All Shall Be Well

by Deborah Crombie

  “They were furious.” Kincaid grinned and Margaret smiled back a little unwillingly.

  “Yes.”

  “How long has it been?”

  Margaret finished the last sandwich and licked the tips of her fingers, then rubbed them dry on her sweatpants. “Eighteen months now.”

  “And no one’s been to see you in all that time?”

  She flushed and said hotly, “That malicious old biddy. I’d swear she keeps a list of anyone who—” Margaret dropped her head into her hands and leaned forward. “Oh Christ, what difference does it make? I feel sick.”

  Too much food, thought Kincaid, eaten too quickly on an empty stomach. “Keep your head down. It’ll pass.” He spied a worn face flannel and towel, folded on a shelf above the bed. “Where’s the loo?” he asked Margaret.

  “Next landing,” she said indistinctly, her face now pressed against her knees.

  Kincaid took the flannel downstairs and soaked it in cold water, and when he returned Margaret raised her head just long enough to press the cloth against her face. He moved restlessly to the window, wishing he had Gemma’s skill at offering practical comfort.

  The view—a small, weedy garden with an enormous pair of overalls swinging on the line—didn’t hold his attention for long. Turning back to the room, Kincaid took note of Margaret’s few possessions. The table held a handful of cheap jewelry in a dish, and a few cosmetic and lotion bottles. Next to the gas ring were a chipped plate and bowl, a saucepan and some cutlery. All the utensils were jumble sale quality, the cheapest necessities for a first move from home. The shelf above the bed held a radio, some dog-eared paperbacks and a framed photograph.

  Kincaid stepped closer to study it. An older man, balding and hearty-looking in a tweed jacket, arm around his wife’s slender shoulders, the three grown children grouped before them. A brother and sister, blond, good-looking, both radiating assurance, and between them Margaret, hair askew, smile lopsided.

  “Mum and Dad, Kathleen, and my brother, Tommy.”

  Kincaid made an effort to wipe any sympathy from his face before he turned. Margaret watched him, waiting, he sensed, for some expected comment. Instead, he sat down on the bed and said, “It must have been tough, those first few months on your own.”

  “It was.” Margaret looked down at the damp flannel in her hands and began folding it into smaller and smaller squares. “There wasn’t anyone until I met Jasmine. I got a job in the typing pool in the Planning Office. When I did work for her she was always kind to me, but not”—a pause while she thought—“familiar, if you know what I mean.” She looked up at Kincaid for assent, and he nodded. “A little distant. But then she got ill. She took leave for treatment, and when she came back you could tell she’d gone down, but no one spoke to her about it. They all acted like her illness didn’t exist.” Margaret looked up at him through her pale lashes and smiled a little at her own nerve. “So I asked her. Every day I’d say ‘How are you?’ or ‘What are they giving you now?’, and after a while she began to tell me.”

  “And when she left work?” Kincaid prompted.

  “I went to see her. Every day if I could. No one else did.” Margaret sounded indignant even now. “Oh, they’d club together on cards or a basket, but no one ever put themselves out to visit her.”

  “Did Jasmine mind?”

  Margaret’s wide brow creased as she thought about it. “I don’t think so. She didn’t seem to have any really close friends at work. No one disliked her, but they weren’t chummy either.” Margaret smiled at Kincaid a bit ironically. “She talked about you most often.”

  Kincaid stood up and took the few steps to the window. He had put off telling her the p.m. results long enough, and he tried to frame a gentle way to tell her that Jasmine had not died quietly in her sleep.

  “Look,” Margaret’s voice came from behind him, “I know you didn’t come here just to look after me. Jasmine didn’t keep her promise, did she?”

  Kincaid thought Margaret might have read his mind. He sat down opposite her again and searched her face. “I don’t know. Her system contained a massive amount of morphine.”

  Margaret slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes. Tears welled from beneath her eyelids and ran down the sides of her nose. After a moment she leaned forward and rubbed her face with the crumpled flannel. “I should never have believed her.” She barely whispered the words as she rocked her body backwards and forwards.

