'Dead!' he shouted before the constable pushed him back inside the car.
The worst was realized. Deborah saw the ambulance pulled near the front door – not as close as the police cars, for there was no need of that. Wordlessly, she clutched at Mr Sweeney's arm, but as if he read her fears he pointed to the portico.
'Look,' he urged her.
Deborah forced herself to look towards the front door. She saw him. Her eyes flew wildly over every part of his body, looking for wounds. But, other than the fact that his jacket was wet, he was quite intact – although terribly pale – talking gravely to Inspector Boscowan.
'Thank God,' she whispered.
The front door opened even as she spoke. Lynley and Boscowan stepped to one side to allow two men to carry a stretcher into the rain, a body upon it. Sheeting covered it from head to toe, strapped down as if to shield it from the rain and to protect it from the stares of the curious. Only when she saw it, only when she heard the front door close with a sound of hollow finality, did Deborah understand. Still she looked frantically at the grounds of the villa, at the brightly lit windows, at the cars, at the door. Again and again – as if the action could change an immutable reality – she sought him.
Mr Sweeney said something, but she didn't hear it. She only heard her own bargain: / could bear anything else.
Her childhood, her life, flashed before her in an instant, leaving behind for the very first time neither anger nor pain, but instead understanding, complete and too late. She bit her lip so hard that she could taste the blood, but it was not enough to quell her cry of anguish.
'Simon!' She threw herself towards the ambulance where already the body had been loaded inside.
Lynley spun around. He saw her plunging blindly through the cars. She slipped once on the slick pavement but pulled herself to her feet, screaming his name.
She threw herself on the ambulance, pulling on the handle that would open its rear door. A policeman tried to restrain her, a second did likewise. But she fought them off. She kicked, she scratched. And all the time, she kept screaming his name. High and shrieking, it was a two-syllable monody that Lynley knew he would hear – when he least wanted to hear it – for the rest of his life. A third policeman joined the attempt to subdue her, but she writhed away.
Sick at heart, Lynley turned from the sight. He felt for the villa door. 'St James,' he said.
The other man was in the hall with Trenarrow's housekeeper who was sobbing into the turban she'd taken from her head. He looked Lynley's way and began to speak but hesitated, face clouded, as Deborah's cries grew more profound. He touched Dora's shoulder gently and joined Lynley at the door, stopping short at the sight of Deborah being dragged away from the ambulance and fighting every step that distanced her from it. He looked at Lynley.
Lynley looked away. 'For Christ's sake, go to her. She thinks it's you.' He couldn't face his friend. He didn't want to see him. He only hoped St James would take matters into his own hands without another word being spoken between them. It was not to be.
'No. She's only-'
'Just go, damn you. Go.'
Seconds ticked by before St James moved, but when he finally walked into the drive Lynley found the expiation he had searched for so long. He forced himself to watch.
St James skirted the police cars and approached the group. He walked quite slowly. He couldn't move fast. His gait wouldn't allow it, crippled and ugly, and halted by pain.
St James reached the ambulance. He shouted Deborah's name. He grabbed her, pulled her towards him. She fought back violently, weeping and shrieking, but only for a moment until she saw who it was. Then she was caught up in his arms, her body shaking with terrible sobs, his head bent to hers, his hands in her hair.
'It's all right, Deborah,' Lynley heard St James say. 'I'm sorry you were frightened. I'm all right, my love.' Then he murmured needlessly, 'My love. My love.'
The rain fell against them, the police began to move round them. But neither seemed cognizant of anything more than being held in the other's arms.
Lynley turned and went into the house.
A stirring awakened her. She opened her eyes. They focused on the distant barrel ceiling. She gazed up at it, confused. Turning her head, she saw the lace-covered dressing table, its silver hairbrushes, its old cheval mirror. Great-grandmamma Asherton's bedroom, she thought. Recognition of the room brought almost everything back. Images of the cove, the newspaper office, the flight up the hill, the sight of the shrouded body all merged in her mind. At their centre was Tommy.
Another movement came from the other side of the room. The curtains were drawn, but a cord of daylight struck a chair by the fireplace. Lynley was sitting there, his legs stretched out in front of him. On the table next to him sat a tray of food. Breakfast, by the look of it. She could see the dim shape of a toast rack.
At first she didn't speak, trying instead to remember the events that followed those horrifying moments at Trenarrow's villa. She remembered a brandy being pressed upon her, the sound of voices, a telephone ringing, then a car. Somehow she'd got from Nanrunnel back to Howenstow where she'd made her way to a bed.
She wore a blue satin nightdress that she didn't recognize. A matching dressing gown lay at the foot of the bed. She pushed herself into a sitting position.
'Tommy?'
'You're awake.' He went to the windows and pushed the curtains back a bit so that the room had more light. The casements were already open a few inches, but he opened them further so that the crying of the gulls and cormorants made a background of sound.
'What time is it?'
'Just after ten.'
'Ten?
'You've slept since yesterday afternoon. You don't remember?'
'Just bits. Have you been waiting long?' 'A while.'
She saw then that he wore the same clothes he'd had on in Nanrunnel. His face was unshaven, and beneath his eyes his skin was dark and puckered. 'You've been with me all night.'
He didn't reply. He remained at the window, far from the bed. Beyond his shoulder, she could see the sky. Against it, his hair was made gold by the sun.
'I thought I'd fly you back to London this morning. Whenever you're ready.' He indicated the tray. 'This has been sitting here since half past eight. Shall I see about getting you something else?'
'Tommy,' she said. 'Would you…? Is there…?' She tried to search his face, but he kept it averted and it showed no response, so she let her words die.
He put his hands in his pockets and looked out of the window again. 'They've brought John Penellin home.'
She followed his head. 'What about Mark?'
'Boscowan knows he took the Daze. As to the cocaine…' He sighed. 'That's John's decision as far as I'm concerned. I won't make it for him. I don't know what he'll do. He may not be ready to draw the line on Mark yet. I just don't know.'
'You could report him.'
'I could.'
'But you won't.'
'I think it best that it come from John.' He continued gazing out of the window, his head lifted to the sky. 'It's a beautiful day. A good day for flying.'
'What about Peter?' she asked. 'Is he cleared now? Is Sidney?'
'St James thinks Brooke must have got the ergotamine from a chemist in Penzance. It's a prescription drug, but it wouldn't be the first time a chemist slipped something to a customer on the sly. It would have seemed harmless enough. A complaint about a migraine. Aspirin not working. No doctor's surgery open on Saturday.'