Mourn Not Your Dead

CHAPTER

11

Kincaid saw Gemma into the car with Will Darling, then watched as they sped away around the green. She looked back, once, but by the time he’d lifted his hand to wave to her, she had turned away. A moment later the car disappeared from sight.

He crossed the road and stood for a moment at the end of the walk leading to the pub, collecting himself for the task ahead. Deveney had been called out to a shop burglary in Guildford, which left Kincaid on his own to question Brian Genovase. But perhaps he could turn that to his advantage by making the interview as informal as possible.

The wind had risen from the west, shivering the leaves of the old oak, and the pub sign creaked on its hinges as it swung. Looking up at the lovers silhouetted against the moon, Kincaid thought that the image was perhaps more apt than they’d realized.

He found Brian alone, preparing for Sunday lunch. “Roast beef and Yorkshire pud,” said Brian by way of greeting. He finished lettering the chalkboard with a flourish. “We always do Sundays properly. You’ll do well to get a table early.” His words were friendly enough, but as he spoke he gave Kincaid a wary glance.

“I’ll keep that in mind, but first I’d like a word with you before you get too busy” Kincaid slid onto a bar stool.

Brian stopped in the midst of setting up a rack of clean glassware. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I appreciate what you did for my lad last night. You were decent to him, which can’t be said of the last lot. But I don’t know what else I can tell you. Geoff’s been round to the folk in the village already this morning, told them he’d work free in order to make some reparation for what he did. And first thing tomorrow we’ll get him started again in counseling. It seems this is going to be a long process. I should have—”

“Brian.” Kincaid cut him off. “This isn’t about Geoff.”

Brian stared at him blankly. “Not about—”

“I’m afraid we never quite finished our official inquiries. Can you tell me what you were doing on Wednesday evening, between about six o’clock and half past seven?

“Me?” Brian’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “But… I suppose you have to ask everyone?”

“You’d just got lucky up to now,” Kincaid said with a smile. “Were you here?”

“Course I was bloody here. Where else would I be?”

“By yourself?”

Shaking his head, Brian said, “John was on the bar, and Meghan was here, the girl that helps out in the kitchen. It was a busy night for middle of the week.”

“Did you leave at any time, even for a few minutes?” asked Kincaid. “Think carefully now. It’s important to be accurate with these things.”

Brian frowned and rubbed his chin. “There’s only one thing I remember,” he said after a moment. “Somewhere between about half-six and seven I went to the storeroom and broke out a new case of lemonade. I can’t have been away from the bar much more than five minutes.”

“Can you reach the storeroom from inside the pub?”

“No. You have to go the long way round, through the car park.” Then Brian added, with the air of sharing a confidence, “Bloody miserable when it’s raining, I can tell you.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual, however small?”

“Only the mice. We lost our mouser a few months back. It’s time we found a new puss. Usually they come to us, but not a one’s turned up so far. Maybe the word hasn’t gone round that the position’s vacant.” Brian grinned, obviously regaining his equilibrium.

Good, thought Kincaid. Now that he’d got him relaxed and a bit pleased with himself, it was time to hit below the belt. “Brian, I’ve gathered the impression that you and Claire Gilbert are quite good friends.”

Brian took a glass from the tray and slotted it into the rack, almost concealing his momentary hesitation. “No more than most neighbors. We help each other out when needed.” He kept his eyes on his task as he spoke.

“How did her husband feel about that?”

“I don’t know why he should have been bothered one way or the other.” Irritation edged Brian’s voice, but he still hadn’t met Kincaid’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“I think he might have been quite bothered, actually,” Kincaid interrupted. “It seems that Alastair Gilbert was irrationally jealous of his wife. He might have misinterpreted the most innocent of gestures.”

“I hardly knew the man.” Brian’s brows were drawn together in a scowl, and the glasses clinked dangerously as he slid them into position. “He didn’t frequent the pub, and he certainly didn’t consider me his social or professional equal. He called me a bloody shopkeeper once, and him a farmer’s son from Dorking.”

Resting his elbows on the bar, Kincaid leaned close to Brian and said, “You knew him well enough to ask him for help when Geoff got into trouble, and he turned you down flat. You hated him, didn’t you, Brian? No one could say you didn’t have good cause.”

