“It seems to me,” Kincaid said gently, “that you’ve castigated yourself pretty thoroughly for mistakes anyone could have made. We don’t any of us have all the answers before-hand. Why is it too late for you and Patrick? Why can’t you tell him what you told me? What have you to lose?”
“I… He doesn’t want-”
“How do you know what Patrick wants or doesn’t want? He didn’t give me the impression just now of a man determined to sever all connection.” Unless, of course, thought Kincaid, Patrick Rennie had seen an advantage in adopting a new role, that of the contrite son lovingly reunited with his mother.
“It’s odd.” Hannah interrupted his unpleasant speculation. “After everything that’s happened today I feel terribly detached. It’s like seeing things through the wrong end of a telescope. Clear and distant. I doubt it will last. I do see, though, that I can’t go chasing after Patrick expecting him to plug the gaps in my life.”
Hannah’s voice had grown drowsier. Kincaid cleared up the tea things and came back to her, finding that he could not let her rest quite yet. The unasked question hung on him like a weight. “Hannah, could it have been Patrick who pushed you down the stairs?”
She did not bridle, as she had before at any suggestion of Patrick’s guilt, but answered him with sleepy thought-fulness. “Of course I’ve wondered. I’d be an idiot not to, I suppose-but I don’t think so.” She paused, searching for the right words. “There was such… malice in that shove. I felt it.” Her brow furrowed in concentration. “Today I saw a bit of the real Patrick, not my idealized version of him. There is some anger running under the surface, some bitterness, but also the ability to laugh at himself, to put his feelings in perspective. I just can’t see him hating that viciously.” She began to shiver again. “Why would anyone hate me that much?”
“What did he-”
A knock at the door interrupted his question, but Hannah put a hand out to stop him as he rose. “I won’t tell you what he told me about Cassie and Penny. You’ll have to ask him yourself. You do understand?” Kincaid hesitated, then nodded. There was no use bullying her-he’d begun to gauge her stubbornness. And besides, he did understand.
Anne Percy stood patiently at the door, doctor’s bag in hand. Kincaid’s heart gave an inexplicable leap and he cursed himself for a fool.
Kincaid met Chief Inspector Nash on the stairs. “I’m just on my way to take your Miss Alcock’s statement.” Nash spoke without preamble, in that sneering tone that made Kincaid bite back a childish retort.
“Dr. Percy’s with her now. She doesn’t seem too badly hurt.”
“Is that so?” said Nash, dripping sarcasm. “Well, well. Now, isn’t that surprising?”
“Just what are you insinuating?” Kincaid struggled to control the exasperation in his voice.
“Well now, laddie, has it not occurred to you that a “fall is a very convenient thing? All alone, no witnesses, a little tumble down the stairs?”
“I found her myself. She was unconscious!”
“Very convenient, as I said, to be discovered by a sympathetic policeman.” Nash clucked and said with great condescension, “And laddie, anyone can fake a faint.” Nash fluttered his eyelids and moaned.
Kincaid closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Have you any idea, Chief Inspector, why Miss Alcock would risk breaking her neck?”
“It seems to me that if you’re bumping off people right and left it doesn’t hurt to appear to be a victim yourself. It’s an old ploy.”
“What possible motive could she have for killing Sebastian or Penny?”
“What possible motive could any of them have? You tell me, laddie. You’re the one’s so chummy with her.” Nash smiled at him impishly, and Kincaid felt the exchange slipping into utter farce.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Inspector. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Kincaid plunged out the front door and shook his head as if the cold air would clear it. Even a small dose of Chief Inspector Nash made him feel like he’d wandered into a pea-soup fog. He had some questions to ask Patrick Rennie and he wasn’t inclined to invite Nash along and allow him to make hash of the interview.
He paced around the darkening garden, wishing he had Gemma or Peter Raskin to use as a sounding board. The first floor of Followdale House was broken into sections by fire doors-one divided the area containing his suite and the balcony door from the area containing Hannah’s suite and the main staircase. That area in turn was separated from the suites on the other side of the house by another door. As he had come through the door between his suite and the staircase he could have sworn he heard the far door closing.
