Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

5

Kincaid stood alone in the Gilberts’ kitchen, listening to the sound of the ticking clock. It hung above the refrigerator, and the large black hands and numerals against its white face were impossible to miss, reminding him that time was indeed fleeting. He should be concentrating on Alastair Gilbert’s murder, rather than wanting to punch his fist against the wall in frustration every time he thought about Gemma. After her outburst in the garden, she had left for Guildford without speaking an unnecessary word to him. What in hell had he done now? At least, he thought with a flare of satisfaction, he hadn’t sent her off traipsing around the county with Nick Deveney, after the way he’d leered at her last night.

Sighing, Kincaid ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing for it but to get on with things as best he could. Glancing automatically at his watch, he shrugged in irritation. He bloody well knew what time it was, and as long as he had to wait for Nick Deveney and had the ground floor of the house to himself, he might as well have a look round.

Entering the hall, he stood quietly for a moment, orienting himself. For the first time he noticed the higgledy-piggledy nature of the house—a step up here, a step down there—every room seemed to exist on a different level. The exposed beams in the walls were canted at slightly tipsy angles. For a moment he fancied he heard an echo of the kitchen clock, then traced the insistent ticking to a longcase clock half hidden in an alcove beneath the stairs. To his untrained eye, it looked old and probably quite valuable. A family heirloom, perhaps?

Nearest the kitchen lay the sitting room they had used last night, and a quick glance showed it quiet and empty, the fire burnt down to cold ash. Continuing down the hall towards the front of the house, he opened the next door and peered in.

A green-shaded lamp cast a pool of light on a massive desk. Lucy must have forgotten to switch it off when she collected the dog last night, thought Kincaid, as he entered and looked about. The room seemed almost a parody of a masculine retreat—the walls not covered with bookshelves were dark-paneled, and the sofa set before the heavily curtained windows was covered in a deep red tartan. Moving closer, he studied the pale oblongs on the dark walls—hunting prints, of course. The sound of the heavy clock on the desk mimicked his heartbeat, and for a moment he imagined the entire house ticking to its own internal rhythm. “Bloody hell!” Swearing aloud broke the spell, and he banished thoughts of the Edgar Allan Poe story from his mind.

Crossing to the desk, Kincaid found the surface as tidy as expected, but a photo in a silver frame made him pause and lift it for a better look. This was an Alastair Gilbert he’d never seen, in shirtsleeves, smiling, with his arm around a small white-haired woman. Mother and son? He replaced the photo, filing in his mind the thought that interviewing the elder Mrs. Gilbert might prove useful.

The top drawer held the usual office paraphernalia, neatly arranged, and the side drawers, tidy ranks of files that would have to wait for someone else to give them a detailed going-over. Unsatisfied with such meager results, Kincaid went through the drawers again, and the more careful search revealed a leather-bound book tucked behind the files in the right-hand drawer. Removing it carefully, he opened it on the blotter. It was a desk diary, with the usual engagement notations and a few unidentified phone numbers written in a neat penciled hand. How like Gilbert not to have risked making a mistake in ink.

Kincaid turned a few more pages. The day before Gilbert’s death held an ambiguous “6:00,” accompanied by a question mark and another penciled phone number. Had Gilbert met someone, and if so, why? He’d have to leave it to Deveney’s team to run checks on all the notations while he concentrated on the interviews. Closing the book, he’d placed it on the desktop when a voice startled him.

“What are you doing?”

Lucy Penmaric stood in the doorway, arms crossed, heart-shaped face creased in a frown. In jeans and sweatshirt she looked younger than she had the night before, less sophisticated, and her pale face bore tiny creases, as though she’d just got up. “I heard a noise—I was looking for my mother,” she said before he could answer.

Not wanting to talk to Lucy from behind Gilbert’s desk, Kincaid closed the drawer and came around it before he said, “I think she’s upstairs having a rest. Can I help?”

