Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

7

The doorbell pealed as Kincaid and Nick Deveney waited on the steps of Dr. Gabriella Wilson’s creeper-covered cottage, a few doors up the lane from the Gilberts’.

Escaping gratefully after a morning of meetings at Guildford Police Station, they’d left Will Darling to collate the still-incoming reports. When Dr. Wilson’s name had appeared on the list of burglary victims gleaned from yesterday’s house-to-house of the village, they’d made her their first priority.

As they drove into the village, Deveney had mumbled something around the cheese roll he clutched in his right hand while shifting with his left. Swallowing, he said more clearly, “Kill two birds. And make Gemma happy, at any rate,” he’d added with a cryptic glance at Kincaid.

They’d begun to feel the cold by the time the door swung open. A small, competent-looking, middle-aged woman studied them. She seemed to have taken up where Kincaid and Deveney left off, for she held half a sandwich in her left hand, a perfect half-moon-shaped bite missing from its edge. “You’ll be the police, I expect,” she said equably. “I wondered when you’d get around to me again. Come in, but you’ll have to be quick about it.” Turning, she led them down a passage towards the back of the house. “I barely manage a bite as it is, between morning surgery and afternoon calls.”

Passing through a swinging door, they entered the kitchen and she gestured towards a table cluttered with papers and periodicals. Kincaid pulled out a chair, gingerly removing another stack of papers before he sat down. “Dr. Wilson, if you could—”

“I’m just ‘Doc’ to everyone except the hospital administrators. They like to maintain a certain distance.” She chuckled as she sat down and picked up a cup of coffee that still had steam rising from the top. “Ah, there’s Paul now. My husband,” she added as a man came through the back door, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Hullo.” He shook their hands as they introduced themselves. “Sorry if I’m damp. I’ve had Bess out for her walk and it’s a bit mucky. Had to hose her down just now in the garden.” Paul Wilson was dressed much like his wife, in serviceable trousers and pullover, but the resemblance went further than that. Short, stocky, and balding, he had about him the same friendly, no-nonsense air.

“Paul does mostly consulting now, so he’s home quite a bit during the day,” volunteered Dr. Wilson. “Now what can we do for you?”

“According to the statement you made, you were out on Wednesday night, Doctor,” said Kincaid, consulting his notes. “You left the house about half past six?”

“Patient went into labor. First baby, too, took most of the night.”

“And you didn’t notice anything unusual at the Gilberts’ as you were leaving?”

She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and flicked a glance at the wall clock before answering. “I also told your nice constable that I saw nothing out of the ordinary, but I suppose you have to be thorough. I have no idea if Alastair was at home then. It was fully dark, of course, and you can’t see the Gilberts’ garage from the lane in any case. What I do know,” she said before Kincaid could interrupt her, “is that if I’d got home before all the commotion died down, I’d have insisted on seeing Claire Gilbert. It’s unthinkable that she hadn’t any-one with her.” She thumped her coffee cup on the table for emphasis.

“She’s your patient, then?” asked Kincaid, jumping on the lead.

“They both were, but that’s really not pertinent. I’d do the same for anybody.” She glanced at her husband and some of the starch seemed to go out of her. “What a dreadful business,” she said on a sigh.

“And you, Mr. Wilson?” asked Deveney. “You were at home?”

“Until about half past two in the morning, when my wife called me to pull her out of a ditch. It’s not the first time,” he added affectionately “I’ve considered that a part of my job description for years, always keep a tow rope in the boot of the Volvo.”

“And you heard nothing unusual, either?” Deveney’s voice held a touch of exasperation.

“No, I had the telly on in the back. It was only when I took Bess for her bedtime outing that I saw the lights flashing and went to investigate. I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely apologetic.

Kincaid let the silence linger a moment, then said softly, “I understand that you had a disagreement with Commander Gilbert recently, Dr. Wilson.”

The doctor’s coffee cup paused for an instant in its journey to her mouth, but she recovered quickly. “Whatever gave you that idea?” She sounded amused, but she shifted slightly in her chair, turning her head so that her husband wasn’t directly in her line of sight.

“Geoff Genovase told my sergeant that he overheard the tail end of a quarrel between you.”

She relaxed a bit, sipping at the last of her coffee. “Ah, that would have been the Saturday before last, when Geoff was here to mulch the beds. I wouldn’t give too much credence to Geoff’s account, Superintendent. The boy has a very active imagination—comes from playing too many of those silly computer games, if you ask me.”

“According to Sergeant James,” put in Deveney, “Geoff had the very distinct impression that you’d had a row.”

Paul Wilson had been leaning against the counter with his arms folded, listening with an expression of friendly interest. Now he came to stand behind his wife, hands on the back of her chair. “The commander’s manner was often abrupt,” he said. “Pookie’s right, you know. I’m sure that Geoff misinterpreted something perfectly ordinary.”

“Excuse me?” said Kincaid, wondering if he’d missed something.

The doctor laughed. “That’s been my nickname since childhood, Superintendent. ‘Gabriella’ was too big a mouthful for my brothers and sisters.”

The nickname suited her, he thought, without diminishing her dignity. She seemed a person to whom directness came naturally, and he wondered why she was evading the issue. “Why did Commander Gilbert come to see you that day?” he asked.

“Superintendent, I’d be violating my patient’s confidentiality if I told you that,” she said firmly, but she tilted her head back against her husband’s hand as if drawing support from his touch. “I can assure you it had nothing to do with his death.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Doctor? You have no way of knowing what may be important in a murder investigation. And besides”—he paused, looking at her until she dropped her gaze—“you can’t violate the confidentiality of a dead man.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. There was no row.”

“You’ll be late for your rounds if you don’t get a move on, love,” her husband murmured, but Kincaid saw his fingers tighten on her shoulders.

Nodding, she stood and helped him gather their dishes. “Old Mrs. Parkinson will be ringing any minute, wanting to know where I am,” she grumbled as she carried their plates to the sink.

“Just a moment, Doctor.” Kincaid still sat among the welter of paper, arms folded, even though Deveney had risen with the Wilsons. “You reported a burglary several weeks ago. Can you tell me exactly what was taken?”

“Oh, that.” Doc Wilson dumped the plates in the sink and turned back to him. “I wish now I hadn’t bothered to phone it in. It’s been more trouble than it’s worth, what with the paperwork and all, and we never had any hope of getting the things back. Well, you don’t, do you?”