He hadn’t thought anything about it at the time, not until Patrick Rennie had come in the front door, flushed and breathing hard, minutes after he’d found Hannah. Kincaid had no way of knowing how long Hannah had lain there, but it might have been only minutes. Rennie could have run down the back staircase and around the building to the front, anxious to judge the results of his attempt on Hannah’s life.
Kincaid returned to the house, hesitating for a moment in the front hall. Where was Peter Raskin? Had anyone tracked down the other guests and taken their statements?
He stood quite still, listening for some sound, some intimation of life or movement in the house. It amazed him that a house this size, with nearly a dozen people in it, could seem so utterly deserted. The noisy cocktail hour chatter of the first evening seemed almost unimaginable now-the guests had certainly lost their taste for one another’s company.
He walked through the darkened reception area toward the sitting room, where a dim lamp cast a solitary pool of light. A slight sound from the bar drew Kincaid to the door.
Patrick Rennie sat alone at a table, morosely sliding a glass in its condensate puddle. “Just the man I wanted to see,” Kincaid said, and Rennie’s head shot up.
“How is she?”
“Dr. Percy’s with her. I don’t think she’s badly hurt.” Kincaid retrieved a beer from under the counter and sat down opposite Rennie. “Where is everyone?”
“Holed up in their rooms expecting fallout, I imagine. Chief Inspector Nash sent that constable around to take statements. I don’t know if he’s rounded everyone up yet. Listen,” Rennie changed tack, not to be distracted from what was on his mind, “I behaved abominably toward Hannah today. And now this.” Rennie waved his hand vaguely toward the stairs, then met Kincaid’s eyes. “Did she tell you about me?”
“Yes.”
“And did she tell you what an ass I made of myself this morning?”
“She said you resented her barging into your life,” Kincaid answered drily.
Rennie rubbed long fingers across his forehead. “What she must have put herself through… and then I stomped all over her with all the sensitivity of an elephant.” His eyebrows lifted in the self-mocking little smile Hannah must have seen. “It was the shock, I think. All those years of wondering who she was, what she was like, why she let me go-it all came back to me. Is it too late, do you think, to start again?”
Kincaid didn’t relish the role of Miss Lonelyhearts under the best of circumstances, and particularly not when one party might have tried to hasten the other’s demise. “I couldn’t say.” He sipped his beer, then added easily, “A great deal would depend on where were you today just before you came in.”
Color flooded into Rennie’s face. “God, I’ve been an bloody fool. You were right about Cassie, you know. It started last year. Marta knew something was going on but I badgered her into coming here anyway. I thought Cassie cared about me, that she was even worth risking my future.” He shook his head as if bewildered by his own stupidity. “But nothing went right this visit. This afternoon I decided I had to pin her down, sort things out. I went across to the cottage and started to knock but the door wasn’t quite shut. Well, it’s the usual old story. Why should I have been so surprised?” He smiled, but his color was still high and his eyes didn’t quite meet Kincaid’s.
“Compromising?”
“Fairly.”
“And who was the lucky chap?”
Rennie looked away. “Graham Frazer.”
CHAPTER 17
Kincaid paced the dimly lit reception area, listening, a little guiltily, for Anne Percy’s light tread on the stairs. He’d left Patrick Rennie nursing a drink in the empty bar, and he felt less sure than ever whether the man was genuine or a most sincere and plausible liar.
If Cassie supported Patrick’s story, would that give him a sufficient alibi? Hannah had told Kincaid she’d tapped on his door just before she started down the stairs. But it had been a very tentative knock, she’d said, as she’d thought better of it and decided to go on her own. Had that been the sound he’d heard while on the phone to Gemma? Or had he been on the balcony and heard nothing at all?
