All Shall Be Well

by Deborah Crombie

  The dreams started again. Woke up sweating and sick, didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Wrote his mum again last week. No answer. There’s no one else I can ask. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t think, shouldn’t remember, shouldn’t write.

  Sometimes it seems it all happened to someone else, it’s so distant and distilled, then the dreams come.

  * * *

  A red-letter day today. My first day as junior assistant in the borough planning office. Pay’s not much, but it’s the first position with a chance for advancement.

  This morning I got off the bus a stop early and walked through Holland Park. Gusts of wind scooped the leaves along the walks, people gripped their coats tighter and scurried with their heads down, but I felt exhilarated, as if I owned the park, owned the city, owned time even, and could stretch it as much as I wished.

  Glorious as it was, at the same time I stood outside myself, aware of the experience, wondering if I could hold on to it, imprint it in my memory. Things fade so quickly. Already it’s less intense, the edges are blurring, the joy bittersweet.

  Everything he touches turns to disaster. A club this time, the latest everything, a sure success. Only it wasn’t quite the right neighborhood, or there wasn’t enough cash to keep it afloat through the critical period, or his partner raked the profit off the top. There’s always something.

  Am I to blame? If I hadn’t left when I did … he wasn’t strong enough to care for May when she got ill. She died in his arms. I didn’t know. Theo said she looked so frightened. I couldn’t have done anything for May, but I might have been some comfort to Theo.

  Think Theo might be using drugs. What to say? Better or worse that I meddle? All his money’s spent, trickled away like dust. Minimum wage work in the packing room of a Chelsea gallery—some friend took pity. He asks me for painting lessons. What can I do?

  This is all there is. Told John to bugger off. Politely. Wasn’t his fault. Nothing works. It’s never the same.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Dr. James Gordon opened his inquest into the death of Jasmine Dent at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. The courtroom trapped the previous night’s chill, and smelled faintly of stale cigarettes. Kincaid felt thankful that in London coroners were usually doctors with law qualifications and most of them could be counted on to conduct an inquest with dispatch. County coroners, often small-town solicitors with more knowledge of local politics than medical jurisprudence, were sometimes tempted to grandstand. Kincaid had dealt with Dr. Gordon before and knew him to be fair, conscientious, and more to the point, intelligent. Gordon’s blue eyes, as faded in color as his thinning, sandy hair, were sharp with interest. He presided at a scarred oak table in the small room, facing Kincaid, Gemma, Margaret Bellamy and Felicity Howarth. All except Gemma had been called to give evidence, and no one else was in attendance.

  They waited in silence as Gordon studied the papers spread in front of him. Kincaid glanced at the three women, thinking how clearly their postures reflected their personalities. Gemma looked both relaxed and alert, hands clasped loosely in her lap. In the gray light filtering through the courtroom’s single window, her hair shone copper-bright against the dull olive of her jacket, and when she felt Kincaid’s gaze, she looked up and smiled.

  Margaret, although reasonably well-combed and groomed, twisted a quickly disintegrating tissue between her fingers. When she’d first walked into the room, Kincaid had noticed that her skirt hem drooped in places as if small boys had swung on it as it hung out to dry.

  Felicity Howarth wore charcoal instead of navy, but was otherwise as neatly dressed as he’d first seen her the day of Jasmine’s death. She sat finishing-school straight in the hard wooden chair, hands folded over her briefcase-like handbag. Her red-gold hair lacked some of its previous luster, however, and the lines around her eyes were more evident. Kincaid remembered Gemma telling him, when they had compared notes that morning, that Felicity was carrying a particularly heavy case-load just now.

  “Mr. Kincaid.”

  Gordon’s voice jerked Kincaid’s attention back to the table. “Sir?”

  “Mr. Kincaid, I understand it was you who requested the Coroner’s Office to arrange an autopsy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rather unusual circumstances, I should think, a senior officer with CID personally requesting an autopsy.” Gordon’s blue eyes searched Kincaid’s face, but he continued before Kincaid could answer. “I assume you’ve sent the file to the Director of Public Prosecutions?”

