Mourn Not Your Dead

by Deborah Crombie

  When Will nudged her with a whispered “They’re finishing up now, Gemma,” she jerked awake with a gasp. She had dreamed that Kincaid stood before her with his most mischievous grin, and in his hand he held a hammer, wet with blood.

  For the first time Gemma saw Holmbury St. Mary in full light. The pub faced on an immaculate triangle of green, with the Gilberts’ lane to the right and the church on its left. Across the green, a few rooftops and red-bricked gables peeked from among the trees.

  Deveney had gone back to Guildford Police Station to oversee incoming reports, delegating Will Darling to drive Gemma and Kincaid back to the Gilberts’. “Meet you there in an hour and we’ll compare notes,” he’d said as he got into his car and gave a mock shiver. “Looks like I won’t be getting the bloody thing in the shop any time soon.”

  Will parked in the car park behind the pub, and they walked across the lane slowly, studying the house and its surroundings as they went. The thick hedge almost met over the curved iron gate, and above it only the upper floor of the house showed, black beams against white-trimmed red brick, creeper softened. “A suburban fortress,” Kincaid said softly as Will nodded to the uniformed constable on duty at the gate. “And it didn’t protect him.”

  “Any too-curious onlookers?” Will asked the constable.

  “I’ve passed through a couple of neighbors wanting to help, but that’s been it.”

  “No press?”

  “A few sniffers is all.”

  “Won’t be long, then,” said Will, and the constable agreed resignedly.

  “I hope Claire Gilbert and her daughter are ready for a siege,” said Kincaid as they took the path towards the back of the house. “The media won’t let this go easily.”

  When they reached the mudroom door, Kincaid hesitated, then said, “Gemma, why don’t you and Will find Mrs. Gilbert and take a detailed statement of her movements yesterday afternoon, so that we can run a check. I’ll be along in a bit.” Gemma started to protest, but he had already turned away, and for a moment she stood watching him walk across the garden towards the dog’s run. Then, sensing that Will was watching her, she turned and opened the mudroom door a little more forcefully than necessary.

  The white-tiled kitchen floor winked at Gemma as she entered, its glossy surface pristine, unmarred. Someone had cleaned away the blood.

  Gemma looked suspiciously at Will, remembering he’d made some excuse to stay behind when they’d left for the pub last night, but he merely gave her an innocent smile. The fingerprint technician was still busily dusting the cabinet surfaces, but aside from that Gemma could almost imagine it an ordinary room on an ordinary day, waiting for the smell of toast and coffee and sleepy breakfast chatter. A colorful place mat and napkin lay on the table before the garden window, along with a copy of the Times. The paper bore yesterday’s date, Gemma discovered when she examined it, yet she hadn’t seen it last night-in fact, she’d barely noticed the breakfast alcove. That wouldn’t do at all, she told herself, and interrupted Will’s quiet conference with the technician more sharply than she’d meant.

  “Mrs. Gilbert made herself a cup of tea, said she’d be in the conservatory if anyone wanted her,” the fingerprint man said in answer to Gemma’s question, then went back to his tuneless whistling.

  Recalling the glassed extension she’d seen from the garden, Gemma led the way through the kitchen and turned to the right. She tapped lightly on the door at the end of the hall, and when she heard no answer after a moment, opened the door and looked in.

  Although a profusion of green plants gave the room the proper conservatory ambience, it was obviously very much lived in. Two squashy sofas faced each other, separated by a low table covered with books and newspapers. A woolly throw drooped from one sofa back, and reading glasses sat jauntily on a side table. A pair of Doc Martens peeked from under the other sofa, the first sign Gemma had seen that Lucy Penmaric lived in this house.

  Claire Gilbert sat in the corner of the near sofa with her back to the door, stockinged feet curled up beneath her, a yellow legal pad in her lap. Her gaze rested not on the pad, however, but on the garden, and even when Will and Gemma stepped into the room she didn’t stir.