The wineglass in Brian’s hand cracked, the head separating from its stem and falling unscathed to the bar. Blood welled from his thumb and he held it to his mouth for a moment, glaring at Kincaid. “All right, I hated him. What do you want me to say? He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Claire and Lucy. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. He laughed at me when I asked him to help Geoff—treated me like I was some kind of scum. I might have been tempted then, but I didn’t touch him, so why should I have done it now?”

“I’ll give you two good reasons,” Kincaid said. “He found out what Geoff was up to and told you he intended to take action.” I think he would have wanted to gloat over it a bit first, would have enjoyed making you squirm. Gilbert liked playing the petty tyrant, didn’t he, Brian? And you could have shut him up once and for all.”

“But I didn’t—”

“And what if he suspected you were dallying with his wife? Gilbert was not the sort of man to step nobly aside, was he? I think he’d have been determined to make your life as miserable as possible, no matter the cost.”

“But he didn’t—”

The kitchen door swung open. Through it came a thin girl enveloped in a white chef’s apron several sizes too large for her. “Could you give me a hand with the veg, Bri?” she asked, then, as she took in Kincaid and the tense atmosphere, “Oh, sorry.” The smell of roasting beef reached Kincaid’s nose, and he swallowed involuntarily.

“I’ll be right there, Meghan.” Brian gave her a quick smile and turned back to Kincaid as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Look, Superintendent, this is all nonsense. You can’t seriously—”

The front door opened and a group dressed in Sunday best came in, laughing and calling greetings to Brian. Kincaid met Brian’s eyes and smiled. “I’d better get that table, hadn’t I?” He knew when to beat a graceful retreat.

* * *

Kincaid found himself once again outside the Moon, but this time he was stuffed to the popping point with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Although the state of his stomach made him long for nothing more taxing than a nap, he felt restless and unsettled as he contemplated the afternoon stretching before him.

He’d reached the point in this case where he hadn’t an idea what to do next, but he knew that his mounting frustration was counterproductive.

What he needed was a walk. It would help clear his mind, as well as lessen the impact of his Sunday lunch. Having been informed of several promising routes by some of the regulars in the bar, he changed into the trainers and lightweight anorak he kept in his overnight bag.

The westerly wind had brought clouds with it, but Kincaid judged the weather not seriously threatening. He chose the way that led through the village and up the hill, past Madeleine Wade’s closed shop. Soon the track left the paved road and he climbed steeply, passing the silent cricket pitch, following the signposts designating the Greensand Way, as he’d been instructed. Winded, he reached a large level clearing, the junction of many paths running through the Hurtwood. A good metaphor, he thought, for the many avenues this case seemed to be taking, but he’d be damned if he could see how they all came together.

He took the Greensand Way, walking easily at first on the sandy path, studying his surroundings. An evocative name, Hurtwood, bringing to mind images of injured trees, but one of his garrulous lunchtime friends had informed him that the name came from the old word for bilberries. He wondered if the thickets of brambly plants he saw were indeed hurtberries.

One usually thought of autumn as crisp, but this wood was a soft symphony in greens and browns. The heather lining the path had dried to a crumbly brown, yellow and brown leaves carpeted the path under his feet, and the bracken had dried to the color of new pennies. He shied away from the comparison with Gemma’s hair that came to mind and picked up his pace a bit.

Soon the path narrowed, and the ground dropped away on his left; through the gaps in the trees he could see all the way across the Surrey Weald to the South Downs. He made a deliberate effort to stop his mind circling, and for the next half hour he just walked, climbing more and more often as the path become steeper.

Rounding a bend, he came to a halt, balancing on his toes from the abrupt change in momentum. A giant splay of tree roots grew out of the hillside, blocking the path. Surely this was not still the Greensand Way. He must have missed a signpost somewhere. Suddenly aware that he had neither map or compass, he decided that retracing his steps would be the wisest course, but first he picked a dry spot on one of the roots and sat down for a moment’s breather.

As his breathing slowed, the quiet closed in, broken only by birdsong and the occasional rumble of a jet taking off from Gatwick. No sound reached the forest floor from the gently swaying treetops, but when a leaf drifted down from a branch above his head, he could have sworn he heard it rustle as it touched the ground.

