A Share In Death

by Deborah Crombie

  “And what’s it to you, laddie?” Nash replied, his black-currant eyes sweeping over Kincaid with displeasure.

  “Such as it is, sir.” Peter Raskin spoke into the pause. “It seemed the best option. Couldn’t take over Miss Whitlake’s office indefinitely. And it was a bit cramped.” Raskin seemed to hear himself chattering, opened his mouth and closed it again.

  Kincaid crossed the room and carefully placed the polythene bag on the table before Nash. “The children found this in the umbrella stand this morning.”

  Nash picked up the bag and held it to the light. “A handkerchief? Well, well, it quite takes my breath away.” He smiled derisively. “What will the wonder boy think of next?”

  “Look, Inspector,” Kincaid said as patiently as he could, asking himself just how much his own instinctive dislike fueled Nash’s hostility. “The handkerchief has what looks to be a bloodstain in one corner. It could have been used to protect the tennis racquet from fingerprints. It’s certainly worth sending to the lab.”

  “If there had been anything worth finding my scene-of-crime people would have found it.” Even the sarcastic pretense of civility vanished from Nash’s voice, as did the heavy Yorkshire accent. “You have no jur-”

  Kincaid’s temper erupted. “If your scene-of-crime team had been doing its job properly they would never have missed this. I’m sick and tired of your deliberate opposition, Chief Inspector. The only reason you’re in charge of this investigation is that your Superintendent is laid up in hospital flat on his back. If you won’t cooperate and aren’t able to keep your feelings about me from obscuring your judgement in this case, I’ll see you never have this much authority again.” Nash’s face flushed such an unhealthy shade of purple that Kincaid felt suddenly afraid he’d gone too far-the man might have a stroke on the spot.

  “You’ll do no-” The phone rang, its insistent burr startling them all. Nash grabbed the receiver. “Nash here. What-” Whatever diatribe he had been about to utter died on his lips. “Sir. Yes, sir, he’s here now.” His eyes darted to Kincaid. “Yes, sir. I think that’s clear. Every courtesy.” Nash replaced the receiver in the cradle with great deliberation, looked first at Raskin, then Kincaid before he could bring himself to speak. “It seems that the Chief Constable has had a chat with the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. The Chief Constable thinks you might be of some help to us in this investigation, and the A.C. has given his approval. Could it be,” the heavy sarcasm was directed at Kincaid, “that the A.C. was the one did the calling, not the other way around?”

  “Could be,” Kincaid answered noncommittally. “Chief Inspector, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. I’d just like to have access to the investigation.”

  “You mean you’d like to interfere whenever and wherever it bloody well suits you?”

  “Something like that.” Kincaid smiled.

  “I may have to let you stick your toffee-nosed face into my business, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Nash responded, his heavy face set implacably. “You.” He turned toward Peter Raskin, whose studied neutrality wouldn’t save him from becoming next in line as whipping boy.

  “Chief Inspector,” Kincaid interrupted before Nash could vent his temper on Raskin’s undeserving head, “What about last night’s autopsy report?”

  Nash shuffled the papers on the table until he found the manila folder, then scanned the contents. “According to the pathologist, she died sometime between the time she was last seen and the time she was found.” Kincaid saw a flash of humor in Nash’s eyes, evidence, he hoped, of a tiny thawing.

  Kincaid snorted. “Very hopeful, that. What else?”

  “Penny MacKenzie’s skull seems to have been unusually thin. Great physical strength would not have been required to strike the blow. He estimates the assailant to have been of average height, male or female. If a woman struck the blow she probably used both hands.” Nash leaned back and the fragile dining chair creaked alarmingly. “It occurs to me, Superintendent,” he said conversationally, a smile stretching the corners of his mouth, “that your lady friend, Miss Hannah Alcock, found herself very conveniently placed to discover poor Miss MacKenzie’s body.” Nash’s détente had been brief.

  The phone rang again before Kincaid could reply. He appreciated the reprieve. Wandering absently about the room as Nash spoke, Kincaid stopped at the bedroom door, where Cassie and Graham said they had met the night Sebastian died. He remembered the flash of light he and Hannah saw through the window. Ten to midnight, Cassie had said. A long time for what Cassie had portrayed as a hurried sexual encounter. What else had gone on between them? Had they argued?