“I didn’t think to look there,” she said, rubbing her face as she went to curl up in the corner of the tartan sofa. “I can’t seem to wake up properly—Mum gave me a sleeping pill and it’s made my brain go all fuzzy.”

“They can make you feel a bit hung over,” Kincaid agreed.

Lucy frowned again. “I didn’t want to take it. I only agreed so Mum would rest. Is she … is she all right this morning?”

Kincaid felt no compunction in editing out Claire’s fainting spell in the kitchen. “Coping reasonably well, under the circumstances. She went to visit your grandmother first thing.”

“Gwen? Oh, poor Mum,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “Gwen’s not my real grandmother, you know,” she added in an instructive voice. “Mummy’s parents are dead, and I don’t get to see my dad’s very often.”

“Why not? Doesn’t your mother get on with them?” Kincaid settled himself against the edge of the desk, willing to see where the conversation might lead.

“Alastair always had some reason why I shouldn’t go, but I like them. They live near Sidmouth, in Devon, and you can walk to the beach from their house.” Lucy twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she sat quietly for a moment, then she said, “I remember when my dad died. We lived in London then, in a flat in Elgin Crescent. The building had a bright yellow door—I remember when we came back from walks I could see it from a long way away, like a beacon. We had the top-floor flat, and a cherry tree bloomed just outside my window every spring.”

If he’d thought about Claire Gilbert’s first husband at all, he would have assumed they’d divorced, but then what were the odds that a woman in her forties would find herself twice widowed? “It sounds lovely,” he said softly after Lucy fell silent for so long he feared she’d retreated where he couldn’t follow.

“Oh, it was,” said Lucy, coming back to him with a little shiver. “But cherry blossoms always make me think of death now. I dreamed of them last night. I was covered in them, suffocating, and I couldn’t wake myself up.”

“Is that when your father died? In the spring?”

Lucy nodded, then pushed her hair away from her face and tucked it behind one ear. She had small ears, Kincaid thought, delicate as seashells. “When I was five I was really ill with a high fever one night. Dad went out to the all-night chemist in the Portobello Road to get something for me, and a car hit him at the zebra crossing. Now it’s all mixed up in my head—the police coming to the door, Mum crying, the scent of the cherries from my open window.”

So Claire Gilbert had not only been widowed but had faced a husband’s sudden death once before. Remembering the days when giving an occasional death notification had been part of his duties, he imagined the scene from the officers’ view point—light spilling out from the flat on a soft April evening, the pretty young blond wife at the door, apprehension growing in her face as she took in the uniforms. Then out with it, baldly, “Ma’am, we’re sorry to tell you that your husband is dead,” and she would stagger as if she’d been slapped. They’d been taught to do it that way in the academy, kinder to get it over with, supposedly, but that never made it any easier.

Lucy sat with her hair twined around her finger again, staring at one of the hunting prints behind Gilbert’s desk. When Kincaid said, “I’m sorry,” she didn’t respond, but after a moment began to speak without looking at him, as if continuing a conversation.

“It feels odd, sitting here. Alastair didn’t like us to come in this room, particularly me. His ‘sanctum,’ he called it. I think women somehow spoiled the atmosphere.

“My dad was a writer, a journalist. His name was Stephen Penmaric, and he wrote mostly about conservation for magazines and newspapers.” She looked at Kincaid now, her face animated. “He had his office in the box room of our flat, and there must not have been enough room because I remember there were always stacks of books on the floor. Sometimes if I promised to be really quiet, he’d let me play in there while he worked, and I built things with the books—castles, cities. I liked the way they smelled, the feel of the covers.”

“My parents had a bookshop,” said Kincaid. “Still do, in fact. I played in the stockroom, and I used books for building blocks, too.”

“Really?” Lucy looked up at him, smiling for the first time since she’d described her dog the night before.

“Honestly.” He smiled back, wishing he could keep that expression on her face.

“How lovely for you,” she said a bit wistfully. Tucking her feet up on the sofa, she wrapped her arms around her calves and rested her chin on her knees. “It’s funny. I hadn’t thought about my dad so much in years.”

