A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,44
became aware of Lady Helen's hand coming to rest on St. James' arm, of Deborah's uneasy stirring at his own side, of Trenarrow's look of perplexity as if he hadn't an idea in the world what Lynley was referring to. "Make good the money?" Trenarrow repeated. "I'm not about to let Nancy go begging. They can't afford a rise in rent at the moment and - "
"Rent?" Lynley found his gentle repetitions aggravating. Trenarrow was maneuvering him into the bully's role. "She's afraid of losing Gull Cottage. I told her I'd make good the money. Now I'm telling you."
"The cottage. I see." Trenarrow lifted his drink slowly and observed Lynley over the rim of the glass. He gazed reflectively at the drinks booth. "Nancy doesn't need to worry about the cottage. Mick and I shall work it out. She needn't have bothered you for the money." How absolutely like the man, Lynley thought. How insufferably noble he was.
How far-sighted as well. He knew what he was doing. The entire conversation was the sort of parry and thrust that they had engaged in innumerable times over the years, filled with double-edged words and hidden meanings. "I said I'd take care of it and I will."
Lynley attempted to alter the tone if not the intention behind his words. "There's absolutely no need for you to - "
"Suffer?" Trenarrow regarded Lynley evenly for a moment before he offered a cool smile. He finished the rest of his drink. "How very kind of you. If you'll excuse me now, I seem to have been dominating your time long enough. There appear to be others here who'd like to be introduced." He nodded and left them. Lynley watched him go, recognising as always Trenar row's skill at seizing the moment. He'd done it again, leaving Lynley feeling like nothing more than a rough-edged lout. He was seventeen again. Over and over in Trenarrow's presence, he would always be seventeen. Lady Helen's animated words filled the void created by Trenarrow's departure.
"Good heavens, what a gorgeous man he is, Tommy. Did you say he's a doctor? Every woman in the village must line up at his surgery on a daily basis." "He's not that kind of doctor," Lynley replied automatically. He poured out the rest of his lager along the trunk of a palm and watched the liquid pool onto the dry, unyielding earth. "He does medical research in Penzance." Which is why he'd come to Howenstow in the first place, a man only thirty years old, called upon as an act of desperation to see to the dying earl. It was hopeless. He'd explained in that earnest fashion of his that there was nothing more to be done besides adhering to the current chemotherapy. There was no cure in spite of what they read and wanted to believe in the tabloids, he said there were dozens of different kinds of cancer, it was a catch-all term. The body was dying of its own inability to call a halt to the production of cells, and scientists didn't know enough, that they were working and striving but it would be years, decades ... He spoke with quiet apologies. With profound understanding and compassion. And so the earl had lingered and dwindled and suffered and died. The family had mourned him. The region had mourned him. Everyone save Roderick Trenarrow.
Chapter 10
Nancy Cambrey packed the last of the pint glasses into a carton for the short trip down the hill to the Anchor and Rose. She was extremely weary. In order to be at the school in time to do the setting up that evening, she'd gone without her dinner, so she was feeling light-headed as well. She crisscrossed the carton flaps and secured the package, relieved that the evening's labour was done. Nearby, her employer - the formidable Mrs. Swann -
fingered through the night's taking with her usual passion for things pecuniary. Her lips moved soundlessly as she counted the coins and notes, jotting figures into her dog-eared red ledger. She nodded in satisfaction. The booth had done well. "I'm off then," Nancy said with some hesitation. She never knew exactly what kind of reaction to expect from Mrs. Swann, who was notorious for her mood swings. No barmaid had ever lasted more than seven months in her employ. Nancy was determined to be the first. Money's the point, she whispered inwardly whenever she found herself on the receiving end of one of Mrs. Swann's violent outbursts. You can