  The names ran through Kincaid’s head-Cassie and Graham, Hannah and Patrick, Cassie and Patrick… The idea that came to him seemed plausible. Might Hannah, like Penny, have found out something that cast suspicion on someone else? And might Hannah, like Penny, be withholding it out of some sense of honor or fair play?

  Nash finished his call, and Raskin took advantage of the opportunity to speak. “I’ll just get this off to the lab, sir.” He swept the plastic bag off the table. Kincaid met his quizzical glance and thought they might call themselves even in favors rendered.

  “Thanks,” Kincaid said, then turned to Nash. “I’ll be off, then, Chief Inspector, if there’s nothing else? I’ll be around the house if you should want my advice.” He lifted a hand and left the room before the idea of taking his advice could give Nash apoplexy.

  As he crossed the hall his eye fell on the umbrella stand in the entry, a brass bucket with a red-and-green paper print of a hunting scene wrapped around it. Gay red-jacketed riders jumped elongated horses over fences. Before them the hounds ran, then clustered on their quarry. The fox lay dying.

  Hannah answered her door quickly, with the air of someone expecting bad tidings. She had taken more pains with her appearance than yesterday, yet the skillfully applied makeup didn’t hide the unnatural pallor of her skin or the shadows under her eyes.

  “Duncan.” She spoke his name in a breathless rush, Kincaid caught the same flicker of disappointment in her eyes that he imagined he’d seen that first night, as he stood at her table and introduced himself. “What… Is there…”

  “No,” he said softly, answering her unspoken question. “There’s no news. I only came to see about you.” And what he could see made him distinctly uneasy.

  “Come in, come in. Let me make you some coffee. I was just having some.” Hannah turned abruptly and went into the kitchen, bumping her arm against the counter as she rounded it.

  Hannah’s suite, as Kincaid had discovered yesterday, was not the mirror image of his own. The size and placement of the rooms differed slightly, as did the color scheme-dusty pinks rather than dusty greens. Nor had it acquired, as had his, the lived-in look of a near-week’s worth of occupancy. No books or clothes scattered absentmindedly about the sitting room, no dishes left drying on the draining-board.

  Kincaid stood awkwardly in the doorway of the galley kitchen, watching Hannah’s jerky movements, so different from her usual self-contained gestures. Whatever had been troubling her, Kincaid guessed, she had resolved on a course of action and was working herself up to it. “Can I help?” he asked, as Hannah spilled coffee grounds across the counter.

  “No. I can manage. Thanks.” She swept the spilled coffee into the filter and put together the small drip pot. “There. Won’t be a sec now.” Hannah’s gaze drifted across Kincaid’s face and away, not meeting his eyes. The coffee pot had not quite finished dripping when she yanked the filter out and splashed coffee into a cup.

  “Come on. Let’s go sit down.” He placed a hand between her shoulders and guided her into the sitting room, wondering all the while how he could ease into what he wanted to say. Sitting down didn’t seem to calm Hannah-she sat hunched on the sofa’s edge and her hands trembled as she lifted her cup.

  “Cold?” Kincaid asked.

  “Me or the coffee?”

  “Weak. Your humor, not
the coffee.” Kincaid smiled and she seemed to relax a bit. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “has Patrick Rennie ever said anything to you about Cassie Whitlake?”

  “No,” she answered, puzzled, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time, “why should he? I mean,” her response grew more forceful, “why should he speak to me about Cassie, and why should he know anything to speak of? You don’t think that Cassie… had anything to do with…”

  “I think that Patrick might know quite a bit about what Cassie has or hasn’t had anything to do with-might know, in fact, far more about Cassie Whitlake than he’d like anyone to guess, especially his wife.”

  “Patrick… and Cassie?” The patches of rouge on Hannah’s cheekbones flared scarlet against the sudden chalkiness of her skin.

