“She won’t be the only one. All the guests are present and accounted for now, and I’ve had the P.C. round them up in the sitting room. They’re going to be tired and fretful and wanting their tea, so the sooner we get this over with, the better.
“Let’s have the Hunsingers first and get them out of the way. I understand from Emma Mackenzie that they were in the pool with the children all morning.” Raskin slid around Cassie’s desk and went into the bar, returning a moment later with a very subdued Maureen Hunsinger.
Maureen gave Kincaid a tremulous smile as Raskin offered her the chair. She perched stiff-backed on its edge, her white, crinkled-cotton dress ballooning about her. Kincaid thought she should have looked ridiculous-her hair even more frizzy than usual from her hours in the pool, her face red and puffy from weeping, but he found a certain dignity in her posture and in her obvious grief. A voluptuous and rather erratic madonna, he thought, and suppressed a smile.
“John’s with the children. Will you be wanting him, too?”
“Probably just to sign your statement,” Raskin answered diplomatically.
“It’s been terrible for the children. First Sebastian, now this. What are we to tell them that makes any sense? We thought this morning that if they had fun in the pool they would forget what had happened there, but now-” Maureen sounded near to tears again. “I wish we’d never come here.”
“I understand how you must feel, but I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to stay on a bit longer, at least until we complete the formalities.” Raskin’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, and Kincaid saw Maureen relax a little in her chair. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you did this morning?”
“The children woke us. We had breakfast, then after a bit we all went down to the pool. Emma joined us-”
“For how long?”
“Oh, about an hour, I suppose. She said she’d had enough, then not too long afterwards the children began to get hungry again, so we came up ourselves. We were just changing when Janet Lyle came and said something was happening-she didn’t know what.” Maureen leaned forward in entreaty. “Please tell me exactly what’s happened. I know Penny’s… dead, the constable told us. But what happened to her? Is it like… Sebastian?”
Raskin spoke formally, the policeman’s best emotional defense, Kincaid thought wryly. “Miss MacKenzie suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. I’m afraid that’s all we can tell you just now.”
Maureen sank back in her chair, and it seemed to Kincaid that with the confirmation of her worst fears, all the emotional tension drained from her. She took her leave quietly, but when she reached the door she turned and spoke. “I’m going to see about Emma. Someone must. She shouldn’t just be left on her own like this.” The set of her mouth brooked no argument.
They came and went in quick succession, with varying degrees of cooperativeness.
Cassie slid into the visitor’s chair, slipped off her pumps and tucked her feet up under her. It was as deliberate a demonstration of ownership, thought Kincaid, as he’d ever seen. She glared balefully at the neat stack of papers on her desk. “You do realize how long it will take me to put that right again?”
Peter Raskin allowed himself a hint of a smile. “And I thought I’d done you a favor.”
“Where’s Chief Inspector Nash?” Cassie’s eyes went quickly to Kincaid.
“Attending the autopsy,” Raskin said. “Rank hath its privileges. Now, if you wouldn’t mind-”
“I was here all morning. Working.”
“Did-”
“Oh, I used the downstairs loo once or twice, if that’s the sort of thing you want to know. I straightened the sitting room and the bar. Patrick Rennie was working at the sitting room desk. And Eddie Lyle came through for something or other. I saw no one else.”
“Admirably succinct, Miss Whitlake,” said Raskin, unruffled by her assumption of the interview.
“Call me Cassie. Please.” Cassie switched the seductiveness on full power, and Kincaid watched with interest to see how Raskin would respond. She stood suddenly and leaned over her desk, forcing Raskin to move back as she opened the center drawer. “Sorry.” After rummaging for a moment, she produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Secret vice. Doesn’t impress the customers.” Her hand trembled as she struck the match, and Kincaid thought that for all her aplomb, her nerves betrayed her.
“The Superintendent here,” again that swift glance at Kincaid, “thinks I ought to fess up. And I’d much rather confess to you, Inspector, than Chief Inspector Nash.” Cassie awarded Raskin a floodlit smile.
