partner last night. He’s a right tosser. And I got the distinct impression he has it in for your sister.”
“Has it in—”
“As in active ill will.” Babcock clarified. “As in making an opportunity to suggest she’s hysterical and not to be relied upon.”
“Why the hell—” Kincaid began, then stopped and sipped carefully at tea that was now tepid. Wariness had slipped over his face like a mask, and Babcock knew he wasn’t going to hear everything his friend knew. “Why would Piers Dutton want to undermine my sister?” Kincaid asked after a moment, his voice under control once more.
Frowning, Babcock mused aloud. “Dutton said he’d been in his house five years. But even if the child was buried before that, he could have known about the barn before he moved into the area.”
“You’re suggesting Dutton had something to do with this baby?
But then why would he recommend my sister for the renovation?”
“Well, say he knew the new own ers were determined to go ahead with the job. If he was sure the baby would be found, maybe he saw an opportunity to make life difficult for your sister.”
“Implicating himself in the process? That’s pretty farfetched,
don’t you think, Ronnie? And if he was responsible for the baby and he knew the renovation was inevitable, why not just remove the body?”
“Too risky?” Babcock suggested.
“There’s only one house between Dutton’s and the canal. All he’d need to do was pick a night when he knew his neighbors wouldn’t be home. It didn’t take Jules that long to chip out that mortar—Dutton could have done it in a few hours, then tossed the body in a ditch somewhere.”
Babcock sighed. “That’s a point. Tom Foster’s not exactly the Cerberus of South Cheshire.” Rubbing at his lower lip, he found a spot of stubble he’d missed that morning in his rush to shave in his s
arctic bathroom. He cast an envious glance at his old friend. Kincaid was one of those men who would look rakish with a day’s growth of beard, while he, with his battered face, would merely look like he’d spent the night in a skip. “Still, it’s worth checking,”
he continued. “Dutton was going through a divorce at the time.
Maybe he had an illegitimate child he didn’t want complicating things—”
“And the baby’s mother went along with the interment? Or maybe she’s buried somewhere, too? Ronnie, you’re building sand castles.”
Babcock countered with a grin. “Where’s your imagination, lad?
All those bureaucrats at the Yard drummed it out of you? For all we know, he’s walled her up in the cellar of his Victorian monstrosity.
Didn’t you read your Poe?”
“You’d better have a little firmer foundation than ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ before you apply for a warrant to start digging up Dutton’s house.”
“Okay, okay. Touché. But I think I’ll have Larkin do a little re-search into Dutton’s background.”
“Your detective constable?” Kincaid raised an amused eyebrow.
“Sharp girl. And I do believe she fancies you, you know.”
Babcock was momentarily rendered speechless. “You’re taking the piss. She’s cheeky with everyone, including you—and you’re happily attached, I take it. I met your . . . girlfriend?”
“So she said, although I think she’d prefer the term ‘partner.’
And you’re changing the subject.”
“Even if you were right—and I’m not saying you are—I have enough problems with my ex without getting involved with someone on the job. Although I have to admit, my options for meeting eligible women who’ll put up with a copper’s life are just about nil,”
Babcock conceded. Even as he spoke he remembered that Kincaid had been divorced, and that he’d heard his ex-wife had died tragically. To cover his momentary awkwardness, he said, “So, how did you get together with your Gemma?”
This time Kincaid’s smile was wicked. “She was my sergeant.”
When Althea Elsworthy saw Rowan Wain, she knew. Still, she went through the motions, listening to heart and lungs, checking capillary refill, lips and gums. The woman’s labored breathing echoed in the boat’s small cabin.
The social worker—Annie Lebow, as she was calling herself now—had given the doctor a brief history of the Wains, explaining why Rowan Wain and her husband refused to seek medical help through the system.
“Munchausen’s by proxy?” Althea had said. “Christ. Who made the diagnosis?”
When Annie told her, she shook her head and compressed her lips.
