Mourn Not Your Dead (25 page)

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.”