“Do go on.”
“I said that I spent Sunday night alone in my cottage. Well, it’s not true. I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t in my cottage. I’d met Graham Frazer in the empty suite… oh, around ten, I guess, and we were there until nearly midnight.” Kincaid marveled at her ability to turn a potentially embarrassing revelation into an almost flirtatious challenge.
“Did you do that often?” Raskin asked, then colored slightly as he realized how it sounded. “I mean, the two of you.” Not much better, thought Kincaid, amused to see a crack in the imperturbable Raskin’s composure.
“Well, we’ve had a thing, you might say, for the last year or so.” Cassie drew on her cigarette and leaned forward confidentially. “Graham didn’t want anyone to know. Custody problems. Of course, I would have said something right away if I’d known it would be important. I hope,” her voice became intense, “it won’t have to go any farther.”
Raskin stood and moved toward the door. “I can’t make any promises, of course.” He sounded ingratiatingly smitten. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Miss Whitlake.” Raskin’s emphasis fell on the formal address. He’d had the last word, after all.
“How’d you manage to worm that tidy bit of information out of her?” Raskin asked Kincaid when he had shut the door.
“My irresistible charm.” Kincaid grinned. “That, and a bull’s-eye guess. I told her I knew they’d been together, but I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t admit it. Figured I had nothing to lose.”
“Apparently not. Let’s have Mr. Frazer in next and see what he has to say about it all.”
Graham Frazer began as intractably as he meant to end, with a bulldog glare at Kincaid. “Stopped sitting on the fence, then? Give you a sore bum, I should think.” Angela, following in his wake, looked mortified.
“Daddy-” Frazer ignored her and sat in the chair, leaving his daughter to stand, awkward and hesitant. Kincaid stood and offered her his barstool with a flourish. He won a small smile.
“I was working in the suite all morning. Catching up on some paperwork,” Frazer said in response to Raskin’s question. “Angie was sleeping. That’s what teenagers do, isn’t it?”
Angela bristled on cue. “Daddy, that’s not-”
“Fair,” Raskin finished for her, and smiled. “What is your business, Mr. Frazer?”
“I’m in assurance. A bloody bore, but there it is. It pays the bills.”
“I see.” Raskin carefully straightened his notes. “And you didn’t leave your suite for any reason before ten o’clock this morning?”
“I did not.” Even the bullying humor had left Frazer’s voice, and he offered nothing further. “Now if you’re quite-”
“Angie,” Kincaid interrupted, “what time did you wake up this morning?”
She looked at her father before she met Kincaid’s eyes. “About ten, I think.”
“Angie,” said Raskin, “you can go now, if you’ve nothing to add to your father’s statement.” Frazer started to rise. “Mr. Frazer, if you don’t mind, I’ve a few more questions to ask.”
“I do mind. Do I have a choice?”
Raskin waited until Angela had gone out and closed the door behind her. “You can have a solicitor present if you wish, of course, but these are very informal inquiries, Mr. Frazer. We are not accusing you of anything.” Frazer deliberated, then nodded once. He’s de
cided he’s better off not to make a fuss at this point, thought Kincaid.
“Mr. Frazer, Miss Whitlake has informed us that the two of you were together on Sunday evening, from around ten o’clock until midnight. You had both previously made statements to the contrary. According to Miss Whitlake you urged her not to mention this as you were concerned about your child-custody hearing.”
Graham Frazer’s flat, heavy face didn’t register emotions easily, but Kincaid thought his utter stillness indicated the extent of his shock. After a long moment, he spluttered, “She told you that? Cassie? She was the one who insisted-” He fell silent, then said softly, “Bitch. I knew she was trying something on.”
“Are you saying that you were not the one to suggest lying about your activities that evening?” Some of Raskin’s polite formality had dropped away.
“Yes. I mean no. It wasn’t my idea. Why should it make any difference to the damned custody hearing? And even if it did, I’m not sure I’d care-I’m beginning to think Marjorie’s welcome to her. No, Cassie was the one worried about her reputation. Begged me not to embarrass her.” Frazer gave a mirthless snort. “She’s the one who’s made me look a fool.”
