'And Saturday when Sid couldn't find him for most of the day — remember, she told us that? — he must have got the ergotamine and quinine then. He made the mixture and passed it on to Sasha.'
'A chemist,' St James said thoughtfully. 'A biochemist. Who would know drugs better?'
'So who was he after? Peter or Sasha?'
'It was always Peter.'
'Because of the visit to Mick Cambrey?'
'The room had been searched. The computer was on. There were notebooks and photographs all over the floor. Peter must have seen something when he was there with Brooke, something Brooke knew he might remember once Cambrey was dead.'
'Then, why give the drugs to Sasha? When Peter died, she would have told the police at once where she'd got them.'
'Not at all. She'd have been dead as well. Brooke was betting on that. He knew she was a user. So he gave her the drugs, hoping she and Peter would use them together and die at Howenstow, I imagine. When it became apparent that the plan wasn't working, he tried to be rid of Peter in a different way: by telling us about their visit to Cambrey so that Peter would be arrested and out of the way. What he couldn't have known is that Sasha and Peter would leave before Peter could be arrested in Cornwall and that Sasha's addiction was worse than Peter's. He especially had no way of knowing that she would hoard the drugs and use them alone. Nor did he know that Peter would go to the Anchor and Rose and get himself seen by a dozen or more people who could provide him with an alibi for the time of Cambrey's death.'
'So it was Justin,' Deborah said. 'Everything was Justin.'
'I've been blinded by the fact that he died before Sasha. I never considered that he might have given her the drugs first.'
'But his own death, Simon?' 'An accident all along.'
'Why? How? What was he doing on the cliff in the middle of the night?'
St James glanced over her shoulder. She'd left the warning light on above the darkroom door. It cast an eerie glow of blood red on the ceiling. It also gave him the answer. 'Your cameras,' he said. 'That's where he got rid of them.'
'Why?'
'He was wiping out every trace of his connection to Cambrey. First Cambrey himself. Then Peter. Then —'
'My film,' she said. 'The pictures you took in the cottage. Whatever Peter saw, you must have photographed as well.'
'Which means the state of the sitting room was merely a blind. He hadn't searched for anything. He hadn't taken anything. Whatever he wanted was too big to be removed.'
'The computer?' Deborah asked. 'Even so, how could he have known you even took any pictures in the first place?'
'He knew we had your camera with us on Friday night. Mrs Sweeney made certain of that at dinner on Saturday. He knew my line of work. Sidney would have told him. He had to have known Tommy is with Scotland Yard. He might have risked our coming upon a murder scene and doing nothing save calling the police. But why take the risk if there was something in that room — something on the film — that could tie him to Cambrey?'
'But the police would have found it eventually, wouldn't they?'
'They'd made their arrest. Penellin was as good as confessing to the crime. The only thing Justin had to fear was that someone other than the local police wouldn't accept the idea of Penellin as a killer. Which is exactly what happened less than twenty-four hours after Cambrey's death. We were nosing about. We were asking questions. He had to take steps to protect himself.'
She asked a final question. 'But why all my equipment? Why not just the film?'
'He didn't have time. It was easier to take the entire case, drop it from your window, and then trot down to see Tommy and me in the day room where he told us all about Peter. Then, later on, he took the cameras to the cove. He went out on the rocks and disposed of them in the water. He climbed back up the cliff. And that's when he fell.'
She smiled, feeling the release that comes with relief. He looked as if he'd shaken off a terrible burden. 'I wonder if we can prove any of it.'
'Indeed we can. In Cornwall. First at the cove to find the cameras, then at the newspaper office to find whatever Mick Cambrey was writing about oncozyme. Tomorrow.'
'And the film? The pictures?'
'Icing on the cake.'
'Shall I develop them for you?' 'Would you?' 'Of course.'
'Then, let's be about it at once, little bird. It's time to put Justin Brooke in his place.'
24
Deborah worked with a lightness of both heart and spirit that she would have thought impossible a mere two hours before. She found herself humming, occasionally singing a line or two from old songs that popped into her head out of nowhere: the Beatles, Buddy Holly, an ancient Cliff Richard that she didn't even know she knew. In the darkroom, she clipped the leader from the roll of exposed film, spooling it into the developing-tank in an automatic process that was second nature to her. She didn't pause to reflect upon the work itself or upon the carefree manner in which she did it. Nor did she pause to think about how and why time and circumstances had somehow reversed themselves, allowing her former childhood affection for St James to blossom, renewed, while they talked together in the lab. She was merely grateful that it had somehow happened, she was merely grateful for the promise it held that rancour could at last be put to rest between them.
How right she had been to follow her instincts and come to Chelsea to be with Simon tonight. How happy she had felt to see his face alter the moment he realized that no blame could be laid at his sister's feet. How comfortable she had been to follow him to his bedroom, to stand chatting and laughing while he rooted out the roll of film. They were comrades again, sharing their thoughts, listening to each other, debating, and reflecting.
Joy in communicating had been the hallmark of their relationship prior to her three-year stay in America. And those minutes in the lab, in his bedroom afterwards, had brought back to her the vivid memory of that joy, if not the full intensity of the joy itself. She saw what he had once been to her as a series of images, playing in the field of her mind. These whirled her back through childhood and adolescence, vast periods of time that she shared with him.
He was her history in a thousand different ways: listening to her woes, softening the blow of disappointments, reading to her, talking to her. watching her grow. He had seen the very worst that she was — her temper tantrums, her stubborn pride, her inability to accept defeat, the demands for perfection which she placed upon herself, the difficulty she faced in forgiving weakness in others. He had seen this and more, and never had he been anything less than completely accepting. He might advise or instruct, he might warn or admonish. But he always accepted. And she had known he always would from the moment when, as an eighteen-year-old boy, he had squatted before her at the side of her mother's grave where she was trying to be brave, striving for indifference, making a show of the fact that at seven years old she could stand the terror of a devastating loss that she barely understood. He had drawn her into his arms with five simple words which effectively freed her to be who and what she really was for the rest of her life: 'It's all right to cry.'
He had helped her grow up, encouraged her in every way, and let her go when it was time for her to leave. But it was that final action — his obvious willingness to release her into her own adulthood without a word to stop her from leaving him — which had undermined their relationship, creating a rankling that had gnawed within her. And, because the very worst she could be was the part of her that rose to the surface when she was first confronted with his intention to subject them both to three years of separation heightened by silence, she had let joy wither, she had let warmth die, she had given herself over to a need to hurt him. And she had done so,
