the ladder.
It had only taken a moment for St James to evaluate what he found in the loft. The mill shaft, its tremendous gears and its grindstone took up much of the space, but what was left gave mute evidence of the use to which the mill had been put most recently.
In the centre of the room stood a rusting card-table and one folding chair. This latter held a discarded T-shirt, long ago metamorphosed from white to grey, while on the surface of the former an antique postage scale measured the weight of a tarnished spoon and two dirty razor blades. Next to this was an open carton of small plastic bags.
St James watched as Lynley joined him and inspected these items, his features becoming more settled as he reached his own inescapable conclusion.
'Mick's been here more recently than last April, Tommy,' St James said. 'And I dare say his visits had nothing to do with the Spokesman.' He touched the postage scale lightly, watched the movement of the arrow that indicated weight. 'Perhaps we have a better idea why he died.'
Lynley shook his head. His voice was dark. 'This isn't Mick,' he said.
13
At half-past seven that evening, St James knocked on Deborah's bedroom door and entered to find her stepping back from the dressing table, her forehead wrinkled as she studied her appearance.
'Well,' she said doubtfully, 'I don't know.' She touched the necklace at her throat – a double strand of pearls – and her hand fell to the neckline of her dress where she fingered the material experimentally. It appeared to be silk, and its colour was an odd combination of grey and green, like the ocean on an overcast day. Her hair and skin were a contrast to this, and the result was more striking than she appeared to realize.
'A success,' St James said.
She smiled at his reflection in the mirror. 'Lord, I'm nervous. I keep telling myself that it's only a small dinner party with Tommy's family and a few of their friends. I keep telling myself that it doesn't matter in the least. But then I have visions of fumbling round with all this silverware. Simon, why on earth does it always come down to silverware?'
'The worst nightmare of a genteel society: which fork do I use when I eat the shrimp? The rest of life's problems seem inconsequential by comparison.'
'What shall I say to these people? Tommy did tell me there'd be a dinner tonight, but at the time I didn't think much about it. If I were only like Helen, I could chat amusingly about a thousand and one different topics. I could talk to anyone. It wouldn't even matter. But I'm not like Helen. Oh, I wish I were. Just for tonight. Perhaps she can pretend to be me and I can fade into the woodwork.'
'Hardly a plan to please Tommy.'
'I've managed to convince myself that I'll trip on the stairs or spill a glass of wine down the front of my dress or get caught on the table-cloth and pull off half the dishes when I get out of my chair. Last night I had a nightmare that my face had broken out in blisters and hives and people were saying, "This is the fiancee?" in funereal tones all round me.'
St James laughed at that and joined her at the dressing table where he peered into the mirror and studied her face. 'Not a blister anywhere. Not a hive in sight. As to those freckles, however…'
She laughed as well, such a pure sound, such a pleasure. It shot him back through time to memory. He stepped away.
'I've managed…' He reached in his jacket pocket for the photograph of Mick Cambrey which he handed to her. 'If you'll have a look at him.'
She did so, carrying the picture to the light. It was a moment before she answered.
'It's the same man.'
'Are you certain?'
'Fairly. May I take this with me and show it to Tina?'
He thought about this. Last night it had seemed an innocent plan to have Deborah verify Mick Cambrey's presence in London through the simple expedient of having Tina Cogin identify his photograph. But after today's conversation with Harry Cambrey, after seeing the cryptographic paper from the Talisman Cafe, after considering the potential motives behind the crime and how Tina Cogin fitted into any or all of them, he was not so sure about the role Deborah could play – or any role he wanted her to play – in investigating the crime and contacting those most closely caught up in it. Deborah seemed to sense his hesitation and presented him with a fait accompli.