  Kincaid nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Grounds for bringing proceedings against anyone?”

  “Not as yet, no.”

  Gordon sighed. “Well, there’s not much I can do other than issue a burial order.” He scanned their faces. “Next of kin here?” At Kincaid’s negative shake of the head, Gordon raised his eyebrows, but said only, “I’ll put the certificate of death in the post, then.”

  Kincaid sensed a sudden easing of the atmosphere in the room. He hadn’t been aware of any previous tension, and even now couldn’t pinpoint the source. Meg or Felicity? Because of the nature of her work, Felicity might very well have been called to give evidence before. Meg was the least likely to have been aware of the brevity of an opening inquest, or to have known that the coroner had no legal power to accuse anyone.

  “But,” Gordon said loudly, bringing all eyes back to his face, “I would like to clarify a few points to my own satisfaction.”

  Crafty old devil’s playing it for all it’s worth, thought Kincaid, and smiled.

  “Mrs. Howarth,” said Gordon, “you visited Miss Dent last Thursday, is that correct?”

  Felicity nodded. “In the morning. I helped her with her bath, checked her catheter, just the usual things.” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “There’s not always a lot you can do for terminal patients while they’re still ambulatory. It’s more a matter of monitoring their progress, making sure they’re comfortable.”

  “Did her state of mind seem out of the ordinary to you? Was there any evidence of depression? Nervousness?”

  Felicity’s smile held no humor. “Terminally ill patients are quite often depressed, Doctor. But no, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day. No indication that Jasmine might be contemplating taking her own life.”

  Unperturbed by Felicity’s barb, Gordon continued his questioning. “And this was your normal routine? One daily visit?”

  “Yes …” Felicity paused, her brow furrowing. “Although sometimes I would stop by on my way home in the evenings, if I’d had a case nearby. I told Jasmine I might be back that day. I’d forgotten.”

  “And did you stop by again?”

  “No.” She said it softly, regretfully. “It was too late by the time I’d finished my rounds.”

  “Miss Bellamy.” Gordon transferred his sharp gaze to Meg, and Kincaid saw her hands jerk convulsively in her lap. “I understand Miss Dent discussed suicide with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gordon had to lean forward to hear her. “Did you understand the seriousness of what she asked you to do?”

  Meg looked up at him, her face flushing blotchy red, her hands still. “She didn’t actually ask me to do anything. She only wanted me to be with her. She didn’t want to die alone. Can any of you understand that?” Meg looked at them all defiantly. No one held her gaze. After a moment she looked down, and said with her eyes fixed once again on her lap, “It doesn’t matter. She was alone in the end, after all.”

  “You saw her last Thursday as well?” asked Gordon, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

  “After work. I’d brought her a curry for her supper. I knew she wouldn’t eat much, but she usually made an effort if she thought I’d gone to any trouble.” Meg looked up at the coroner and spoke as if they were the only ones in the room. “I’d never have left her if I’d thought … never. She seemed … You would have to have known Jasmine. Even when she talked about suicide, she di
d it so matter-of-factly. She never said, ‘Meg, I’m scared,’ or ‘Meg, I don’t want to be alone.’ Even facing death, she never let you breach that reserve. But that day, last Thursday, she was different. I don’t know how to explain it.” Face scrunched up in concentration, hands poised as if she might pull the words out of the air, Meg stopped and took a deep breath. “Open. The walls were down. I could feel her affection for me so clearly. And she was happy. I could feel that, too.”

  “Miss Bellamy.” Now Gordon’s voice was actually gentle. Kincaid raised an eyebrow. He would have thought James Gordon impervious to appeals to his sympathy, but Margaret Bellamy seemed to inspire a protective response even in the most crusty of souls. “Miss Bellamy,” Gordon began again, “Such behavior can be consistent with suicide. A decision made, the person feels relief, even euphoria.”

  Meg’s chin came up. “So I’ve been told. But I don’t believe it. Not Jasmine.”

  “Mr. Kincaid. You found no direct evidence indicating suicide?”