“I don’t think it’s funny at all. It’s perfectly natural under the circumstances.” He paused, then said carefully, “How do you feel about what’s happened, about your stepfather’s death?”

She looked away, her finger back in her hair again. After a bit she said slowly, “I don’t know. Numb, I suppose. I don’t really believe it, even though I saw him. They say ‘seeing is believing,’ but it’s not really true, is it?” With a quick glance at the door, she added, “I keep expecting him to walk in any minute.” She shifted restlessly, and Kincaid heard voices from the back of the house.

“I think that’s probably Chief Inspector Deveney, looking for me. Will you be all right on your own for a bit?”

With a return of some of the spirit she’d shown last night, she said, “Of course I’ll be all right. And I’ll look after Mummy when she gets up.” She jumped up from the sofa with the fluidity of the very young and had reached the door before he framed a reply.

As she turned back to him, he said, “Lewis will be glad to see you,” and was rewarded by one more brilliant smile.

“Have you noticed,” Kincaid said to Nick Deveney as they wound their way through the series of tracks that lay between villages, “that no one seems to be grieving for Alastair Gilbert? Even his wife seems to be shocked but not distraught.”

“True enough.” Deveney flashed his lights at an oncoming car and backed into the nearest passing place. “But that doesn’t give us a motive for murder. If that were the case, my ex-mother-in-law would be dead twenty times over.” The other driver lifted a hand in a wave as he passed, and Deveney pulled out into the road again. “Hope you don’t mind the shortcut. Actually, I’m not sure it is a shortcut, but I like driving through the hills. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Storm clouds had gathered in the west, but as he spoke a shaft of sun broke through, illuminating the air deep in the woods. Deveney glanced in his rearview mirror. “I’ll bet they’re getting a soaking in Guildford,” he said, then he pointed at the elaborate gates of an estate as they passed. “Look. It’s people like that who keep this part of Surrey from being overrun by tourists. They come here from London, bringing their money with them, so that we don’t really need to boost our economy by encouraging trippers.” Shrugging, he added, “But it’s a double-edged sword. Although they buy property and use services, many of them are never really accepted by the locals, and that generates some conflicts.”

“And that was true of Gilbert, too? He certainly fit the classic commuter profile,” Kincaid said as they came around a curve and gaps in the trees revealed a sweeping view across the North Downs.

“Oh, definitely, I’d say, and he was treated with a mixture of disdain and flattery. I mean, after all, you don’t really want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, do you? You just don’t want it to think it can sit at your table.”

Kincaid gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose not. Do you think Gilbert was aware that he wasn’t accepted, probably would never be accepted? Did it matter to him?”

“I didn’t really know him personally, just spoke with him a few times at police functions.” Downshifting, Deveney added, “I only know Brian Genovase because we played in the same over-the-hill rugby league.” The road had descended quickly from the hills, and now became a narrow street with picture-postcard cottages either side. “Holmbury St. Mary is quite unspoilt, while this village is competing for the ‘prettiest village in England’ title. That’s the Tillingbourne River,” he added as they crossed a clear stream, “star of many a postcard.”

“It’s not too bad, surely,” Kincaid said as Deveney deftly parked against the curb. He’d seen a rather flowery tea shop but nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary.

“No, but I’m afraid the tarting up is inevitable.”

“Cynic.” Kincaid followed Deveney out of the car, flexing toes that had suffered from the failure of the Vauxhall’s heating system.

Laughing, Deveney agreed, then added, “I’m too young to sound like such an old codger. Must be divorce has a tendency to sour a man’s outlook. Now this shop is certainly not a bad thing”—he gestured at a sign reading KITCHEN CONCEPTS—“and it wouldn’t be possible without commuters like Alastair Gilbert. It would never occur to the local farmers to have their kitchens refitted in Euro-chic.”