“It was only a few items of inexpensive jewelry and some keepsakes … mementos, that sort of thing,” said Paul Wilson. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want them, and they left the TV and video. A very odd business altogether.”

“And you didn’t see anyone or notice anything unusual about that time?”

“No suspicious men lurking about in the shrubbery, Superintendent,” said the doctor, shrugging into her coat. “We certainly would have said if we had.”

“All right, Doctor, Mr. Wilson, thank you.” Kincaid stood and joined Deveney at the door. “We’ll see ourselves out. But do please let us know if you remember anything.”

He and Deveney were only halfway down the front walk when the doctor’s car shot down the graveled drive in reverse. She nodded to them as she went by, backed into the lane, and sped off towards the village.

“No wonder she ends up in the ditch,” Deveney said, chuckling.

Although the sun had come out while they were in the house, the garden still held a thin glaze of moisture. Heavy, bronze heads of hydrangeas hung over the path, leaving damp streaks on their trouser legs.

“What do you suppose she’s playing at?” Deveney continued after a moment. “She knew Gilbert’s death would release her from any obligation of confidentiality, especially about his medical condition.”

Kincaid pushed open the garden gate, then stopped and turned to Deveney as they reached the car. “But Claire is still her patient, and I think it’s Claire’s confidentiality she’s protecting.”

“She could’ve just told us that he’d come about his medical condition,” mused Deveney, “and we would have gone merrily on our way.”

Kincaid opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, thinking about the slightly off-center feel of the whole interview. “I think the good doctor is entirely too honest for her own good, Nick,” he said as Deveney joined him. “She couldn’t bear to tell an outright lie.”

Next on their list of burglary victims was Madeleine Wade, owner of the village shop. They drove through the center of the village and past the garage, and after a wrong turn or two found the shop, tucked away in a cul-de-sac halfway up the hill. Fruit and vegetables were displayed in boxes outside the door: lovely perfumed Spanish tangerines, cukes, leeks, apples, and the inevitable potatoes.

Nick Deveney picked a small, earthy pippin from a box of apples and brushed it against his sleeve. A bell tinkled as they entered the shop’s postage-stamp interior, and the girl behind the counter looked up from her magazine. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her soft voice held a trace of Scots. Straight fair hair framed a fragile-looking face, and she regarded them seriously, as if her question had been more than rote. Beneath the short sleeves of her knitted top her arms looked thin and unprotected. She seemed about the same age as Lucy Penmaric and made Kincaid think of his ex-wife.

The shop smelled faintly of coffee and chocolate. For its size it was very well stocked, even to a small freezer case filled with good quality frozen dinners. While Deveney handed his apple over for weighing and dug in his pocket for change, Kincaid flipped through his notebook, and when they’d completed their transaction, he took Deveney’s place at the counter. “We’re looking for Madeleine Wade, the owner. Is she here?”

“Oh, aye,” said the girl, favoring them with a shy smile. “Madeleine’s upstairs in her studio, but I don’t think she has a client just now.”

“Client?” repeated Kincaid, wondering bemusedly if the shopkeeper led a double life as the village prostitute. He’d known stranger combinations than that.

The girl tapped on a card Cello-taped to the countertop. REFLEXOLOGY, AROMATHERAPY & MASSAGE, it read in neat calligraphy, and beneath that, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, and a phone number.

Enlightened, he said, “Oh, I see. She’s quite the entrepreneur, isn’t she?”

The girl looked at him blankly for a moment, as if he’d exceeded her vocabulary, then directed, “Just go round the side and ring the bell.”

Kincaid leaned a little more determinedly on the counter and ventured, “You’d be about school-leaving age, I should think?”

She blushed to the roots of her fair hair and whispered, “I did my GCSE’s last year, sir.”

“Do you know Lucy Penmaric at all, then?”

Seeming to find this question less intimidating, she answered a bit louder. “I know her to speak to, of course, but we don’t hang about together, if that’s what you mean. She’s never had much to do with the village kids.”

“Stuck-up, is she?” Kincaid asked, inviting a confidence. Deveney, flipping idly through the postcards while munching his apple, gave every appearance of ignoring their conversation.

Frowning, the girl pushed her hair from her face. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Lucy’s always nice enough, she just doesn’t seem to mix with anyone.”

“That’s too bad, considering what’s happened,” said Kincaid. “I imagine she could use a friend just now.”

“Oh, aye,” she said. With the first hint of curiosity she’d shown, she added, “You’ll be from the police, then?”

“That we are, love.” Deveney joined them, holding aloft his apple core. “And you’ll be doing us a great service if you’ll toss this in the bin.” He winked at her, and she blushed again but took the apple core willingly enough.

Cocky bastard, thought Kincaid. He thanked the girl and she smiled at him gratefully. As he reached the door, he turned back to her. “What’s your name, by the way?”

She offered it to him on a whispered breath. “Sarah.”

“That one’s not likely to make a rocket scientist,” quipped Deveney as they left the shop.

“I’d say she’s shy, not stupid.” Kincaid avoided a puddle as they rounded the corner of the shop. “And I find it dangerous to underestimate people, though I dare say I’ve done it more than once.” He thought again of Vic, of the times she’d come home in a temper, threatening to darken her hair to brunette so that she wouldn’t have to prove her intelligence to everyone she met. It occurred to him now that even though he’d sympathized with her, he’d been just as guilty as the clods he’d criticized—he hadn’t taken her seriously until it had been much too late.

“Touché.” Deveney winced at the mild reproof. “I’ll try to keep a more open mind.”

The side door proved to be at the top of an exterior staircase. It looked to Kincaid as though the stair had been added fairly recently, perhaps in the process of converting the lower floor of the house into a shop. Both railing and door were painted a glossy white. As he pushed the bell, he murmured, “She must be a good witch—she’s got her colors right.”

The door opened as the last words left his lips. Looking at them inquiringly, Madeleine Wade said, “Yes?” and Kincaid, tongue-tied, flushed as painfully as Sarah. While Deveney stumbled through the introductions, Kincaid examined the woman’s clothes, a moss green and rose silk blouse with matching green silk trousers. Her hair was a stylish chin-length bob of a platinum shade he suspected owed more to art than nature. He looked everywhere except at her face until he had his own under control, for Madeleine Wade had an enormous hooked beak of a nose, resembling nothing so much as a caricature of a fairy-tale witch.

