Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  Finch shrugged, but Gemma saw interest in his light gray eyes. “Ten percent, maybe. On a good day.”

  Beside her, Gemma felt Janice Coppin stir with the impatience of one not used to Kincaid’s interview methods.

  “Frustrating, I should think,” Kincaid continued conversationally. “Not to be appreciated. Like playing the violin in an Italian restaurant.”

  “They’re punters—what can you say?” Finch shrugged dismissively. “But there are some who listen, some who even come back,” he added, glancing almost imperceptibly at Gemma.

  She looked away, shifting her gaze to his hands. Although he seemed more relaxed, his hands rested awkwardly on the tabletop, as if he were used to having something in them.

  “On Friday evening, you were busking in the Greenwich Foot Tunnel,” said Kincaid. “I want you to tell us what you saw.”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow you.” Finch frowned slightly.

  “Did anything at all unusual happen?” Kincaid leaned forward, as if he could will an answer from him.

  Finch thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Not that I remember. What are you getting at, exactly?”

  “About half past nine—is that right, Inspector?” Kincaid glanced at Janice.

  Janice made a show of looking through her notebook, although Gemma felt sure she knew the time perfectly well. “Yes, sir. Between half past nine and ten o’clock.”

  “About half past nine, a man and a woman entered the tunnel together, from the Greenwich end. But according to her companion, the woman suddenly refused to go on, insisting that he leave her there and meet her later. We thought perhaps you could corroborate his statement.”

  “How could I possibly know something like that?” Finch sounded more baffled than irritated.

  “Because the woman was a strikingly beautiful redhead, and her companion says she spoke to you.”

  Gemma saw the involuntary jerk of Gordon Finch’s hands, but when she looked up at his face, his expression was guardedly neutral. “I don’t remember anyone speaking to me. What’s all this about, anyway? Why don’t you just ask her, if you’re so anxious to know what this woman did?”

  Kincaid settled back in his chair, absently turning the pen he’d picked up from the interview table round and round in his fingers. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Finch. She’s dead.”

  Gemma watched Gordon Finch’s face now, looking for the telltale signs of guilt—the nervous blink, the uncontrolled twitch of the mouth—but she saw only the blankness of shock.

  “What? What are you talking about?” He looked directly at Gemma this time, as if trusting her to tell the truth.

  “Her name was Annabelle Hammond.” Gemma’s voice felt as if it needed oiling. “She was killed on Friday night, sometime after she left the Greenwich Tunnel.”

  “But—” Finch shook his head once, sharply, and Gemma saw the flicker of some intense emotion in his eyes before his face settled into an impassive mask and he said flatly, “I can’t help you.”

  Holding his gaze, Gemma said, “Then you wouldn’t know if your father knew Miss Hammond, or the nature of their relationship.”

  “I’ve no idea. My father’s affairs are his business. Now, either charge me with something or let me get back to work before my day is a total sodding loss, all right?”

  Gemma knew they’d no further cause to hold him. But she also had no doubt that Gordon Finch had known Annabelle Hammond, and known her well.

  TERESA STOOD AT HER SINK, WIPING the same plate over and over with a tea towel. After Jo’s call she’d sat for a long while on the edge of the sofa, the phone still in her hand. Then, stiffly, she had stood and searched out the dust cloth, and after that the vacuum.

  It was Sunday. She always did her chores on a Sunday, to be ready for the week. Whenever she tried to fix her mind on the thing Jo had told her, the thought skittered away, elusive as a bat at dusk, and she returned to the familiar loop. It was Sunday. She did her chores on Sunday.

  The strident buzz made her jump and the plate flew from her hands, clattering unharmed to the lino. It was a moment before she connected the sound to her doorbell, and then her heart leapt with hope. It had been a dreadful mistake, of course; she should have seen that.

  Dropping the tea towel in a sodden heap on the floor, she wiped the damp palms of her hands on her jumper and hurried through the sitting room. She flung the door open and stared at Reg Mortimer, who stood with his finger poised over the buzzer.