  “No, sir. We found two vials of morphine in the refrigerator, but there was not enough missing from either to correlate with the amount found in Jasmine Dent’s body, and no empty containers in the flat.” Kincaid stopped and looked at Gordon while he organized his words. “She was quite weak. Stairs were difficult for her. I suppose it is within the realm of possibility that Jasmine could have given herself a lethal dose of morphine, disposed of the container outside the flat—perhaps by burying it in the garden—and put herself carefully back to bed to die. But I think it highly unlikely. And she was an organized and methodical person. I don’t believe she would have killed herself without leaving some record, in case there were questions.”

  “Life insurance?” asked Gordon. “She might have gone to great lengths to make her death appear natural if it affected the validity of her policy.”

  “Suicide exclusion clause had expired. It didn’t matter.”

  Gordon, his lips pursed, tapped the papers in front of him into a neat stack. “Well, Mr. Kincaid, in good conscience, I don’t believe I can rule death by suicide. This inquest is therefore adjourned under section 20 of the Coroners Act, so that the police may investigate further.”

  Kincaid nodded. “Thank you, Dr. Gordon.”

  As they all stood and moved toward the door, Gordon stopped Kincaid. He smiled for the first time, his formality dropping away like a shed cloak. “Might have made things easier for you if I had given a suicide verdict. I’d take a sociopath over one of these quiet domestic affairs any day—good forensic detail, blood spatters, DNA typing, psychological profiling. It’s a bit of a hobby of mine,” he added rather diffidently as he finished shuffling the papers into his briefcase. “Historic cases, too. Jack the Ripper. Crippen. Suppose I missed my calling. Should have gone into forensic pathology.” Gordon buckled up his briefcase and sketched them a quick salute as he turned toward the door. “Well, ta. Best of British luck to you sorting this one out.” The courtroom door creaked shut behind him.

  Kincaid and Gemma looked at each other until they both started to laugh. “Who would have thought?” said Gemma.

  “Bit like seeing Maggie Thatcher with her knickers down,” Kincaid added, still grinning as they followed Gordon from the courtroom.

  The corridor was empty, the only sound the squeak of their own shoes on the lino. Both Margaret Bellamy and Felicity Howarth had disappeared. “They weren’t inclined to hang around and chat, were they? Considering you’ve arranged to meet with them at—” Gemma glanced at her watch, “eleven o’clock.”

  “Not exactly a social occasion,” he said, opening the door for Gemma as they stepped out into the gray London morning. Kincaid absently took her arm as a taxi roared past and sent up a spray of greasy water. “I feel like I’m stage-managing a bad farce with an unwilling cast. ‘The Reading of the Will’,” he intoned sepulchrally. “I think this may have been an absurd idea, but—” he paused as they reached the Midget and unlocked Gemma’s door, “I do have power as Jasmine’s executor to inform the beneficiaries any way I see fit. And if I’m going to go through with it, I’d like you to be there. You can watch them while I direct the action.”

  Sid made a beeline for Gemma, purring and twining his sleek black body around her ankles until she had to stand still to keep from falling over him. “Slut,” Kincaid addressed him bitterly. “When I’m the one who’s fed you.”

  “You have looked after him properly.” Gemma knelt to stroke the cat. “He’s certainly made a dramatic recovery.”

  Kincaid switched on Jasmine’s lamps and had just opened the blinds when the first knock sounded at the door. Theo Dent, the Major, and Felicity Howarth stood huddled together in the awkward silence common to strangers in a lift. Kincaid greeted them and had closed the door and taken their coats when a second knock announced more arrivals. He admitted Margaret Bellamy, who was out of breath and considerably more disheveled than she’d appeared at the inquest, and behind her, to Kincaid’s delight, Roger Leveson-Gower. Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes across the room and knew they shared the same thought—for five people to exhibit such promptness was decidedly unnatural. They must be very anxious indeed.

  “Something wrong with Her Majesty’s post,” said Roger, immediately taking center-stage, “that you felt it necessary to cause everyone such inconvenience? Or do you just like to play petty dictator?”

