A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,78

as disconcerting as was her unnatural diffidence.

We're a fine pair, he thought. "Why did you call me that, Simon? In the dining room." So much for diffidence. "It seemed the right thing. After all, it's the truth. You were there through everything, both you and your father."

"I see." Her hand lay next to his. He had noticed this before but had chosen to ignore it, making a deliberate effort not to move away from her like a man afraid of the potential for contact. His fingers were relaxed. He willed them to be so. And although a single movement, wearing the guise of inadvertence, would have been sufficient to cover her hand with his own, he took care to maintain between them an appropriately discreet and utterly hypocritical four inches of beautifully upholstered Hepplewhite. The gesture, when it came, was hers. She touched his hand lightly, an innocent contact that broke through his barriers. The movement meant nothing, it promised even less. He knew that quite well. But despite this, his fingers caught hers and held. "I do want to know why you said it," she repeated. There was no point. It could only lead nowhere. Or worse, it could lead to an unbridled bout of suffering he'd prefer not to face. 'Simon - "

'How can I answer you? What can I possibly say that won't make us both miserable and end up leading to another row? I don't want that. And I can't think you do." He told himself that he would adhere to every resolution P he had made regarding Deborah. She was committed, he thought. Love and honour bound her to another. He would have to take solace in the fact that, in time, they might once again be the friends they had been in the past, taking pleasure in each other's company and wanting nothing more. A dozen different lies rose in his mind about what was right and possible in their situation, about duty, responsibility, commitment, and love, about the anchors of ethics and morals that held each of them fast. And still he wanted to speak, because the reality was that anything

- even anger and the risk of estrangement - was better than the void. A sudden commotion at the drawing room door precluded the possibility of further conversation.

Hodge was speaking urgently to Lady Asherton while Nancy Cambrey pulled upon his arm as if she would drag him back into the corridor. Lyn ley went to join them. St. James did likewise. In the hush that descended upon the company, Nancy's voice rose. 'You can't. Not now."

'What is it?" Lynley asked. "Inspector Boscowan, my lord," Hodge replied in a low voice. "He's down in the hall. Wanting to speak to John Pe nellin." Only part of Hodge's statement proved true, for as he spoke, Boscowan stepped into the drawing room doorway as if he expected some sort of trouble. He looked the group over, his face apologetic, and his eyes came to rest upon John Penellin. It was clear that a duty which gave him no pleasure had brought him to interrupt the party. The room was absolutely still. John Penellin walked towards them. He handed his brandy to Dr. Trenarrow.

"Edward," he said to Boscowan with a nod. Nancy had faded into the corridor where she slumped against a mule chest and watched the encounter. "Perhaps we can go to the estate office." "There's no need for that, John," Boscowan said. "I'm sorry." % The implication behind the apology was obvious. Boscowan would never have come to Howenstow in this manner unless he was certain that he had his man. "Are you arresting me?" Penellin asked the question in a manner that sounded at once both resigned and curiously without panic, as if he'd been preparing himself for this eventuality all along.

Boscowan glanced around. Every eye was fastened on the little group. He said, "Out here please," and walked into the corridor. Penellin, St. James, and Lynley followed. Another plainclothes policeman was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was bulky, with the physique of a boxer, and he watched them warily, arms crossed, hands balled into fists.

Boscowan faced Penellin, his back to the other officer. In speaking next, he crossed the line that divides police and civilian, breaking rules and regulations. But he didn't seem to

/ be fazed by this, his words having their roots in friendship rather than in duty. "You need a solicitor, John. We've the first of the forensic