  In all the time they’d worked together, Reg had never come to her flat, though she’d had a few guilty and quickly squelched fantasies in which he had. She’d told herself often enough that Reg Mortimer floated through life like oil atop water—he was seldom ruffled, never shaken, and if anything stirred in the depths, he did a good job of keeping it to himself.

  But today she hardly recognized him. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised with exhaustion, his lips were bloodless and clamped in a thin line, and she saw that his raised hand shook slightly.

  “Teresa, I … I thought Jo must have rung you.…”

  So it must be true—his presence here told her that, as did the sight of his face. “Jo said …” She faltered, then swallowed, forcing herself to continue. “But I didn’t really believe it.”

  He nodded, once, an undeniable confirmation. She stepped back and he came into the flat, closing the door behind him. For a moment they stood staring at one another, then Reg touched her shoulder awkwardly. “Teresa, I’m so sorry.”

  That he should express concern for her, when he and Annabelle had been everything to each other, pulled the last prop from her fragile composure. She covered her face with her hands and began to weep like a child.

  Reg gathered her into his arms, and it was not until her sobs had at last subsided into hiccups that Teresa began to take stock of her position. Her wet face was crushed uncomfortably into Reg’s knit shirt, just beneath his chin, while he rubbed the middle of her back with the palm of his hand. He smelled faintly of sweat and aftershave—and with that thought she realized with horror that her nose was running and she hadn’t a tissue. She pulled herself free of his arms and turned away. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m a mess.” Sniffing, she groped blindly for the box of tissues on the coffee table, knocking it to the floor.

  “It’s all right. You’re fine.” He retrieved the tissues and pressed a wad of them into her hand. “You have a good blow, and I’ll make you a cuppa.”

  “But I … but you won’t know where—”

  “I’m sure I can manage that much in your kitchen. Sit down, please.”

  Teresa sat, because her rubbery knees threatened to give out if she did not.

  She heard the opening of cupboards and the burble of the kettle, and a few moments later Reg reappeared, cradling a mug. He lifted a brow as he sat down beside her and transferred the mug to her hands. “Tea bags? What heresy.”

  “Only for emergencies.” Teresa attempted a smile, but the tremble in her lip threatened to betray her. She sipped gratefully at the tea, even though it was too hot and too sweet.

  “Then I’d say this qualifies.”

  She glanced at him. “I should have known yesterday morning, when she didn’t show up for breakfast with Sir Peter. Annabelle would never have missed that meeting without letting us know. I should have realized—”

  “Don’t torment yourself over it, Teresa. Nothing you could have imagined would have helped Annabelle. She was already dead.”

  “They’re sure?”

  “As sure as the police are likely to admit about anything.”

  “But you knew, didn’t you? Jo said you went to the police, that was how they identified … her body. You knew because you were closer to her.…” She touched his arm in a gesture more familiar than she could have imagined an hour ago.

  He stood abruptly. “I don’t believe that. It was logic, that’s all. I knew what you knew—that she’d never have missed that meeting, not unless … And I kne
w she hadn’t come home.”

  “But you were together—”

  “Not the whole evening.” Moving restlessly to the balcony door, he looked out. “After Jo’s party she asked me to meet her later at the Ferry House. But she never came.”

  “But …” Teresa stared at his back. What he was telling her didn’t make sense, but she didn’t feel she could push him. “The police … did they say how …”

  Reg shook his head. “No. Didn’t they tell Jo?”

  Teresa hesitated. This must be horribly difficult for him, she knew, but surely he’d thought of nothing else, and perhaps she could set his mind at rest. “Only that they didn’t believe she’d been … you know … assaulted.”

  “And that’s supposed to make it more acceptable?” His tone was bitter. “Along the lines of ‘she led a full life’?” Seeming to sense her shock, he turned towards her, shrugging in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. I know that sounds horrible, but just now … nothing seems any consolation. She’s gone and—” He turned away for a moment, then spun round and came back to the sofa. Sitting on its edge so that he could see her face, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Don’t mind me. I’m just feeling bloody.” He smiled and released her hand. “I went to see William this morning.”

