A Suitable Vengeance

She showed them to the study where, with a meaningful look at St James, Cotter said, 'I could do with a walk round the garden myself,' and followed the woman from the room. Cotter would, St James knew, find out what he could about who she was and why she was there.

Alone, he turned to look at the room. It was the sort of study he particularly liked, with air faintly scented by the smell of the old leather chairs, bookcases filled to absolute capacity, a fireplace with coals newly laid and ready to be lit. A desk sat in the large bay window overlooking the harbour but, as if the view would be a distraction from work, it faced into the room, rather than outwards. An open magazine lay upon it with a pen left in the centre crease as if the reader had been interrupted in the middle of an article. Curious, St James went to examine it, flipping it closed for a moment.

Cancer Research, an American journal, with a photograph of a white-coated scientist on its cover. She leaned against a working area on which sat an immense electron microscope. Scripps Clinic, La Jolla was printed beneath the photograph, along with the phrase Testing the Limits of Bio-Research.

St James went back to the article, a technical treatise on an extra-cellular matrix protein called proteoglycans. Despite his own extensive background in science, it made little sense to him.

'Not quite what one would call light reading, is it?'

St James looked up. Dr Trenarrow stood in the doorway. He was wearing a well-tailored three-piece suit. He'd pinned a small rosebud to its lapel.

'It's certainly beyond me,' St James replied.

'Any word of Peter?'

'Nothing yet, I'm afraid.'

Trenarrow shut the door and gestured St James into one of the room's wing-back chairs.

'Coffee?' he asked. 'I've been discovering it's one of Dora's few specialities.'

'Thank you, no. She's your housekeeper?'

'Using the term in the loosest possible fashion.' He smiled briefly, without humour. The remark seemed largely an effort to be light-hearted, an effort he dismissed with his very next words. 'Tommy told us last night. About Peter seeing Mick Cambrey the night he died.

About Brooke as well. I don't know where you stand in all this, but I've known that boy since he was six years old, and he's not a killer. He's incapable of violence, most especially the sort that was done to Mick Cambrey.' 'Did you know Mick well?'

'Not as well as others in the village. Just as his landlord. I let him Gull Cottage.' 'How long ago was that?'

Trenarrow began an automatic answer, but then his brow furrowed, as if he'd suddenly wondered about the nature of the question, 'About nine months.'

'Who lived there before him?'

'I did.' Trenarrow made a quick movement in his chair, an adjustment in position that betrayed irritation. 'You can't have come here on a social call at this time of the morning, Mr St James. Did Tommy send you?'

'Tommy?'

'No doubt you know the facts. We've years of bad blood between us. You're asking about Cambrey. You're asking about the cottage. Are these questions his idea or yours?'

'Mine. But he knows I've come to see you.' 'About Mick?'

'Actually no. Tina Cogin's disappeared. We think she may have come to Cornwall.' 'Who?'

'Tina Cogin. Shrewsbury Court Apartments. In Paddington. Your telephone number was among her things.'

'I haven't the slightest… Tina Cogin, you say?'

'She's not a patient of yours? Or a former patient?'

'I don't see patients. Oh, perhaps the occasional terminal case who volunteers for an experimental drug. But if Tina Cogin was one of them and she's disappeared… Excuse me for the levity, but there's only one place she'd be disappearing to and it wouldn't be Cornwall.'

'Then, you may well have seen her in a different light.' Trenarrow looked perplexed. 'Sony?' 'She may be a prostitute.'

The doctor's gold-rimmed spectacles slid fractionally down his nose. He knuckled them back into place and said, 'And she had my name?'

'No. Just your number.'

'My address?'

'Not even that.'

Trenarrow pushed himself out of his chair. He walked over to the window behind the desk. He spent a long moment studying the view before he turned back to St James. 'I've not set foot in London in a year. Perhaps more. But I suppose that makes little enough difference if she's come to Cornwall. Perhaps she's making house calls.' He smiled wryly. 'You don't really know me, Mr St James, so you have no way of knowing if I'm telling you the truth. But let me say that it's not been my habit to pay a woman for sex. Some men do it without flinching, I realize. But I've always preferred love-making to grow out of a passion other than avarice. This other – the negotiating first, the exchange of cash later – that's not my style.'

'Was it Mick's?'

'Mick's?'

'He was seen leaving her flat on Friday morning in London. He may well have given her your number in fact. Perhaps for some sort of consultation.'

Trenarrow's fingers went to the rosebud on his lapel, touching its tightly furled petals. 'That's a possibility,' he said thoughtfully. 'Although referrals generally come from physicians, it is a possibility if she's seriously ill. Mick knew cancer research is my line of work. He'd done an interview with me shortly after he took over the Spokesman. It's not inconceivable that he might have given her my name. But Cambrey and a prostitute? That's going to put a wrench in his reputation. His father's been fanning the fires of Mick's sexual profligacy for the last year at least. And, believe me, nothing he's said has ever alluded to Mick having to pay for a woman's favours. According to Harry, so many women were throwing themselves at the poor lad that he barely had time to pull his trousers up before someone was moaning to have them back down. If involvement with a prostitute led to Mick's murder, it'll be sad times for Harry. He seems to be hoping it was from a row with a dozen or two jealous husbands.' 'Or one jealous wife?'

'Nancy?' Trenarrow said incredulously. 'I can't see her hurting anyone, can you? And even if she had somehow been driven beyond endurance – it was no secret, after all, that Mick saw other women – when could she have done it? She couldn't have been in two places at once.'

'She was gone from the refreshment booth for a good ten minutes or more.'

'Time to run home, murder her husband, and reappear as if everything were well? The thought's a bit absurd, considering the girl. Someone else might have managed it with aplomb, but Nancy's no actress. If she'd killed her husband during the evening, I doubt she could have hidden it from a soul.'

There was certainly a weight of evidence to support Trenarrow's declaration. From start to finish, Nancy's reactions had borne the unmistakable stamp of authenticity. Her shock, her numb grief, her rising anxiety. None of them had seemed in the least bit factitious. It hardly seemed likely that she'd run home, killed her husband, and feigned horror later. That being the case, St James considered the problem of suspects. John Penellin had been in the area that night, as had Peter Lynley and Justin Brooke. Perhaps Harry Cambrey had paid a visit to the cottage as well. And Mark Penellin's whereabouts were still unaccounted for. Yet a motive for the crime was not clearly emerging. Each one they considered was nebulous at best. And, more than anything, a motive needed clear definition if anyone was to understand the full circumstances of Mick Cambrey's death.

St James noticed Harry Cambrey almost immediately as Cotter pulled the car back into Paul Lane. He was climbing towards them. He waved energetically as they approached. The cigarette between his fingers left a tiny plume of smoke in the air.

'Who's this?' Cotter slowed the car.

'Mick Cambrey's father. Let's see what he wants.'

Cotter pulled to the side of the road, and Harry Cambrey came to St James' window. He leaned into the car, bringing with him the mixed odours of tobacco smoke and beer. His appearance had undergone some improvement since St James and Lady Helen had seen him on Saturday morning. His clothes were fresh, his hair was combed, and although a few overlooked whiskers sprouted here and there like grey bristles on his cheeks, his face was