Darcy gave Kincaid a puzzled look. “Everyone who knew Lydia knew her emotional history. We were distressed at the news, but not surprised. What else was there to say?”
“One might have said that it was all a bit too convenient, Lydia living up to everyone’s expectations like that. Vic began to think so. She became convinced, in fact, that Lydia did not commit suicide at all.” Slowly, Kincaid added, “She was quite sure that Lydia was murdered.”
For a moment, Darcy sat without protesting, his face expressionless, then he shook his head. “I’m afraid, Mr. Kincaid, that this is a case of the biographer taking on the characteristics of her subject. When Victoria McClellan first came to the department, she displayed every evidence of a sound and practical personality. It only illustrates the development of a rather unhealthy identification with Lydia that she should have come to embrace such nonsense.”
Kincaid smiled. “And I might have agreed with your argument, Dr. Eliot, were it not for the indisputable fact that Vic herself was murdered. Had you forgotten that?”
“I’m having a bit of a hard time with this,” said Gemma with a glance at Kincaid’s profile as he once again negotiated the Newnham roundabout. This time their destination was the Grantchester Road, and Nathan Winter’s cottage. “I had boyfriends before Rob, of course, but only one at a time.”
“And no girlfriends?” Kincaid said with a sideways smile.
“Not in that sense,” Gemma said a little primly. “Does that make me conventional?”
“Very.” The smile became a grin.
“I suppose it must be my background, then,” she said, joking, but she heard the hint of injury in her own voice.
Kincaid glanced at her. “You’re just fine the way you are, Gemma. Don’t ever think otherwise.” He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek for a moment. “If anyone’s background was conventional, it was Lydia’s,” he added as he reached for the gear lever. “A schoolmistress’s daughter from a small village.”
“What would she say to a baker’s daughter from north London?” Gemma mused. “I’m beginning to feel what Vic must have felt-I wish Lydia would suddenly appear and talk to me, tell me what she thought, what she was really like.”
“We can try asking Nathan,” Kincaid suggested as he slowed. They’d come to the scattered houses marking the beginning of the village, and across the fields to their left they could see the line of trees following the course of the Cam.
“And Adam Lamb,” added Gemma. “Of all of them, he’s the one who seems most unlikely doing… you know… what they did. There’s such a gentleness about him.”
There was no sign of Adam’s battered Mini in front of Nathan’s cottage, however, nor was there any immediate answer when they rang the bell. They rang again and waited, listening for any sound from within the house, but Gemma heard only the faint chirping of birds and the occasional swish of tires on the tarmac.
“We could try the garden,” Kincaid suggested, stepping back from the porch and looking to either side. “There seems to be a path round to the right.”
He started in that direction and Gemma followed. As she stepped carefully on the spaced flagstones, a sweet smell rose from beneath her feet. She stopped and knelt, picking some of the tiny green stems growing in the crevices of the walk. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, then held them close to her nose. The headiness of the scent made her close her eyes for a moment. “Thyme, isn’t it?” she said to Kincaid, who had stopped to watch her. “Look, there’s all different varieties.”
“Like Prince Charles’s Thyme Walk at Highgrove? That’s a bit grand for a village cottage, don’t you think?”
“I think it’s lovely.” Gemma stood and brushed at the knee of her trousers. “Makes me want to roll in it, like a cat in catnip.”
“Feel free,” he said, with an amused lift of his eyebrow.
They had come to a stone wall with a white gate set in it. He reached over its curved top to unfasten the latch, and once through the gate they found themselves in a tunnel-like passage formed by arching yews. Gemma felt the drop in temperature and shivered a little at the cool, dank smell, then they came out the far end into the back garden. Patches of sunlight skittered across the grass, dappling Nathan Winter as he knelt beside a knot-shaped bed.
He was digging furiously in the earth with a hand trowel, and they watched him for a moment before he looked up and saw them. The wind ruffled his fine white hair, but he wore only an old jumper that looked as though it had been in intimate contact with the compost heap, and dirty canvas trousers. Bright dots of color flamed in each cheek, and Gemma thought that in spite of the physical activity he looked less well than he had the day before. As they walked across the lawn towards him, he sat back on his heels. A half-dozen small green plants littered the ground beside him, their roots exposed.