“The man’s a poisonous toad. I’m not saying that such things don’t happen now and again, mind you, parents abusing their children in order to get attention, but it should be called just that—abuse—and dealt with as such. But Sprake pulls MSBP out of his hat whenever he can’t diagnose a child or the parents refuse to cooperate with his conception of himself as God.”
“And there’s no way to have the diagnosis removed from Rowan’s records?”
“Not likely, even if the couple had unlimited funds and fancy lawyers. The boy seems all right now?”
“Remarkably well, as far as I can tell,” Annie had answered, and Althea nodded. She’d seen cases like that, where a young child failed to thrive, then, without any visible explanation, suddenly seemed to turn a corner. Certainly, both children, seen briefly peeking from behind their father in the main cabin of the narrowboat, had looked healthy, if a trifle thin. Better that, in her opinion, than
the pudginess she saw so often these days in children who spent hours in front of the telly.
“Doctor.” The whisper of Rowan Wain’s voice snapped Althea out of her woolgathering. The thin fingers Rowan placed on her arm were cold and blue as ice. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Well, it’s not good, I’m afraid,” Althea admitted. “I don’t suppose I can change your mind about going to hospital?”
Rowan gave only the slightest shake of her head, but her eyes were adamant, and filled with a calm acceptance that made the doctor look away. Carefully coiling up her stethoscope and placing it in her bag, she said, “I can try to make you more comfortable. Perhaps some oxygen would help.”
“It won’t go on any records?”
“I’ll see it doesn’t.”
“Then that would be good. Thank you.” Rowan smiled. “Will you speak to my husband?”
“If you’d like, yes.” Thinking of the anxious faces of those waiting outside the tiny cabin, Althea was reminded of why she had become a pathologist—she found it much easier to deal with the dead than with the pain of the living. “I’ll come back soon,” she said.
“When I’ve arranged for the oxygen.”
Rowan’s eyes were drifting closed; even their short interview had tired her.
When the doctor emerged into the main cabin, she found only Annie and the husband, Gabriel Wain. There seemed to be a tension between them, and Althea wondered briefly if it was due to more than concern.
“I’ve sent the children up top,” Wain said, without offering any pleasantries. He, too, was thin, she realized, with the gauntness of worry, and his dark eyes were as feverish in their intensity as his rough demand when he spoke. “Say what you have to say.”
“I suspect you know what I’m going to tell you, Mr. Wain,” said Althea, speaking softly enough that she hoped her voice wouldn’t
carry into the next cabin. “Your wife is suffering from congestive heart failure. I understand your feelings about treatment, and in Rowan’s case I must say I fear her heart is too damaged for surgical intervention to be effective, even if it were possible. There are drugs that might help temporarily, but again . . . I’ve said I’d arrange some oxygen, to make her more comfortable. You do understand that this is strictly my opinion?” she added.
He stared at her. “You’re saying there’s nothing can be done for her? Even if she went into hospital?”
“In the long term, I fear not.�
�
She heard the quick intake of Annie Lebow’s breath and glimpsed her stricken face, but it was Gabriel Wain who held her gaze. His eyes drew her in, and for an instant she felt herself falling into the pit of his grief. But then she saw a flicker of something that might have been relief in those depths, and he seemed to diminish. If the will to keep his wife alive had driven him beyond his limits for too long, it had now released its hold.
“Have you told her,” he asked, “that she’s dying?”
“Not in so many words, no. Do you want me to speak to her again?”
He drew himself up, once more dominating the claustrophobic confines of the cabin, and his dignity made her suddenly feel an intruder. “No,” he said quietly. “I thank you for your help, Doctor, but that burden is mine.”
Chapter Fourteen
The victim clutched his head and staggered, then swayed and slumped to the floor of the inn’s lounge bar, like a rag doll divested of stuffing. He twitched and, with a final moan, lay still.