  “Look, Meg. If Jasmine were determined to kill herself, there’s no way you could have prevented her. Oh, for one night, maybe, but not indefinitely.” When Margaret continued rocking, eyes closed, he leaned closer. “Listen, Meg. There are some things I need to know, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

  The rocking slowed, then stopped. Margaret opened her eyes but stayed hunched over, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.

  “Tell me why Jasmine needed your help.”

  “She didn’t—” Margaret’s voice caught. She reached for the cold dregs of her tea and swallowed convulsively, then tried again. “She didn’t. Not really. I helped her figure the dosage—she was morphine dependent so we knew it would take a lot—but she could have done it herself. There was enough morphine, because she’d been maintaining the level she actually used while telling the nurse she needed her dosage increased. And the catheter would have held traces anyway.”

  “Then why?” Kincaid asked again, holding her gaze with his.

  “I don’t know. I suppose she just didn’t want to be alone at the last.”

  Had Jasmine given in to weakness by asking Margaret’s help, wondered Kincaid, and then found unexpected strength? He shook his head. It was possible, probable, logical, and yet he still couldn’t believe it.

  “What is it?” asked Margaret, sitting up a bit.

  “Did Jasmine have—” Kincaid stopped as the door opened soundlessly. A man stepped into the room, regarding Kincaid and Margaret with an expression of amused contempt. Margaret, sitting with her back to the door, frowned at Kincaid in bewilderment and said, “What’s the—”

  “Well.” The man spoke, the single syllable dripping with unsavory implications.

  Margaret jerked at the sound of his voice and leapt to her feet, her face flushing an unbecoming, splotchy scarlet. “Rog—”

  “Don’t get up, Meg. I didn’t expect you to be entertaining.” Apart from a brief glance in Margaret’s direction, all his attention was fixed on Kincaid.

  Returning the scrutiny with interest and an immediate dislike, Kincaid saw a slender man of middle height, in perhaps his late twenties, wearing designer jeans and an expensive white cotton shirt open part way down the chest, cuffs turned back. He wore his light red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his features were clearly cut. He was, Kincaid thought wryly, smashingly good-looking.

  Margaret stood rigidly, gripping the back of her chair, and when she spoke her voice was high and uncontrolled. “Roger, where have you been? I’ve been wait—”

  “Why the panic, Meg?” Roger didn’t move from his slouching stance in the middle of the room, and made no effort to touch or comfort Margaret. “Don’t you think introductions are in order?”

  Kincaid took the initiative before Margaret could blurt anything out. “My name’s Kincaid.” He stood and held his hand out to Roger, who shook it with no great enthusiasm. “I’m a neighbor of Margaret’s friend Jasmine Dent.”

  “Jasmine’s dead, Rog. She died on Thursday night. I couldn’t reach you anywhere.” Margaret trembled visibly.

  Roger’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so? And you came to tell Margaret?”

  “I came to see how she was getting on,” Kincaid said mildly, leaning back against the edge of the table and folding his arms.

  “How kind of you.” Roger’s public-school accent expressed sarcasm well. “Poor Meg.” For the first time he took a step toward her, reaching out and pulling her stiff body to him in a brief embrace. He swiveled her around toward Kincaid agai
n and rested a hand lightly on the back of her neck. “It must have been a shock, her going sooner than anyone expected.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Jasmine died from an overdose of morphine,” Margaret said, watching Kincaid’s face as she spoke, seeking support. Roger let her go abruptly and she moved away from him.

  “That’s too bad, Meg. I’m sorry she—”

  “Duncan knows about the suicide,” she jerked her head toward Kincaid, “so don’t bother to say you’re sorry, Rog. I know you’re not. No need for you to worry now.”

  “Worry? Don’t be absurd, Meg.”

  Roger’s voice was light, almost playful, but Kincaid sensed wariness replacing the nonchalance. “There is another possibility, you know,” Kincaid said into the tension that vibrated in the room. Both faces turned toward him, Meg’s bewildered, Roger’s alert. “Someone might have given Jasmine help she didn’t want.”