  “Mrs. Gilbert?” Gemma said softly, and then Claire turned her head with a start.

  “I’m sorry. I was miles away.” She gestured at the pad in her lap. “There are so many things to be done. I thought I’d make a list, but I can’t seem to keep at it.”

  “We need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” said Gemma, directing a silent and unflattering epithet towards Kincaid for leaving her with this task. She never grew inured to the grief of bereaved relatives, had in fact given up hope of becoming so.

  “Sit down, please.” Claire slipped her feet into her shoes and smoothed her skirt over her knees.

  “You’re looking a bit better this morning,” said Will as he sat on the sofa opposite her. “Did you sleep, then?”

  “I didn’t think I possibly could, but I did. Strange, isn’t it, how the body makes its own decisions.” She did look better, less drawn and fragile, her skin porcelain-fine even in the mercilessly clear morning light.

  “And Lucy?” he asked as Gemma sat beside him and took out her notebook.

  Claire smiled. “I found the dog stretched out on the bed with her this morning, but she didn’t stir even when I took him out. I insisted she take a sedative last night. She’s stubborn as a mule, though you wouldn’t think it to look at her, and she doesn’t like to admit when she’s reached her limit.”

  “Takes after her mum, does she?” said Will with a familiarity that Gemma, daunted by Claire Gilbert’s rather formal good manners, would have found impossible to attempt. She remembered Claire’s distress when she realized Will had left the room last night, and marveled that he had managed to establish such rapport in only a few hours.

  Claire smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I was never as single-minded about things as Lucy. I fluffed my way through school, although I dare say I could have done better if I’d had some idea what I wanted to do. Dolls and house…” she added softly, looking out into the garden again and pleating the fabric of her skirt with her fingers.

  “I’m sorry?” said Gemma, not sure she’d heard correctly.

  Focusing on her, Claire smiled apologetically. “I was one of those little girls who played house and nursed her dolls. It never occurred to me that marriage and family might not be the center of my life, and my parents encouraged that, my mother especially. But Lucy… Lucy’s wanted to be a writer since she was six years old. She’s always worked hard at school, and now she’s studying to sit her mocks in preparation for her A levels in the spring.”

  Will leaned forwards, and Gemma noticed absently that the elbow of his tweed jacket was wearing thin. “She goes to the local comprehensive, then?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” Claire answered quickly, then she seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. “She’s a day student at the Duke of York School. I suppose I’ll have to ring the headmaster sometime today and explain what’s happened.” Exhaustion seemed to wash over her at the thought. Her mouth quivered, and for a moment she covered it with her fingers. “I think I’m managing well enough until I have to tell someone, and then…”

  “Isn’t there someone who can make these calls for you?” Gemma asked, as she had before, but hoping that with rest Claire would have reconsidered.

  “No.” Claire straightened her shoulders. “I won’t have Lucy do any of it. This is difficult enough for her as it is. And there’s no one else. Alastair and I were both only children. My parents are dead, and Alastair’s father. I’ve been to his mother already this morning, first thing. She’s in a nursing home near Dorking.”

  Gemma felt a rush of sympathy for Claire Gilbert. Telling an old woman that her only son was dead could not have been easy, yet Claire had done what was necessary, alone and as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.
”

  Claire gazed out the window again, touching her fingers to the silk scarf at her throat. In the reflected light her pupils shrank to pinpoints, and her irises were as gold as a cat’s. “She’s eighty-five and physically a bit frail, but her mind’s still sharp. Alastair was very good to her.”

  In the silence that followed, they heard Lewis bark, then came a good-natured shout from Kincaid. Claire gave a tiny, startled jerk and dropped her hand to her lap. “I’m sorry,” she said, looking at them again. “Where were we?”

  “If you could just tell us a little more about your movements yesterday afternoon and evening?” Gemma uncapped her pen and waited, but Claire seemed puzzled.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “You said you and Lucy did some shopping,” prompted Gemma. “Where exactly did you go?”

  “But what difference could it possibly-” Claire’s protest died as she looked at Will.