Kincaid ran his fingers over the lichens on a gnarled stick, wondering if Alastair Gilbert had ever taken time to feel the texture of bark or listen to the leaves fall. Strict agendas for professional and social success usually didn’t leave much room for contemplation.

He’d tried hard not to let his personal feelings about the man cloud his view of the case, but perhaps he’d have been better off starting with his own judgment. That was the key, after all—what kind of man Gilbert had been and what consequences had unfolded from his actions. For he had no doubt that Gilbert’s murder had been committed by someone who knew him, had in fact never given the intruder theory more than a cursory consideration.

What had Brian Genovase been about to say when Meghan opened the door? Had Gilbert not suspected Brian of having an affair with his wife? Thinking about it, Kincaid felt fairly certain that Valerie Reid had steered them in the right direction, whatever her motives. Brian had never asked him the obvious question of an innocent man wronged by gossip—Who the hell told you that?

But if Brian and Claire were lovers, and Brian had killed Gilbert in a confrontation, why had he been so worried about Lucy and Claire? Shaking his head, Kincaid crumbled bits of bark off the stick with his fingers. Could Brian have murdered Gilbert in the few minutes he’d been away from the bar and disposed of the murder weapon? The lads had searched the premises thoroughly, looking for Claire Gilbert’s missing earrings, and hadn’t turned up anything that fit Kate Ling’s description of the instrument.

It seemed to Kincaid that this was exactly the scenario they’d constructed for Geoff. Only if the crime had been premeditated and carefully planned could either Geoff or Brian have pulled it off, and he felt sure that Gilbert’s murder had been committed in a moment of rage. It had been a passionate crime. A crime of passion, in fact.

That left Malcolm Reid. If one assumed that Valerie was covering up for him, then Reid would have had the time to commit the murder and the leisure to dispose of the weapon and anything else incriminating. But since Reid seemed to have been open with his wife about Gilbert’s accusations, what had he to gain by killing him? And besides, Kincaid, like Gemma, had difficulty seeing either of the Reids as consummate liars.

He’d stripped his little stick down to the bare, smooth wood, but he felt no nearer to uncovering the truth. Tucking the stick in the pocket of his anorak, he stood up and brushed off the seat of his trousers as he started back down the path. The only thing for it was to intensify the search of the paper trail, go back over every bit of information once again.

It was then, having explored all the apparent options, that the thought came to him. And as little as he liked it, he knew he’d have to follow it through.

When he came again to the junction of paths in the clearing, he chose the right fork, hoping it would bring him down at the other side of the village. A few minutes walk proved him right, as the gentle descent brought him out into the clearing at the top of the Gilberts’ lane. Before him lay the village hall, still ornamented with the colored lights left over from Guy Fawkes night. The announcer’s wooden platform remained as well, but the bonfire’s ashes were long cold. The wind brought the dank scent to him, and he gave the scorched grass a wide skirting.

With resignation he returned to the pub kitchen and questioned John and Meghan about Brian’s movements on Wednesday evening. He didn’t expect them to contradict Brian’s story, but procedure must be observed.

Meghan, wiping her sweaty face with the tail of her apron, declared that Brian couldn’t have been away from the bar for more than three or four minutes, and had come back, whistling, with a case of lemonade. John said that, frankly, it had been a bugger of a night, and he hadn’t noticed Brian’s absence at all.

Kincaid thanked them, and as the sun had by that time definitely disappeared over the yardarm, wandered into the bar and ordered a pint of Flowers bitter. He carried his drink to the nook by the fire and sat quietly, watching the evening customers trickle in. Brian ignored him quite successfully, while John, a rangy, graying man who wore waistcoats with his jeans and boots, gave him an occasional, curious glance.

The warmth from the fire’s embers felt good, and he stretched his legs out beneath the table, enjoying the pleasant tiredness that results from physical exercise. Looking about him, he wished suddenly that he were here on holiday, that he could enjoy this village and its inhabitants, without ulterior motive, and that he might be accepted simply as himself.

Smiling at the futility of his desire, he thought he might just as well wish for a case in which the victim had been a saint, and he disliked all the suspects equally. Things would be so much simpler, but in his experience, saints seldom got themselves murdered.