She smiled at them as if aware of their discomfort. “Come in, please,” she said as she motioned them into the sitting room. Her voice was deep, almost masculine in timbre, but pleasant. “Sit down and I’ll fix you something to drink. I’m afraid I don’t use any caffeinated products, so you’ll have to settle for herbal tea,” she continued as she moved to the small kitchen adjacent to the sitting room. Although he couldn’t see her face, Kincaid fancied he heard a trace of amusement in her voice.

He and Deveney chorused, “Fine,” then Deveney gave a quick grimace of disgust.

Under his breath, Kincaid said wickedly, “Broaden your horizons, man. It’ll do you good,” then looked around the room with interest. He became aware of music playing faintly but was unable to localize the source. At least he supposed you would call it music, for it consisted of tinkling sounds repeated in rhythmic patterns, like wind chimes moving to mathematical variations.

The flat had a comfortable and rather whimsical charm, with only the massage table on the far side of the sitting room indicating Madeleine Wade’s use of the room for her business. A brightly patterned sheet draped the table, softening its clinical aspect, and the pine bureau on the far wall displayed a collection of plush animals as well as an assortment of oils, lotions, and a pile of fluffy towels.

Kincaid moved to the end of the room, where two deep window embrasures overlooked the shop front. He smiled as he looked at the curtains, made of the same fabric that covered the sofa and massage table. Primitively drawn farmyard animals cavorted across a cheerful white-and-red polka-dotted background, and he found the combination both odd and intriguing. A closer inspection revealed that the red dots were irregular in shape, as if they’d been finger-painted on, and the dogs and sheep in particular looked almost like the animals he’d seen in reproductions of cave paintings.

The left windowsill held a multishaped and-sized variety of corked glass bottles, filled with liquids in hues ranging from the palest green-gold to rich amber. Sprigs of herbs floated in some, and all sported rakish raffia ties.

The other sill held a red geranium in a terra-cotta pot and a marmalade cat curled on a cushion in the sun. When Kincaid gently rubbed a geranium leaf between his fingers, releasing the pungent, spicy scent, the cat stirred but didn’t open its eyes. “Is your cat always so oblivious?” Kincaid asked as a rattle of crockery told him that Madeleine Wade had returned.

“I don’t think the apocalypse would faze Ginger, good-for-nothing beastie that he is. I keep him because the sight of him relaxes the clients.” Placing a tray bearing mugs and an earthenware pot on a low table before the sofa, she sat down and unhurriedly began to pour.

Kincaid watched from near the window as she concentrated on her task. All her movements were graceful and economic, and he found the contrast between her face and her self-assured poise oddly disconcerting. “And the music?” he asked. “Does that serve the same purpose?”

She sat back with her mug. “Do you like it? It’s structured to encourage the brain to emit alpha waves—at least that’s the theory, but it’s called angel music, and I think I prefer the more imaginative description.”

Having taken his seat in one of the simple farmhouse chairs beside the sofa, Deveney lifted his cup, sniffed, and sipped tentatively. “What is this?” he asked, looking pleasantly surprised.

Madeleine Wade chuckled. “Apple cinnamon. I find it a good choice for the uninitiated—familiar and nonthreatening.” She turned to Kincaid, who had sat down opposite Deveney. “And now what can I help you with, Superintendent? I’m assuming you’re here about Alastair Gilbert’s death?”

Kincaid took his mug from the tray and breathed the steam rising from its surface. “We understand you reported a burglary some weeks ago, Miss Wade. Could you tell us about the circumstances?”

“Ah, the burglar-as-murderer theory, is it?” She smiled, showing teeth that were not well shaped but looked as though they had been cared for expensively. “That’s been the most popular hypothesis around the village—a vagrant, thinking the house empty, seizes the opportunity to pilfer it, then when caught red-handed by the commander, panics and kills him. That’s all very convenient for everybody concerned, Superintendent, but I can see at least one logical flaw. My ‘burglary,’ if you want to call it that, for I never found any sign of a break-in, occurred almost three months ago. If any vagrant had been hanging about the village for that length of time, someone would have seen him.”

Although he privately agreed with her, Kincaid was beginning to form his own theory and merely countered with another question. “If you hadn’t a break-in, what alerted you to the fact that things were missing?”

The music had finished as they talked, and in the silence Kincaid heard the cat stir, then the sound of purring as it stretched and repositioned itself. It seemed to him that Madeleine imitated the cat, stretching out her long legs and crossing her ankles before she said, “First, it was an antique garnet ring, a gift from my mother on my twenty-first birthday. I thought I must have misplaced it, that it would turn up, and didn’t think too much about it. Then a few days later I discovered a brooch missing as well, and I began to worry a little and to look around. I discovered some small pieces of family silver missing, and a few other odd things—a ceramic egg coddler, for instance. Tell me why someone would steal a Royal Worcester egg coddler, Superintendent.”

“Have you any idea if all the things disappeared simultaneously?”

Madeleine considered his question a moment before answering. “No, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I can’t be sure. I’d worn the ring more recently than I’d used the silver, but that’s as far as I would be prepared to go.”

“And you noticed nothing out of order in the flat? No strangers about at that time?” Finding he didn’t care for the strong cinnamon bite of the tea, Kincaid unobtrusively replaced his mug on the tray without taking his eyes from Madeleine.

She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, palm up. “As you can see, my living quarters are quite small, just this room, the kitchen, and a bedroom. I chose to give up many of my possessions when I came here, and I’m naturally tidy, so it would be extremely difficult for someone to ransack my things without my knowledge. Yet, I noticed nothing.” She gave a shrug almost Gallic in its eloquence. “It reminds me of the Brownie stories I heard as a child. They were benevolent elves, if I remember correctly, and I sense no malice in this.”

Kincaid found her reference to her past and her last comment equally intriguing. While he was deciding which he wanted to pursue first, Deveney sat forwards and said, “But surely you have other people visiting your flat. Clients, friends—and what about Sarah, the girl who works downstairs? Could she have taken the things?”

“Never!” Madeleine stiffened, pulling her feet back from their relaxed position, and for the first time she looked awkward, as if she were too tall to sit comfortably on the sofa. Fiercely, she said, “Sarah’s helped me since she was fourteen. She’s a good girl, and almost like my own child. Why would she suddenly take things from me?”

