Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  As she sat on the chintz-covered chair Hammond indicated, a glimpse into the adjoining room made Gemma catch her breath. “Oh, how lovely,” she said, rising and going to the doorway for a better look. A model ship stood on a dining table, its slender masts a delicate sculpture, its hull gleaming like satin. “Is it the Cutty Sark?”

  Hammond smiled. “No, this is the Sir Lancelot. She made the China-to-London crossing in a record eighty-eight days.”

  “She’s exquisite,” Kincaid said, joining them. “I remember attempting something from a kit when I was a boy, but this—” He touched the curving hull. “This is a work of art.” Looking round the room at the other ships gracing the shelves, he asked, “How do you model them? I understood that the Cutty Sark was the only clipper of its class left in existence.”

  “It takes a good deal of research,” Hammond admitted. “I use written accounts as well as paintings, sometimes with a dash of artistic license thrown in.”

  “It must take amazing patience.” Gemma imagined the hours needed to complete the painstaking detail. She thought of her own aborted attempts at simple hobbies like knitting and needlework, and wondered again at her foolish determination to play the piano.

  “What began as a childhood interest has become a bit of an obsession the past few years, I’m afraid. But since my wife died it’s helped fill the hours, and now …” William Hammond gazed at the model, lost for a moment in a private contemplation, then he seemed to shake himself and return to them. “I’m sorry. And I’ve forgotten my manners. Let me get you something to drink—some tea, perhaps?”

  Merely the thought of a hot drink made beads of perspiration appear on Gemma’s upper lip. “No thank you,” she said quickly. “This won’t take a moment.” At a small nod from Kincaid, she continued, “It’s about your childhood, oddly enough, Mr. Hammond. We understand from your daughter that you were evacuated during the war.”

  They had returned to the sitting room, and Hammond sat down slowly on the sofa, his expression puzzled. “Yes, that’s true, but why on earth should you be interested in that?”

  “You were sent to your godmother’s, in Surrey?”

  “Just northeast of Guildford. A place called Friday Green. My godmother had a large estate there. But what—”

  “I know the village,” Kincaid said, smiling. “There’s a nice pub—probably goes back that far. It’s a lovely area. Paradise for a boy, I should think. Did you spend the whole of the war?”

  “I … yes, I did, as a matter of fact. My mother was convinced we would be bombed here. As it turned out, we were very fortunate, and Hammond’s suffered only minor damage.”

  “And it was during your evacuation that you came to know Lewis Finch?”

  “Lewis Finch?” Hammond stared at Gemma blankly.

  “I understand he’s quite a prominent developer in the East End these days, known for his commitment to restoration.”

  “I—it’s been a great many years but, yes, he was a fellow evacuee.” He shook his head. “But what has this to do with my daughter’s death?”

  “Bear with me a moment, Mr. Hammond. According to Jo, you warned her and Annabelle not to have anything to do with Lewis Finch or his family.”

  “That’s nonsense,” he replied impatiently. “We simply don’t move in the same social circles.”

  “Jo seemed to feel there was some sort of feud between you, and that it had to do with the war,” pressed Gemma.

  “A feud?” Hammond sounded surprised. “I can’t imagine where Jo could have got such a melodramatic idea.” With a slight frown, he added, “I might have said that I felt Lewis took advantage of his stay in my godmother’s house to better himself, without giving credit where it was due, but I would certainly not consider that a feud.”

  “And you don’t know Lewis Finch’s son, Gordon?”

  “His son? Why should I?” He seemed even more perplexed, and Gemma could see that he was tiring.

  Wondering how much she should reveal, she glanced at Kincaid, but he merely gave her a minute shrug. Turning back to Hammond, she said carefully, “Sir, Annabelle seems to have been well-acquainted with both Lewis and Gordon Finch. In fact, she had been having an affair with Gordon for some months—and he may have been the last person to see her alive.”

