A Suitable Vengeance Read Online Free PDF Page B

remained unconvinced.
    St. James reached for his crutches and swung himself to his feet. He headed across the room, hoping Cotter would see this activity as a conclusion to their discussion. But his design was foiled.
    “Deb’s got ’erself a flat in Paddington. Did she tell you that? Lord Asherton’s keeping the girl like she was some tart.”
    “Surely not,” St. James replied and belted on the dressing gown that Cotter handed him.
    “What money’s she got, then?” Cotter demanded. “How else is it paid for, if not by ’im?”
    St. James made his way to the bathroom where the rush of water told him that Cotter—in his agitation—had forgotten that the tub was rapidly filling. He turned off the taps and sought a way to put the discussion to an end.
    “Then you must talk to her, Cotter, if that’s what you think. Set your mind at rest.”
    “What I think? It’s what you think as well and there’s no denying it. I c’n see it plain as plain on your face.” Cotter warmed to his topic. “I tried talking with the girl. But that was no good. She was off with ’im last night before I’d the chance. And off again this morning as well.”
    “Already? With Tommy?”
    “No. Alone this time. To Paddington.”
    “Go to see her, then. Talk to her. She might welcome the chance to have some time alone with you.”
    Cotter moved past him and began setting out his shaving equipment with unnecessary care. St. James watched warily, his intuition telling him the worst was on its way.
    “A solid, good talk. Just what I’m thinking. But it’s not for me to talk to the girl. A dad’s too close. You know what I mean.”
    He did indeed. “You can’t possibly be suggesting—”
    “Deb’s fond of you. That’s always been the case.” Cotter’s face spoke the challenge beneath the words. He was not a man to avoid emotional blackmail if it took him in the direction which he believed that he—and St. James—ought to be travelling. “If you’d caution the girl. That’s all I’d ask.”
    Caution her? How would it run? Don’t have anything to do with Tommy, Deborah. If you do, God knows you may end up his wife . It was beyond consideration.
    “Just a word,” Cotter said. “She trusts you. As do I.”
    St. James fought back a sigh of resignation. Damn Cotter’s unquestioning loyalty throughout the years of his illness. Blast the fact that he owed him so very much. There is always a day of accounting.
    “Very well,” St. James said. “Perhaps I can manage some time today if you have her address.”
    “I do,” Cotter said. “And you’ll see. Deb’ll be glad of what you say.”
    Right, St. James thought sardonically.
     
     
     
    The building that housed Deborah’s flat was called Shrewsbury Court Apartments. St. James found it easily enough in Sussex Gardens, sandwiched in between two seedy rooming houses. Recently restored, it was a tall building faced with unblemished Portland stone, iron-fenced in the front, its door gained by passing across a narrow concrete walkway that bridged the cavernous entrance to additional flats below the level of the street.
    St. James pressed the button next to the name Cotter. An answering buzz admitted him into a small lobby with a floor covered by black and white tile. Like the outside of the building, it was scrupulously clean, and a faint odour of disinfectant announced the fact that it intended to stay that way. There was no furniture, just a hallway leading to the ground floor flats, a door discreetly hung with a hand-lettered sign reading concierge —as if a foreign word might attest to the building’s respectability—and a lift.
    Deborah’s flat was on the top floor. Riding up to it, St. James reflected upon the absurdity of the position into which Cotter had placed him. Deborah was an adult now. She would hardly welcome anyone’s intrusion into her life. Least of all would she welcome his.
    She opened the door at once to his knock, as if she’d spent the