Edward Lyle entered ahead of his wife, and only remembered to offer her the chair when Raskin greeted her. Kincaid quietly fetched another stool and resumed his unobtrusive seat. Lyle seemed subdued, less bristly with righteous indignation than Kincaid had seen him before. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Inspector.” Lyle ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Most unfortunate, most unfortunate about poor Miss MacKenzie.”
Unfortunate? Kincaid thought it an odd word choice. The morning had been rather more than unfortunate. Raskin let the comment fade into silence before he spoke. “If you would just tell me what you and your wife were doing this morning, I’m sure that will be sufficient, Mr. Lyle.”
“Well, we breakfasted as usual-I like a proper breakfast, you know. Then I walked down to the village for a paper, left Janet writing some letters in the suite. After I returned I had a look at the paper, and we had begun going over some maps, planning the afternoon’s outing, when all the commotion began. That’s all, Inspector. I must say-” he began, his voice sliding into the querulous range, when Raskin broke in.
“Is that correct, Mrs. Lyle?” Lyle drew breath to protest, but his wife began to speak.
“Yes… of course. I was writing to Chloe, our daughter. She’s at boarding school. It’s such a shame we weren’t able to acquire time that coincided with Chloe’s holidays. She would have-” She glimpsed her husband’s disapproving expression. “Sorry. How stupid of me. I’m glad she’s not here.” Her brow furrowed and she took a breath, as though nerving herself to speak. “Inspector, this is terrible, what’s happened, but I don’t understand what it has to do with us.” She turned toward Kincaid as she spoke, including him in her appeal, the severity of her thick, dark hair softened by the lightest dusting of gray, her skin clear, her dark eyes expressive.
Kincaid thought suddenly what an attractive woman she was-or would be, if she didn’t wear that constant air of anxious diffidence. He remembered the burst of animation he’d seen as she sat in the tea shop with Maureen, and he wondered what she would have been like if she had not married Edward Lyle. And why had she married him? That, Kincaid considered, was the real question. Fifteen, twenty years ago, had she seen some promise, now dissipated, in this weedy, self-important man?
“Mrs. Lyle,” Raskin answered, interrupting Kincaid’s musing, “we must ask everyone the same questions, just in case they might have seen or heard something helpful. I’m sure you must understand that.”
“We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary at all, Inspector,” said Lyle. “Nothing at all.”
Patrick Rennie, always the gentleman, solicitously seated his wife in the chair. Marta looked as if she needed all the support she could get-she was obviously not one of those lucky few who escaped hangovers. The flaxen hair hung limply, pulled back from her face with a plain elastic band.
“Marta,” Patrick explained, “spent the morning in bed, as she didn’t feel well.” His expression earnest and pleasant, he didn’t look at his wife as he spoke. He had gone down to the sitting room to work on a speech, he told them, so as not to disturb her.
“Did you stay there all morning, Mr. Rennie?” asked Raskin.
“Oh, I popped in and out. You know how it is. Said ‘hallo’ to Cassie. Ran upstairs for a book-quotations come in handy when you’re writing a speech. Lyle came in and waffled about for a bit. Ruined my concentration, just when I was getting to the good bit. Didn’t see anyone else. Oh, and Inspector,” there was just a hint of playfulness in his voice, “I did see you and your chief come through. Saw the car pull up through the sitting-room window.” Cocky bastard, thought Kincaid.
“Mrs. Rennie?” asked Raskin.
She hadn’t been able to keep her hands still, fretting for something more than her tea, Kincaid imagined. She licked her lips before she spoke. “I slept all morning, just as Patrick says. Felt bloody awful. Flu or something. I’d just got up and started coffee when Patrick came in and said there was a lot of running up and down stairs, slamming doors, something going on.” She fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. “I’m sorry about Miss MacKenzie. She seemed a nice person.” An inadequate eulogy if he’d ever heard one, thought Kincaid, but at least Marta Rennie had spared a thought for Penny.
