“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 kit
chen, 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 bal
cony. 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.
CHAPTER 8
The burring sound came from a great distance, its insistent repetition dragging her up from the cottony depths of sleep. Her arm felt leaden, treacle-slow, as she freed it from the duvet and felt for the telephone. “Hullo,” she mumbled, then realized she had the handset wrong way round.
Once she’d got it right-side-up, she heard Kincaid saying cheerfully, “Gemma, I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to ring you last night, but you weren’t in.”
Focusing on the clock, she groaned. She’d overslept by an hour and she had absolutely no memory of turning off the alarm. Fuzzily, she was trying to remember whether or not she had set it when she realized Kincaid was saying, “Meet me at Notting Hill.”
“Notting Hill? Whatever for?” She shook her head to clear it.
“I want to have a look at some records. How long?”
Making an effort to pull herself together, she said, “An hour.” Quick mental arithmetic confirmed that she should be able to shower, leave Toby with Hazel, and get the tube to Notting Hill. “Give me an hour.”
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