If she hadn't said his name, Trenarrow probably would have maintained his distance. But, as it was, he went to her, touched her face, her hair, said her name again. Her arms went round him.
Lynley looked away. His muscles ached. His bones felt leaden.
'I don't understand it,' Lady Asherton was saying. 'No matter what he intended by taking the boat, he would have seen what the weather was like. He would have known the danger. He can't have been as desperate as that.' And then, gendy pushing herself away from Trenarrow, 'Tommy?'
'I don't know,' Lynley said. He kept his tone guarded.
His mother got to her feet, came to the sofa. 'There's something else, isn't there? Something you've not told me. No, Roddy' – this as Trenarrow made a move towards her
– Tm all right. Tell me what it is, Tommy. Tell me what you've not wanted me to know. You argued with him last night. I heard you. You know that. But there's more, isn't there? Tell me.'
Lynley looked up at her. Her face had become remarkably calm again, as if she had managed to find and draw upon a new source of strength. He dropped his eyes to the coffee cup that warmed the palm of his hand.
'Peter was at Mick Cambrey's cottage after John Penellin's visit on Friday night. Later, Mick died. Justin told me about that after John's arrest last night. And then'
– he looked back at her – 'Justin died.'
Her lips parted as he spoke, but otherwise her expression remained impassive. 'You can't think your own brother-'
'I don't know what to think.' His throat felt raw. 'For God's sake, tell me what to think, if you will. Mick's dead. Justin's dead. Peter's disappeared. So what would you have me think of it all?'
Trenarrow took a step as if with the intention of deflecting the strength of Lynley's words. But, as he moved, Lady Asherton did likewise. She joined her son on the sofa, put her arm round his shoulders. She pressed her cheek against his and brushed her lips against his damp hair.
'Dearest Tommy,' she murmured. 'My dear, my dear. Why on earth do you believe you must bear it all?'
It was the first time she had touched him in more than a decade.
18
The morning sky, a cerulean arc under which a froth of cumulus clouds drifted inland, acted as a contradiction to the previous day's storm. As did the seabirds, who once again filled the air with their raw, importunate cries. The ground below them, however, was a testament to foul weather, and from his bedroom window, a cup of tea in his hand, St James surveyed the consequences of those hours of rain and bluster.
Slate tiles from the roof lay shattered on the drive which entered the south courtyard over which his room looked. A twisted weathervane had fallen among them, no doubt blown there from the roof of one of the outbuildings that formed part of the courtyard wall. Crushed flowers created occasional mats of bright colour: purple Canterbury bells, pink begonias, entire spikes of larkspur, and everywhere the petals of ruined roses. Bits of broken glass made a jewel-like glitter on the cobblestones, and one small, curiously unbroken window pane covered a puddle of water like newly formed ice. Already the gardeners and groundsmen were taking steps to repair the damage, and St James could hear their voices from the park, drowned out by the intermittent roar of a power saw.
A sharp double rap on the door brought Cotter into the room. 'Got what you need,' he said. 'Bit of a surprise, that, as well.' He crossed the room and handed St James the envelope which he'd removed from the estate office
desk during his telephone conversation with Lady Helen Clyde. 'It's Dr Trenarrow's number.'
'Is it?' St James placed his tea cup on the cheveret. He took the envelope and moughtfully turned it in his hands.
'Didn't even need to ring it, Mr St James,' Cotter said. 'Hodge knew whose it was the moment I showed it to him. Seems 'e's rung it enough times over the years.'
'Did you phone the number anyway, to be certain?'
'I did. It's Dr Trenarrow's all right. And 'e knows we're coming.'
'Any word from Tommy?'
'Daze said 'e phoned from Pendeen.' Cotter shook his head. 'He's got nothing.'
St James frowned, wondering about the efficacy of Lynley's plan, one which stubbornly avoided the participation of either coastguard or police. He had headed out before dawn with six men from the surrounding farms to check the coastline from St Ives to Penzance. They were operating two launches, one setting sail from Penzance harbour and the other across the peninsula at St Ives Bay. The boats were small enough to give them fairly good visual access to the shore and fast enough to complete at least a cursory search in relatively few hours. But if that gleaned them nothing a second search would have to be conducted by land. That would take days. And, whether Lynley liked it or not, it could not be orchestrated without the inclusion of the local police.
'I feel done in by this whole flipping weekend,' Cotter commented as he replaced St James' tea cup on the tray that sat on the table next to the bed. 'I'm that glad Deb's gone back to London. Get 'er out o' this mess, is what I say.'
He sounded as if he hoped St James would make a response that would encourage furdier conversation along these lines. St James had no intention of doing so.
Cotter shook out St James' dressing gown and hung it in the wardrobe. He spent a moment straightening the neat row of his shoes. He banged a set of wooden coat hangers together and snapped the locks on the suitcase which sat on the top shelf. Then he burst out with, 'What's to become of the girl? There's no closeness 'mong them. Not a bit, an' you know it. It's not like with you, is it? It's not like your family. Oh, they're rich, bloody rich, but Deb's not drawn to money. You know that well as I do. You know what draws the girl.'
Beauty, contemplation, the colours of the sky, a sudden new idea, the sight of a swan. He knew, had always known. And he needed to forget. His bedroom door opened, promising escape. Sidney entered, but with the wardrobe door obstructing his vision Cotter didn't seem to notice that he and St James were no longer alone.
'You can't say you feel nothing,' Cotter asserted vigorously. 'I c'n see it all over you. I have done for ages, no matter what you say.'
'Am I interrupting something?' Sidney asked.
Cotter swung the wardrobe door home. He looked from St James to his sister, then back to St James.
'I'll see to the car,' he said abruptly, excused himself, and left them alone.
'What was that about?' Sidney asked.
'Nothing.'
'It didn't sound like nothing.' 'It was.' 'I see.'
She remained by the door, the knob beneath her hand. St James felt a stirring of concern at the sight of her. She looked caught somewhere between numb and ill, with blue-black crescents beneath her eyes providing the only colour on her face and her eyes themselves holding no expression, reflecting rather than absorbing the light. She wore a faded denim skirt and an oversized pullover. Her hair looked uncombed.
'I'm off,' she said. 'Daze's taking me to the station.'
What had seemed reasonable only last night seemed out of the question when he saw his sister in the light of day. 'Why don't you stay, Sid? I can take you home myself later on.'
'This is best. I really want to go. It's better this way.'
'But the station will be-'
'I'll take a cab home. I'll be all right.' She turned the knob of the door, as if experimentally. 'I understand Peter's missing,' she said.
'Yes.' St James told her what had happened since he'd taken her to her room the previous morning. She listened without looking at him. As he spoke, he could sense her increasing tension, and he knew that it took its definition from an anger growing out of her comment about Peter Lynley. After the docility which shock had produced in her yesterday, he wasn't prepared for the change even though he knew that her anger was natural, a need to strike out and wound so that someone, somehow, would feel some of her pain. The worst part of a death was always that moment of knowing beyond a doubt that no matter how many people share it – be they family, friends, or even an entire nation – no two people can ever feel it the same way. So it always seems as if one experiences it alone. How much worse for Sidney, who was experiencing it alone, who was the sole mourner for Justin Brooke.