The reasons a seventeen-year-old girl might steal struck Kincaid as too myriad to list (the foremost being either drugs or a boyfriend using drugs), but he didn’t wish to antagonize Madeleine further. And having met Sarah, he felt inclined to agree with Madeleine’s assessment. For a moment he wished urgently for Gemma, who would have eased tactfully into such a suggestion, if she had made it at all.

“You can’t be too cau—”

“I’m sure Miss Wade’s right, Nick,” interrupted Kincaid, giving Deveney a sharp glance.

Deveney flushed and set his mug down with a noticeable thump.

“Tell me, Miss Wade,” said Kincaid, “what exactly did you mean when you said you didn’t sense any malice involved in the thefts?”

She looked at him for a moment, as if she were making a determination, then sighed. Her flare of anger seemed to have burnt away the amusement he’d sensed in her manner, and now she spoke with quiet gravity. “I was born with a gift, Superintendent. Not that it’s so very unusual—I believe that many people have psychic talents, which they either use or suppress according to their degree of discomfort with the phenomenon. I also decided long ago that the vehicle used for expressing these talents is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter whether one reads palms or predicts race results, any more than it matters whether one writes a novel using a legal pad and pencil or the latest word-processing software. It comes from the same source.”

Although Kincaid had shown no sign of impatience, she glanced at him as if gauging his response and said, “Bear with me, please. You must understand that I am not condemning those who suppress their abilities.” Her eyes, green and direct, met his again. “I was one of them. By the time I started school I’d learned that it wasn’t acceptable to talk about what I could see and feel, at least not to adults. It didn’t seem to bother other children, but if they should happen to mention it to their parents, I was no longer welcomed. Children usually have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation, and I was no exception. I buried my difference as deeply as I could.”

Kincaid could all too easily imagine Madeleine as an awkward and remarkably plain child. Having no control over the features that would already have made her an easy target for ridicule, she would have controlled whatever else was within her power. And, he thought, no matter the cost. “You spoke in the past tense, Miss Wade. Are we to assume that things changed?”

“Things always change, Superintendent,” she said, and he heard the flicker of amusement return to her voice. “But you’re right, of course. I kept things buried for many years, toeing the more conservative end of the established line. I became an investment banker, if you can believe it.” Chuckling, she added, “Sometimes it seems like a past life, and I’m not at all sure that I believe in reincarnation.” Then, growing serious once more, she said, “But as the years went by I seemed to shrivel, wither away inside. Even though I often used my … talents … in my work, I refused to acknowledge what I was doing. Eventually I had a moment of epiphany, the cause of which need not concern you, and I packed it all in. Quit my job, gave up my flat on the river, donated my power suits to Oxfam, and came here.”

“Miss Wade,” Kincaid said carefully, “you haven’t told us exactly what these special abilities are. Can you see the past or the future? Do you know what happened to Alastair Gilbert?”

Shaking her head, she said fervently, “I thank God every day that I don’t have the power to see into the future. That would be an unbearable burden. Nor can I unravel the past. My small gift, Superintendent, is the ability to see emotions. I know instantly if someone is unhappy, hurt, afraid, joyous, contented. I’ve always disliked the term aura. I suppose it does as well as any to describe what I see, but it’s also a bit like describing color to a blind man.”

Kincaid suddenly felt as vulnerable as if he’d been stripped of his clothes. Did she sense his hurt and anger, even his skepticism? He saw Deveney shift uncomfortably in his chair and knew he must be experiencing the same feelings. “Miss Wade,” he said, attempting to focus his attention on something safer than himself, “you didn’t answer my question about Alastair Gilbert.”

“All I can tell you about Gilbert is that he was a very unhappy man. Anger seeped from him all the time, like water welling from an underground spring.” She folded her arms across her chest protectively. “I find that sort of energy difficult to tolerate for any length of time.”

“Was he your client?”

She gave a peal of laughter. “Oh, my, no. People like Alastair Gilbert don’t come to the likes of me. Their anger won’t let them reach out, search for help. They wear it like a shield.”

“And Claire Gilbert?”

“Yes, Claire is my client.” Madeleine leaned forwards, arranging their mugs carefully in the center of the tray, then looked up at Kincaid. “I can see where you’re going with this, Superintendent, and I’m afraid I can’t cooperate. I don’t know what my legal rights are—I’ve never been confronted with this situation before. But I do know that on moral grounds I must keep sacrosanct anything that my clients reveal during the course of their treatment.” She gestured towards the massage table. “Aromatherapy in particular is very powerful. It stimulates the brain and memory directly, bypassing the intellectual armor we build around our experiences. Often it enables clients to work out fears, past traumas, and it can be a very emotional catharsis. Any revelations made at these times could be misleading.”

“Are you telling us that Claire Gilbert made such revelations?” Deveney asked. It sounded to Kincaid as if he’d chosen aggression as the method of dealing with his discomfort.

“No, no, of course not. I’m merely illustrating why I find such self-imposed restrictions necessary when talking about any client—and Claire is no exception, despite the tragic circumstances.” She stood and lifted the loaded tray. “I have a client due in just a few minutes, Superintendent. Finding policemen on the doorstep might be a bit off-putting.”

“Just one more thing, Miss Wade. How did Alastair Gilbert feel about his wife consulting you?”

For the first time, Kincaid sensed hesitation. She shifted her weight, balancing the tray on her right hip, then said slowly, “I’m not sure that Claire discussed it with him. Many people prefer their visits to be entirely discreet, and I honor that. Now if you don’t mind …”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Wade,” Kincaid said as he rose and Deveney followed suit. She went ahead of them, depositing the tray in the kitchen, then came to see them out. Kincaid took the hand she offered. He found that women’s handshakes often fell into two categories—either a limp, dead-fish touching of fingers or an overcompensating, knuckle-breaking grasp—but Madeleine Wade’s strong, quick clasp was that of a woman comfortable with her place in the world.

He turned back to her as she opened the door. “Did you ever think of going into police work?”

The curve of her lips as she smiled made her jutting nose seem more pronounced, and her husky voice held amusement once more. “I did consider it, actually. The thought of having that secret edge was tempting, but I was afraid it would corrupt me in the end. I felt I could only find balance in offering healing and comfort to others, and I don’t think that’s in your job description, Superintendent.”