  With horror Teresa realized she’d not even thought of William, had not thought of anyone’s grief other than her own, until Reg had appeared at her door. “How was he?”

  “Shocked. We talked a little.”

  “About Annabelle?”

  Reg turned her empty mug carefully on its coaster. “And the business. He’s asked me to look after things for a bit. But I can’t manage without your help. Things are going to be difficult enough as it is.”

  A jolt of alarm shot through her and she sat upright. “You didn’t tell him what we meant to propose to Sir Peter?”

  “Of course not. But we’ll not be able to keep Hammond’s out of the red for much longer without taking some sort of action—”

  The phone rang, startling them both. Teresa stared at it as if a serpent had appeared without warning on her coffee table.

  “Hadn’t you better answer?” said Reg.

  She lifted the phone slowly and pushed the talk button. “Hullo?”

  She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes. Right. Half an hour.” She clicked off and looked at Reg. “It was the police. They want me to meet them at Hammond’s.”

  L EWIS AND THE THREE OTHER REMAINING children sat on the cold lino in the hall of the village’s Women’s Institute. The two girls were thin and plain and wore spectacles, and fat Bob Thomkins had blubbed so much that his face had come out all splotches.

  The adults had come in one or two at a time, walking among the children as if choosing from damaged groceries. They’d taken the smallest and prettiest children first, often separating siblings who had pleaded to stay together. A kind-looking lady in a flowered dress had chosen Simon Goss, shaking her head regretfully when the little boy had clung to Lewis’s hand and cried. So sorry, she’d said, she could only take the one, and she’d a son the same age as Simon.

  Lewis had known hunger often enough, and grief, when his baby sister, Annie, had died of the smallpox—but he had never in his ten years felt unwanted. The only thing that gave him a small bit of consolation was that no one wanted the teachers, either, and Miss Jenkins and Miss Purdy looked as forlorn as he felt.

  A gas lamp flared as the billeting officer lit it, sending long shadows jumping across the walls and floor. A few scarred wooden chairs had been pushed into a circle near the door, and there the officer and the two teachers conferred in low voices. Lewis thought he heard the words “last resort” as they flicked worried glances at the remaining children.

  At that moment he made up his mind to go home. As soon as their backs were turned he would slip away and find the road out of the village. A vision of the darkness sliding over the great, empty countryside he had seen from the coach gave him pause, but then anything was better than this waiting. He could thumb a lift back to London, and if he was lucky, maybe he’d find something to eat.

  As he drew his legs under him, tensing his muscles for a chance to bolt, he heard a familiar sound. A horse’s hooves clip-clopped on the pavement, just like old Snowflake’s when he pulled the milk float at home. But milk came in the morning, not in the evening. A shiver of fear ran down Lewis’s spine as the hoofbeats stopped and the horse blew loudly just outside the open door of the hall. He stood, heart hammering.

  The man who came into the hall didn’t look frightening. He wore a black uniform and a cap, like the chauffeurs Lewis had seen at the cinema, and might have been a bit older than Lewis’s dad.

  “John, how good to see you,” Mrs. Slocum, the billeting officer, gushed with relief. “I knew we could count on Edwina to take the rest of the children.”

  Removing his cap with a nod to the teachers, the man said a bit brusquely, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Slocum, but Mrs. Burne-Jones only gave me instructions to bring the one.” Glancing at the children, he pinched his lips together. “You say this lot is all you have?”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the billeting officer, and Lewis wondered if the note of apology in her voice was meant for the children or for the man in the uniform. “But surely—”

  “And needs must it’s a boy, as she means to put him in the room above the stable,” John said firmly. The thin line of his lips almost disappeared as he regarded Lewis and Bob Thomkins. He lifted a finger. “I suppose that one will do.”

  Realizing that the finger was pointing in his direction, Lewis looked wildly behind him, just in case some other boy had materialized.