  He shook his head gently. “How can we know at this point what’s important and what isn’t? Some detail, something someone said, something you saw, could prove the glue that holds all the pieces together, so please be patient.”

  After a moment, Claire said, “Oh, all right,” with some grace and settled back into the sofa. “I’ll give it a try.

  “About half past four we left the house and drove into Guildford. Lucy drove-she’s only had her license a few months and likes to practice whenever she can. We left the car in the Bedford Road car park and crossed over the pedestrian bridge to the Friary.”

  “A shopping precinct,” Will explained to Gemma. “A conversion of the old Friary Meaux brewery site, very upmarket.”

  Claire smiled a little at Will’s description. “I suppose it is, but I have to confess that I like it. Staying warm and dry while one goes round the shops has its advantages.” Her smile faded as she returned to her story. “Lucy needed a book from Waterstones… it’s Hardy she’s reading for her exams, I think. After that…” She rubbed her forehead, then gazed out the window for a moment. Gemma and Will waited patiently until she sighed and began again. “We bought some coffee at the specialty shop, then a bottle of Badedas at the C &A. After that we window-shopped for a bit, then had some tea at the restaurant in the court, I can’t think of its name. It’s absurd. I seem to have these gaps in my mind where things I know perfectly well should be, but instead there’s a perfect blank. I remember when-” Claire paused on the shudder of an indrawn breath, then gave a sharp shake of her head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Lucy and I left the center from the far side and walked up the High Street to Sainsbury’s, where we picked up a few things for our dinner. By the time we finished and drove home it was almost half past seven.”

  Gemma’s pen flew over the page until she caught up, but before she could frame a question, Claire spoke. “Must I… the next bit… must I go over it again?” Her hand hovered near her throat once more, and Gemma saw her fingers tremble slightly. She had small, slender hands, with fine, unmarked skin, and although her nails were very short, they were buffed to a healthy pink.

  “No, Mrs. Gilbert, not just now,” said Gemma a bit absently as she thumbed back through her notes. When she reached the beginning of the interview she paused, then looked up at Claire Gilbert. “But tell us about the earlier part of the afternoon. You didn’t say what you were doing before going to Guildford.”

  “I’d been at work, of course,” Claire said with a touch of impatience. “I’d just got home minutes before Lucy arrived back from school-oh, my God…” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t ring Malcolm. How could I have forgotten to ring Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm?” Will raised an eyebrow.

  “Malcolm Reid.” Claire rose and went to the window, where she stood looking out into the garden, her back to them. “It’s his shop-his business-and I work in the shop, but I also do some consulting.”

  Forced to turn around awkwardly, Gemma squinted at Claire’s outline, haloed by the light. “Consulting?” She hadn’t thought of Claire Gilbert working, had automatically categorized her as a pampered housewife with no duties more demanding than attending meetings at the Women’s Institute, and now she chided herself for her carelessness. Assumptions in an investigation were dangerous-and an indication that she didn’t have her mind on her job. “What sort of business is it?” she added, resolving to give Claire Gilbert her undivided attention.

  “Interior design. The shop’s in Shere-it’s called Kitchen Concepts, but kitchens aren’t all we do.” Claire glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s just getting on for nine o’clock-Malcolm won’t have missed me yet.” The smooth fall of her fair hair caught the light as she shook her head, and when she spoke her voice wavered for the first time. “Telling Gwen was all I could think of from the time I woke this morning, then once I’d done that… I feel such a ninny-” She broke off suddenly and laughed. “When have you heard that expression? My mother used to say that.” Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she sniffed.

  Will had taken advantage of Claire’s retreat to the window to rise and explore the room. He’d wandered over to a dresser that stood against the back wall and now idly rearranged a collection of seashells. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself,” he said, turning to Claire. “You’ve had a dreadful shock and you can’t expect to go on as if nothing had happened.”