“Can you see guilt?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Guilt is a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, remorse, pity—much too complicated to separate into individual components. Nor would I implicate someone, even if I could. I don’t want that power, that responsibility, on my hands.”

Deveney waited until they’d shut themselves in the privacy of his car before he exploded. “She’s just as batty as she looks,” he said vehemently, cranking the starter a bit too hard. “Auras, my grandmother’s arse. What a load of bullshit.”

While Deveney groused, Kincaid thought about hunches. He suspected that all good coppers had them, even depended on them to some extent, but it was something no one discussed comfortably. They had all taken courses instructing them in the science of reading body language, but was that methodology just a means of fitting intuition into a more acceptable framework?

All in all, he thought it prudent to regard Madeleine Wade with an open mind.

The vicarage faced directly on the village green, nestled between the pub and the little lane that led up to the church. Deveney, still muttering to himself, parked the car alongside the green. Kincaid stretched as he got out of the car, for the sun had warmed the afternoon air until it felt almost balmy for November. A light breeze had come up, and in it the green’s emerald grass rippled in velvet waves.

Crossing the tarmac, they let themselves into the vicarage garden through the gate. The house drowsed in the high-hedged enclosure, its square and solid red-brick façade looking respectably suited to its role. The garden, on the other hand, flaunted itself, as if rebelling against such stuffiness. A riot of color washed bravely against the subdued autumn background of hedge and trees. Everything that could still bloom did—impatiens, begonias, pansies, fuchsias, dahlias, primroses, verbenas, and the last of the roses, their heads full-blown on skeletal stems. Kincaid whistled in admiration. “I’d say the vicar has a different gift.” Then unable to resist the urge to tease Deveney just a bit, he added, “I wonder how he gets on with Madeleine Wade.”

Deveney gave him an irritated look, and they waited in silence for a few moments on the porch. When it seemed certain that Deveney’s assault on the bell was not going to produce a response, Kincaid turned away “Let’s try the church.”

Letting Deveney precede him out the gate, Kincaid gave the garden a last glance. The air shimmered slightly, as if it had been disturbed by their presence, then stilled. He shut the gate reluctantly and followed Deveney around the corner, then detoured a bit to read the notice board at the bottom of the lane. It proclaimed the activities of the Parish Church of St. Mary and reminded Kincaid that the seasonal rhythms of his boyhood had been marked by the church calendar.

The churchyard lay on their left as they climbed, the muted gray headstones decorated with a confetti of fallen leaves. Beyond it, the church sat astride the hill at an angle that might almost have been construed as playful. Kincaid smiled—he had to credit the architect with good showmanship as well as a sense of humor, for the position commanded the best possible view of the village.

As they neared the church, Deveney pulled out his notebook and rifled through it.

“What’s the vicar’s name?” asked Kincaid.

“Fielding,” Deveney replied after flipping through another few pages. “R. Fielding. Oh, hell.”

“R. Fielding O. Hell? Odd name for a vicar,” Kincaid said, grinning.

“Sorry, I’ve a stone in my shoe. I’ll catch you up.” Deveney bent and began unlacing.

Kincaid found the porch door unlocked. Entering, he stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. Even blindfolded, he would recognize that smell anywhere—damp and polish, overlain with a hint of flowers—ecclesiastical, institutional, and comforting as childhood memories.

When he opened his eyes he found the usual stacks of leaflets in the narthex and a collection box. When a soft, “Hullo, anybody about?” received no response, he wandered past the carved screens and into the dimness of the nave itself. Here the silence was almost palpable, and the only motion came from the dust motes stirring lazily in the rainbow-hued light that fell from the high windows.

The door creaked and Deveney’s voice called, “Any joy?”

Joining him a little regretfully, Kincaid said, “No, but I don’t think we’ve exhausted the possibilities.” He tried the door opposite the porch, and they entered a scuffed linoleum-floored hallway. To their left lay washrooms and a small kitchen, to the right a meeting room with stacks of plastic chairs. “A new building,” Kincaid mused, “but it’s a clever extension—I didn’t notice it from the outside. There’s no one here, though. I suppose we’ll have to try the good vicar again—”

The door to the ladies’ toilet opened and a woman came out. Thirtyish, Kincaid guessed, with a friendly face and a mop of dark curls, she wore jeans and an old sweater, and in her rubber glove-clad hands she held a utilitarian-looking brush and a jug of industrial-strength cleaner.

“Oh, hullo,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”

“We were hoping to have a word with the vicar,” Kincaid ventured.

She looked rather helplessly at the objects in her arms. “Just let me do something with this stuff, then. Won’t be a tick.” Glancing up again, she must have seen their uncertainty, for she paused and smiled. “I’m Rebecca Fielding, by the way.”

“Ah, yes,” Kincaid answered, returning the smile and wondering what other surprises the day might have in store. He supposed he shouldn’t have been startled—ordained women were common enough in the Anglican Church these days, and in fact were rather tame news. He introduced himself and Deveney, and when Rebecca Fielding had disposed of her cleaning supplies in a small cupboard, they followed her into the meeting room.

An ancient-looking tea urn squatted malevolently on a trolley, taking pride of place over the scarred table and plastic chairs. “A necessity of parish meetings, I’m afraid,” said Rebecca, eyeing it with distaste. “I can’t imagine why I went into this line of work—I never could stand the taste of stewed tea.” She separated two chairs for the men and one for herself, and when they were seated she became suddenly brisk. “If this is about Alastair Gilbert, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a dreadful thing.”

“That’s not exactly why we wanted to see you,” said Kincaid, liking the woman’s easy, direct manner, “although any light you could shed on the matter would be helpful. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the items you reported stolen.”

“That?” Her dark, straight brows rose in surprise. “But that was ages ago! August, it must have been, and what on earth has it to do with anything?”

So the vicar had not been privy to the pub gossip, thought Kincaid, or else she was a very good dissembler. “You know, I’m sure, that other people have reported items missing. There is some speculation that a vagrant was responsible for those thefts and that Commander Gilbert might have surprised him in the act.”

“But that’s absurd, Superintendent. None of these incidents occurred at the same time, and besides, if there were anyone like that hanging about the village, I’d know it. The church porch is usually first choice of sleeping accommodations.” Smiling at them, she relaxed back into her chair and folded her arms loosely across her plum-colored sweater. She had hooked her trainer-clad feet around the front legs of the chair, and her balanced posture made Kincaid think suddenly of a bareback rider he’d seen once in the circus.