“Miss MacKenzie seemed rather upset when she left us last night. She couldn’t have-”
“No, Mr. Rennie,” Raskin answered his unspoken question, “I’m afraid there’s no possibility the injuries could have been self-inflicted.”
CHAPTER 12
“That’s the lot, then.” Peter Raskin yawned and stretched.
“And just as damned useless as the last time,” Kincaid said in disgust. “Five minutes, that’s all it would have taken. Any one of them could have nipped down to the tennis court and back up again. Except the Hunsingers, of course,” he corrected himself, “and I never considered them very seriously anyway.”
Raskin sat up in the swivel chair and studied Kincaid for a moment. “What about Miss Emma MacKenzie? And Hannah Alcock?”
“Oh, I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility. Emma could have followed her sister down to the tennis court-”
“A true domestic,” Raskin interrupted. “You know that sometimes it’s those years of togetherness that blow up-”
“Over what? The goats? And you know as well as I do that most domestic violence is precipitated by alcohol and occurs on the spur of the moment.” Kincaid’s words came more sharply than he intended. “Anyway, I don’t believe it. Emma was devoted to Penny. She’ll be lost without Penny to look after and worry over,” he raised his hand as Raskin started to speak, “and don’t give me that mercy-killing line, either. Not with a tennis racquet.”
“All right,” Raskin conceded. “I’ll admit it’s pretty unlikely. What about Miss Alcock?”
Kincaid shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. “I don’t like it, Peter. I doubt we’ll get a more exact time of death from the pathologist than the circumstances provide. According to Emma, Penny left the suite about half past eight. Miss Alcock came to see me about the same time, stayed for…” he trailed off, thinking, “maybe half an hour. My sergeant called very shortly after she’d left, and I looked at my watch then. It was five past nine. You bumped into Miss Alcock in the car park, coming to fetch us, at-”
“Nine-thirty. Half-hour news had just finished on the car radio.”
“So…
“She would have had time,” Raskin said quietly. “Just. And I saw her coming across the lawn from the tennis court path. The sensible thing for her to do would be to tell me she’d just found Penny’s body.”
“But I don’t believe it.” Kincaid stood and began to pace restlessly around the cramped office. “It’s too pat. And what possible motive could she have?”
“What motive could any of them have? None of it
makes any damned sense,” Raskin said in exasperation. “And Chief Inspector Nash is not going to leave the issue, you know,” he added.
“I know.” Despite his opinion of Nash, Kincaid had a hard time defending his certainties even to himself. He just couldn’t swallow the idea that Hannah had sat confiding in him over coffee and then had gone down and cold-bloodedly murdered Penny. Was it his pride at stake, his judgement, or simply his belief in her basic human decency? Could he be depended upon to do his job thoroughly, if it were his show to run? He didn’t fancy explaining his reservations to Chief Inspector Nash. “Where’s your Super, anyway, Peter? A Chief Inspector in charge of a murder investigation isn’t normal procedure.”
“In hospital recovering from viral pneumonia.” He pulled a face.
“Poor you. That calls for some sort of commiseration.” Kincaid stepped into the bar and returned with two glasses and two bottles of beer.
“Thanks. I guess we’ve done about all we can here tonight,” Raskin looked at his watch, “and I’d best be off home.” But he sat watching the foam subside on his beer.
“I just realized I don’t know a thing about you, Peter. Married? Kids?”
“Yes. Two. A boy and a girl. And I’m missing my son’s football practice right now.” He glanced again at his watch. “Not that he’s not used to it,” Raskin sighed. “I’m sure it’s good for him-disappointment builds character, right?” Sardonic amusement flickered in his face again. “And I know all about you. The Chief Inspector ran a thorough check, hoping he’d dig up some skeletons to rattle. What he did find gave him terrible indigestion. One of the Met’s wonder boys, darling of the A.C.”
They laughed, then sat drinking in companionable silence. It came to Kincaid that he dreaded spending the evening alone, and any contact with those in this house remained charged with doubts he couldn’t resolve.
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