  Kincaid smiled. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

  Roger draped a proprietary arm across Meg’s shoulders, and she seemed to shrink into herself as he touched her. “Someone had to make sure Margaret wasn’t bullied.”

  “And you were the obvious choice?”

  “Well, of course,” Roger said, the dig going over his head. Or rather past his ego, Kincaid thought nastily.

  Ignoring Roger, he turned to the rest of the group. Felicity had pulled out one of the dining chairs and sat in her usual erect posture, but something about the set of her head telegraphed weariness. The Major took a cue from her and sat as well, turning his cap in his hands, his blue eyes fixed on Kincaid’s face. Theo stood alone, nervously popping his braces with his thumbs.

  Kincaid spoke to them all. “This shouldn’t take long. I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you. I know you think this is a bit dramatic but it seemed the most practical way to go about things.” He paused, making sure he had their full attention. “And it seemed right to me that Jasmine’s intent should be conveyed to you in a more personal way. A letter comes in the post—” he shrugged, “you might as well have won the pools. These are not anonymous gifts. Jasmine thought very carefully about what she wanted to do for each of you. In a way, this is her last communication.” Kincaid swallowed against a tightening in his throat. He hadn’t rehearsed what he would say and his own words took him by surprise, as did the sense of finality they carried.

  Meg’s eyes filled with tears and she moved out of Roger’s encircling arm. Kincaid started to speak to her, hesitated and turned to Theo instead. “Jasmine didn’t make you a cash bequest, Theo, but she did arrange to pay off the mortgage on the shop. She also made you the beneficiary of a tidy life insurance policy.” Emotions flitted across Theo’s round face—disappointment, dawning relief, and finally consternation, as if he weren’t sure whether he’d been patted or punished.

  “Meg. Except for a couple of small bequests, Jasmine left you the bulk of her estate, which includes the equity in this flat and her stock and bond investments.” Roger pressed his lips together and blinked, but he didn’t quite manage to hide the flash of pleasure on his face. Meg simply looked more miserable than ever.

  “Mrs. Howarth and Major Keith,” Kincaid continued, “Jasmine left each of you a thousand pounds, in ‘appreciation of your friendship’, and she also made a donation to the RSPCA. That’s it, I’m afraid. I have copies for each of you,” he gestured at the neat stack he’d placed on the dining table. “If you’d just—”

  “It’s not right.” Felicity’s face had gone almost as pale as the w
hite blouse she wore under her charcoal jacket, and she shook her head vehemently from side to side. “I can’t accept that. It was my job to look after her, I never expected—”

  “Nor I.” The Major stood, crumpling his tweed cap between his blunt fingers. “Not fitting. Bad enough for her to be taken so soon, but to benefit by her death—” He stopped, looked round the room as if someone might give him the words to continue, then said, “Excuse me,” turned abruptly and let himself out the door.

  In the moment of silence that followed, Kincaid heard the vibration from the slam fade away.

  Meg took a step toward the door. “Oh, can’t someone do something? Talk to him? I’m sure Jasmine never meant for him to take it so … she only wanted to thank him for his kindness.”

  “Don’t be daft.” Roger’s contempt was evident. “I’m sure he’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

  Kincaid spoke to Felicity. “I don’t know if you can legally refuse a bequest. You’ll have to discuss it with Jasmine’s solicitor. You would certainly have the prerogative of using the money as you pleased—donate it to a charity, perhaps, if that made you feel more comfortable.”

  “Nothing is going to make me feel comfortable about this. I simply will not accept it.” Felicity’s rising voice was the first crack Kincaid had seen in her professional demeanor.

  Meg knelt before her chair and looked earnestly up into her face. “Jasmine talked so much about how good you were to her, how much she appreciated your honesty. ‘No nonsense’ was the way she put it.” Smiling at the memory, Meg continued. “She liked that. You were the one person she could trust to play it straight with her. Most of us failed her. It’s much easier to pretend it will just go away.” Meg leaned back on her heels and looked away, picking at the fabric of her skirt. “Even when she talked about killing herself, I never quite believed in it—couldn’t make it seem real. It was like something in a movie or a play.” She looked around at all of them except Roger. “Do you see?”