Through the bodies clustered at the bar, he caught an unexpected glimpse of Lucy. She must have come in the back way or down from upstairs, as he couldn’t have missed her if she’d come in the front door. She was speaking to someone, and as the crowd shifted he saw that it was Geoff.

In jeans and a flannel shirt several sizes too large, she looked innocently childlike, but as Kincaid watched she moved a step closer to Geoff, putting her hand on his waist in a gesture both provocative and possessive. Geoff smiled down at her, but did not return the touch, then at a summons from Brian they both disappeared into the kitchen.

Kincaid finished his drink in undisturbed solitude and slipped out the door, his departure apparently unremarked. He left his car parked against the green and walked through the dark village, retracing the beginning of his afternoon walk.

Madeleine Wade’s steps were still unlit, but this time he climbed with some familiarity. When she opened the door to his knock, he smiled and said, “You can compare me to a bad penny if you like.”

“I’d already opened the wine and set a place for you.” She stepped aside to allow him in, and he saw that she had opened up the small gateleg table that stood next to the settee and pulled up the two rush-seated chairs. The table was indeed set with plates, cutlery, and wineglasses for two.

He took a slow step forwards, aware of the hair prickling at the back of his neck. “Sometimes you quite frighten me, Madeleine. Are you dabbling now in foretelling the future?”

She shrugged. “Not really. I just had an odd feeling tonight and decided to risk making a fool of myself. After all, if I were wrong, no one would ever know but me, and you have to admit it’s a rather effective parlor trick.” In a voice rich with amusement, she added, “I could say the same of you, you know.”

“I frighten you?” he asked, surprised.

“Sometimes I feel a bit like a mouse fascinated by a snake—it’s such fun, but I never know when you’re going to pounce. Come sit down and I’ll pour the wine. It’s had long enough to breathe.”

“I promise I didn’t come with pouncing in mind,” he said as he took the place she indicated at the table. “And as long as we’re being so honest, I must say that I haven’t quite got used to the feeling of being an open book, and I’m not all that sure that I like it.” This time the music playing in the background was classical—Mozart, he thought, a violin concerto—and the candles burned on windowsill and table.

“You’re coping admirably,” she said as she carried in a tray from the kitchen. She set a platter on the table, then filled his wineglass before seating herself.

Kincaid whistled as he read the bottle’s label. “You didn’t find this at Sainsbury’s.” The platter looked an equal treat—cheeses, smoked salmon, fresh fruit, and biscuits. “You’ll spoil me,” he said, sniffing the wine before taking his first sip.

“Oh, I don’t think there’s much chance of that.” Madeleine watched the deep purple-red stream of wine as she filled her glass. “You won’t be around long enough to spoil. You’ll bring this case to a conclusion—I have no doubt.” She met his eyes. “Then you’ll go back to whatever life you lead when you’re not working, and you’ll forget all about Holmbury St. Mary.”

For a moment Kincaid fancied he heard a trace of regret beneath the amusement in her voice. “I’m not sure I have a life when I’m not working,” he said as he positioned a slice of salmon on a biscuit. “That’s the problem.”

“But that’s your choice, surely.”

Kincaid shrugged. “So I thought. It seemed enough for a long time. In fact, after my wife and I split up, anything seemed preferable to going through that sort of emotional turmoil again.”

“So what happened to change things?” Madeleine asked as she spread a crumbly white cheese on a biscuit. “You should try this one. It’s white Stilton with ginger.”

“I don’t know.” Kincaid polished off his salmon while he considered her question. “Last spring I lost a friend and neighbor. I suppose it was only when I couldn’t seem to fill the hole she left that I realized I was lonely.” He felt astonished even as he spoke. These were things he hadn’t really articulated to himself, much less shared with anyone else.

“Sometimes grief takes us by surprise.” Madeleine lifted her glass and held it in both hands, tilting it gently. Tonight she wore tunic and trousers in olive-green silk, and the wine looked blood dark against the earthy green. Kincaid heard the experience in her voice, but he didn’t ask what loss she’d suffered.

When he’d sampled the Stilton, he said, “Do you suppose Claire Gilbert will grieve for her husband?”