The window showed them colorful expanses of tile interspersed with gleaming copper fittings. Kincaid, who had refitted the kitchen in his Hampstead flat using mostly do-it-yourself materials, opened the door with some anticipation. A wellie-clad woman holding carrier bags stood chatting with a man near a display of cabinet fronts, but their conversation came to an awkward halt as Kincaid and Deveney entered.

After a moment the woman said, “Well, I’ll be off then. Cheerio, Malcolm.” She gave them a bright, interested glance as she squeezed out the door, holding her shopping to her chest like a bulging shield. What was the use of being out of uniform, Kincaid often wondered, when you might as well be wearing a sign on your chest that said POLICE?

Deveney had his warrant card out, and introduced himself and Kincaid as Malcolm Reid came forwards to greet them. Kincaid was happy to play second fiddle for a bit, as it gave him a chance to observe Claire Gilbert’s employer. Tall, with short silvery-blond hair and evenly tanned skin that spoke of a recent holiday in a warmer clime, Reid spoke in a soft, unaccented voice. “You’ve come about Alastair Gilbert? It’s absolutely dreadful. Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re attempting to find out, Mr. Reid,” said Deveney, “and we’d appreciate any help you can give us. Did you know Commander Gilbert personally?”

Reid put his hands in his pockets before answering. He wore good quality trousers, Kincaid noticed, and along with the gray pullover and discreet navy tie they created just the impression needed for Reid’s position—not too casual for the owner of a successful business, not too formal for a small village. “Well, of course I’d met him. Claire had Val—that’s my wife, Valerie—and me to dinner once or twice, but I can’t say that I knew him well. We didn’t have much in common.” He gestured at the showroom, his expression slightly amused.

“But surely Gilbert was interested in his wife’s career?” said Kincaid.

“Look, let’s have a seat, shall we?” Reid led them to a desk at the rear of the showroom and waved them into two comfortable-looking visitors’ chairs before seating himself. “That’s not an easy question.” He picked up a pencil and watched it meditatively while he rolled it between his fingers, then looked up at them. “If you want an honest answer, I’d say he only tolerated Claire’s job as long as it didn’t interfere with his social schedule or his comforts. Do you know how Claire came to work for me?” He put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. “She came to me as a client, when Alastair finally gave her permission to decorate their kitchen. The house is Victorian, you know, and what little had been done to it had been done badly, as is so often the case. Claire had been nagging him for years, and I think he only gave in when their entertaining reached such a scale that it embarrassed him for guests to see the kitchen.”

For a man who professed not to know Gilbert well, Reid had certainly managed to build up an active dislike of him, Kincaid thought as he nodded encouragingly.

“Claire hadn’t any design training,” continued Reid, “but she had natural talent, which is even better in my book. When we started her kitchen she was brimming with imaginative and workable ideas—they don’t always go together, you see—and when she came to the shop she’d help other customers, too.”

“And you didn’t mind?” Deveney asked a bit skeptically.

Reid shook his head. “Her enthusiasm was contagious. And the customers liked her ideas, which increased my sales. She’s very good, though you’d never know it by looking at their house.”

“What’s wrong with their house?” Deveney scratched his head in bewilderment—whether real or feigned Kincaid couldn’t guess.

“Too stuffily traditional for my taste, but Alastair kept a tight rein on things and that’s what he liked. It was his idea of middle-class respectability.”

Reid’s judgment certainly seemed to fit Gilbert as Kincaid had known him. As an instructor he had been unimaginative, insisting on rules where flexibility might have been more productive, attached to traditions simply because they were traditions. His curiosity aroused, he asked Reid, “Do you know anything about Gilbert’s background?”

“I believe his father managed a dairy farm near Dorking, and Gilbert attended the local grammar school.”

“So the native came back,” mused Kincaid. “I find that rather surprising. But then, his mother’s in a home nearby, isn’t she?” he asked, leaning forwards to remove a business card from a holder on Reid’s desk. The shop’s name stood out artfully, dark green print against a cream background, with phone number and address in a smaller typeface. Kincaid slipped it into his jacket pocket.

