side table beneath the windows where it cast a golden glow against the darkness-backed panes.
Lynley handed St. James a glass of brandy and cupped his own in the palm of his hand, meditatively swirling the liquid. He sank into a wing chair next to the desk, stretched out his legs, and loosened his tie. He drank before answering. "Not much in any detail. He's Peter's age. From what little's been said about him in the past few years, I gather he's been a disappointment to his family. To his father mostly." "In what way?"
"The usual way young men disappoint their fathers. John wanted Mark to go to university. Mark did one term at Reading but then dropped out."
"Rusticated?"
"Not interested. He went from Reading to a job as a barman in Maidenhead. Then Exeter, as I recall. I think he was playing drums with a band. That didn't pan out as he would have liked - no fame, no fortune, and most particularly no lucrative contract with a recording studio - and he's been working here on the estate ever since, at least for the last eighteen months. I'm not quite sure why. Estate management never seemed to interest Mark in the past. But perhaps now he's thinking along the lines of taking over as Howenstow land manager when his father retires." "Is that a possibility?"
"It's possible, but not without Mark's developing some background and a great deal more expertise than would come from the sort of work he's been doing round here."
"Does Penellin expect his son to succeed him?" "I shouldn't think so. John's university-educated himself.
When he retires - which is a good time away in the future - he wouldn't expect me to give his job to someone whose sole experience at Howenstow has been mucking out the stables."
"And that's been the extent of Mark's experience?"
"Oh, he's done some time in one or two of the dairies.Out on several of the farms as well.
But there's more to managing an estate than that."
"Is he paid well?" Lynley twirled the stem of his brandy glass between his fingers. "No, not particularly. But that's John's decision. I've got the impression from him in the past that Mark doesn't work well enough to be paid well. In fact, the whole issue of Mark's salary has been a sore spot between them ever since Mark returned from Exeter." "If he keeps him short of cash, wouldn't the money in Gull Cottage be a lure for him? Could he have known his I brother-in-law's habits well enough to know that tonight he'd be doing the pay for the newspaper staff? After all, it looks as if he's living a bit above his means, if his salary here is as low as you indicate." "Above his means? How?" "That stereo he was carrying must have set him back a few quid. The jacket looked fairly new as well. I couldn't see his boots clearly, but they looked like snakeskin." Lynley crossed the alcove to one of the windows and opened it. The early morning air felt damp and cool at last, and the stillness of night amplified the distant sound of the sea. 'I can't think that Mark would kill his brother-in-law in order to steal that money, St. James, although it's not hard to picture him coming upon Mick's body, seeing the money on the desk, helping himself to it. Murder doesn't sound like Mark. Opportunism does."
St. James looked at his notes for a moment and read his summary of their conversation with Nancy Cambrey at the lodge. "So he'd go to the cottage for another reason, only to discover Mick dead? And finding him dead, he'd help himself to the cash?"
"Perhaps. I don't think Mark would plan out a robbery. Surely he knows what that would do to his sister, and despite how they acted tonight, Mark and Nancy have always been close."
"Yet he probably knew about the pay envelopes, Tommy."
"Everyone else probably knew as well. Not only the employees of the newspaper, but also the villagers. Nanrunnel's not large. I doubt it's changed much since I was a boy. And then, believe me, there were few enough secrets that the entire population didn't know."
"If that's the case, would others have known about the notes Mick kept in the cottage?"
"I imagine the employees of the newspaper knew. Mick's father, no doubt, and if he knew, why not everyone else? The Spokesman doesn't employ that many people, after all."
"Who are they?"
Lynley returned to his chair.