“Did you like the tunnel?” he asked as they reached him. “Kit liked to play in it. He was still young enough for imaginary games of soldier or explorer-another couple of years he’d have been smoking cigarettes and kissing girls under the yews.”
Gemma felt a little chill, for Nathan spoke as if Kit were dead, too, or at least as lost to him as Vic. She glanced at Kincaid, but his face was closed, unreadable. He hadn’t spoken of Kit since the evening before, and she had no idea what he must be feeling.
Since Nathan showed no sign of getting up, Gemma lowered herself to the grass. Hoping to turn the conversation, she touched one of the wilting plants and asked, “What are you digging up?”
“Bloody lovage.” He jabbed savagely at the earth with the trowel. “I planted them for Vic, but there’s not much point now, is there?”
“Vic’s teas, of course.” Kincaid said suddenly, shaking his head. “How stupid of me.” Sinking to one knee, he looked Nathan in the eye. “You made Vic’s teas, didn’t you, Nathan? I remember Laura saying it was lovage she drank.”
Nathan stared at him. “Who else do you think would’ve mixed them? But lovage makes a broth, really, not a tea. It tastes a bit like celery.”
“Do you grow foxglove in your garden?”
“Of course there’s foxglove, just back of the lavender, along the walk.” He started to point in the direction of the flagged path that led from the tunnel’s exit to the patio, then looked back at Kincaid.
His face paled, so that the spots of color on his cheekbones stood out as if they’d been painted on. “You don’t think I put foxglove in Vic’s tea? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” He lurched to his feet and staggered slightly.
For a moment, Gemma wondered if he were drunk, but thought she would have smelled the alcohol on his breath.
Kincaid, who’d stood as well, reached out a hand to steady him. “Could someone else have put it in Vic’s teas?”
“I picked the leaves myself and hand-dried them in the kitchen. Then I put them in little zip-top bags for her.”
The pain in her neck made Gemma realize she was still kneeling. Pushing herself to her feet, she said, “What about after she took the bags to school, Nathan? Could someone have added foxglove then? Would she have tasted it?”
“I don’t know. Foxglove’s very toxic-it wouldn’t take much. And the taste of the lovage might be strong enough to disguise any bitterness.”
Gemma heard the tremble in Nathan’s voice. Shock, she thought, and illness? Reaching out, she touched his neck. He flinched away from her hand, but not before her fingers had registered the heat.
“Nathan, you’re burning up with fever. What were you thinking of, out here in this wind?” To Kincaid she whispered, “Let’s get him in the house.”
Kincaid took his elbow and urged him towards the patio. “Let’s all have a cuppa, Nathan. Where’s Adam?”
Nathan let himself be led without protest. “Finally got him to bugger off,” he said. “Told him his cardie-and-false-teeth set needed him a damn sight more than I did.” Suddenly he twisted his arm from Kincaid’s grasp and looked back. “My trowel. Have to
wash… always wash it.”
“I’ll get it,” said Gemma, and ran back for it.
“… funny thing is, now he’s gone I actually miss him,” Nathan was saying when she returned, his voice slurring a bit. “Old sod. Least he lets me talk about her, doesn’t change the bloody subject.” He swung round suddenly and looked at Gemma, his eyes fever-bright. “They think they’re being kind. But they’re not.”
They maneuvered Nathan in through the French doors on the patio and settled him in the nearest armchair. By this time, his shivering had developed into hard chills, and as Kincaid found a rug to cover him, Gemma went into the kitchen to make tea.
When Kincaid joined her, she said softly, “A hot drink may help, but I think he’s really ill. I’m surprised he’s not delirious.”
“Near enough, and getting worse by the minute,” said Kincaid. “I’ve Adam Lamb’s number in my wallet. I’m going to give him a ring.” He slipped out the French doors again, and Gemma saw him pull the cell phone from his pocket as she filled the kettle at the sink.