“Did you ride as a child?” he asked. She had about her a certain scrubbed outdoorsiness, not exactly a toughness but rather an air of healthy competence. Her nails, he noticed, were short and a bit grimy.

“Well, yes, actually, I did.” She regarded Kincaid with a puzzled frown. “My aunt owned a stable in Devon and I spent my summer hols there. How odd that you should ask. I’ve just this morning come back from her funeral. She died last week.”

“So you weren’t here when Commander Gilbert died?”

“No, although the parish secretary called me yesterday with the news.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t quite believe it. I tried ringing Claire but only got the answerphone. Is she managing all right?”

“As well as can be expected, I’d say,” Kincaid answered vaguely, pursuing his own thought. “Were the Gilberts regular members of your flock?”

Rebecca nodded. “Alastair often read the lesson. He took the obligations attendant on his position in the village very seriously—” She broke off and rubbed her face with her hands. “Sorry, sorry,” she said through splayed fingers. “That was very uncharitable of me. I’m sure he meant well.”

“You didn’t like him,” Kincaid said gently.

She shook her head ruefully. “No, I’m afraid I didn’t. But I did try, honestly. Judging people hastily is one of my worst faults—”

“So when you dislike someone you go out of your way to make allowances for them?” Kincaid grinned at her in shared understanding.

“Exactly. And I’m afraid that Alastair was very good at taking advantage of me.”

“In what way?” Out of the corner of his eye, Kincaid saw Deveney shift impatiently in his chair, but he refused to be hurried.

“Oh, you know … the special service readings, opening the fete, that sort of thing—”

“Things that look important but don’t require any real effort?” Kincaid asked wryly.

“Exactly. I could never imagine Alastair canvassing the village for a good cause or washing up teacups after a parish meeting. Woman’s work. In fact—” Rebecca paused. A faint flush of color crept into her cheeks and she stared steadily at her hands clasped on the tabletop. “To tell you the truth, I don’t think Alastair approved of me, though he never said it in so many words. I suppose that’s one reason I went out of my way to be fair … proving to myself that I was above petty retaliation.”

“A forgivable vanity, surely,” said Kincaid.

She looked up and met his eyes. “Perhaps. But it wasn’t very tactful of me to speak about him so freely. This is a terrible thing to have happened, and I wouldn’t want you to think I took it lightly.”

“Unfortunately, dying in a brutal manner does not automatically qualify one for sainthood, however much we might wish it,” Kincaid offered dryly.

“Miss Fielding … uh, Vicar,” said Deveney, “about the thefts. You reported no sign of a break-in. Could you tell us exactly what happened?”

Rebecca closed her eyes for a moment, as if summoning the details. “It was a lovely warm evening and I’d been working in the front garden. When I came in I noticed that the back door was ajar, but I didn’t think anything of it—I never lock up and that door has rather a stiff catch. It wasn’t until later when I was dressing for dinner that I noticed my pearl earrings were missing.”

“And you were sure you hadn’t misplaced them?” Kincaid asked.

“Definitely. I’m very much a creature of habit, Superintendent, and I always put them straight into the jewelry box when I take them off. And I’d worn them just two days before.”

“Was there anything else missing?” Deveney had his notebook out now, pen ready.

Frowning, Rebecca rubbed at the end of her nose. “Just some childhood keepsakes. A silver charm bracelet, some school medals. It was quite odd, really.”

Kincaid leaned towards her. “And you saw no one unusual about the place?”

“I saw no one at all, Superintendent, unusual or otherwise. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ve been a complete bust for you.” She looked genuinely distressed, and Kincaid hastened to reassure her as he rose.

“Not at all. And it gave me a chance to see the church. It’s quite a gem, isn’t it?”

“It was built by G. E. Street, the man who designed the London law courts,” Rebecca said as she led them into the corridor. “It’s a lovely example of Victorian church architecture but rather a sad story. It seems he meant it as a gift for his wife, but she died shortly after it was finished.” They had reached the porch, and as they stepped outside she stopped and looked up at the honey-colored stone rising above them. Slowly, she said, “I’ve felt very lucky to have come here, and I’d hate to see anything disrupt my village. One becomes proprietorial very quickly, I’m afraid,” she added with a smile.

Looking down the hill towards the vicarage, Kincaid said, “You’re the gardener, I take it?”

“Oh, yes.” Rebecca’s smile was radiant. “It’s my temptation and my salvation, I’m afraid. The place was a wilderness when I came here two years ago, and I’ve spent every spare minute there since.”

“It shows.” Infected by her enthusiasm, Kincaid found he couldn’t help grinning back.

“I can’t take all the credit,” she hastened to reassure him. “Geoff Genovase helps me on weekends. I’d never have managed the heavy work without him.”

Kincaid thanked her again and they turned away, but before they’d gone more than a few steps down the lane she called out to him. “Mr. Kincaid, the dynamics that make a village a functioning organism are really quite fragile. You will be careful, won’t you?”

* * *

“That explains why she’d missed out on the gossip,” said Kincaid as they walked down the lane. While they’d been inside the sun had dropped in its swift afternoon progress, the light had faded from gold to a soft gray-green, and the shadows stood long on the ground.

“What does?” Deveney looked up from the notebook page he’d been scanning as they walked.

“The aunt’s funeral.” Kincaid put his hands in his pockets and kicked at a stone with his toe.

“What the hell difference does it make?” Deveney asked, sounding a bit frayed. “Do you always go round the mulberry bush like that in interviews? Talk about circumlocution.”

“I don’t know what difference it makes. Yet. And no, I don’t always waffle on, but sometimes it’s the only way I know to get under the skin of things.” He stopped as they reached the bottom of the lane and turned to Deveney. “I don’t think this is going to be a straightforward case, Nick, and I want to know what these people thought of Alastair Gilbert, how he fit into the fabric of the community.”

“Well, we’re certainly not making much progress on the vagrant theory,” Deveney said disgustedly. “We’ve one name left, a Mr. Percy Bainbridge, at Rose Cottage. It’s just kitty-corner to the pub, so we might as well leave the car.” As they crossed the road and walked along the edge of the green, he added, “This is our most recent report, by the way, just last month.”

