All Shall Be Well dk&gj-2

by Deborah Crombie

  "Did Jasmine say anything to you about making arrangements to see her brother?"

  Felicity shook her head and began stacking their coffee cups on the tray. "We never talked about personal matters. Some patients like to tell you their life story, but not Jasmine."

  "Did anyone visit her at all? Or did you see anyone unfamiliar in the building recently?"

  "No. I'm sorry."

  Kincaid gave in gracefully. He stood up and shook Felicity's hand. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

  Gemma quickly followed suit. "Thanks for your time."

  "It may be necessary for you to appear at the inquest," Kincaid added as an afterthought as they moved toward the door.

  "All right. You'll notify me?"

  Kincaid nodded and held the door open for Gemma. "Good-bye."

  Gemma, turning back as the door closed to echo his farewell, had a last glimpse of Felicity Howarth standing alone in her sitting room.

  They had joined the A24 toward Surrey before either of them spoke. Gemma glanced at Kincaid. He drove easily, hand resting lightly on the gear shift, his expression obscured by the sunglasses he'd pulled from the door pocket. "You're still not convinced, are you?" she asked.

  He answered without taking his eyes from the road. "No. Perhaps I'm just being stubborn."

  "You think she would have left a note for Margaret or Theo," said Gemma, and added "or you," silently. She found herself increasingly curious about this woman who had occupied such a large portion of Kincaid's life, and of whom she had known nothing. He'd made some passing references to visiting a neighbor, but she had somehow assumed the neighbor to be male—a going-down-to-the-pub sort of thing. Just what had been his relationship with Jasmine Dent? Were they lovers, with Jasmine so ill with cancer?

  Stealing a glance at Kincaid's abstracted face, Gemma was shocked to realize how little she knew of his personal life. It had seemed to her that he moved through life with a graceful ease which she both admired and resented. But perhaps not everything came as easily to him as she'd supposed—he was obviously suffering both grief and guilt over Jasmine's death.

  Now that she thought about it, when had she ever given him much chance to talk about what he did away from work? She had nattered on about Toby, and Kincaid had listened as if the activities of a two-year-old were absolutely fascinating. That she would have to attribute to natural good manners, and resolved to be less obtuse in the future.

  "Gemma?"

  She focused on Kincaid and flushed, feeling transparent. "Sorry?"

  "You looked a bit glazed. I thought maybe my driving terrified you."

  "No," Gemma answered, smiling. "I was just thinking," she scrambled for the first thing that popped into her head, "um, about Felicity. Wouldn't you think that if you spent your life caring for the dying, trying to offer some comfort, that you would need a very strong faith?"

  "Possibly. Go on."

  Gemma heard the frown she couldn't see behind Kincaid's sunglasses. "Eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning and Felicity was working in the garden—she hadn't been to church."

  "Maybe she's R.C. and goes to early mass," Kincaid said, amused.

  "No makeup," Gemma countered, "not even a trace of lipstick. Don't tell me a good-looking woman like Felicity gets up and goes to church on Sunday morning without a stitch of make-up."

  "Very observant." Kincaid grinned at that, then sobered. "Maybe whatever faith sustains Felicity isn't the visible sort."

  They were entering the outskirts of Dorking. Kincaid pulled a map from his door pocket and handed it to Gemma. "Make sure it's the A25 we want to Abinger Hammer, would you?" As Gemma rustled the map, he continued, "Meg comes from here. Says her father owns a garage. It's not far from London for her family to have cut her off so completely. You'd think—"

  "Junction coming up," Gemma interrupted. "A25 west toward Guildford." After Kincaid navigated the roundabout she said, "Sorry. What were you saying?"

  "Never mind. Let's think about lunch."

  Abinger Hammer was more hamlet than village, a few shops, and a park with a stream running through it. Theo Dent's shop, Trifles, stood at the crook in the road, across from the tea room and the village clock with its distinctive wooden bell-ringer.

  Gemma and Kincaid ate tomato and cheese sandwiches, sitting in the sun in the tea shop's tiny walled garden. The sandwiches came garnished with watercress, and were cheerfully delivered by a teenage waitress sporting pink hair and multiple earrings.

  "Village punk," Kincaid said, tucking stray sprigs of cress into his mouth with a finger.