  “Oh, I think so.” Kincaid spoke conversationally, sipping his coffee. “You see, Cassie’s been having an affair with Graham Frazer for some time, but I gather there’s been a change recently. A new lover, someone with real prospects, a rising star. And Cassie has become desperately anxious that no one find out she’s still seeing Graham.”

  He paused, gauging Hannah’s reaction. She sat very still, the coffee cup sagging, forgotten, in her fingers. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s tried to end it with Graham, and he’s being stubborn about it. He strikes me as the stubborn type.

  “Now,” Kincaid continued, “give the situation a half-degree twist and look at it again. Cassie doesn’t want Patrick to find out about Graham, right? End of romance, end of prospects, real or imagined. But what about Patrick? What would it mean to Patrick if anyone, especially his wife, found out about Cassie? Marital squabble? Messy divorce? Scandal in the gutter press?”

  He tilted his head questioningly, as if Hannah had expressed some skepticism. “Old-fashioned, you think? Not scandal enough to ruin a budding political career? Maybe not. But consider this-Marta Rennie’s parents are very politically active in the constituency where Patrick is standing his by-election. In fact, they’re Patrick’s biggest financial supporters. I’d say it’s not the best time for them to find out he’s been cheating on their darling daughter. Wouldn’t you?”

  “No.” The word was barely a whisper. Hannah seemed to gather herself, then spoke again. “No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Patrick would never-” Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “How could you say such things? Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Hannah, listen to me.” Kincaid leaned forward, reached out a hand toward her. She jerked away from his touch as if she’d been stung. “Hannah, if you know something about Patrick Rennie, something you saw or heard, something he told you, you mustn’t keep it to yourself. It could be dangerous. I don’t want to see you end up like-”

  “No! That’s absurd. I won’t even listen to it.” She stood up, her breath coming in short gasps. “Just get out.”

  Kincaid stood and they faced one another. He could see her body trembling, feel her breath against his face. “Why, Hannah? What loyalty do you owe him? What has Patrick Rennie ever done for you?”

  For a long moment he held her gaze, then the fury seemed to drain from her. She half turned from him, her head drooping as if her slender neck no longer had the strength to support it. “Patrick Rennie,” she said simply, “is my son.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The small entrance building of Rievaulx Abbey sold tickets and souvenirs as well as serving as a sort of mini-museum. A glass-covered scale model of the complete abbey invited scrutiny. The walls were covered with drawings and photographs detailing the abbey’s history, but Hannah passed them by with only a glance. She’d done her homework last night, after Patrick mentioned he intended coming here.

  Then it had simply seemed an opportunity to talk with him alone, skirting the dangerous edge of revelation. She’d meant to wait until their relationship had progressed a bit from its first spontaneous warmth-she’d meant to build trust and confidence between them, lead into it gently, ask him, perhaps, how he felt about his real mother.

  Now her mind shied away from all her rehearsed scenarios, unable to fasten on anything coherent. But tell him she must. Somehow hearing Kincaid’s suspicions had forced her hand, made it impossible for her to continue the relationship under false pretenses. How could she expect Patrick to be honest with her if she hadn’t been honest with him? And she must hear his own account, judge for herself the truth of it. Could her son be capable of murder? She couldn’t bear not knowing.

  Hannah pushed through the building’s rear exit and stepped onto the grass. Her first glimpse across the long, green lawns quite literally took her breath away. She felt the sharp prickle of tears against her eyelids, blinked them back.

  Before her Rievaulx Abbey lay cupped in a natural hollow at the foot of Rievaulx moor, held like a jewel between brilliant green grass in the foreground and the red-golds of the trees covering the slope of the moor. The morning’s sun had given way to a soft, low overcast, and the moisture in the air seemed to saturate the colors with an elemental vividness.

  She crossed the lawn slowly, her eyes on the soaring arches of the choir. Six hundred monks had lived here, eating, sleeping, praying, tending their sheep and their gardens. She could almost hear them singing as they worked, such was the timeless, dream-like quality of the place. She knew for a fleeting instant how close they must have felt to their god, and a shaft of envy stabbed through her.