Standing over him, the murderer nudged him with a toe, once, twice, then, still holding the club, raised his hands above his head and pumped his arms in victory. He pranced around the room in an impromptu dance, face obscured by his mask, ragged clothes fl uttering.
“A doctor!” someone called out from the crowd. “Get a doctor!”
A tall, skeletally thin man in a black top hat pushed through the bystanders and, kneeling beside the corpse, opened his large black bag. From its depths, he pulled a jug of medicine that looked suspiciously like cider, and a pill the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The doctor held the pill up between thumb and forefinger, displaying it to the crowd, then pushed it between the unresponsive lips of the corpse.
There was a pregnant pause, a momentary holding of the collective breath, then the corpse stirred, sat up, and gave an exaggerated shake. He spat out the pill and took a swig from the jug, which made him roll his eyes and wipe his lips with the back of his hand. Then
he leapt to his feet and began to attack his assailant with the same club that had previously been used against him.
After a frenzied chase round the small open space in the pub’s center, the murderer at last fell to his knees, vanquished, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Murderer, victim, and doctor all took bows, then the doctor swept off his top hat and began passing it through the crowd to the accompaniment of clinking glasses.
“That’s barbaric,” murmured Gemma to Kincaid, who stood beside her at the bar. They’d been queuing for drinks when the play had begun and everyone had fallen silent to watch.
Tossing the change he’d received from the barman into the doctor’s hat as it passed by, Kincaid said, “Mummers on Boxing Day are a respected rural tradition. I thought they were quite good, actually.”
To Gemma, Boxing Day meant watching football on the telly, which she thought more civilized than pantomimed murder, football hooligans notwithstanding. Toby, who had clamped himself to her and tucked his face away as the villain struck his blows, now tugged on her trousers leg. “Mummy, is the bad man gone?”
Contrite at not realizing he’d really been frightened, she knelt beside him and tousled his hair. “Yes, lovey. It was all just pretend, like on the telly, or a film. See, they’re friends again.” She pointed to the actors, now engaged in a spirited conversation at a far table, and Toby stood on tiptoe to look.
“The play’s medieval, or older,” Kincaid explained as he and Gemma collected the round of drinks he’d bought for their table.
“Perhaps even pagan—no one seems to know for certain. At least they don’t stone wrens these days.”
“Stone wrens?” Gemma looked at him askance. “As in little birds?”
“The twenty-sixth of December is the feast day of Saint Stephen, an early Christian martyr who was stoned to death,” Kincaid explained as they threaded their way through the crowded room, Toby s
leading the way. “According to legend, it was the wren that betrayed Stephen to the mob, so boys and young men used to go out on Boxing Day and kill a wren with stones as a sort of retribution. Then they’d affix the little body to a pole tied with ribbons and parade it round the village.”
“Ugh.” Gemma made a face. “You win. I’ll take mummers. But you country people are all a bit cracked,” she teased, letting him know he was forgiven for leaving her behind that morning.
She had enjoyed her time with the children—or at least with the younger two. Sam was unexpectedly patient with Toby, and Toby had responded with his usual uncomplicated enthusiasm. Even the ponies had not been too bad: shaggy, friendly creatures who had butted her and nibbled bits of carrot, their warm plumes of breath carrying the beery scent of slightly fermented grain.
But some of her pleasure in the outing had been spoiled by a tension she sensed between Kit and Lally, although they had seemed almost pointedly to ignore each other. It made Gemma uneasy, and she would have guessed they’d had a falling-out, except that once or twice she could have sworn she saw a complicit look pass between them. Had something happened that she’d missed?
Kit had come home from his walk with Duncan the previous evening full of excitement over the boat he’d seen and its owner’s invitation to come back for another visit. Was he merely out of sorts because the family’s plans for their traditional Boxing Day lunch at the local pub had got in the way of his expedition?
If so, perhaps the inn would make up for it, Gemma thought as she and Duncan reached the table their party had snagged near the fire. In London, going to pubs wasn’t a normal experience for the kids, but the Barbridge Inn, like many country pubs that served meals, allowed children in the restaurant area and was family oriented.
