All Shall Be Well

by Deborah Crombie

  “I don’t think anyone—”

  “Was she … I mean, did she …”

  Kincaid answered gently. “She seemed very peaceful. Mr. Dent, I’m afraid you’ll have to come and make arrangements.”

  “Oh, of course.” A plan of action seemed to galvanize him into disjointed efficiency. “Where have they … where is she? I can’t come until this evening. I’ll have to close the shop. I don’t drive, you see. I’ll have to get the train in—”

  Kincaid interrupted him. “I could meet you if you like, here at the flat, and give you the details then.” He didn’t want to explain over the telephone why the funeral arrangements might be delayed.

  Theo gave an audible sigh of relief. “Could you? That’s very kind of you. I’ll get the five o’clock train up. Are you upstairs or down? Jasmine never—”

  “Up.” Theo’s ignorance didn’t surprise Kincaid—after all, he hadn’t even known that Jasmine had a brother.

  They rang off and Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, the worst of his immediate responsibilities finished. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Jasmine’s brother sounded more bewildered than grief-stricken. Perhaps they hadn’t been close, although he was finding that Jasmine’s silence on a subject was not necessarily indicative. Feeling too fuzzy to think clearly about it, he wandered into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator—eggs, a shriveled tomato, a suspicious bit of cheese, a few cans of beer. He popped open a beer and took a sip, grimaced and set it down again.

  He had his shirt half unbuttoned and had reached the bedroom door when the knock came—sharply official, two raps. Kincaid opened his front door and blinked. He didn’t often see Major Keith dressed in anything except his gardening gear, and today he looked particularly natty—tweed suit with regimental tie, shoes polished to a looking-glass shine, neatly creased trilby in his hand, and an anxious expression puckering his round face.

  “Major?”

  “I just spoke to the postman. He said he’d seen an ambulance pull away from the building when he came past earlier and I wondered—there was no answer when I knocked downstairs just now. Is she all right?”

  Oh, lord! Kincaid sagged against the doorjamb. How could he have forgotten that the Major didn’t know? And they were friends, not just passing acquaintances—her comfortable afternoon visits with the Major were one thing, at least, that Jasmine had discussed. “I’m not sure you’d call them ‘chats’,” she’d said, laughing. “Mostly we just sit, like two old dogs in the sun.”

  Kincaid pulled himself together, sure that his face was stamped with dismay. “Come in, Major, do.” He ushered the Major in and waved vaguely in the direction of a chair, but the Major turned and stood quietly facing him, waiting. His eyes were a surprisingly sharp, pale blue.

  “You’d best tell me, then,” he said, finally.

  Kincaid sighed. “She didn’t answer the door to her nurse this morning. I came along and forced the lock. We found her in bed. She seemed to have died peacefully in her sleep.”

  The Major nodded, and an expression flickered across his face that Kincaid couldn’t quite place. “A good lass, in spite of—” He broke off and focused on Kincaid. “Well, never mind that now.” The remnants of his Scots burr became more pronounced. “Will you be seeing to things, then?”

  Another assumption of an intimacy with Jasmine he hadn’t felt he merited, Kincaid thought curiously. “Temporarily, at least. Her brother’s coming up tonight.”

  The Major merely nodded again and turned toward the door. “I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

  “Major?” Kincaid stopped him as he reached the door. “Did Jasmine ever mention a brother to you?”

  The Major turned in the act of jamming his hat over the thinning hair brushed across his skull. Thoughtfully, he fingered the gray bristles that lay on his upper lip like thatch on a cottage roof. “Well now, I can’t say as she did. She never said much. Remarkable for a female.” The blue eyes crinkled at the corners.

  After watching the Major descend the stairs, Kincaid shut his door and leaned against the inside. Even working all night on a nasty case didn’t account for the leaden feeling in his limbs and the cotton-wool in his head. Shock, he supposed, the mind’s way of holding grief at bay.

  He fastened the chain on the door, rammed home the bolt, and lifted the phone out of its cradle as he passed. Shedding clothes, he stumbled into the bedroom. Flies buzzed heavily in and out of the open window. A bar of sunlight lay diagonally across the bed, as substantial as stone. Kincaid fell into it and slept before his face touched the rumpled sheet.