  Patrick sat on a ruined sill with his back against one of the choir arches, his hair bright against the weathered stone. The nubby, brown wool of his Shetland sweater might almost have been the rough brown cloth of a monk’s habit, but the smoke that curled from the cigarette he held between his fingers ruined the image. She’d never seen him smoke.

  He showed no surprise at her presence, speaking only after she had stood there a moment, watching him. “I thought you might turn up. Magnificent, isn’t it?” He indicated the choir around them with a tilt of his head. He dropped the cigarette and ground the butt with his toe. At her look he said, “I don’t around Marta. I suppose I’d lose the advantage of my righteous superiority. Politicians,” he smiled, his voice lightly self-mocking in a way she hadn’t heard before, “never let go an advantage.”

  “Is that why you wanted to make sure no one found out about Cassie?” Hannah said, surprised to find her own voice steady. She hadn’t meant to start that way, hadn’t meant to accuse him outright, but the words tumbled from her mouth of their own accord. “What were you willing to do, Patrick, to make sure Marta didn’t find out? To make sure you didn’t lose Marta’s parents’ support and your election with it?” Hannah found her breath coming in little gasps and she began to shiver as if with a chill.

  Patrick’s brows lifted in surprise. He started to speak, then took a few steps toward the choir’s center and stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets. After a moment he said, evenly, “I realize we’re all suspect. Any fool would. But somehow I didn’t expect an attack from you. How,” he continued without turning, “did you come up with this… this fantasy?”

  “Duncan Kincaid thinks Sebastian found out about you and Cassie and threatened to expose you-whether for money or just because he hated Cassie, I don’t know.”

  He turned to face her now, still in that deliberately casual manner. “It won’t wash, Hannah. Do you seriously think that Marta would leave me over a little bit of marital infidelity? That she’d go running back to her parents and her set in Sussex with her tail between her legs and admit she couldn’t keep me? Or that her parents would publicly admit their daughter’s humiliation? Not bloody likely. It’s not only my ambition we’re dealing with here, it’s theirs as well and they’ll not willingly let it go. Even confronted with irrefutable evidence they’d all turn a blind eye because that’s what suits them. Oh, Marta would make catty little jabs at me and up her gin consumption, but that’s as far as it would go.”

  “But what-”

  “You think I’m callous, don’t you?” Patrick’s ton
e was surprisingly bitter. “You think that I chose Marta and her parents because of what they could do for me?” He stared at her challengingly for a long moment, but she didn’t speak. “Well, they chose me, Hannah. I was the perfect vehicle to fulfill their social aspirations, the pet to be coddled and groomed like a prize cat, the charming son-in-law always willing to be sacrificed to garrulous old ladies. I’d say I’ve kept up my end of the bargain fairly well.” The self-mockery touched his smile again.

  It all sounded so smoothly, seductively plausible, thought Hannah. How could she not believe him as he stood before her, his shoulders hunched in an oddly vulnerable posture, the wind ruffling the straight, fair hair across his forehead?

  “But Patrick,” Hannah struggled to find the words to go on, “what did happen that night, the night Sebastian died? Duncan thinks Penny saw you.”

  Patrick came back to the choir arch and leaned against it, fishing a battered pack of Marlboros from his trouser pocket. He cupped the match against the wind and drew on the cigarette before he spoke. “I did go out that night. I told Marta I was going to the car for a book-whether she believed me or not I don’t know. She was more sober than usual. We’d just arrived that morning and Cassie had been avoiding me all day, until I’d begun to think she didn’t want to see me.” He watched the wind fan the glowing end of the cigarette as he spoke and didn’t raise his eyes to Hannah’s. “I went to Cassie’s cottage and knocked but she didn’t answer. I’d left a notebook in my car so I tore a page from it and scribbled a note for Cassie’s door.”

  “And then you went straight back to the suite?” Hannah tried to keep her voice level, tried not to betray how desperately she hoped it were true.

  “Not exactly.” Patrick dropped the match into the grass, still not meeting Hannah’s eyes. “I thought she might be working late, an excuse to wait for me in her office. Stupid of me, I suppose. The office was dark, empty, as was the sitting room, but when I’d come back through the sitting room and started through the reception area I heard a sound behind me.”