  “I don’t …” Margaret began, then looked at Roger who, Kincaid thought, understood all too well.

  The silence lengthened, until Kincaid straightened up and stretched. “I’m afraid I never caught your last name,” he said to Roger.

  Roger hesitated, then volunteered grudgingly, “It’s Leveson-Gower.” He pronounced it “Loos-n-gor”.

  How fittingly posh, Kincaid thought. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Margaret. “I’ll be off, then. Are you sure you’ll be all right, Meg?”

  Margaret nodded uncertainly. Roger wrapped an arm around her waist, and with the other ran his fingernails slowly up her bare arm. Kincaid saw her nipples grow hard under her thin cotton shirt. She looked away from him, flushing.

  “Meg will be just fine, won’t you, love?” said Roger.

  Kincaid turned back to them as he opened the door. “By the way, Roger, where were you on Thursday night?”

  Roger still held Margaret before him, part shield, part possession. “What’s it to you?”

  “I’ve a bad habit of liking people to account for themselves. I’m a copper.” Kincaid smiled at them both and let himself out.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The east side of Carlingford Road lay in deep shadow when Kincaid drew the Midget up to the curb. He rolled up the windows and snapped the soft top shut, then stood for a moment looking up at his building. It seemed unnaturally still and silent, the windows showing no light or signs of movement. Kincaid shrugged and put it down to his own skewed perception, but halfway up the stairs to his flat he realized he hadn’t seen the Major since yesterday evening.

  His heart gave a little lurch of alarm and he told himself not to be an ass—there was no reason anything should have happened to the Major. Death hadn’t stayed lurking in the building like some gothic specter. Nevertheless, he found himself back downstairs, knocking on the Major’s door.

  No answer. Kincaid turned back to the street, thinking to go through Jasmine’s flat to check the garden, when he saw the Major turn the corner into the road. He walked slowly, hampered by the two shrubs he carried, a plastic tub tucked under each arm.

  Kincaid went quickly to meet him. “Thought you might need some help.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Kincaid, accepting one of the five-gallon tubs, heard the breath whistling through the Major’s nostrils.

  “Long pull uphill from the bus.”

  “What are they?” Kincaid asked, shortening his stride to match his step to the Major’s.

  “Roses. Antiques. From a nursery in Bucks.”

  “Today?” Kincaid asked in some surprise. “You’ve carried these from Buckinghamshire on the bus?”

  They had reached the steps leading down to the Major’s door. Setting down his tub, the Major pulled off his cap and wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. “Only place to get ’em. Himalayan Musk, they’re called.”

  As he set down his own tub, Kincaid looked doubtfully at the bare, thorny stems. “But couldn’t—”

  The Major shook his head vigorously. “Wrong time of year, of course. But it had to be something special.” At Kincaid’s even more perplexed expression, he wiped his face and continued, “For Jasmine. It’s the scent, you see, not like those modern hybrid teas. She loved the scented flowers, said she didn’t care what they looked like. These bloom once, late in spring. Masses of pale pink blooms, smell like heaven.”

  It took Kincaid a moment to respond, never having heard the Major make such a long speech, nor say anything remotely poetic. “Yes, you’re right. I think she would have liked them.”

  The Major unlocked his door and stooped for the tubs. “Let me give you a hand,” Kincaid said, lifting one easily.

  The Major opened his mouth to refuse, hesitated, then said, “Right. Thanks.”

  Kincaid followed him through the door of the flat. His first impression was of unrelieved brown. The Major flipped on a light switch and the impression expanded into neat, clean and brown. A faded floral wallpaper in tints of rose and brown, brown carpet, brown covers on the inexpensive settee and armchair. No paintings, no photographs, no books that Kincaid could see as he followed the Major through the sitting room. The only splash of bright color came from the gardening magazines and catalogs stacked tidily on the pine coffee table.

  The Major led Kincaid through the kitchen and opened a door into the concreted area which ran beneath the steps descending from Jasmine’s flat. To the right, in the corner formed by the fence and the wall of the building, the Major had built a covered potting area. Kincaid stuck his head in the door and was rewarded with a rich, humic smell so strong it caught in his throat.