  The temperature dropped quickly as the sun set and Kincaid woke with the draft of cool air against his skin. The bit of southern sky he could see through the still-open window was charcoal tinged faintly with pink. He rolled over and looked at the clock, swore, and stumbled out of bed in the direction of the shower.

  Fifteen minutes later he’d managed to get himself into jeans and pullover and was dragging a comb through his damp hair when the bell rang. All his expectations of a male version of Jasmine Dent vanished when he opened the door.

  “Mr. Kincaid?” The man’s question was hesitant, as if he were afraid he might be rebuffed.

  Kincaid examined him, taking in the oval face and small bone structure, but there any resemblance to Jasmine ended. Theo Dent wore an extra layer of padding on his small frame, had a halo of curly brown hair shot with gray, round John Lennon specs and eyes that were blue rather than brown.

  “Mr. Dent.” Kincaid held out his hand and Theo gave it a quick jerk. His palm felt damp and Kincaid had the impression that his hand trembled. “Do you have a key to your sister’s flat, Mr. Dent?”

  Theo shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid not.”

  Kincaid thought for a moment. “You’d better come in while I hunt something up.” He left Theo standing with his hands clasped in front of him, rocking on his heels, while he rooted around in the bedroom bureau drawer. When he’d worked Theft one of his regulars had given him a set of lockpicks which he had never had occasion to use.

  He held up the ring of delicate wires as he returned to the sitting room, and Theo’s eyebrows rose questioningly above the rims of his spectacles. “I didn’t think to look for a key when I locked up again earlier,” Kincaid said in explanation. “These ought to do the trick.”

  “But how … I mean, it was you that found …”

  “Yes. I picked it a little less elegantly this morning, I’m afraid. With a paperclip.” If Theo Dent wondered how Kincaid came by a set of lockpicks, he didn’t ask.

  They descended the stairs and Kincaid made short work of the cheap lock. As he opened the door and stepped aside, his arm brushed against Theo’s and he felt the tremor running through it. He paused and touched Theo’s shoulder. “Listen. It’s all right, you know. There’s nothing to see. You don’t even have to go in if you’d rather not. I just thought you might need to look through her papers.”

  Theo looked up at him, his blue eyes blinking earnestly. “No, I want to go in. I must. Forgive my being silly.” He stepped past Kincaid into Jasmine’s flat. His momentum carried him to the center of the sitting room, where he came to a halt, his arms hanging at his sides. He gazed at his sister’s things, the jade and brass, the brightly colored silk hangings, and the neatly tucked hospital bed taking up more than its share of space.

  To Kincaid’s consternation tears began to slip beneath the gold spectacles and run unchecked down Theo’s face. Standing among his sister’s belongings he looked both pathetic and incongruous—the tweedy jacket over the pinstriped shirt and red braces seemed almost a parody of Englishness. He reminded Kincaid of the dressed-up teddy bears in shop windows.

  “Here.” He took Theo’s arm and guided his unresisting body over to a dining chair. “Sit down.” Kincaid hunted for some tissues on the table by the bed, and the sight of Jasmine’s book and reading glasses sitting tidily next to the tissue box made him feel rather hollow himself. �
�Jasmine kept some whiskey in the cupboard,” he said as he handed Theo the tissues. “We could both use something to drink.”

  Theo shook his head. “I’m not much of a drinker.” He sniffed, took off his spectacles and wiped his face, then blew his nose. “But I suppose just a small one won’t hurt.”

  Kincaid splashed a half-inch of whiskey in two glasses and handed one to Theo. “Cheers.”

  “Thanks. And please call me Theo. Under the circumstances anything else is rather absurd.” They drank in silence for a few minutes, some of Theo’s color returning. He buried his face in the tissues and blew, then pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and gently patted the tip of his nose.

  “It’s just that I didn’t quite believe it,” Theo spoke suddenly, as if continuing a conversation Kincaid hadn’t begun, “until I came in and saw the flat empty, and the bed here in the sitting room. I didn’t know about the bed.”

  Kincaid frowned. Jasmine had ordered the hospital bed several months ago. “How long since you’d seen your sister, Theo?”

