'People 'ave to eat, Daze, and that's all there is to it,' Cotter said, although he'd touched no more of his food than had the others.
'But we've not much heart for it, have we?' Lady Asherton smiled at Cotter, but her anxiety was palpable. It showed itself in her quick movements, in the fleeting glimpses she took of her older son who sat nearby. Lynley had been home only ten minutes prior to dinner. He had spent that time in the estate office making phone calls. St James knew he had not spoken to his mother about Peter, and he did not have the look of a man who intended to speak about Peter now. As if she realized this, Lady Asherton said to St James, 'How's Sidney?'
'Sleeping now. She wants to go back to London in the morning.'
'Is that wise, St James?' Lynley asked.
'She doesn't appear to be willing to have it any other way.'
'Will you go with her?'
He shook his head, fingered the stem of his wineglass and thought about his brief conversation with his sister just an hour ago. Mostly he thought about her refusal to speak of Justin Brooke. Don't ask me, don't make me, she'd said, all the time looking ill, with her hair in soaked ringlets from a feverish dream. I can't, I can't. Don't make me, Simon. Please.
'She says she'll do well enough taking the train up alone,' he said.
'Perhaps she wants to speak to his family. Have the police contacted them?'
'I don't know that he has any family. I don't know much about him at all.' Beyond the fact, he added silently, that I'm glad he's dead.
His conscience had demanded the admission all day, ever since the moment when he'd held his sister in his arms on the top of the cliff, gazed down on Brooke's body, and known a moment of exultation that had its roots in his need for revenge. Here was justice, he'd thought. Here was retribution. Perhaps the hand of reprisal had been momentarily stayed after Brooke had attacked his sister on the beach. But the savagery of his assault upon her had called for an accounting. It had been made in full. He was glad of it. He was relieved that Sidney was free of Brooke at last. And the strength of his relief – so utterly foreign to what he had always believed was a civilized response to the death of another human being – disquieted him. He knew without a doubt that, given the opportunity, he himself could easily have done away with Justin Brooke.
'At any rate,' he said, 'I think it's probably wise that she get away. No-one's asked her to stay. Officially, that is.' He saw that the others understood his meaning. The police had not asked to speak with Sidney. As far as they were concerned, Brooke's death was due to an accidental fall.
The others mulled over this piece of information as the dining-room door opened and Hodge came into the room. 'A telephone call for Mr St James, my Lady.' Hodge had a way of making announcements with an intonation that suggested nothing less than impending doom: a phone call from fate, Hecate on the line. 'It's in the estate office. Lady Helen Clyde.'
St James rose at once, grateful for an excuse to be gone. The atmosphere in the dining room was overhung with too many unspoken questions and scores of issues asking to be discussed. But everyone seemed determined to avoid discussion, preferring the growing tension to the risk of facing a potentially painful truth.
He followed the butler to the west wing of the house, down the long corridor that led to the estate office. A single light burned upon the desk, creating a bright oval of illumination in the centre of which lay the telephone receiver. He picked it up.
'She's disappeared,' Lady Helen said when she heard his voice. 'It looks as if she's taken herself off on a casual holiday because her ordinary clothes are gone – but none of her dressy clothes – and there's no suitcase in the flat.' 'You got inside?'
'Sheer audacious fast-talking and the key was mine.'
'You've missed your calling, Helen.'
'Darling, I know. Con-man extraordinaire. It comes from spending my youth in finishing schools instead of university. Modern languages, decorative arts, dissembling and prevaricating. I was certain it would all be useful some day.'
'No idea where she's gone?'
'She's left behind her make-up and her fingernails, so-'
'Her fingernails? Helen, what sort of business is this?'
She laughed and explained the artificial nails to him. 'They're not what one would wear to do a bit of hiking, you see. Or mucking about. Or rock climbing, sailing, fishing. That sort of thing. So we think she's off in the country somewhere.'
'Here in Cornwall?'
'That was our first thought as well, and we've come up with fairly solid evidence, we think. She has Mick Cambrey's savings book – with some rather hefty deposits made to his account, by the way – and we've found two telephone numbers. One's for a London exchange. We phoned it and got a recording for a place called Islington Ltd, giving their business hours. I'll check into that in the morning.'
'And the other number?'
'It's Cornwall, Simon. We've tried it twice and got no answer. We thought it might be Mick Cambrey's.'
St James pulled an envelope from the side drawer of the desk. 'Did you try directory enquiries?'
'To compare it to Cambrey's number? He's ex-directory, I'm afraid. Let me give you the number. Perhaps you can do something more with it.'
He jotted it down on the envelope, shoved it into his pocket. 'Sid's coming back to London tomorrow.' He told Lady Helen about Justin Brooke. She listened in silence, asking no questions and making no comment until he had completed the tale. He left nothing out, concluding with, 'And now Peter's gone missing as well.'
'Oh no,' she said. Dimly in the background St James could hear music playing softly. A flute concerto. It made him wish he were sitting in her drawing room in Onslow Square, talking idly about nothing, with nothing more on his mind than blood or fibre or hair analyses associated with people he did not know and would never meet. She said, 'Poor Tommy. Poor Daze. How are they holding up?'
'They're coping.' 'And Sid?'
'She's taken it badly. Will you see to her, Helen? Tomorrow night? When she's back?'
'Of course. Don't worry. Don't give it a thought.' She hesitated momentarily. Again the music came over the line, delicate and elusive, like a fragrance in the air. Then she said, 'Simon, wishing didn't make it happen, you know.'
How well she knew him. 'When I saw him on the beach, when I knew that he was dead-' 'Don't be so hard on yourself.'
'I could have killed him, Helen. God knows I wanted to.'
'Which of us can say we've never felt the same? Towards someone at some time. It means nothing, my dear. You need some rest. We all do. It's been a dreadful time.'
He smiled at her tone. Mother, sister, loving friend. He accepted the ephemeral absolution which she offered. 'You're right, of course.'
'So go to bed. Surely we can depend upon nothing else happening before morning.'
'Let's hope so.' He replaced the receiver and stood for a moment watching the storm. Rain lashed the windows. Wind tore at the trees. Somewhere a door banged open and shut. He left the office.
He considered climbing the south-west stairway to spend the rest of the evening in his room. He felt drained of energy, incapable of thought, and unwilling to face the task of making polite conversation that deliberately avoided the topics foremost on everyone's mind. Peter Lynley. Sasha Nifford. Where they were. What they had done. Still, he knew that Lynley would be waiting to hear about Lady Helen's call. So he headed back towards the dining room.
Voices drifting down the north-west corridor arrested his attention as he approached the kitchen. Near the servants' hall, Jasper stood conversing with a rugged-looking man who dripped water from a brimming sou'wester on to the floor. Seeing St James, Jasper motioned him over.