'Simon-'
'How can I answer you? What can I possibly say that won't make us both miserable and end up leading to another row? I don't want that. And I can't think you do.'
He told himself that he would adhere to every resolution he had made regarding Deborah. She was committed, he thought. Love and honour bound her to another. He would have to take solace in the fact that, in time, they might once again be the friends they had been in the past, taking pleasure in each other's company and wanting nothing more. A dozen different lies rose in his mind about what was right and possible in their situation, about duty, responsibility, commitment and love, about the anchors of ethics and morals that held each of them fast. And still he wanted to speak, because the reality was that anything – even anger and the risk of estrangement -was better than the void.
A sudden commotion at the drawing room door precluded the possibility of further conversation. Hodge was speaking urgently to Lady Asherton while Nancy Cambrey pulled upon his arm as if she would drag him back into the corridor. Lynley went to join them. St James did likewise. In the hush that descended upon the company, Nancy's voice rose.
'You can't. Not now.'
'What is it?' Lynley asked.
'Inspector Boscowan, my lord,' Hodge replied in a low voice. 'He's down in the hall. Wanting to speak to John Penellin.'
Only part of Hodge's statement proved true, for as he spoke Boscowan stepped into the drawing room doorway as if he expected some sort of trouble. He looked the group over, his face apologetic, and his eyes came to rest upon John Penellin. It was clear that a duty which gave him no pleasure had brought him to interrupt the party.
The room was absolutely still. John Penellin walked towards them. He handed his brandy to Dr Trenarrow.
'Edward,' he said to Boscowan with a nod. Nancy had faded into the corridor where she slumped against a mule chest and watched the encounter. 'Perhaps we can go to the estate office.'
'There's no need for that, John,' Boscowan said. 'I'm sorry.'
The implication behind the apology was obvious. Boscowan would never have come to Howenstow in this manner unless he was certain that he had his man.
'Are you arresting me?' Penellin asked the question in a manner that sounded at once both resigned and curiously without panic, as if he'd been preparing himself for this eventuality all along.
Boscowan glanced around. Every eye was fastened on the little group. He said, 'Out here, please,' and walked into the corridor. Penellin, St James and Lynley followed. Another plain-clothes policeman was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was bulky, with the physique of a boxer, and he watched them warily, arms crossed, hands balled into fists.
Boscowan faced Penellin, his back to the other officer. In speaking next, he crossed the line that divides police and civilian, breaking rules and regulations. But he didn't seem to be fazed by this, his words having their roots in friendship rather than in duty.
'You need a solicitor, John. We've the first of the forensic reports. It doesn't look good.' And then again, in a way that left no doubt as to Boscowan's sincerity, 'Truly, I'm sorry.'
'Fingerprints? Fibres? Hairs? What have you?' Lynley asked.
'The lot.'
'Dad's been inside the cottage in the past,' Nancy said.
Boscowan shook his head. St James knew what that sign of negation meant. Penellin's fingerprints in the cottage could indeed be argued away by the fact that he'd been there before. But, if Boscowan had fibres and hairs in his possession, the probability was that they'd come from one source: Mick Cambrey's corpse. If that was the case, the reality was that Penellin had indeed lied about his whereabouts the previous night.
'If you'll come now,' Boscowan said in a more normal tone of voice. This appeared to be the signal for the other policeman. He walked to Penellin's side and took his arm. In a moment it was over.
As their steps faded down the stairs, Nancy Cambrey fainted. Lynley caught her before she hit the floor.
'Get Helen,' he said to St James, and when Lady Helen was with them they took Nancy down to Lady Asherton's day room in the east wing of the house. It offered the double benefit of being both private and comfortable. A few minutes among its family memorabilia and friendly furniture would no doubt restore Nancy to herself, Lynley decided. And he allowed himself a moment of gratitude that his mother would carry on upstairs without him until such a time as she could deal with John Penellin's arrest privately and face the turmoil that would arrive in its wake.
St James had possessed the foresight to bring the whisky decanter from the drawing room. He pressed a glass upon Nancy. Lady Helen steadied her hand. She'd only taken a tiny sip when a tentative knock sounded on the door. It was followed, unaccountably, by Justin Brooke's voice.
'May I have a word?' He didn't wait for a response. Rather, he opened the door, popped his head inside, and said nothing until he fixed upon Lynley. 'May I have a word with you?'
'A word?' Lynley demanded incredulously, wondering what on earth Brooke could possibly want. 'What the devil-?'
'It's important,' Brooke said. He looked earnestly to the others as if for support and found it in the least likely quarter. Lady Helen spoke.
‘I’ll take Nancy back to the lodge, Tommy. It doesn't make sense to keep her here. She'll need to see to the baby, I'm sure.'
Lynley waited until both women were gone before he spoke to Brooke, who took a balloon-backed chair unbidden, straddled it backwards, and folded his arms along its top rail. Lynley leaned against his mother's desk. St James stood by the fireplace.
'What is it that you wanted?' Lynley said to Brooke. He was impatient with the interruption and too preoccupied to care much about hiding it.
'It's a private matter, concerning your family.' Brooke canted his head towards St James, an indication of his desire that this conference be held out of the other man's presence. St James made a move to go.
'No, it's fine,' Lynley said to him, finding himself perversely unwilling to allow Brooke the degree of control that would be implied by St James' departure. There was something about the man that he didn't like: an ease of manner contravened by a flicker of malice in his expression.
Brooke reached for the decanter of whisky and Nancy's glass that were standing on a circular table next to his chair. He poured himself some, saying, 'Very well, then. I could use a drink. You?' He held the decanter first to Lynley, then to St James. There were no other glasses in the room, so the invitation was meaningless, as Brooke no doubt knew. He drank appreciatively, said, 'Good stuff,' and poured himself more. 'Word came back to the drawing room fast enough that Penellin's been arrested. But Penellin couldn't have killed Mick Cambrey.'
It was certainly not the sort of pronouncement which Lynley had been expecting. 'If you know something about this affair, you need to tell the police. It's only indirectly my concern.'
Brooke said, 'It's more direct than you think.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Your brother.'
The clink of decanter upon glass seemed unnaturally grating and loud as Brooke took more whisky. Lynley refused to think the patently unthinkable or to draw the conclusion for which those two simple words asked.
'People in the drawing room just now were saying Penellin had an argument with Cambrey before his death. That was the main cause for suspicion, they said. Someone had heard about it in the village today.'
'I don't see what this has to do with my brother.'
'Everything, I'm afraid. Mick Cambrey didn't have an argument with Penellin. Or, if he did, it didn't compare with the row he had with Peter.'
Lynley stared at the man. He felt a sudden urge to throw him from the room and recognized how closely the desire was tied to an incipient dread and to the unwanted realization that somehow this piece of information was not a surprise to him.