It took her a few minutes to find her way round the strange kitchen, and by the time she had everything assembled, Kincaid had returned from the patio. As he took the tray from her, he said in her ear, “Adam’s on his way, and he’s called the doctor to meet him.”
Then they tiptoed into the sitting room to find that all their whispering had been in vain. Nathan was fast asleep.
They sat at the kitchen table, drinking their tea and listening to Nathan’s slightly raspy breathing. “It won’t work,” said Kincaid.
Gemma had been looking round the room, thinking how pleasant it was, and wondering if Vic had come here. “What?”
“It’s too quick. If someone put foxglove in Vic’s tea at school, she’d have been ill by the time she left.”
“Did she drink the stuff at home, too?” Gemma wondered. “She might have had a cup once she arrived.”
Kincaid shook his head. “Forensics didn’t find a trace.”
“Could someone have removed it afterwards?”
“Kit’s dark shape in the garden?” He stared at her. “No one’s explained that.” His mouth tightened. “But if she were still alive, how could they have been so thorough?”
Gemma jumped as a sound like a gunshot came from the street, followed by a mechanical cough and splutter. “Adam?” she said, and downed the last of her tea.
He let himself in before they could get up, and greeted them quietly as he came through into the sitting room. He looked harried, his hair tangled from the wind, his collar askew, but Gemma felt the same immediate comfort in his presence she’d felt at the memorial service.
A close look at Nathan seemed to confirm an opinion, for he was shaking his head as he returned to them. “I’ve been afraid of this. He was ill like this after Jean died. It seems to be his way of dealing with shock.”
“Will he be all right?” asked Gemma.
“This seems to have hit him very hard. And the last time he developed pneumonia,” said Adam, then smiled and seemed to make an effort to sound more cheerful. “But he’s stubborn as an ox-this may be simply his body’s means of making him rest. And I’m sure the doctor will pump him full of all sorts of things he’ll despise when he’s coherent enough to know it.” He grinned and added, “Thanks for ringing me. I’ll wait for the doctor and stay with him afterwards.”
Gemma took a last look at Nathan as Adam escorted them towards the front of the house. With his pale hair and his flushed face relaxed in sleep, he looked surprisingly childlike.
“Adam,” said Kincaid when they reached the door. “We heard some odd things today, about Lydia and Nathan, and Darcy, and even Daphne Morris. Morgan Ashby told us-”
“It’s quite true,” Adam interrupted flatly.
Kincaid stared at him. “But I thought you and Lydia-”
“Oh, I had that honor, all right, although if I’d known what would come after I’d never have done it. Youth is no excuse for irresponsible behavior, and ours caused Lydia no end of grief.”
Gemma saw the weariness in his eyes. “Adam, you loved Lydia, didn’t you? How could you let her-”
“How could I stop her?” he said with a quick, impatient gesture of his hands. “What you don’t understand is that Lydia always got her way, no matter the consequences to her or to anyone else.”
CHAPTER 16
… I stand here for sense,
Invincible, inviolable, eternal,
For safety, regulations, paving-stones,
Street lamps, police, and bijou residences
Semi-detached. I stand for Sanity,
Comfort, Content, Prosperity, top-hats,
Alcohol, collars, meat…
RUPERT BROOKE,
from the satire “John Rump”
Kit trudged into the wind, his hands in his pockets, his head tucked, turtlelike, into the collar of his jacket. The air smelled sharply of rain, and although it was only a few minutes past four o’clock, the lowering clouds had caused the streetlamps to flicker on.
But Kit didn’t mind the damp cold or the early dusk. He’d been glad of any excuse to get out of the house-had offered, in fact, to fetch his grandmother’s favorite biscuits from the supermarket at the edge of the housing estate.
Eugenia had frowned at him from her bed, and in desperation he’d resorted to guile. Smiling falsely, he said, “Please, Grandmama, it will only take me a few minutes, and then you can have Orange Cremes with your tea. I’m sure it would make you feel ever so much better.”
He waited, holding his breath, smile pasted in place, until the crease between her brows relaxed and she pulled the mauve bed jacket closer to her throat with a little sigh.