“The Leaves, just on the outskirts of Dorking. Claire visits her several times a week.”

“Tell us about Mrs. Gilbert’s schedule yesterday, if you don’t mind, Mr. Reid.” Deveney’s tone made it plain that this was a command and only framed as a request for politeness’ sake.

Sitting forwards again, Reid touched the pencil he’d put down on the blotter. Mimicking Deveney, he asked, “Why should I, if you don’t mind me asking? Surely you can’t think Claire had anything to do with Gilbert’s death?” He sounded genuinely shocked.

“It’s a normal part of our inquiries,” soothed Deveney. “You should know that from watching the telly, Mr. Reid. We have to ask about everyone who was closely connected with Commander Gilbert.”

Reid crossed his arms and regarded them steadily for a moment, as if he might refuse, then he sighed and said, “Well, I still don’t like it, but I can’t see any harm in it because there was nothing out of the ordinary. Claire had an appointment in the morning. I was in the shop, helping customers, dealing with some outstanding orders for materials, then I had an afternoon appointment myself. Claire left before I’d got back, a bit after four. She and Lucy had planned some shopping, I believe.” He paused for a moment, then added, “We don’t run a military ship around here, as you might have gathered.”

“And when did you find out that Gilbert was dead?” asked Kincaid, remembering Claire Gilbert’s words before she’d fainted.

“Some of the locals were waiting when I unlocked the shop door this morning. They’d heard it from the postman, who’d heard it from the newsagent. ‘Somebody did for Alastair Gilbert last night—bashed his head in and left him in a pool of his own blood,’ were the exact words, I believe,” he added with a grimace.

Deveney thanked him, and they took their leave, Kincaid with a backward glance at the stainless-steel arch of the German mixer-tap he hadn’t been able to afford for his own kitchen sink.

“Terrific,” Deveney said with weary resignation as they got into the car. “So much for keeping the cause of death under our hats until we’ve interviewed the villagers. That’s life in the country for you.”

The last customer, a garrulous old woman named Simpson, stood chatting long after she’d paid for her meager purchases. Madeleine Wade, who included proprietorship of the village shop among her many ventures, listened absently to the latest tabloid scandal while she closed out the till. All the while she thought longingly of curling up in her snug upstairs flat with a glass of wine and the Financial Times.

The “pink paper,” as she always thought of it, was her secret vice and the last holdover from her former life. She read it every day, tracking her investments, then tucked it away out of sight of her clients—no point in disillusioning the dears.

Mrs. Simpson, having received no more encouragement than the occasional nod, finally sputtered to a halt, and Madeleine saw her out with relief. Over the years she’d learned to be more comfortable with people, forced herself to develop an armor impervious to all but the most open revulsion, but it was only when alone that she felt truly at peace. It became her solace, her reward at the end of the day, and she anticipated it with the same eagerness an alcoholic awaits his first drink.

She saw him as she finished locking the door. Geoff Genovase stood half in the shadow of the White Hart next door, hands in his pockets, waiting. When he moved, the light from the street lamp glittered on his fair hair.

His fear reached her then. Palpable and intense, it enveloped him like a dense cloud.

She’d sensed it before, a dim undercurrent—sensed also the careful control that kept it in check. What had caused this explosion of terror? Madeleine hesitated, her desire to help warring with her fatigue and her need for solitude, then felt a pang of shame. She’d come to this village after a lifetime of running away, intending to offer whatever aid her talents might provide, and such selfishness must be squelched by discipline.

Whatever had triggered Geoff’s distress, he’d come to her for comfort, and she could not refuse. She stepped forwards, lifting a hand to call out to him, but he had melted into the shadows.

* * *

When a knock at Gemma’s door brought no response, Kincaid went back to his room and scribbled a note telling her he’d be in the bar and that Deveney would be meeting them for drinks and dinner. He slipped the scrap of paper under her door and waited for a moment, still hoping for a quiet word with her, but when there was no stir of movement he turned away and went slowly downstairs.

