The words were electrifying. Hearing them, Deborah saw Simon's face. She remembered the way he'd looked at Tommy – grim with decision – before he'd taken him from the office. With a rush of horror she thought: They went to see Trenarrow.
She dashed from the room and flew down the stairs. She shoved her way through the throng of people still gathered in the doorway of the pub and stumbled outside. Rain pelted her. A passing car honked its horn. Its tyres hit a puddle which sent up a spume of spray. But none of this existed. She knew only the need to find Trenarrow's home. She felt only the terror of a shooting.
In the past three years, Lynley had only alluded to the discord in his life. And, even then, the allusion was made in actions, not in words. A preference for spending Christmas with her rather than with his family; a letter from his mother gone unopened for weeks; a telephone message never returned. But as they'd walked together to the cove this afternoon, he'd told her that he'd put all of it to rest – the enmity, the discord, the bitterness, the anger. To have something happen now was obscene. Not dead. No.
The words carried her towards the hillside. Rainwater shooting from an unguttered roof top struck her cheeks and blinded her momentarily as she headed up the incline. She paused and cleared her vision, with the crowd surging round her, dashing towards the flash of blue lights in the distance. The air was alive with speculations on death. If there was a body to be seen, or blood to be smelt, here existed the populace that would do the honours.
At the first intersection, she was pushed into the steamy windows of the Talisman Cafe by an angry matron who pulled a yowling little boy by the arm. 'Watcher goin!' the woman shouted furiously at Deborah. She stood in odd Roman sandals that were laced to her knees. She tugged the child to her side. 'Bleeding trippers. Think you own the village?'
Deborah didn't bother to answer. She elbowed past her.
Later, she would remember her headlong flight through the village and up the hill as an ever-changing collage: on the door of a shop, a rain-streaked sign on which the words clotted cream and chocolate gateau oozed into one another; a single sunflower, its enormous head bent; palm fronds lying in a pool of rainwater; Munch-like open mouths shouting words at her which she did not hear; a bicycle wheel spinning in endless revolutions while the dazed rider sprawled in the street. But at the moment she saw nothing but Tommy, in countiess images, each one more vivid than the last, each one accusing her of betrayal. This would be her punishment for that moment of selfish weakness with Simon.
Please, she thought. If there were bargains and promises, she would make them. Without a second thought. Without a single regret.
As she reached the incline above the village proper, a final police car tore by her, sending up pebbles as well as spray from the street. There was no need for the horn to clear the road. Daunted by the downpour, the less hardy thrill-seekers had already started becoming discouraged by the climb. They had begun to seek refuge, some in shops, some in doorways, others flocking into the Methodist church. Not even the diversion of blood and a corpse seemed worth the potential ruin of fine summer clothes.
Only the most resolutely curious had completed the climb. Shaking her wet hair back from her face, Deborah saw them gathered in front of a drive where a police line was set up to keep them at a distance. There, the group had fallen into a speculative silence, one broken by the hot voice of Harry Cambrey who was arguing with an implacable constable, insisting upon entrance.
Behind them on the hill, rain assailed Trenarrow's villa. Its every window was lit. Uniformed men swarmed about it. Lights flashed from the police cars parked on its circular drive.
'Shot, I heard,' someone muttered.
'Brought anyone out yet?'
'Nope.'
Deborah scanned the front of the villa, working through the men, looking for a sign. He was all right, he was fine, he had to be among them. She couldn't find him. She pushed her way through the onlookers to the police line. Childhood prayers rose to her lips and died unsaid. She made bargains with God. She asked to be punished in any other way. She asked for understanding. She admitted her faults.
She ducked under the line.
'No, you don't, miss!' The constable who had been arguing with Cambrey barked out the command from ten feet away.
'But it's-'
'Stay back!' he shouted. 'This isn't a bloody sideshow.'
Unmindful, Deborah started forward. The need to know and to be there overshadowed everything else.
'Here, you!' The constable moved towards her, readying himself to thrust her back into the crowd. As he did so, Harry Cambrey darted past him, scrambling up the drive. 'Damn!' the constable shouted. 'You! Cambrey!'
Having lost the one, he was not about to lose the other, and he gripped Deborah's arm, waving to a panda car that had pulled onto the verge. 'Take this one,' he called to the officers inside. 'The other got past me.'
'No!' Deborah struggled to free herself, feeling a rising sense of outrage at her own complete impotence. She couldn't even break the constable's grip. The more she fought him, the stronger he became.
'Miss Cotter?'
She swung around. No angel could have been more blessed a sight than the Reverend Mr Sweeney. Garbed in black, he stood beneath a tent-like umbrella, blinking solemnly at her through the rain.
'Tommy's at the villa,' she said. 'Mr Sweeney, please.''
The cleric frowned. He squinted up the drive. 'Oh dear.' His right hand flexed open and closed upon the handle of his umbrella as he appeared to consider his options. 'Oh dear. Yes. I see.' This final statement seemed to indicate that an action had been decided upon. Mr Sweeney drew himself up to his fullest height of not quite five and a half feet and spoke to the constable who still held Deborah in a determined grip. 'You know Lord Asherton, of course,' he said authoritatively. It was a tone that would have surprised any of his parishioners who had never seen him in blackface among the Nanrunnel Players, ordering Cassio and Montano to put up their swords. 'This is his fiancee. Let her by.'
The constable eyed Deborah's bedraggled appearance. His expression made it perfecdy clear that he could hardly give credence to a relationship between her and any one of the Lynleys.
'Let her by,' Mr Sweeney repeated. ‘I’ll accompany her myself. Perhaps you ought to be more concerned with the newspaperman than with this young lady.'
The constable gave Deborah another sceptical look. She waited in torment while he made his decision. 'All right. Go on. Stay out of the way.'
Deborah's lips formed the words 'Thank you', but nothing came out. She took a few stumbling steps.
'It's all right, my dear,' Mr Sweeney said. 'Let's go up.
Take my arm. The drive's a bit slippery, isn't it?'
She did as he said, although only a part of her brain registered his words. The rest was caught up in speculation and fear. 'Please, not Tommy,' she whispered. 'Not like this. Please. I could bear anything else.'
'Now, it will be all right,' Mr Sweeney murmured in a distracted fashion. 'Indeed. You shall see.'
They slipped and slid among the crushed corollas of fuchsias as they wound their way up the narrow drive towards the front of the villa. The rain was beginning to fall less heavily, but Deborah was already soaked, so the protection of Mr Sweeney's umbrella meant very little. She shivered as she clung to his arm.
'It's a dreadful business, this,' Mr Sweeney said as if in response to her shudder. 'But it shall be all right. You'll see in a moment.'
Deborah heard the words but knew enough to dismiss them. There was no chance for all right any longer. A mocking form of justice always swept through life when one was least prepared to see justice meted out. Her time had come.
In spite of the number of men who were on the grounds, it was unnaturally quiet as they approached the villa. The crackle of a police radio was the only noise, a female dispatcher giving direction to police not far from the scene. On the circular drive beneath the hawthorn tree, three police cars sat at odd, hurried angles, as if their drivers had flung themselves out without bothering to worry about where or how they parked. In the rear seat of one of them, Harry Cambrey was engaged in a muffled shouting match with an angry constable who appeared to have handcuffed him to the interior of the car. When he saw Deborah, Cambrey forced his face to the officer's window.