  "Can't be much in the way of night life around here, surely?" Gemma hadn't conquered her Londoner's disdain for village life.

  "Disco in the village hall, I imagine. Or video games in the pub for those old enough."

  Gemma pulled a face. "Ugh!"

  Kincaid laughed. "Think about it, Gemma. Isn't that just what you'd want for Toby when he's older? No trouble to get into?"

  She shook her head. "I'm not willing to contemplate that yet." Gemma finished her sandwich and swatted at a fat bumblebee which was making bombing runs at their table. "Did you grow up in a place this small?"

  "Not this small, no. Relatively civilized, by your standards. We had a coffee bar. No video games in those days, though, just darts." A flash of his grin told Gemma he was pulling her leg a bit. The persistent bee blundered into Kincaid's teacup. Kincaid dumped him out and stretched. "Let's go see what Theo Dent found to occupy himself last Thursday night."

  Chimes rang somewhere in the back of the shop as Gemma and Kincaid stepped inside Trifles and closed the door behind them. The "Closed" sign hanging on the inside of the door bounced and swung rhythmically, a counterpoint to the fading bells.

  It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the brilliant sunlight outside. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves," Kincaid said softly as he looked around. "Not much trade for a Sunday afternoon."

  "Too pretty outside," Gemma offered. The shop seemed unbearably warm and stuffy. Sheets of light slanted in through the uncurtained front windows, illuminating dusty objects. Gemma turned, surveying shelves and cluttered tables which held, among other things, mismatched china tea sets, brass knickknacks, faded hunting prints, and a glass case filled with antique buttons. "This stuff needs a rainy day for poking about in," she said, holding a willow-pattern butter dish up to the light and squinting at it. "Oh, it's cracked. Too bad."

  They heard the thump of quick footsteps on stair treads and a door in the back of the shop flew open. "Sorry. I was just finishing my—" Theo Dent stopped in the act of pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, staring in bewilderment at Kincaid. "Mr. Kincaid? I didn't recognize… I wasn't expecting…"

  "Hello, Theo. Didn't mean to startle you. Should have called first, I expect, but it was a nice day for a run."

  Hogwash, thought Gemma, listening to Kincaid's disarming patter. She knew him well enough to be sure he'd had every intention of catching Theo off-guard. This might as yet be unofficial nosiness, but Kincaid's working techniques were in full play.

  Kincaid introduced Gemma, again leaving their relationship open to the most likely assumption, and Theo shook her hand. Gemma studied him, seeing a small man with an oval face and a cap of brown, curly hair shot with gray, wearing gold-rimmed, round spectacles that gave him a dated look. His hand was small and softer than her own. "Nice to meet you. You've some lovely things here." Gemma gestured around the room, then picked up the first thing that came to hand, a small porcelain pot in the shape of a beehive.

  "Do you really think so?" Theo sounded inordinately pleased. He beamed at Gemma, showing small, even, white teeth. "Do you like honey pots? Here, look at this one," he scooped a thatched porcelain cottage from a shelf, "and this," white porcelain this time, decorated with mice peeping from a tangle of brambles. "Did you know that the Egyptians believed honey came from the tears of the sun god Ra? No pharaoh was buried without a sealed honey—"

 
"Theo," Kincaid interrupted the enthusiastic monologue, "is there someplace we could talk?"

  "Talk?" Theo sounded baffled. He looked hopefully around the shop, and when no chairs appeared, said, "Uh, sure. We could go upstairs, I guess." He turned and led the way, glancing back over his shoulder anxiously. "It's not much, you know… I hope you won't mind…"

  The upstairs flat obviously served as both living quarters and office—the office consisting of a scarred wooden desk covered with scraps of paper and an old, black Bakelite telephone. Living quarters fared not much better, in Gemma's opinion. A day bed, hastily made, and a cracked leather easy-chair dominated the furnishings, both positioned with a good view of a new color television and VCR. A curtained alcove hid what Gemma assumed to be cooking and bathing facilities.