  “All right … Lewis, isn’t it? Get your bag. You’ll be going up to the Big House with Mr. Pebbles here,” said Mrs. Slocum, her disapproval of the unknown Mrs. Burne-Jones’s stubbornness plainly evident. Then she forced a smile. “John, do tell your mistress that we’ve three more without a place to lay their heads. And there are the teachers, of course. Surely she could find room for them, even temporarily.”

  John motioned Lewis towards the door. “I’ll put it to her, Mrs. Slocum, but you know what she’s like when she’s made up her mind.” He touched his cap and followed Lewis outside.

  The white horse gleamed palely in the dusk. It stamped and shifted in its harness as they approached, rocking the dogcart. John jumped up to the seat and gathered the reins, then frowned down at Lewis. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy?” Then he added, a bit more kindly, “Have you never seen a pony cart before?” He patted the seat beside him with the flat of his hand. “Hop up here, quick now. We’ve a ways to go and supper’s waiting.”

  The word “supper” fell enticingly on Lewis’s ears. Deciding he could always run away afterwards if he didn’t like the place, he tried to climb up on the cart as if he’d done it often.

  John clucked to the horse and they set out at a gentle pace. The village was dark as pitch with the enforcing of the blackout, except for a splash of light as someone pulled aside the curtain over the door of the pub on the village green.

  Lewis’s heart lurched with homesickness at the brief sight of the men gathered near the door, pints in hand, enjoying the warmth of the evening. But they soon left such comfort behind, and as the lane began to climb, the darkness grew ever more dense. The horse’s footfalls were muffled by a carpet of leaves, and Lewis sensed as much as saw the interlacing of the boughs above their heads. He felt lost in the blackness, as insubstantial as the mist he’d seen forming in the hollows.

  Fixing his eyes on the faint glimmer of the horse’s rump in front of them, Lewis asked, “How does he know where to go in the dark?”

  A snort that might have been a laugh came from the man sitting beside him. “Have you never driven a horse before, lad? He knows my signals from the reins, but he doesn’t need me up here. He can find his way home just as well as you or I.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Lewis, encouraged by the patient answer.

/>   This time the chuckle was unmistakable. “Zeus. Daft name for a horse if you ask me, but then nobody did.”

  Lewis glanced at his companion, relieved that the sharp nose he could see faintly silhouetted under the peaked cap did not seem to indicate a bad temper. “Are you the groom, then?”

  “You are a cheeky sort.”

  “It’s just that I thought you might be a chauffeur,” Lewis hastened to add, afraid he’d overstepped the bounds with his new friend. “But you’ve not got a car.”

  “It seems I’ll be driving whatever Miss Edwina requires,” said John, and Lewis was relieved to hear the undertone of amusement again. “Young Harry Watts, the groom, ran off yesterday to join up. It’s Harry’s room you’ll be getting, lad. Not that he did much anyway, with only two horses to look after, old Zeus here and Miss Edwina’s hunter. She prefers the automobile, but she wasn’t inclined to waste petrol on fetching a London ragamuffin up from the village.”

  Lewis considered taking offense at being called a ragamuffin, but decided his pride didn’t warrant drying up his font of information. “What sort of an auto is it?”

  “There are two, lad. The MG Roadster Miss Edwina drives herself, and the Bentley I drive for her.”

  “Blimey,” Lewis whispered under his breath. The autos were the stuff of legend, beasts not glimpsed among the lorries and tradesmen’s vans of the Island. Just what had he got himself into? “Who is Miss Edwina?” he ventured. “Is she very rich?”

  John chuckled. “That’s Mrs. Burne-Jones to you, lad, and I suppose she does well enough for herself. You’ll see for yourself in half a tick. We’re almost there.”

  Lewis couldn’t see any change in the dappled, leafy darkness surrounding them, but talking to John had made him feel a bit less frightened of it. After a moment’s silence, he risked one more question. “Is there a Mr. Burne-Jones?”