  William Hammond stared at her, then drew himself up in his chair until his spine was ramrod straight. “There must be some mistake,” he said crisply. “Annabelle would never have associated with Lewis Finch or his son. Nor would she have betrayed Reginald’s trust.” He turned to Kincaid. “I find it distressing, Superintendent, that you are wasting valuable time pursuing such lines of inquiry while my daughter’s killer goes free.”

  A S THE AUTUMN WORE ON, THE threat of bombings receded, and very little disturbed the golden, waning days in the countryside.

  The war seemed very far away in Europe, and Lewis soon grew comfortably familiar with the household, for although he kept his room above the stable, Edwina gave him free run of the house. He and William both bathed in the large second-floor bathroom, and when Edwina did not have guests from London, the boys ate with her in the dining room.

  Lewis still suffered the occasional pang of homesickness, but a Green coach was organized to bring the evacuees’ parents down to visit every few weeks. In the meantime, there were apples to be picked, jams and pies to be made, woods and quarries and the old Roman forts on the Downs to be explored, and most exciting of all, preparations for Guy Fawkes, for their village had the biggest bonfire in the county.

  Lewis did not see William Hammond at school, however, because while the children from the Island had been integrated as well as possible into the village school, William’s parents had arranged a tutor to live at the Hall. This privilege Lewis did not envy in the least.

  On a bright Saturday morning in late October, William appeared in the barn as Lewis was finishing up with the horses. He wore a heavy, cable-knit cardigan and shorts with multiple pockets and carried a rucksack, plus a large, carved staff.

  Peering round Zeus’s head, Lewis (who had long since lost his shyness with William) snickered. “What is that getup?”

  “It’s proper walking gear,” answered William. “My mum and dad sent it for my birthday. I’m going to climb Leith Hill. They say from the Tower you can see thirteen counties.”

  “You look like you mean to climb bloody Everest,” said Lewis, but he was intrigued nonetheless.

  “You can come if you want,” William offered in an offhand manner, then sweetened the invitation with a bribe. “I’ve got sandwiches from Cook. Ham and cheese.”

  Lewis finished spreading fresh straw into Zeus’s stall and hung the fork from its bracket on the stable wall. “I haven’t any gear like that.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can use this stick if you want. I’ll get another from the gun room.”

  Brushing his palm against his trousers, Lewis accepted the stick, and hefting it in his hand, he suddenly saw himself striding over tall peaks. “All right, then, I’ll come.”

  They were soon ambling down the road towards the village, sandwiches and thermos of tea secured in William’s rucksack. From one of the large pockets in his shorts, William extricated a folded paper. “It’s Aunt Edwina’s Ordnance Survey map,” he said as he smoothed out the creases. “Look. We can go by way of Coldharbour and come back through Holmbury, or vice versa. The climb is steeper the Holmbury way.”

  Lewis studied the map, not liking to admit he’d never seen one before and didn’t understand the markings. “Coldharbour, I’d say. I want to see the Danes’ Fort.” He’d heard about the old earthworks from some of the boys at school. “There were smugglers round these parts, too,” he added, glancing at William to judge the effect of this tidbit.

  “I never heard that,” William said with some skepticism.

  “Even John says so.” Lewis knew that would settle the matter, for they’d discovered that John Pebbles had an intimate and apparently infallible knowledge of th
e area. They walked on, pointing out spots they thought would have made good smugglers’ hides.

  They followed the course of the Tillingbourne for some way, then began a steady ascent that took them into a dark and dense woodland. Lewis, who had not quite got over his claustrophobia under trees, began to fear they were lost, but would’ve died rather than said so.

  As if reassuring himself, William said, “I’m sure this is the right way. I can read the map, and Aunt Edwina said it would seem a long way through the woods.” He moved a bit closer to Lewis on the soft, leaf-covered path.

  Suddenly, with a rustle and a crackling of brush, a deer erupted across the trail a foot in front of them. Lewis saw a flash of dark, startled eyes and white rump as he felt himself falling backwards, then he hit the ground, buttocks first, with a thump that knocked the wind from him.

  William had staggered into the nearest tree and now hung on for dear life. They gaped at each other, wide-eyed, and started to laugh.

