A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,45

bear anything, so long as you're paid. "Fine, Nance," Mrs. Swann muttered with a wave of her hand.

"Off with you, then."

"Sorry about the call box." The woman snorted and poked at her scalp with the stub of a pencil. "From now on, phone your dad on your own time, girl. Not on the pub's time.

And not on mine."

"Yes. I will. I'll remember." Placation was paramount. Nancy held tightly to the booth in order to manage unruffling Mrs. Swann's feathers while betraying nothing of the aversion she actually felt for her employer. "I learn quick, Mrs. Swann. You'll see. People never do have to tell me anything twice."

Mrs. Swann looked up sharply. Her rat's eyes glittered in evaluation. "Learning things quick enough from that man of yours, girl? All sorts of new things, I expect. That right?"

Nancy rubbed at a smudge on her faded pink blouse. "I'm off," she said in answer and ducked under the booth. Although the lights were still on, the yard was empty of everyone save Lynley's party and the Nanrunnel Players. Nancy watched them at the front of the theatre. While St. James and Lady Helen waited among the empty seats, Lynley posed with the cast as his fiancee took their pictures. Each flash lit one delighted face after another, catching their antic posturing on film. Lynley bore it all with his usual good grace, chatting away with the rector and his wife, laughing at cheerful remarks made by Lady Helen Clyde. Life comes so easily to him, Nancy thought. "It's no different, my dear, being one of them. It only looks that way." Nancy started at the words, at their stabbing acuity. She whirled to see Dr. Trenarrow sitting in the shadows, against a wall of the school yard. Nancy had avoided him for the entire evening, always keeping out of his reach or his line of vision when he came to the booth for a drink. Now, however, she could not avoid the contact, for he got to his feet and walked into the light.

"You're worried about the cottage," he said. "Don't. I shan't be putting you out on the street. We'll work things out, Mick and I." She felt sweat break out on the back of her neck in spite of his gentle declaration. It was the nightmare she feared, coming face to face with him, having to discuss the situation, having to create excuses. Worse, just ten feet away, Mrs. Swann had raised her head from the money box, her interest no doubt piqued by the mention of Mick's name.

"I'll have the money," she stammered. "I'll get it. I will."

"You're not to worry, Nancy," Trenarrow said, more insistently. "And you've no need at all to go begging Lord Asherton for help. You should have spoken to me."

"No. You see . . ." She couldn't explain without giving offence. He would not understand why she could go hat in hand to Lynley but not to him. He wouldn't realise that a loan from Lynley carried no burden of unwelcome charity because he gave without judgement, in friendship and concern. And nowhere else in Nancy's life could she expect that sort of help without a companion assessment of the failure of her marriage. Even now she could feel the manner in which Dr. Trenarrow was evaluating her situation. Even now she could sense his pity. ./£. "Because a riseUn the rent isn't - " "Please." With a small cry, she brushed past him, hurrying out of the school yard and into the street. She heard Dr. Trenarrow call her name once, but she kept going. Rubbing arms that were sore from heaving pint glasses and working the taps all night, she scurried down Paul Lane towards the mouth of Ivy Street which led into the twisting collection of alleys and passageways that comprised the heart of the village. These were narrow inclines, cobbled and tortuous little streets too cramped for cars. During the day, summer holiday makers came here to photograph the picturesque old buildings with their colourful front gardens and crooked slate roofs. At night, however, the entire area was illuminated only by oblongs of light from cottage windows. Darkly shadowed and inhabited by generations of cats who bred in the hillside above the village and fed by night in rubbish bins, it was not a place for lingering. Gull Cottage was some distance into the maze of streets. It sat on the corner of Virgin Place, looking like a whitewashed matchbox, with