He and Nick Deveney had spent an unproductive afternoon at Guildford Police Station, reading reports and sparring with the media, and it had left the lingering taste of frustration. “A pint of Bass, please, Brian,” he said as he slid onto the only unoccupied bar stool. “A good crowd for a Thursday evening,” he added as Brian placed the pint glass on a mat.

“It’s that nasty out,” Brian answered as he drew a pint for another customer. “Always good for business.”

The rain had come on steadily with the dark, but Kincaid suspected that the pub’s popularity this evening had as much to do with exchanging gossip as sheltering from the weather. Although he had to admit that as refuges went, the atmosphere was pleasant enough. A pub never felt right empty. It needed the movement of bodies and the rise and fall of voices in order to come into its own. This was his first opportunity to judge the Moon under the proper circumstances. Swiveling around on his stool, he liked what he saw: comfortable without too much tarting up. There were velvet covers on the stools and benches, a dark-beamed ceiling, a few brasses, a few copper pieces in the dining area, flowered red-trimmed curtains shutting out the night, and the wood fire radiating warmth within.

A man in an oiled jacket squeezed in between Kincaid and the next stool, handing his glass to Brian to be refilled. He spoke without preamble, as if continuing a discussion. “Well, he may have been a right bastard, Bri, but I never thought it would have come to that.” He shook his head. “Can’t even feel safe in our own bloody beds these days.”

Brian gave a quick, involuntary glance in Kincaid’s direction, then said noncommittally as he pulled the pint, “He wasn’t in his bed, Reggie, so I doubt we need worry about ours.” He wiped away the foam that had overflowed the glass and slid it across the bar before nodding at Kincaid and adding, “This is Superintendent Kincaid, down from London to look into things.”

The man gave Kincaid a brusque acknowledgment, muttering something that sounded like, “Our own lads do well enough,” before making his way back to his table.

Brian leaned across the bar and said earnestly to Kincaid, “Don’t mind Reggie. He’d find fault with sunshine in May.” But the buzz of conversation around Kincaid had died, and he felt himself the target of glances both interested and wary.

It was a relief when Deveney came in a few minutes later, shaking the water droplets from his rain hat before stuffing it into his overcoat pocket. Just as Kincaid stood up to greet him, the table nearest the fire emptied and they snagged it with alacrity.

When Deveney had returned from the bar with his pint, Kincaid lifted his in salute. “Cheers. You’ve just had a vote of confidence from the locals.”

“Wish I felt I deserved it.” Sighing, he rotated his shoulders and neck. “What a hell of a day. As much as I hated paperwork at school, why I ever—” His eyes widened as he looked towards the far end of the room, then he smiled. “The day just improved considerably.” Following his gaze, Kincaid saw Gemma edging her way through the crowd. “Why can’t my sergeant look like that?” Deveney complained with an air of much-practiced martyrdom. “I’ll complain to the chief constable, take it all the way to the top.” But Kincaid barely heard him. The dress was black and long-sleeved, but there any pretense of demureness ended, for the fabric clung to Gemma’s body until it stopped midway down her thighs. She seldom wore her hair loose, but tonight she had left it so, and her fair skin looked pale as cream within its copper frame.

“Close your mouth,” Deveney said with a grin as he got up to fetch Gemma a chair.

“Gemma,” Kincaid began, not knowing what he meant to say, and the lights went out.

For an eerie moment a hush fell over the pub, then the voices rose in a wave—questioning, exclaiming.

“Just hold on,” Brian called out. “I’ll get the lanterns.” The wavering flame of his cigarette lighter disappeared through the door at the far end of the bar. Within moments he had three emergency lanterns lit and placed throughout the room.

The lamplight cast a soft yellow glow, and Deveney smiled at Gemma with unabashed pleasure. “I’d say that was perfect timing. You look even lovelier by lamplight, if that’s possible.”

At least she had the grace to blush, Kincaid thought as she murmured something unintelligible. “No, let me get it,” Deveney said as Kincaid rose to get Gemma a drink. “It’s easier for me to get out.”