  Theo took another sip of the whiskey and contemplated the question. “Six months, I think. About that.” He saw Kincaid’s look of surprise. “Please don’t get the wrong impression—what did you say your name was? I wasn’t quite taking things in when you phoned.”

  “Duncan.”

  Theo nodded a little owlishly, and Kincaid thought he had not exaggerated his low tolerance for alcohol. “It’s not that I didn’t want to see my sister, Duncan, but that she didn’t want to see me. Or rather,” he leaned forward and waved his glass at Kincaid in emphasis, “she didn’t want me to see her. After she knew she was ill she didn’t encourage me to visit.” Theo leaned back in his chair and sighed. “God! She could be so stubborn. I rang up every week. Once, when I phoned and begged her to let me come she said, ‘Theo, I’m losing my hair. I don’t want you to see me.’ I can’t imagine her without it. Was she—”

  “She did lose her hair, but it grew in again when they stopped the treatments. Quite thick and dark, like a boy’s.”

  Theo considered this, nodded. “She always wore it long, since she was a girl. She was quite proud of it.” He fell silent and closed his eyes for so long that Kincaid began to think he had dozed off. Kincaid had reached over to take the tilting glass from Theo’s hand when he opened his eyes and continued as if he hadn’t paused.

  “Jasmine always looked after me, you see. Our mother died when I was born, our father when I was ten and Jasmine fifteen. But Father wasn’t much use. It was always just the two of us, really.” Theo took another sip of his drink and patted his nose again with the handkerchief. “She told me that the treatments had helped, that she was doing all right. I should have known better.” He leaned back and closed his eyes again for a moment. When he opened them and spoke, his words were surprisingly bitter. “I think she couldn’t bear to be at a disadvantage, couldn’t bear not to be in charge. She robbed me of my only chance to repay her, to look after her the way she looked after me.”

  “Surely she didn’t want to distress you,” Kincaid suggested gently.

  Theo sniffed. “Perhaps. But it would have been easier than this … this leaving things unfinished.”

  Deciding it unwise to offer a refill, Kincaid gathered up Theo’s empty glass along with his own and washed them out in the sink. He felt unexpectedly light-headed himself, and remembered that the last thing he’d eaten had been stale sandwiches at his desk in the early morning hours. Theo’s voice interrupted his thoughts before they wandered too far in the direction of food.

  “The really odd thing is that she phoned me yesterday—that was odd in itself as she almost always waited for me to ring her—and said she wanted to see me this weekend. I thought she must be improving. She really sounded quite well. We made arrangements for Sunday, as I couldn’t close the shop on Saturday.”

  A cruel trick to play on her brother, Kincaid thought, if Jasmine had intended to kill herself. He hadn’t thought her capable of malice. Still, what did he know of the relationship between them, or about Theo, for that matter? He turned around and leaned against the sink, folding his arms across his chest. “What do you sell, Theo? Jasmine never said.”

  Theo smiled. “Junk, really. As in j-u-n-q-u-e. Things not quite old enough to be considered antiques and not expensive enough to be considered much else. Anything from buttons to butter dishes.” His face fell. “Jasmine helped set me up.” He stood and began walking restlessly about the room, touching things. “I don’t know what I shall do now.” He shook his head, then turned and faced Kincaid again, holding a small porcelain elephant from Jasmine’s writing desk. “What’s to be done, about Jasmine, I mean? There will have to be arrangements made … I’m afraid I don’t know where to start. Do you know what she wanted?” Theo’s brow creased and he continued before Kincaid could speak. “Were you a close friend of my sister? I’m sorry—I’ve been so caught up in myself—I ought to have realized. It must have been very difficult for you.”

  Kincaid hadn’t been prepared for sympathy. “Yes,” he said, answering both question and statement, then took a breath and straightened up. It couldn’t be put off indefinitely. “I was a friend of Jasmine’s, but I’m also a policeman. When Jasmine’s nurse and I found her this morning we assumed she had died of natural causes. Then Jasmine’s friend Margaret arrived and told us that she had agreed to help Jasmine commit suicide.”

  Theo’s pacing had taken him back to the dining chair. He collapsed in it as suddenly as if his legs had been cut from under him. “Suicide?”

  “Margaret said that yesterday Jasmine told her she’d changed her mind, but now she thinks Jasmine just intended releasing her from her obligation.”