Madeleine thought for a moment. “I think that Claire did her grieving for Alastair Gilbert a long time ago, when she discovered that he was not what she’d thought.” Behind her, the farmyard animals seemed to cavort across the curtains in the flickering light. “And I don’t think she ever stopped grieving for Stephen. She hadn’t time to do it properly when she married Alastair, but we often make choices out of necessity that we later regret.”

“And have you?”

“More times than I can count.” Madeleine smiled. “But never because the wolf was at my door, like Claire. I’ve been financially fortunate. My family was comfortably off, then I went straight from college into a well-paid job.” With a delicate twist of the stem, she picked a grape from its cluster.

“What about you, Mr. Kincaid? Have you made decisions you’ve regretted?”

“Out of the necessity of the moment,” he said softly, echoing her earlier words. Had she sensed what was on his mind and led him to this, all unsuspecting? “I’d say this was odd, except I’m beginning to think that nothing concerning you is quite … ordinary. Yes, I made that sort of decision once, and it concerned Alastair Gilbert.”

“Gilbert?” Madeleine spluttered, choking on her wine.

“It was years ago—probably quite near the time that Gilbert met Claire. I was taking a development course, just after I’d been promoted to inspector, and he was the instructor.” Kincaid stopped and drank some wine, wondering why he had got himself into this tale and why he felt compelled to continue. “We had the weekend at home in the middle of a two-week course. That Sunday evening, just as I was about to leave for Hampshire again, my wife told me that she desperately needed to talk.” Pausing, he rubbed his cheek. “You have to understand that this was very out of the ordinary for Vic—she wasn’t a tempest-in-the-teapot type at all. I rang Gilbert, told him I had a family emergency, asked for a little leeway in returning. He told me he’d see me thrown out of the course.” He drank again, swallowing the bitterness that rose in his throat.

“I think he’d already taken a dislike to me because I hadn’t sucked up to him, and I wasn’t experienced enough then to know that the threat was mostly hot air.”

“So you went?” Madeleine prompted when he paused again.

Kincaid nodded. “And when I came home she was gone. Of course, I’ve enough perspective now to realize that it wouldn’t have made any difference in the long term. She wanted me to choose her over the job, and if I’d stayed with her on that Sunday, she’d have picked another occasion for the same test—when I had an important case, perhaps.

“But for a long time I needed someone to blame, and Alastair Gilbert provided a very convenient scapegoat.” He smiled crookedly and began spreading cheese on a biscuit.

Madeleine refilled his glass. “It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that others besides you and the Genovases will have had scores to settle with Gilbert. How do you know where to start?”

“We don’t. The man was like a bloody virus—he infected everything he touched. How could we possibly trace every contact he ever made?”

“I can sense your frustration rising,” Madeleine said, smiling. “And that wasn’t my intent.”

“Sorry.” Studying her as she concentrated on arranging slivers of salmon on a biscuit, he found himself intensely curious about this woman, but he hesitated to test her boundaries. After a moment, he said carefully, “Madeleine, are you ever really comfortable with anyone?”

“There have been a very few exceptions.” She sighed. “The needy are the worst, I think, those that cry out constantly for attention, for affirmation of their right to exist. They are even more disturbing than the angry.”

“Is that what Geoff is like?”

Shaking her head, she said, “No. Geoff isn’t a sucker—that’s how I think of them—or if he is, he only takes his security from a select few. His father, and perhaps Lucy.”

Kincaid thought of the scene he’d witnessed in the bar. “Madeleine, how do you think early emotional, and probably sexual, abuse would affect a young man’s responses to sex?”

“I’m no psychologist.” She bit into a slice of green apple.

“But you’re probably more perceptive than most.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

“If you’re talking about Geoff, and considering his history I assume you are, I’d say there are two likely avenues. He might become an abuser himself. Or …” She gazed into space, frowning, as she thought. “He might associate sex with failure and abandonment.”

“So that he’d never take that risk with someone he cared about?”

“I wouldn’t take my word for it. That’s pure amateur speculation.” Pushing her plate away, she sat back and cradled her wineglass.

“Tell me more about what you do in your professional capacity, then,” Kincaid said, still nibbling. “Do you treat injuries with massage therapy?”