Kincaid sank back onto his bench and regarded her, unsure what he might say without antagonizing her. Finally, he offered, “Nick’s right, you do look wonderful.”

“Thanks,” she said, but instead of meeting his eyes she fidgeted with the empty ashtray and looked towards the bar. “I wonder where Geoff is? That’s Brian’s son,” she explained, turning back to Kincaid. “I met him this afternoon, and from what he told me I thought he’d be helping out behind the bar.”

Appearing once more from the kitchen, Brian announced, “I’ve been on to the Electricity Board. There’s a transformer down between Dorking and Guildford, so it may be quite some time before we have power again. Not to worry,” he interrupted the beginning buzz, “the cooker’s gas, so most of the menu is still on.”

“That’s a relief,” Deveney said as he returned with Gemma’s, vodka and orange, and the dinner menu. “I’m starved. Let’s see what Brian can do in a pinch.” When they’d made their decisions and settled back with their drinks, he said to Kincaid, “I had a message from the chief constable waiting when I got back to the station. The gist of it was he expects to see something concrete, and there were a few phrases thrown in like ‘residents’ peace of mind’ and ‘image of the force.’”

Both Kincaid and Gemma pulled faces. It was familiar “authority-speak” and had little to do with the mechanics of an investigation. “You’re still keen on your intruder theory, Nick?” asked Kincaid.

“It’s as good as anything else we’ve got.” Deveney shrugged.

“Then I’d suggest we start by interviewing everyone in the village who’s reported things missing. We’ll have to eliminate the possibility of a connection before we can move on. Do we have a list from today’s house-to-house?”

Just then Brian brought their salads. Once he’d set them on the table, he wiped his perspiring brow. “Can’t imagine what’s kept John,” he said. Then he added, “He helps out behind the bar, and I’m that strapped without him tonight.”

“But what about Geoff?” asked Gemma.

“Geoff? What has Geoff got to do with it?” Brian said impatiently, then hurried away as another customer called to him.

“But—” Gemma said to his retreating back, then subsided, a flush creeping up her cheekbones. “I know he said he worked for his dad, and it seemed a logical assumption that he tended bar.”

“So what do you make of Geoff, then?” asked Deveney, drawing attention from her embarrassment, and she launched into an account of their meeting that afternoon.

Kincaid listened, watching her animated face and hands as she talked to Deveney, and felt more excluded by the minute. He toyed with the ubiquitous cress and iceberg lettuce of his salad, wondering if he had really known her at all. Had he lain next to her, felt her skin against his, her breath on his lips? He shook his head in disbelief. How could he have been so wrong about what had happened between them?

The word “quarrel” pulled him back to the conversation and he said, “What? I’m sorry.”

“Geoff told me that he overheard Gilbert and the village doctor quarreling a couple of weeks ago,” she answered a bit too patiently, as if Kincaid were a not-too-bright child. “But he didn’t know what it was about, only that they both seemed angry and upset.

“It’s odd,” she added a moment later as she speared a tomato wedge with her fork. “I don’t remember ever seeing Gilbert angry. There was just this sort of unspoken knowledge that if he spoke even more quietly than usual, you were in big trouble.”

“What?” Kincaid said again, glass halfway to his mouth. “You knew him? You worked under Alastair Gilbert?” He felt a complete fool as Deveney looked at them with a puzzled expression.

“He was my super when I was a rookie at Notting Hill,” Gemma said dismissively. “I didn’t know it was important.” Into the awkward silence that followed, she added, “I think we should definitely interview this doctor first thing tomorrow, along with the burglary victims.”

“Wait, Gemma,” said Kincaid. “Someone needs to get on to Gilbert’s office, check out that end of things. And you’ll be needing to look after Toby. Why don’t you go up to London tomorrow, and Nick and I will do the interviews here.”

She didn’t speak as she pushed her plate away and carefully laid down her knife and fork, but the look she gave him could have frozen lava.