The pub was a welcoming place, Gemma had to admit, hugging the canal side in the tiny hamlet of Barbridge, just a mile or two from the Kincaids’ farmhouse. Open fires burned in both bars, the rambling rooms were filled with comfortably worn furniture, and the walls were covered with canal- themed prints. There was even a bookcase, filled with used volumes that the patrons traded, and in the central room, a jazz band was setting up for a session.
The musicians were older, all local men and friends of Hugh’s, Rosemary explained when Gemma and Duncan had taken their places at the table again. Juliet sat with her back to the fire, as quiet as she had been since her return from the police station, but it seemed to Gemma that she had begun to relax in the warmth and bustle of the pub. Her face seemed softer, less pinched with strain.
The children had taken a small table beside the adults, adjusting their chairs so that they could see the band, but Sam often glanced back at his mother, as if assuring himself that she hadn’t vanished.
The band started up just as their food arrived, and they ate the good, plain pub cooking with their feet tapping under the table. After a few bites, Toby abandoned his chicken and chips and stood, jiggling to the beat with the unself-conscious abandon of a fi ve-year-old. It was happy music, Gemma thought, New Orleans–style jazz in an irresistible upbeat tempo, played with professional fl air and obvious enjoyment by the band. By the end of the first set, even Juliet had begun to smile.
When the band stopped for a break, wiping sweaty faces with handkerchiefs, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Gemma had pushed back her chair, intending to take Toby for a closer look at the instruments, when she saw Juliet’s face freeze.
Turning, she saw Caspar Newcombe standing a few feet away.
How long he’d watched them while their attention was diverted, she didn’t know, but now he stepped up to their table and blocked Juliet’s chair.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said, quite pleasantly, and gave them all a smile that chilled Gemma’s blood. She had seen such control before, and it was much more frightening than any drunken shouting. “You’re such creatures of habit, which I suppose is good
for me, since you didn’t trouble to invite me to your little gathering.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw that Piers Du
tton and his son had apparently come in with Caspar, but they were watching from the bar, as if disassociating themselves from impending disaster.
“I thought we might have a little civilized conversation,” Caspar continued, all his attention now focused on Juliet. “You’ve behaved very irresponsibly, you know, and you’re obviously unfit to look after the children. I’m going to take them home now. You”—he stabbed a finger at her, his careful discipline slipping—“can do whatever you bloody well like, you stupid—”
“Caspar, don’t make a scene,” Kincaid broke in, his voice even but firm. Heads were beginning to turn, and the tables nearest theirs had fallen silent.
“Me? Make a scene?” Caspar’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And what advice did you give to your sister after she walked out of my parents’ house without a word? Did you tell her it didn’t matter that she insulted my parents and upset the children?” He was certainly playing the righteously incensed husband to the hilt, but Gemma had the odd feeling that his performance was not entirely for their benefit.
“It’s you who’s upsetting the children now.” Hugh rose, as if determined to step into the breach, and Gemma remembered he had berated himself for not defending his daughter when Caspar had verbally attacked her on Christmas Eve. “This isn’t the time or place—”
“Shut up. Just shut up, all of you.” Juliet sprang up, pushing her chair back with a grating screech that drew the attention of everyone in the room not already mesmerized. “I don’t need anyone to answer for me. You’re not taking the children, Caspar.” Her hands were raised, her breathing hard, and Gemma feared the situation was seconds away from degenerating into a brawl.
“Sam! Lally!” called out Casper. “Come here. Now.”
For an instant, no one breathed. Then Sam moved slowly to his mother’s side. “I—I want to stay with Mummy.” He locked eyes with his father, and after a moment, Caspar looked away.
“Lally.” There was threat in Caspar’s voice now, rather than command. He stepped towards her, hand out.
Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 11 - Water Like A Stone dk&gj-11 Page 21