  “Crikey, that nearly scared the piss out of me,” said Lewis between gasps as William helped him up. That only made them laugh harder, and they stumbled along, the woods ringing with their whoops, until they had to wipe tears from their eyes.

  As they neared Coldharbour the trees thinned, and they walked in companionable silence broken by the occasional episode of giggles. They spent an hour exploring the banks and ditches of the Iron Age fort, imagining battles that seemed more real to them than the rumors from Europe, and by the time they’d finished the climb to the summit of Leith Hill, they had worked up quite an appetite.

  Having voted to eat their picnic before climbing the Tower, they settled on a stone bench in the sun, facing the distant haze they surmised must be the Channel. His mouth full of ham and cheese, Lewis pointed into the distance. “If the Germans came, you could see them from here.”

  “If they come. My dad says they’re calling it the Phoney War now.” William glanced at Lewis. “Do you want to go home?”

  Lewis washed down his bite of sandwich with some tea while he thought about his answer. Did he want to go home? A month ago he’d have answered “yes” in an instant. Now, he said with a shrug, “Don’t know, really. I miss my mum and dad. Sometimes I even miss my sister. But I like it here, too.” He dug in the paper sack for one of the apples Cook had packed for them. “What about you? Do you want to go home?”

  “Home I wouldn’t mind, but I’d have to go back to school,” William answered with a grimace. “You don’t know what it’s like there,” he added, and glimpsing the expression on William’s usually open face, Lewis didn’t pursue it.

  “What about Mr. Cuddy?” he asked instead. “What’s he like?” The tutor, a thin, bespectacled man about the age of Lewis’s father, had seemed kind enough when Lewis encountered him.

  “He’s all right. Only it gets a bit boring being on my own all day, and the maths are hard. That’s old Cuddy’s field, and I’m not very good at it.”

  “Maybe I could help you sometime,” Lewis offered tentatively. “I like maths. That’s always my best marks at school. Composition’s harder.”

  “I’m better at that. Maybe I’ll write one for Mr. Cuddy about the deer,” William said, grinning, and that set them to laughing again.

  This conversation bore unexpected fruit a few weeks later, when Edwina called Lewis into her sitting room and informed him that she had arranged, with the permission of William’s parents, for him to be tutored along with William. “I’ve written to your parents, and they agree that this is a wonderful opportunity for you. You’re obviously a bright boy, Lewis, and you deserve a better education than the village school can provide.”

  “But I like school … and what about my mates?” Lewis said hesitantly, not wanting to seem rude.

  Edwina lit a cigarette with the silver lighter on the mantelpiece and the air filled with the sharp smell of tobacco smoke. “Warren Cuddy is Oxford-educated and a fine teacher. He can open new worlds for you. Friends come and go, Lewis, but the things you learn will always be yours, to use as you will. You may not realize it now,” she added with a smile, “but from this day on your life will change in ways you cannot begin to imagine.”

  “I’M BEGINNING TO SUSPECT THAT WILLIAM Hammond may have had a convenient blind spot where his daughter was concerned,” Kincaid said as they walked down the hill towards Greenwich center in the intensifying heat of early afternoon.

  “Surely that’s not unusual,” countered Gemma. “Most parents want to think the best of their children—especially if it has to do with sex. On the other hand, Jo Lowell certainly didn’t seem surprised at the suggestion that her sister had cheated on her fiancé.”

  “I wonder where Mortimer fell in that spectrum. Did he think Annabelle beyond reproach? If that was the case and he found out about her affair with Gordon Finch, the shock might have driven him to kill her.”

  “Or if he was suspicious already and suddenly had his fears proved. But that doesn’t explain the row at the dinner party—and we only have Jo’s word about that—or the fact that he left her in the tunnel with Gordon Finch,” argued Gemma. “And the answering machine messages seem to support his story.”

  They had reached Royal Hill and Gemma paused, looking in the window of a cheese shop. In the glass, Kincaid could see the reflection of the police station across the street. “He could easily have killed her, then left messages to give himself an alibi,” he said.