Rose Cottage might once have been as charming as its name implied, but the canes arching over the front door were bare and sere, and only a few dying chrysanthemums graced the path. Deveney pushed the bell, and after a few moments the door swung open.

“Yes?” inquired Mr. Percy Bainbridge, wrinkling his nose and pursing his thin lips as if he smelled something distasteful. As Deveney made introductions and explained their mission, the lips relaxed into a simper, and Bainbridge said with fruity affectation, “Oh, do come in. I knew you’d be wanting a word with me.”

They followed him down a dark, narrow hallway into a sitting room that was overwarm and overdecorated—and smelled, Kincaid thought, faintly of illness.

Bainbridge was tall, thin, and stooped, with a chest so concave it looked as though it might have been hollowed out with an ice-cream scoop. Skin yellow as parchment stretched over the bones of his face and his balding skull. A death’s head with dandruff, thought Kincaid, for what was left of the man’s hair had liberally sprinkled the shoulders of his rusty black coat.

“You’ll have some sherry, won’t you?” said their host. “I always do this time of day. Keeps the evening at bay, don’t you think?” He poured from a decanter as he spoke, filling three rather dusty cut-crystal glasses, so that they could hardly refuse the proffered drinks.

Kincaid thanked him and took a tentative sip, then breathed an inward sigh of relief as the fine amontillado rolled over his tongue. At least he’d be spared having to tip his glass into a convenient aspidistra. “Mr. Bainbridge, we’d like to ask you a few—”

“I must say you took your time. I told your constable yesterday to send someone in charge. But do sit down.” Bainbridge gestured towards an ancient brocaded sofa and took the armchair himself. “I quite understand that you are at the mercy of the bureaucracy.”

At a loss, Kincaid glanced at Deveney, who merely gave him a blank look and a slight shake of the head. Kincaid sat down gingerly on the slippery fabric, taking time to adjust his trouser creases and finding a spot on the cluttered side table for his sherry glass. “Mr. Bainbridge,” he said carefully, “why don’t you begin by telling us exactly what you told the constable.”

Bainbridge sat back in his chair, his gratified smile pulling at his already too-tight skin until it looked as though it must melt, like wax under a flame. He sipped at his sherry, cleared his throat, then brushed at a speck on his sleeve. It was clear, thought Kincaid, that Percy Bainbridge intended making the most of his moment in the limelight. “I’d had my tea and finished with the washing up,” he began rather anticlimactically. “I was looking forward to settling in for the evening with my beloved Shelley”—pausing, he gave Kincaid a ghastly little wink—“that’s the poet, you understand, Superintendent. I don’t hold with the television, never have. I am a firm believer in improving the mind, and it is a proven fact that one’s intellect declines in direct proportion to the number of hours spent in front of the little black box. But I digress.” He gave an airy wave of his fingers. “It is my habit to take some air in the evening, and that night was no exception.”

Kincaid took advantage of the man’s pause for breath. “Excuse me, Mr. Bainbridge, but are you referring to Wednesday, the evening of Commander Gilbert’s death?”

“Well, of course I am, Superintendent,” Bainbridge answered, his humor obviously ruffled. “Whatever else would I be referring to?” He took a restorative sip of his sherry. “Now, as I was telling you, although the night was quite foggy and close, I stepped outside as usual. I had gone as far as the pub when I saw a shadowy figure slipping up the lane.” His eyes darted from Kincaid to Deveney, anticipating their reaction.

“What sort of figure, Mr. Bainbridge?” Kincaid asked matter-of-factly. “Was it male or female?”

“I really am unable to say, Superintendent. All I can tell you is that it appeared to be moving furtively, slipping from one pool of shadow to the next, and I am unwilling to embellish my account for the sake of drama.”

Deveney sat forwards, his notebook open. “Size? Height?”

Bainbridge shook his head.

“What about hair and clothing, Mr. Bainbridge?” tried Kincaid. “You may have noticed more than you realize. Think back—did any part of the figure reflect light?”

Bainbridge thought for a moment, then said with less assurance than he had displayed so far, “I thought I saw the pale blur of a face, but that’s all. Everything else was dark.”

“And where exactly was the figure in the lane?”

“Just beyond the Gilberts’ house, moving up the lane towards the Women’s Institute,” answered Bainbridge with more confidence.

“What time was this?” Deveney asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Bainbridge’s thin lips made a regretful little moue.

“Can’t?” Kincaid said on a note of disbelief.

“I retired my watch when they retired me, Superintendent.” He tittered. “I lived my life a slave to the clock and the bell—I thought it time I had my freedom from such constraints. Oh, there is a clock in the kitchen, but unless I should have an appointment I don’t pay it much attention.”

“Do you think you could make an estimate as to the time on Wednesday evening, Mr. Bainbridge?” Kincaid asked with forced patience.

“I can tell you that it wasn’t too long afterwards that the first of the panda cars arrived at the Gilberts’. Half an hour, perhaps.” Having conveniently placed the sherry decanter within arm’s reach, Bainbridge wrapped his long fingers around its neck. “Care for some more sherry, Superintendent? Chief Inspector? No? Well, you won’t mind if I do?” He poured himself a generous measure and drank. “I’ve become quite a connoisseur since my retirement, if I say so myself. I’ve even put some bottle racks into the pantry—had young Geoffrey in to help me—as the cottage doesn’t have a cellar, of course.”

Kincaid felt the prickle of sweat under his arms and between his shoulder blades. The heat of the room had combined with the flush from the sherry to make him a bit queasy, and he felt an unexpected surge of claustrophobia. “Mr. Bainbridge,” he began, wanting to finish the interview as quickly as possible, “we want to ask you a few questions about the thefts you reported in—”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got on to this burglar business, as well? No, no, no, I tell you. It’s absolute twaddle.” Pink splotches appeared on Percy Bainbridge’s cheeks, and the knuckles wrapped around the stem of his sherry glass turned white. “I heard them last night in the pub, the fools. You don’t really think some stranger appeared in the village and just happened to bash the commander in the head, do you, Superintendent?”