  “Those are Lucy’s.” Coming to stand beside him, Claire picked up a small green-and-red-speckled shell and turned it in her hands. “She had a book about the seaside she loved as a child, and she’s collected shells ever since. This one’s called Christmas. Apt, isn’t it?” She replaced the shell, aligning it carefully, then gave an odd little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “I keep thinking that Alastair would expect me to cope, and then I remember…” Her words trailed off and she stood for a moment, staring at the shells, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Then, seeming to gather herself with an effort, she turned to them and smiled. “I’d better ring Malcolm as soon as possible. The shop opens at half-past and I’d not want him to hear it from someone else.”

  Gemma gave in gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she said as she tucked her notebook into her bag and stood. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to get on with things.” The rote phrases came easily, while underneath she wondered furiously where in hell Kincaid had got to and what he could have been doing poking about in the garden all this time. Claire came with them to the door, and as Gemma stepped into the hall Will stopped and murmured something to her that Gemma didn’t quite catch.

  The fingerprint technician had packed up his equipment and gone, leaving only his dust to mar the impression that normal life in the Gilbert household would resume at any time. The light came more strongly through the bay window, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Gemma went to the window and looked out into the garden-there was no sign of Kincaid.

  “What’s next?” asked Will as he came in from the hall. “Where’s our super got himself off to?”

  Gemma thanked whatever guardian angel made her bite her lip rather than venting her bad temper, because just at that moment Kincaid came in through the mudroom door and smiled broadly at them both. “Waiting for me? Sorry. I got a bit carried away in the garden shed.” He wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead and brushed ineffectually at the cobwebs on his jacket. “How did you-”

  “Was the dog giving you a hand?” interrupted Gemma. As soon as the words left her mouth she heard their shrewishness and would have called them back if she could. Flushing with shame, she drew a breath to explain, apologize, and then she saw that in his left hand he held a hammer.

  The hall door flew open and Claire Gilbert came in as if propelled, her cheeks pink-stained. “Malcolm says they’ve been round to the shop already,” she said breathlessly, looking from one of them to the other in appeal. “People saying things and reporters. They’re coming here. The reporters are coming here-” Her gaze fix
ed on Kincaid, the quick color drained from her face and she crumpled upon the white tiles.

  CHAPTER 4

  For a large man, Will Darling moved with surprising swiftness. He managed to reach Claire before her head made contact with the floor, and now knelt beside her, supporting her head and shoulders against his knees. As Gemma and Kincaid hovered over them anxiously, her eyelids fluttered open and she moved her head restlessly. “I’m sorry,” she said as she focused on their faces. “I’m sorry. I can’t think what happened.”

  She struggled to sit up, but Will restrained her gently. “Keep your head down a bit longer. Just relax, now. Still feel woozy?” When she shook her head, he raised her a few inches. “We’ll do it a little at a time,” he continued as he eased her into a sitting position and then into one of the breakfast area chairs.

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said once more. “How dreadfully silly of me.” She rubbed at her face with trembling hands, and although some color had returned to her cheeks, she remained unnaturally pale.

  Kincaid pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing her. “I didn’t frighten you with that, did I?” he asked, gesturing towards the hammer which he’d placed carefully on the nearby countertop. He’d rubbed absently at the cobwebs in his hair, and now a chestnut lock fell in a comma on his forehead. With one eyebrow raised in concern, he looked deceptively, dangerously innocent, and Gemma found herself feeling sorry for Claire Gilbert. “It’s only the old hammer from your garden shed. A bit the worse from neglect, I’m afraid,” he added with a rueful smile, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket again.

  “You don’t think… that’s what Alastair…” Claire shivered and hugged herself.

  “From the layer of dust I’d say it had been months since anyone touched that hammer, but we’ll need to run some tests just to be sure.”

  Claire closed her eyes and took a breath, exhaling slowly. Tears began to slip beneath her closed lids as she spoke. “It did frighten me. I don’t know why. Last night they asked me over and over if I knew what might have been used, if there was anything missing, but I couldn’t think. The garden shed never even occurred to me…”