“Sometimes. It’s not just a relaxation technique—it stimulates the body’s lymphatic system to function more efficiently, and that speeds up toxin disposal and healing.” Madeleine spoke directly, almost earnestly, and without what he was beginning to recognize as her self-protective veneer of amusement.

“I’ll take your word for it. I hope you’ll be around if I should ever need your ministrations. You must have been a godsend to Claire when she had that bad break.” He tossed it in casually, hoping Madeleine wouldn’t read the stab of guilt he felt at this betrayal of their mutual trust.

“The collarbone gave her hell. It’s surprising how much trouble a silly thing like a clavicle can be.” She smiled easily at him.

As much as it went against his inclination, he let it slide. There were other sources of information, and pursuing it now wasn’t worth the loss of Madeleine’s confidence. “I broke mine when I was kid. Fell off a chair, of all things, but I don’t remember it. My mum says I was a right little pain in the bum about it—wouldn’t keep my sling on.”

They talked on, refilling their glasses as Madeleine opened a second bottle of wine, and he told her things about his childhood in Cheshire that he hadn’t remembered in years. “I was lucky,” he said at last. “I had loving parents, a safe and stable environment filled with the love of learning for its own sake. I see so much—so many kids never have a chance. And I don’t know if I could give a child what my parents gave me. This job’s not conducive to family life … ask my ex-wife.”

He tried on a grin and glanced at his watch. “Bloody hell. Where did the time go?”

“Would you make the same choice again, between a relationship and your job?”

Pausing with his glass halfway to his mouth, he stared at her.

“There is someone, isn’t there?” Madeleine asked, and her green eyes held him like a vise.

He put his glass down, the wine untasted. “Was. I thought there was. But she changed her mind.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“You know,” he said with certainty.

“Say it anyway.”

He looked away. “Pissed as hell. Betrayed.” His mouth had gone dry from the wine, and he rubbed a hand across it. “It was so good—we were so good together. How could she slam the door in my face?” He shook his head and stood a bit unsteadily. “I think I’d better go before I get maudlin on you. And I think I’m well over the limit. It’s not gone closing time quite yet—hopefully Brian will take pity and put a poor copper up for the night.”

He raised the dregs of wine in his glass to her. “You are a witch, Madeleine. You’ve bewitched me into crying on your shoulder, and I can’t remember when I’ve inflicted that on anyone—and you’re still as enigmatic as the bloody Cheshire Cat.”

Madeleine saw him to the door, and just before closing it she reached up and touched his cheek. Using his name for the first time, she said, “Duncan. Everything will sort itself out. Be patient.”

The light narrowed to a slit, disappearing with a click as the door shut, and Kincaid found himself alone in the dark.

Brian gave him a bed with good grace, and as Kincaid carried his bag up and undressed it came to him that he hadn’t answered Madeleine’s question. What if Gemma were to change her mind—would he make the same choice he’d made with Vic? Was he capable of putting anything before his job? Would he be willing to risk hurting her, and himself?

He fell quickly into the heavy but unrestful sleep brought about by the consumption of too much alcohol. His dreams were strange and disjointed, and when his pager started its strident beeping in the wee hours of the morning, he woke with pounding heart and a mouth like sandpaper.

He fumbled for the pager’s off switch, then squinted blearily at the LED readout. Swearing under his breath, he sat up and turned on the light. What on earth could Scotland Yard want with him this time of the night? Any call concerning a breakthrough on the Gilbert case would have come from Guildford. And what had prompted him to drink so much? He was not ordinarily given to such excess. Madeleine, he thought with a wan smile, must have a wooden leg. He retrieved his jacket from the chair back and patted the pockets for his phone, then realized he must have left it in the car. Bloody hell.

In dressing gown and slippers he made his way down the stairs to the phone in the alcove next to the bar. When the switchboard put him through to the duty sergeant at the Yard, he listened in growing dismay. When the sergeant had finished, Kincaid said, “No, don’t. I’ll take care of it myself. Right.”

Hanging up, he stood for a moment numb with shock, then made an effort to pull himself together. He looked at his watch. If he drove like all hell was after him, he could make it to London by daylight.