A Suitable Vengeance - By Elizabeth George Page 0,79

reports. It doesn't look good." And then again and in a way that left no doubt as to Boscowan's sincerity, "Truly I'm sorry."

"Fingerprints, fibres, hairs? What have you?" Lynley asked. "The lot." id 'Dad's been inside the cottage in the past," Nancy said.

Boscowan shook his head. St. James knew what that sign of negation meant. Penellin's fingerprints in the cottage could indeed be argued away by the fact that he'd been there before.

But if Boscowan had fibres and hairs in his possession, the probability was that they'd come from one source: Mick Cam brey's corpse. If that was the case, the reality was that Penel lin had indeed lied about his whereabouts the previous night.

"If you'll come now," Boscowan said in a more normal tone of voice. This appeared to be the signal for the other policeman. He walked to Penellin's side and took his arm. In a moment it was over.

As their steps faded down the stairs, Nancy Cambrey fainted. Lynley caught her before she hit the floor.

"Get Helen," he said to St. James and when Lady Helen was with them, they took Nancy down to Lady Asherton's day room in the east wing of the house. It offered the double benefit of being both private and comfortable. A few minutes among its family memorabilia and friendly furniture would no doubt restore Nancy to herself, Lynley decided. And he allowed himself a moment of gratitude that his mother would carry on upstairs without him until such a time as she could deal with John Penellin's arrest privately and face the turmoil that would arrive in its wake.

St. James had possessed the foresight to bring the whisky decanter from the drawing room. He pressed a glass upon Nancy. Lady Helen steadied her hand. She'd only taken a tiny sip when a tentative knock sounded on the door. It was followed, unaccountably, by Justin Brooke's voice.

"May I have a word?" He didn't wait for a response.

Rather, he opened the door, popped his head inside, and said nothing until he fixed upon Lynley. "May I have a word with you?"

"A word?" Lynley demanded incredulously, wondering what on earth Brooke could possibly want. * * What the devil - ''

"It's important," Brooke said. He looked earnestly to the others as if for support and found it in the least likely quarter.

Lady Helen spoke.

"I'll take Nancy back to the lodge, Tommy. It doesn't make sense to keep her here. She'll need to see to the baby, I'm sure."

Lynley waited until both women were gone before he spoke to Brooke who took a balloon-backed chair unbidden, straddled it backwards, and folded his arms along its top rail. Lynley leaned against his mother's desk. St. James stood by the fireplace.

"What is it that you wanted?" Lynley said to Brooke. He was impatient with the interruption and too preoccupied to care much about hiding it.

"It's a private matter, concerning your family." Brooke canted his head towards St.

James, an indication of his desire that this conference be held out of the other man's presence.

St. James made a move to go.

"No, it's fine," Lynley said to him, finding himself perversely unwilling to allow Brooke the degree of control that would be implied by St. James' departure. There was something about the man that he didn't like: an ease of manner contravened by a flicker of malice in his expression.

Brooke reached for the decanter of whisky and Nancy's glass that were standing on a circular table next to his chair.

He poured himself some, saying, "Very well then. I could use a drink. You?" He held the decanter first to Lynley, then to St. James. There were no other glasses in the room, so the invitation was meaningless, as Brooke no doubt knew. He drank appreciatively, said,

"Good stuff," and poured himself more. "Word came back to the drawing room fast enough that Penellin's been arrested. But Penellin couldn't have killed this Mick Cambrey."

It was certainly not the sort of pronouncement which Lyn ley had been expecting. "If you know something about this cern." affair, you need to tell the police. It's only indirectly my con ""

Brooke said, "It's more direct than you think."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your brother."

The clink of decanter upon glass seemed unnaturally grating and loud, as Brooke took more whisky. Lynley refused to think the patently unthinkable, or to draw the conclusion for which those two simple words asked.

"People in the drawing room just now were saying Penellin had an argument with Cambrey before his death. That was