  "Lunch," Theo said apologetically, scooping up a plate which held bread crusts and a paper instant-soup container, and placing it behind the curtain. He gestured Kincaid into the leather chair and pulled up the desk chair for Gemma. That left him standing awkwardly, until he spied an empty packing crate, turned it over and used it as an impromptu stool. Some of his anxious manner seemed to leave him and he smiled self-deprecatingly. "I don't do much entertaining, as you might have gathered. I would have tidied the place up a bit for Jasmine, if she had come." Theo took a deep breath. "Now, Mr. Kincaid, what did you want to see me about? You obviously didn't bring this pretty young lady to admire my stock." He nodded toward Gemma as he spoke, and, again, she had the impression of a slightly old-fashioned quality.

  "I've heard your sister's post mortem results, Theo. She died from an overdose of morphine." Kincaid spoke softly, unemphatically.

  Theo's eyes lost their focus and he sat so quietly that Gemma looked questioningly at Kincaid, but after a moment he sighed and spoke. "Thank you. It's what I've been expecting since you spoke to me about it on Friday night. It was kind of you to come all this way to tell me."

  Gemma, knowing that kindness had not been his intention, saw Kincaid color faintly.

  "Theo— "

  "It was the shock that upset me so, you know. I've had a bit of time to get used to the idea now, and I see that it was just the sort of thing Jasmine would do. But what I still don't understand," Theo looked from Kincaid to Gemma, including her in the question, "is why she phoned and told me to visit her today."

  "Theo," Kincaid tried again, "there is another possibility. The coroner will most likely return a verdict of suicide, unless we find evidence to the contrary."

  "Contrary? What do you mean, contrary?" Theo's brows drew together over the gold rims of his spectacles.

  Kincaid sat up and leaned toward Theo, speaking more urgently now. "Someone else could have given her the morphine, Theo. Maybe Jasmine told Margaret the truth— maybe she had changed her mind about suicide, and maybe someone didn't like that decision at all."

  "You're not serious?" Theo searched Kincaid's expression for some hint of a joke, and finding none, turned to Gemma for confirmation.

  She nodded. "I'm afraid he is."

  "But why?" Theo's voice rose to a squeak. "Why would anybody want to kill Jasmine? She was dying, for Christ's sake! You said yourself she'd only a few months left." He took a breath and shoved his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, then shook his finger accusingly at Kincaid. "And how could somebody give her that much morphine without her knowing?"

  A good point, thought Gemma, and one that Kincaid hadn't tackled.

  "I don't know, Theo. I'd assume it would have been someone she trusted. As to why," Kincaid's tone became less conciliatory, "someone could have been in a hurry for something. What do you know about Jasmine's estate, Theo?"

  "Estate?" Theo's face was blank with incomprehension.

  "Come on, man. Don't look so bloody baffled." Kincaid rose and paced the small room. "Surely you must have some idea how Jasmine intended to dispose of her property. She told me she'd made some good investments over the years, and she had a good bit of equity in the flat. Will it all come to you?"

  "I don't know." Theo looked up at Kincaid, and it seemed to Gemma as if he had shrunk before her eyes. "She made the down payment on the mortgage here. I was broke, really down on my luck." He turned and spoke to Gemma, seeking understanding. "Some things hadn't worked out, you know? I never really thought about what would happen if she died."

  Kincaid's eyebrows shot up in disbelief and he opened his mouth to protest, then changed his tack. "What were you doing on Thursday evening?"

  "Thursday?"

  "The night Jasmine died, Theo," Kincaid prompted.

  "I was here, of course. Where else would I be?" Theo sounded thoroughly frightened now, near to tears.

  "Start at the beginning," said Gemma, moved to bail Theo out. "What time do you close the shop?"

  "About half-five, usually."

  "So you closed up that day about half-past five? And then what did you do?"

  "Well, I tidied up a bit and locked the till, and then I went across the road for my supper." Theo, visibly relaxing, looked expectantly to Gemma for his catechism. Kincaid had moved to the window and stood gazing down into the street.

  "Across the street? I don't remember seeing a restaurant—"

  "No, no. There's only the pub at night. The tea shop closes at five. I always go across to the pub for my supper. Good food, and I can't cook much here," he gestured toward the curtain, "just a hot-plate, really."

  "I thought you said you didn't drink much," said Kincaid from the window.

  Theo flushed. "I don't. Just the odd half-pint of sweet cider."