“Mind you don’t tarry, Christopher. You can make your grandfather’s tea when he comes in. I’m sure I can’t be expected to look after everyone,” she added, and Kit almost snorted in disgust. His grandfather had been waiting on her hand and foot since Kit had been there, even though nothing seemed to please her, or to distract her for long from the box she kept close to her side. It held things from his mother’s childhood: school reports and photos, crayon drawings, medals from spelling competitions, a bit of lace from a party dress.
“Of course not, Grandmama,” he said, as convincingly as he could manage. “I’ll take care of everything.”
“Fetch my bag from the sitting room, then, and I’ll give you a pound. You’ll not need more than that, and I’ll expect to see the change.”
Leaning back against the cushions, Eugenia closed her eyes, as if her little speech had exhausted her, and Kit did as she asked before she could change her mind. She wasn’t ill enough to loosen control of her purse strings. Did she think he couldn’t be trusted to take a pound without pilfering?
She’d confined herself to bed after the funeral yesterday, much to Kit’s relief, and he suspected to his grandfather’s as well. He and Granddad had played endless games of cards in the kitchen, and for a time his grandfather’s quiet, undemanding company had eased the weight in his chest. But today an urgent phone call had sent Granddad to his insurance office after lunch, and in her husband’s absence Eugenia had become more and more fretful, fussing at Kit over trivial things until he felt he’d scream.
Now his steps slowed as the rows of brown-brick semidetached houses came to an end. He knew if he looked up he’d see the Tesco at the end of the road, but he stared determinedly at the toes of his trainers, shuffling them against the pavement. His right shoelace had come undone, and as he squatted to tie it he thought of his mum’s nagging about his laces.
Suddenly he saw her vividly before him, pushing her hair from her face with an exasperated smile. He froze, one knee up, hands stilled on his wayward laces, afraid the tiniest movement might dissolve the vision.
“You’ll break your neck one of these days, Kit, mark my words,” she said, laughing. It had been a joke with them, a symbol of all the unreasonable things mothers say to their children. As she reached out to ruffle h
is hair, her image faded, and he felt nothing but the wind.
Pain stabbed through his chest and he sobbed, his careful control shattering. Why her? Why couldn’t it have been him instead? Then he wouldn’t be here now, with this ache inside him that was more than he could bear. Kit pressed his face hard against his knee and wept.
At first the rushing sound seemed a part of the buzzing in his head, but slowly he recognized it as separate from himself. His sobs subsided as he listened. It wasn’t the wind-the wind had been constant, a moan just below consciousness. He looked up, scrubbing at his face, and then the rain was upon him in a cold wave, stinging, pelting, soaking him to the skin within seconds.
Kit pushed himself up from the ground like a sprinter and ran in a blind, instinctive dash for shelter. He heard the change in the timbre of his pounding feet as he reached the tarmac of the supermarket car park, then the Tesco loomed before him. Realizing the back was nearer, he swerved towards the rubbish bins and slid into a stack of cardboard boxes. Here the overhang of the loading bay blocked the worst of the rain, and he collapsed against the boxes, gasping.
After a moment, he pushed his sodden hair from his forehead and looked down at his dripping clothes. Grandmama would kill him. He could hear her already: “Christopher, how much sense does it require to get out of the rain? And now look what you’ve done-I’m sure you’ve ruined my carpet.”
“Bitch,” he said, under his breath. Liking the sound of it, he filled his lungs and shouted into the rain, “Bitch! Stupid cow!” But the wind sucked the sound away, and beneath it he heard something else. Was that a scrabbling beneath the boxes? A whimper? He listened, then knelt and lifted up the nearest overturned box. Two boot-button black eyes stared back at him, then the dog whimpered again and cringed away.
“It’s okay,” Kit said softly. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re wet and cold, too, aren’t you, doggie?” He went on in the same singsong voice, saying any sort of rubbish that came into his head and holding his hand out, palm up. The dog had a shaggy gray-brown coat-some sort of a terrier mix, Kit guessed-and he suspected that the matted, wiry hair hid prominent ribs.
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