A Suitable Vengeance

'Sasha?'

'As well.'

'Where?'

'I don't know.'

St James' reaction was a single word, sighed more than spoken. 'Great.' Then, 'How long? Was his bed slept in last night? Was hers?'

'No.' Lynley didn't add that he'd seen as much at half-past seven this morning when he'd gone to speak to his brother. He didn't tell him that he'd sent Jasper out to search for Peter at a quarter to eight. Nor did he describe the horror he'd felt, seeing the police cars and ambulance lined up in front of Howenstow, thinking Peter had been found dead, and recognizing in his reaction to that thought a small measure of relief behind the dread. He saw St James reflectively considering Brooke's covered body. 'Peter had nothing to do with this,' he said. 'It was an accident. You said that yourself.'

'I wonder whether Peter knew that Brooke spoke to us last night,' St James said. 'Would Brooke have told him so? And, if he did, why?'

Lynley recognized the speculation that drove the questions. It was the very same speculation he was facing himself. 'Peter's not a killer. You know that.'

'Then, you'd better find him. Killer or not, he has a bit of explaining to do, hasn't he?'

'Jasper's been out looking for him since early this morning.'

'I did wonder what he'd been doing at the cove. He thought Peter was there?'

'There. At the mill. He's been looking everywhere. Off the estate as well.'

'Are Peter's things still here?'

'I… no.' Lynley knew St James well enough to see the reasoning that came upon the heels of his answer. If Peter had run from Howenstow with no time to lose, knowing his life was in danger, he'd be likely to leave his belongings behind. If, on the other hand, he had left after committing a murder that he knew wouldn't be discovered for some hours, he'd have plenty of time to pack whatever possessions he'd brought with him to Howenstow. That done, he could steal off into the night, with no-one the wiser until Brooke's body was found. If he had killed him. If Brooke had been murdered at all. Lynley forced himself to keep in mind the fact that they were calling it an accident. And surely the crime-scene men knew what they were looking at when they made their observations at the site of an untimely death. Earlier in the morning, the thought of Peter having stolen Deborah's cameras in order to sell them and purchase cocaine had been repellent, a cause for disbelief and denial. Now it was welcome. For how likely was it that his brother had been involved in both the disappearance of the cameras and Justin Brooke's death? And, if his mind was focused on his body's need for cocaine, why pause in his pursuit of the drug to eliminate Brooke?

He knew the answer, of course. But that answer tied Peter to Mick Cambrey's death, a death that no-one was calling an accident.

'We'll be taking the body now.' The plain-clothes sergeant had come to join them. In spite of the rain, he smelt heavily of sweat and his forehead was oily with perspiration. 'With your permission.'

Lynley nodded sharply in acquiescence and longed for liquor to soothe his nerves. As if in answer, the schoolroom doors opened and his mother entered, pushing a drinks trolley on which she'd assembled two urns, three full decanters of spirits, and several plates of biscuits. Her blue jeans and shoes were stained with mud, her white shirt torn, her hair dishevelled. But, as if her appearance were the least of her concerns, when she spoke she took command of the situation.

'I don't pretend to know your regulations, Inspector,' she told Boscowan. 'But it does seem reasonable that you might be allowed something to take the edge off the chill. Coffee, tea, brandy, whisky. Whatever you'd like. Please help yourselves.'

Boscowan nodded his thanks and, having received this much permission, his officers occupied themselves at the trolley. Boscowan strolled over to Lynley and St James.

'Was he a drinker, my lord?'

'I didn't know him that well. But he was drinking last night. We all were.' 'Drunk?'

'He didn't appear to be. Not when I last saw him.' 'And when was that?'

'When the party broke up. Round midnight. Perhaps a bit later.' 'Where?'

'In the drawing room.'

'Drinking?'

'Yes.'

'But not drunk?'

'He could have been. I don't know. He wasn't acting drunk.' Lynley recognized the intention behind the questions. If Brooke had been drunk, he fell to his death. If he had been sober, he was pushed. But Lynley felt the need to excuse the death as an accident, whatever Brooke's condition last night. 'Drunk or sober, he'd never been here before. He wasn't familiar with the lie of the land.'

Boscowan nodded, but nothing in his manner suggested conviction. 'No doubt the post-mortem will tell the tale.'

'It was dark. The cliffs high.'

'Dark if the man went out in the night,' Boscowan said. 'He could have done so this morning.' 'How was he dressed?'

Boscowan's shoulders lifted, a partial acknowledgement of the accuracy of Lynley's question. 'In his evening clothes. But no-one's to say he wasn't up until dawn with one member of the party or another. Until we have a time of death, we can be certain of nothing. Except the fact that he's dead. And we're certain of that.' He nodded and joined his men by the trolley.

'A thousand and one questions he's not asking, St James,' Lynley said.

The other man listed them. 'Who saw him last? Has anyone else gone missing from the estate? Who was here at the party? Who else was in the grounds? Is there any reason why someone might want to harm him?'

'Why isn't he asking?'

'He's waiting for the post-mortem, I should guess. It's to his advantage that this be an accident.' 'Why?'

'Because he's got his man for Cambrey's murder. And John Penellin couldn't have killed Brooke.'

'You're implying there's a connection.'

'There is. There must be.' A blur of movement on the drive outside caught their attention. 'Jasper,' St James noted.

The old man was trudging through puddles, heading towards the west wing of the house.

'Let's see what he has to say,' Lynley said.

They found him just outside the servants' hall where he was shaking the rain off a battered sou'wester. He did the same to an antique mackintosh and hung both on a wall peg before he struggled out of dark green gumboots that were caked with mud. He nodded curdy at Lynley and St James, and when he was quite ready followed them back to the smoking room where he accepted a whisky to ward off the cold.

'Nowheres to be found,' he told Lynley. 'But 'r boat's gone from Lamorna Cove.'

'It's what?' Lynley said. 'Jasper are you certain?'

"Course I be certain. 'Tain't there.'

Lynley stared at the fox on the overmantel and tried to understand, but all that came to mind were details. They refused to coalesce. The family's thirty-five-foot sloop was docked at Lamorna. Peter had been sailing since he was five years old. The weather had been promising a storm all day. No-one with any sense or experience would have taken a boat out. 'It must have broken loose of its mooring somehow.'

Jasper made a sound of derision, but his face was blank when Lynley swung towards him again. 'Where else did you check?'

'Ever'place. 'Tween Nanrunnel and Treen.'

'Trewoofe? St Buryan? Did you go inland?'

'Aye. A bit. No need t' go far, m'lord. If the lad be on foot, someone's like to see him. But no-one makes the claim.' Jasper pulled on his jaw, rubbing his fingers through the stubble of his beard. 'Way I see, either him and the lady's in hiding round here or they got a ride direct soon's they left Howenstow. Or they took the boat.'

'He wouldn't have done it. He knows better than that. He's not entirely…' Lynley stopped. There was no need for Jasper to hear the worst of his fears. No doubt the man knew every one of them already. 'Thank you, Jasper. Make sure you get something to eat.'