“Timing. All a matter of timing,” he muttered. If Hannah had lain on the stairs only minutes, could Patrick prove he’d come straight from Cassie’s into the hall? And for that matter, where did that leave Cassie and Graham? Safely locked in a lovers’ alibi? Or colluding in a foolproof murder attempt? Assuming, of course, that Hannah hadn’t been lying unconscious for half-an-hour or more-in which case it could have been any one of the three. But why would one of them, or anyone else, for that matter, want to kill Hannah?
And what had the rest of the cast been up to?
Kincaid smacked his fist into his open palm, grimacing in frustration. He might as well be tied up and blindfolded, for all he’d accomplished. He, who had so often complained of paperwork’s drudgery, would have given anything for a stack of neatly detailed statements taken by his efficient sergeant. Chief Inspector Nash had gone from being deliberately obstructive to a kind of sly evasiveness, but both tactics produced the same end result-Kincaid had no facts.
Some movement in the shadowy room, a current of air perhaps, made Kincaid turn toward the sitting-room door. The light shifted and he had a brief second’s vision of Sebastian Wade as he had first seen him in this room-propped nonchalantly with his shoulder against the door-jamb, hands in pockets, face split by an impish grin.
How the hell, Kincaid thought, did it all fit together?
Quick footsteps on the stairs drew him into the hall. Anne Percy met his questioning look with a smile as she descended the last few steps. “She’s doing fine. A bit done in, of course. Wrist probably sprained, and a good-sized bump on the head. I told her that she had good bones.” Anne’s lips twitched with amusement. “No sign of creeping osteoporosis.” She sighed and stretched, then said more seriously, “You will keep an eye on her, won’t you, Duncan? I keep thinking…” Frowning, she paused for a moment. “Whoever pushed her… they might have stayed and finished the job.”
“It’s possible they heard me coming out of my suite. But then again, it’s not that different from what happened to Penny or Sebastian. Opportunity seen-action taken, with little to lose. Bending over Hannah on the stairs would have been a much riskier proposition.”
Anne shuddered. “What an awful thought.”
“I know. I’ve told her to keep herself locked in and not to go anywhere without telling me. She says she doesn’t want babysitting,” he added in exasperation. “She was quite docile and agreeable until she began to recover a little.”
“I’ve left her with Chief Inspector Nash. That’s not exactly what I would call a tranquilizing experience.”
“No. Best to get it over with so he’ll leave her in peace.” Kincaid studied Anne appreciatively. Under a bright yellow plastic slicker, she wore fuchsia leggings and a matching rugby-striped top, and looked to Kincaid as unlikely a doctor as he could imagine.
“What’s so funny?” asked Anne, as the grin spread across his face.
“I was thinking of the crusty old country practitioner who looked after us when I was growing up.”
She glanced down at herself, then met his smile. “Well, times change, don’t they? Thank goodness.” Her eyes strayed to her watch. “But some things never seem to. I’m late getting supper for my girls. I’m afraid I’ll have to run.”
He felt suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d been guilty of forgetting her obligations, but said equably enough, “Yes. I’ll walk you out.”
Her yellow slicker squeaked and rustled as she walked, and once her arm brushed lightly against his. When they reached her car she opened the door and swung her bag in, then turned to face him. Kincaid stood close enough to notice that she smelled of lavender-a clean, comforting scent-and he searched for something to say that might detain her a moment longer. “Thank you. This has all been pretty beastly for you, I imagine.”
Anne smiled. “Death’s familiar enough. It’s the circumstances that differ. Anyway, the police surgeon’s back from holiday tomorrow, so I won’t be officially on call anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said into the silence that stretched between them.
“I’m sorry, too,” Anne Percy answered as she got into the car, and as Kincaid watched her drive away, he wasn’t sure what either of them had meant.
The evening drew in as Gemma drove north along the Banbury Road. Large, comfortable houses flanked the street on either side, their interiors looking warm and welcoming as only lamplit rooms seen in the dusk can. Trees filled the gardens, the fading light leaching the autumn colors from their leaves.