  The Major climbed the steps to lawn level and put down his tub. Kincaid did the same and stood looking at the garden, struck by the contrast between the Major’s flat and this small oasis of color and perfection. He wondered what sustained the Major during the winter months when nothing grew except a few sturdy perennials.

  After a moment in which the Major seemed lost in contemplation as well, Kincaid asked, “Where are you going to put them?”

  “There, I think.” He pointed at the brick wall at the rear of the garden, the only unoccupied territory that Kincaid could see. “They’re climbers. They’ll take it over.”

  “Let me help.” Kincaid was suddenly moved by a desire to participate in this memorial, more fitting than any service spoken by a stranger.

  The Major hesitated before replying, a habit, Kincaid began to think, when anyone threatened to disrupt his solitary routine. “Oh, aye. There’s another old spade in the shed.”

  Kincaid moved the tubs to the back of the garden, and when the Major returned with the spades and pointed out a spot among the pansies and snapdragons, he started to dig. They worked in silence as the shadows moved along the garden.

  When the Major judged the holes deep enough, they placed the roses carefully, filling in around them and tamping down the earth with their hands. After years of living in city flats, Kincaid felt a grubby satisfaction he hadn’t experienced since making mud forts in his Cheshire childhood.

  The Major stood leaning on his spade, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s done, and done well. She’d be pleased, I’ll wager.”

  Kincaid nodded, looking up at the darkened windows of Jasmine’s flat. A level above, the sun flashed off his own. “I’m famished. Come out with me and have something to eat,” he said impulsively, telling himself he was taking advantage of an opportunity to question the Major, and not influenced by the thought of his empty flat. He waited patiently now for the Major’s reply, counting the seconds to himself.

  The Major looked all around the garden, consulting the tulips and forsythia. “Aye. We’d best wash up, then.”

  They chose the coffee bar around the corner on Rosslyn Hill, settling in to the vinyl booth and ordering omelets with chips and salad. The Major had brushed his sparse hair until his scalp shone as pink as his face, and Kincaid marveled at the generation which still put on a tie for a casual Saturday night meal. He himself had swapped hi
s cotton shirt for a long-sleeved rugby shirt, his concession to the cooling temperature.

  When their beer arrived and they had drunk the top off, the Major wiped the foam from his mustache and asked, “Did the brother come and take charge of the arrangements, for the funeral and such?”

  “The brother came, all right, but he didn’t feel up to taking over much of anything. And there won’t be a funeral just yet.”

  The Major’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise. “No funeral? Why ever not?”

  “Because I ordered a post mortem, Major. There were indications that Jasmine might have committed suicide.”

  The Major stared at him for a heartbeat of shocked silence, then thumped his glass down so hard beer sloshed over the lip. “Why couldn’t you just let her go in peace, man? What difference did it make to anybody if the poor wee soul made things a bit easier for herself?”

  Kincaid shrugged. “None, Major, and I would have let it go, if that were all there was to it. But some things weren’t consistent with suicide, and I’m sure now that her death wasn’t natural. I’ve had the p.m. report.”

  “What things?” asked the Major, fastening on the pertinent statement.

  “Jasmine did intend suicide, we know that. She asked her friend Margaret to help her, but then she told Margaret she felt differently and had changed her mind. She left no note, no explanation. Surely she would have done that for Margaret. And,” Kincaid paused long enough to sip from his pint, “she made arrangements to see her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in six months, tomorrow.”

  The Major nodded along with every point, but when Kincaid finished said, “I canna believe someone would’ve harmed the poor lassie. She wouldn’t have hung on much longer anyway.” His blue eyes were surprisingly sharp in his round face.

  The waitress arrived bearing their plates, giving Kincaid a reprieve. The Major doused his chips in vinegar, then poured HP sauce on his omelet. Kincaid wrinkled his nose as the vinegar fumes reached him. Bachelor habits, he thought. He’d be doing that himself in a few years.