  Gemma took charge again. "What did you do when you finished your meal? Have you a car?"

  The question seemed to anger Theo. "No, I don't have a bloody car, if it's anyone else's business. I came back here. There's not much else to do in Abinger Hammer. And besides," he smiled at Gemma, his brief spurt of temper evaporating, and nodded toward the VCR, "I had a new film. Arrived at the shop that afternoon. Random Harvest, 1942, Ronald Coleman and Greer Garson. Great stuff. There's this shell-shocked World War I officer and he's saved from spending his life in an asylum by this music-hall sing—never mind."

  "That's it. I watched the film. I read a bit, then I went to sleep." He looked at Kincaid, who had come back to perch on the arm of the easy-chair. "Satisfied?"

  "Sorry," said Kincaid, standing and holding out his hand to Theo, "I just like to get things straight. I'm afraid you'll have to appear at the inquest. I'll let you know the details."

  "It was nice to meet you, Theo. I'm sorry about your sister." Gemma took Theo's hand, surprised to find it ice-cold in the overheated room.

  Theo followed them down the steep stairs, and Gemma had a last glance at the brambly honey pot before Theo shut the shop door behind them.

  They left the shop without speaking and started down the footpath toward the river. Kincaid walked with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, not looking at Gemma.

  "You suckered me into playing good cop-bad cop with that poor man. And after he was so touchingly grateful to you. Is that what you had in mind when you asked me to come?" Gemma stopped, forcing him to turn and meet her eyes.

  "No. Partly habit, I suppose. I feel like I've beaten a child. But Christ, Gemma. How could anyone really be so bloody gormless? You can't believe he never gave a thought to what would happen to Jasmine's money."

  "Oh, I don't think he's stupid, Duncan." Gemma started walking again and Kincaid followed. "Innocent, maybe, and a bit fragile. Surely you can't think Theo had anything to do with Jasmine's death?"

  "It's that helpless quality of his," Kincaid said with the beginning of a grin. "It's aroused your protective instincts. Somebody probably felt the same way about Crippen."

  "You've no reason not to believe him," Gemma countered, stung. "Do you think about what would happen to your parents' money, or your sister's, if they were to die suddenly?"

  "No. But they've not been ill, and they don't support me. It looks to me like Theo sti
ll needs all the help he can get. His business doesn't exactly seem to be flourishing." They turned now and followed the watercourse toward the bridge at the village end. Cress, dappled green in the sunlight, grew thickly in the stream's running water. The children's play equipment stood deserted in the meadow, an empty swing moving gently in the breeze, and Gemma found herself wishing intensely that the afternoon had held no motive more sinister than a walk by the water's edge.

  "It's nearly three o'clock, and by my count that's the only pub in the village." Kincaid pointed toward the low, white-washed building standing at the T-junction on the other side of the bridge. "I guess that qualifies as across the road. If we want to have a friendly chat with the landlord of the Bull and Whistle before closing time, we'd better get to it. And," the grin was back in full force, "I'll buy you a sweet cider."

  The affable landlord of the Bull and Whistle confirmed that Theo had indeed eaten his supper there on Thursday evening. "Comes in every evening, about the same time. More likely I'd notice if he weren't here than if he were. Vegetarian lasagna on Thursday, I remember he looked pleased as punch when he saw the board." The publican replaced Gemma's coaster and eyed her appreciatively. "Anything else, Miss?"

  "This is fine, thanks."

  Gemma had ordered a dry cider with a quelling look at Kincaid, from which he deduced she was fed up with being teased about her preference for sweet drinks. She sat next to him at the bar, her expression inscrutable, looking crisp and as cool as her coloring would allow in pale trousers and a cinnamon cotton shirt. Looking at her, Kincaid felt rather rumpled and worse for wear.

  The blackboard above the bar bore nothing but a few chalky streaks. "Nothing on today?" asked Kincaid.

  "Wife takes Sunday off. Just cold pies and sausage rolls, or scotch eggs, if you like."

  Kincaid shook his head. "Can you remember what time Theo Dent left here on Thursday?"

  The landlord scratched his head. " 'Bout half past seven, I should think. Nothing special on that evening. Sometimes he'll have another half of cider if there's a darts match, or a good crowd."