  Gemma walked on, swinging her handbag against the skirt of her cotton dress, leaving behind the temptations of white Stilton with ginger and Shropshire blue. “But you could hear the noise of the pub in the background, so it must have been before closing, and the pathologist says Annabelle died after midnight.”

  “We’re not going to get anywhere with this until we see Mortimer again,” said Kincaid. “And in the meantime, I’d like to know why Jo Lowell was so reluctant for us to interview her husband.”

  “Your curiosity is about to be satisfied.”

  They found the bank as easily as Jo had promised, and the clerk at the window directed them back to Martin Lowell’s office.

  “Mr. Lowell?” Kincaid tapped on the open door of the small cubicle. “We’re from Scotland Yard—Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant James.” He showed his identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  The man at the desk glanced up, a look of irritation marring his handsome face. Dark and clean-cut, he wore the banker’s uniform of white shirt and dark tie, but he’d rolled up his sleeves against the heat. “Scotland Yard? How can I help you? I’m afraid I have a meeting in”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, so I hope this won’t take long.”

  “It’s about your former sister-in-law, Annabelle Hammond,” Kincaid said, adjusting one of the visitors’ chairs for Gemma and taking the other himself. Lowell had neither risen nor offered his hand, and now he made no response to Kincaid’s remark. “Has the Hammonds’ solicitor been in touch with you?”

  “Yes, this morning. But I don’t see why this should be any concern of yours.”

  “Really?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “A murder and an unexpected disposition of property usually merit some interest, Mr. Lowell.”

  Martin Lowell smiled for the first time. “Are you suggesting I killed Annabelle for my children’s interest in the firm, Superintendent … what did you say your name was? You must be quite desperate.”

  Kincaid had no doubt that Lowell remembered his name. “Your suggestion, Mr. Lowell, not mine.” He smiled back. “I was merely wondering if you were aware of Annabelle Hammond’s intentions.”

  “I’d no idea until the solicitor rang me this morning. I was certainly surprised, but I’m curious as to why you seem to think Annabelle’s leaving her shares to her only niece and nephew an unusual bequest.”

  “It was the fact that she designated you as trustee I found odd, since you’re no longer married to her sister.”

  Lowell shrugged. “According to the solicitor, she made the will sho
rtly after her mother’s death, and never got round to changing it. And she may have thought me better suited than Jo to look after the children’s financial interests.”

  “Will you take an active role in the firm, Mr. Lowell?” asked Gemma.

  Martin Lowell’s glance at her was frankly assessing, and Kincaid saw Gemma flush.

  “Any other course would be irresponsible, don’t you think, Sergeant?” Lowell smiled, holding her gaze until she looked away. Then he stood, with another obvious look at his watch. “Now, if you don’t mind …”

  “Thanks for your time, Mr. Lowell,” Kincaid said with mild sarcasm as he rose.

  When they reached the street, Kincaid touched Gemma’s shoulder. “What was that all about?”

  Gemma scowled. “Who gave Martin Lowell license to think he’s God’s gift to women?”

  TO GEMMA, HERON QUAYS LOOKED CHEERFULLY informal compared with the classic lines of Canary Wharf just to the north, across the middle section of West India Dock. The complex was low-rise, and its slanting roofs, red and purple siding, and white iron balconies made her think of Swiss chalets gone riot. Janice had told her it was one of the early Docklands projects, and that Lewis Finch had kept an office there since the completion of the first phase in the mid-eighties.

  As they walked along the waterside, Kincaid said, “I’m curious about William Hammond and the Finches, since Hammond denies having anything against them. Do you suppose Jo misunderstood what her mother said?”

  Gemma shrugged. “Maybe he’s just too polite to admit his class prejudices to us.”

  “Snobbery hardly constitutes a feud, and Jo Lowell doesn’t seem the type to take it as such,” Kincaid murmured as he opened the door emblazoned with the “Finch, Ltd.” logo Gemma had seen on hoardings round the Island.