She’d never been in Oxford before-never had a case take her there, and it wasn’t the sort of place her family would have chosen to go on holiday. Her mum and dad had gone to the same Cornish village for the same two weeks every year as far back as she could remember-an agreeable, dependable place, and not the least bit adventuresome.
Much to her surprise, Gemma found herself enchanted with the city. Once she’d arranged an evening appointment with Miles Sterrett through his housekeeper, she’d had several hours to kill, and had spent them exploring the city center. From Cornmarket down The High as far as Magdalen College and the river, the tranquil, green quads of the colleges beckoned.
She walked slowly, the collar of her navy cardigan turned up against the wind, and when she reached the bridge over the Cherwell she leaned her elbows on the parapet and watched the boat crews skimming the water as lightly as water-bugs.
A university education had been so far out of her reach that she’d never really envied others the privilege, but now she felt a fleeting longing for an opportunity missed. Kincaid had told her once, over an after-work pint, that he’d been eligible for a police scholarship to university, but hadn’t applied. “A little late rebelliousness, I suppose,” he’d said, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. “Too much what my parents expected of me. It seems a bit silly now, to have passed it up.”
Gemma thought, as she slowed for the turning she had missed in the afternoon, that Oxford would have suited Kincaid very well.
The Julia Sterrett Clinic looked simply what it was, a large private house, set back on a side street near the Banbury Road. The only indication of its true function was a discreet plaque set into the brick near the front door. Gemma rang the bell and waited, and after a moment she heard the heavy shuffle of feet and the click of the bolts being drawn back.
“You’re right on time, dear,” the housekeeper said as she opened the door.
Gemma found the stout, little housekeeper a great improvement over the dragon of a secretary that had manned the clinic’s desk that afternoon. “Hello, Mrs. Milton. Is he ready to see me?”
“I’ll take you up straightaway.”
Mrs. Milton toiled up the curving staircase, breath puffing, cheeks pink with exertion, while Gemma followed a little guiltily in her wake. Looking back, Gemma could see the reception room to the right of the front door, and she knew from her afternoon visit that the clinic proper occupied the ground and first floors of the house, while Miles Sterrett retained the top floor for his personal use.
Mrs. Milton tapped on a door in the upper corridor, motioned Gemma in and pulled the door closed smartly behind her. Gemma stood
alone on the threshold, feeling a bit like Daniel thrown to the lions. From the receptionist’s ferocious protectiveness, she had expected an elderly man, perhaps bedridden, perhaps in a chair with a rug over his knees, confined to a hospital-like room.
She found herself in a masculine study with book-lined walls, leather chairs, a glowing oriental rug under her feet and a fire burning brightly in the grate. Miles Sterrett sat at an ornate desk, head bent over some papers. He looked up and smiled, then rose and came across the room to greet her.
“Sergeant James.”
“Mr. Sterrett. Thank you for seeing me.” Gemma had to look up as she took his outstretched hand, for Miles Sterrett was tall and slender, with a thin face and fine hair that looked more primrose-yellow than gray in the firelight. He wore a pale yellow pullover jersey, and neatly creased dark trousers. Only the dark hollows under his eyes and a slight hesitation in his movements betrayed any illness.
“Come and sit down. Mrs. Milton’s left us some coffee.” He seated her in one of two chairs near the fire, and himself in the other. On a low table between them stood a tray with cups and a thermos. When he reached for her cup, Gemma saw the faint tremble in his hand.
“Shall I pour?”
Miles sat back, casually clasping the tell-tale hands on his knee. “Thank you.” He accepted his cup, and when Gemma had hers, he spoke again. “Now tell me, Sergeant, just what this is about. Mrs. Milton assures me that Hannah is all right?”
His last statement ended on a faint interrogatory note, and Gemma thought that Miles Sterrett’s natural good manners concealed a very real worry. “Miss Alcock’s fine, sir. But there have been two suspicious deaths at Followdale House in the last week, and we’re naturally very concerned for everyone’s safety.”
A Share In Death Page 17