“I’ll agree it’s not very likely, Mr. Bainbridge, but we have to follow—”

“I’d look a bit closer to home if I were you. Oh, she’s a cool one, is Claire Gilbert, I grant you that. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But I can tell you”—he leaned towards them and put his finger beside his nose—“that our Mrs. Gilbert is no better than she should be. If I were you, I’d have a look at what she gets up to with that partner of hers, and I said as much to Commander Gilbert not too long ago.”

“Did you now?” said Kincaid, forgetting his discomfort. “And how did the commander receive your advice?”

Bainbridge sat back a bit and smoothed the fringe of hair behind his ear. “Oh, he was very appreciative, man to man, you know.”

Kincaid leaned forwards and dropped his voice, as if inviting a confidence. “I didn’t realize you were on such friendly terms with Alastair Gilbert. Got on together well, did you?”

“Oh, my, yes,” said Bainbridge, beaming. “I think the commander was much misunderstood by the hoi polloi of the village, Superintendent. He was a man of purpose, of direction, a man who counted in life. And I think he recognized a kindred soul when he met one.” One eyelid drooped in what might have been a wink, and Bainbridge finished off his sherry in one swallow.

“Did the commander ask you to substantiate your allegations about his wife?” Kincaid asked a bit more sharply.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t like that at all.” Bainbridge shook his head in aggrieved agitation. “I merely expressed my concern that his wife should be spending so much time alone with a man like that. Well, I ask you, what can they be doing all day? It’s not as if it were a real job, is it, Superintendent?” His enunciation became more absurdly precise as he compensated for the slurring effect of the sherry.

“And what did you do before you retired, Mr. Bainbridge?” asked Kincaid. He tried to visualize the man as a navvy and failed miserably.

“I was a teacher, sir, a molder of young minds and morals. At one of the best schools—you would recognize the name if I told you, but I don’t like to make much of myself.” He simpered and smoothed the lank fringe of hair again.

Kincaid let a note of severity creep into his voice. “Tell me, Mr. Bainbridge, could the shadowy figure you saw have been Malcolm Reid, Claire Gilbert’s partner? Think very carefully, now.”

The color drained from Bainbridge’s cheeks, leaving them more pinched than before. “Well, I… that is … I never meant to imply … As I told you, Superintendent, the figure was very vague, very elusive, and I couldn’t swear to anything at all.”

Exchanging glances with Deveney, Kincaid gave him a slight nod.

“Mr. Bainbridge,” said Deveney, “if you’ll just answer a few more questions, we won’t take up any more of your time. What exactly went missing from your cottage last month?”

Bainbridge looked from one to the other as if to protest, then sighed. “Well, if you must drag all that up again. Two silver picture frames with inscribed photos of some of my boys. A money clip. A gold pen.”

“Was there money in the clip?” asked Kincaid.

“That was the odd thing, Superintendent. He didn’t take the money. I found the bills lying neatly folded, just where the clip had been.”

“Nothing more valuable than that?” said Deveney with obvious exasperation.

Affronted, Bainbridge puffed out his thin chest. “They were valuable to me, Chief Inspector. Treasured keepsakes, mementos of the years devoted to my charges …” Reaching for the decanter, he refilled his glass, this time not bothering to offer them any. Kincaid judged that Mr. Percy Bainbridge had reached the maudlin stage and that no further useful information would be forthcoming.

“Thank you, Mr. Bainbridge. You’ve been very helpful,” he said, and Deveney stood up so fast he bumped the coffee table with his knees.

They hastily said their good-byes, and when they reached the end of the cottage walk, Deveney wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. “What a dreadful little man.”

“Undoubtedly,” answered Kincaid as they walked to the car. “But how reliable a witness is he? Why didn’t your constable report his ‘shadowy figure’ story? And could there be anything to this business about Claire Gilbert and Malcolm Reid?”

“Proximity’s made for stranger bedfellows, I dare say.”

“I suppose so,” said Kincaid, glad that the twilight hid the flush creeping up his neck.

They walked on to the car in silence, and when they’d shut themselves into the still-warm interior, Deveney stretched and said, “What now, guv? I could use a real drink after that.”

For a moment Kincaid gazed into the deepening dusk, then said, “I think you should give Madeleine Wade a call, ask her if Geoff Genovase has done any odd jobs for her. I’m beginning to get an idea about our village brownie.

“And feel out the village on the subject of Mr. Percy Bainbridge—the pub ought to do nicely for that. I’d like to know if he has a reputation for moonshine and how chummy he really was with Alastair Gilbert. Somehow I can’t quite picture that alliance. As for Malcolm Reid and his relationship with Claire Gilbert, we may have more success if we talk to him at the shop again tomorrow, rather than at home.”

“Right.” Deveney glanced at his watch. “I should think the evening regulars would be drifting into the Moon about this time. Will you be coming along with me, then?”

“Me?” Kincaid answered absently. “No, not tonight, Nick. I’m going to London.”

“All in order,” read the note the major had left on the kitchen table. “Will maintain routine unless notified otherwise.” Kincaid smiled and picked up Sid, who was rubbing frenziedly about his ankles and purring at a volume that threatened to vibrate the pictures off the walls. “You’ve been well looked after, I see,” he said, scratching the cat under his pointed black chin.

In the months since his friend Jasmine had died and he’d taken in her orphaned cat, he and his solitary neighbor, Major Keith, had formed an unlikely but useful partnership. Useful for Kincaid, as it allowed him to be away without worrying about Sid—useful for the major in that it gave him an excuse for contact with another human being that he would not otherwise have sought. Kincaid theorized that it also allowed Harley Keith to maintain a secret and unacknowledged relationship with the cat, a tangible evocation of Jasmine’s memory.

Putting Sid down with a last pat, he turned out the lamp and went to stand on his balcony. In the dim light he could see the red leaves on the major’s prunus tree hanging limp as banners on a still day, and pale splotches in the garden beds that would be the last of the yellow chrysanthemums. Suddenly he felt bereft, his grief as fresh and raw as it had been in the first weeks after Jasmine’s death, but he knew it would pass. A new family occupied the flat below his now, with two small children who were only allowed to use the garden under the major’s strictest supervision.

The cold crept into his bones as he stood a moment longer, irresolute. He had phoned Gemma from Guildford train station, then again from Waterloo, listening to the repeated rings until long after he’d given up hope of an answer. He hadn’t admitted how much he’d hoped he might talk to her, perhaps even see her, hoped that in the course of going over the day’s notes he might somehow begin to right whatever had gone wrong between them.