All the time with Deborah in his arms, Lynley was acutely aware of St James. During the journey to Cornwall, he was aware of them both. He studied every nuance in their behaviour towards him, in their behaviour towards each other. He examined each word, gesture and remark under the unforgiving microscope of his own suspicion. If Deborah said St James' name, it became in his mind a veiled avowal of her love. If St James looked in Deborah's direction, it was an open declaration of commitment and desire. By the time Lynley taxied the plane to a halt on the Land's End airstrip, he felt tension coiling like a spring in the back of his neck. The resulting pain was only a secondary consideration, however. It was nothing compared to his self-disgust.
His roiling emotions had prevented him from engaging in anything other than the most superficial of conversations during the drive to Surrey and the flight that followed it. And since not one of them was gifted with Lady Helen's capacity for smoothing over difficult moments with amusing chatter, their talk had ground itself down to nothing in very short order so that when they finally arrived in Cornwall the atmosphere among them was thick with unspoken words. Lynley knew he was not the only one to sigh with relief when they stepped out of the plane and saw Jasper waiting with the car next to the tarmac.
The silence during their ride to Howenstow was broken only by Jasper telling him that Lady Asherton had arranged to have two of the farm lads waiting at the cove 'at half-one like you said 'at you wanted'. John Penellin was still being held in Penzance, he confided, but the happy word had gone out to everyone that 'Mister Peter be found'.
'Her Ladyship's looking ten yers younger this morning for knowing the lad's safe,' Jasper concluded. 'She was whacking her tennis balls at five past eight.'
They said nothing more. St James riffled through the papers in his briefcase, Deborah watched the scenery, Lynley tried to clear his mind. They met neither vehicle nor animal on the narrow lanes, and it wasn't until they made the turn into the estate drive that they saw anyone at all. Nancy Cambrey was sitting on the front steps of the lodge. In her arms, Molly sucked eagerly at her bottle.
'Stop the car,' Lynley said to Jasper, and then to the others, 'Nancy knew about Mick's newspaper story from the first. Perhaps she can fill in the details if we tell her what we know.'
St James looked doubtful. A glance at his watch told Lynley that he was concerned about getting to the cove and from there to the newspaper office before much more time elapsed. But he didn't protest. Nor did Deborah. They got out of the car.
Nancy stood when she saw who it was. She led them into the house and faced them in the entry hall. Above her right shoulder, an old, faded sampler hung on the wall, a needlepoint scene of a family picnic, with two children, their parents, a dog, and an empty swing hanging from a tree. The wording was nearly obscure, but it probably had spoken, with well-meaning inaccuracy, of the constant rewards of family life.
'Mark's not here?' Lynley asked.
'He's gone to St Ives.'
'So your father's still said nothing to Inspector Boscowan about him? About Mick? About the cocaine?'
Nancy didn't pretend to misunderstand. She merely said, 'I don't know. I've heard nothing,' and walked into the sitting room where she placed Molly's bottle on top of the television and the baby herself in her pram. 'There's a good girl,' she said and patted her back. 'There's a good little Molly. You sleep for a bit.'
They joined her. It would have been natural to sit, but none of them did so at first. Instead, they took positions like uneasy actors who do not yet know how their play will be blocked: Nancy with one hand curled round the push bar of the pram; St James with his back to the bay window; Deborah near the piano; Lynley opposite her by the sitting-room door.
Nancy looked as if she anticipated the worst from this unexpected visit. Her glance went among them skittishly.
'You've news of Mick,' she said.
Together, Lynley and St James laid out both facts and conjectures. She listened to them without question or comment. Occasionally, she seemed struck by fleeting sorrow, but for the most part she seemed deadened to everything. It was as if, far in advance of their arrival, she had anaesthetized herself against the possibility of feeling anything more, not only about her husband's death, but also about some of the less-than-creditable aspects of his life.
'So he never mentioned Islington to you?' Lynley asked when they had concluded their story. 'Or oncozyme? Or a biochemist, Justin Brooke?'
'Never. Not once.'
'Was that typical of him to be so secretive about a story?'
'Before we married, no. He talked of everything then. When we were lovers. Before the baby.' 'And after the baby?'
'He went away more and more. Always about some story.'
'To London?' 'Yes.'
'Did you know he kept a flat there?' St James asked.
When she shook her head, Lynley said, 'But when your father spoke about Mick keeping other women, did you never think he might be keeping one in London? That would be a reasonable enough assumption, wouldn't it, considering how often he was travelling up there?'
'No. There were…' The decision she faced evidenced itself in her hesitation. It was a choice between loyalty or truth. And a question of whether truth in this case really constituted a betrayal. She appeared resolved. She lifted her head. 'There were no other women. Dad only thought that. I let him believe Mickey was having other women. It was easier that way.'
'Easier than letting your father discover that his son-in-law liked to wear women's clothes?'
Lynley's question appeared to release the young woman from months of secrecy. If anything, she looked monumentally relieved. 'No-one knew,' Nancy murmured. 'For ever so long, no-one knew but me.' She sank into the armchair next to the pram. 'Mickey,' she said. 'Oh God, poor Mickey.' 'How did you find out?'
She pulled a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her house dress. 'Right before Molly was born. There were things in his chest of drawers. I thought he was having an affair at first and I didn't say anything because I was eight months gone and Mick and me couldn't… so I thought
How reasonable it all was as she haltingly explained it. Pregnant, she couldn't accommodate her husband, so if he sought another woman she would have to accept it. She had, after all, entrapped him into marriage. She had only herself to blame if he hurt her as a result. So she wouldn't confront him with the evidence of betrayal. She would put up with it and hope to win him back in the end.
'Then I came home one night, not long after I'd started serving behind bar at the Anchor and Rose. I found him. He was all dressed in my clothes. He'd put on make-up. He'd even got himself a wig. I thought it was my fault. See, I liked to buy things, new clothes. I wanted to be trendy. I wanted to look nice for him. I thought it would get him back. I thought at first he was making a scene to punish me for spending money. But I saw soon enough that… he got really… it made him excited.'
'What did you do after you found him?'
'Threw away my make-up. Every bit of it. Shredded my clothes. Went after them with a butcher knife in the back garden.'
Lynley remembered Jasper's account of the scene. 'Your father saw you doing it, didn't he?'
'He thought I'd found things that someone left behind. So he believed Mick was having other women on the side.
I let him believe it. How could I tell him the truth? Besides, Mick promised me that he'd never do it again. And I thought he could do it. I'd got rid of all my good clothes so he wouldn't be tempted. And he tried to be good. He did try. But he couldn't stop. He started bringing things home. I'd find them. I'd try to talk. We'd try to talk together. But nothing worked. He got worse. It was like he needed the dressing more and more. He even did it once at night in the newspaper office, and his father caught him. Harry went mad.' 'So his father knew?'
'He beat him silly. Mick came home. He was bleeding and cursing. Crying as well. I thought then he'd stop.'
'But instead he took up a second life in London.'
'I thought he was better.' She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. 'I thought he was cured. I thought we had a chance to be happy. Like when we were lovers. We were happy then.'
'And no-one else knew about Mick's cross-dressing? Not Mark? Not someone from the village? Or from the