  “But why? Why would she kill herself?”

  “Perhaps she didn’t want to become too dependent on anyone, or suffer any more than necessary.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me.” Theo’s eyes had lost their focus, and he absently stroked the porcelain elephant he still held. “That would be like her.”

  “Theo, I had the coroner’s office request a post mortem.” Seeing Theo’s look of incomprehension, Kincaid continued. “In a situation like this it’s necessary to find out exactly what did happen.”

  “Is it?” Theo asked, still sounding puzzled.

  “Well, it’s the usual procedure if there’s any uncertainty as to cause of death.” It seemed to Kincaid that the second shock had rendered Theo unable to cope, and the whiskey probably hadn’t improved matters. “I’m afraid the funeral arrangements will have to wait until afterwards. Perhaps you could get in touch with her solicitor?” Theo looked at him blankly. “Do you know her solicitor’s name?” Kincaid asked.

  Theo made an effort to collect himself. “Thomas … Thompson … I’m not sure.” He stood up, still clutching the elephant. “Look. You’ve been very kind. Would you mind looking after things here a bit longer? I think I’d like to go home.”

  Kincaid wondered if he would make it. “Shall I walk with you to the tube station?”

  Theo shook his head. “No. I’m fine, really.” He stood up, and only as he held out his hand to Kincaid did he seem to realize he still held the small elephant. “It was mine as a child,” he said in answer to Kincaid’s questioning look. “I gave it to Jasmine when I moved into my first digs. Didn’t think it fashionable, or grown-up, I suppose.” He gave a self-deprecating snort and placed the elephant very carefully back in its position on Jasmine’s desk. “You’ll let me know?” he asked, turning to Kincaid and shaking his hand.

  “Yes. As soon as I hear.”

  Theo turned and let himself out, leaving Kincaid in doubtful possession of Jasmine’s flat.

  Kincaid stood for a moment organizing his thoughts, determined to ignore the rumblings of his stomach a bit longer. Theo Dent’s revelation that Jasmine had arranged to see him this weekend, after a six month hiatus, made Kincaid feel even more uneasy about the whole business. Had Jasmine lied to both Margaret and Theo? In Marg
aret’s case it might have been motivated by kindness, but surely not in Theo’s.

  Kincaid stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed as he looked around the familiar room. It seemed to him that Jasmine’s quiet presence had provided an anchor in more than one life—both Margaret and Theo had wailed “What shall I do now?”, as bereft as abandoned children, yet he had no idea what Jasmine had felt for them, or anyone else, for that matter. Her presence was already as elusive as smoke, and he thought he had known her quite well.

  He went to the kitchen sink, intending to dry and put away the whiskey tumblers. His foot nudged something and he looked down curiously. It was the bowl of food he had put out that morning for the cat—untouched, dried and crusted over. “Damn and blast,” Kincaid swore. He had forgotten about the cat. He’d meant to speak to Theo about it, hoping Theo would take the beast home, or make arrangements for it.

  He knelt and peered under Jasmine’s bed. The dark, hunched shape of the cat remained exactly where he had seen it last, and he wondered if it had moved at all. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” he coaxed, which elicited as little response as before. Returning to the sink, Kincaid scraped the dried food into the bin and refilled the bowl. He shoved this offering as far under the bed as he could reach, then stayed down on knees and elbows, contemplating the cat. He felt guilty as well as helpless in the face of the animal’s grief, and he had no experience with cats.

  “Look,” he addressed the cat, “that’s all I can do for now. Whether or not you eat is up to you. I can’t go on calling you ‘kitty’, and I’m not going to call you ‘Sidhi’ or anything equally absurd.” The cat closed its eyes, whether from relaxation or boredom Kincaid couldn’t guess. “Sid. From now on you’re just plain Sid, okay?” He took silence as assent and got up, dusting off his knees.

  He must find a key if he were to continue looking after the cat—he couldn’t go on playing the amateur burglar. Where had Jasmine kept her keys? He thought she hadn’t often used them since she became ill, but they must have been easily accessible. The small secretary seemed the obvious choice, and his search did not take more than a few minutes. He found a single key on a monogrammed brass key ring, tucked away in a wooden catch-all box on the desk’s surface.