Kissed a Sad Goodbye

by Deborah Crombie

  “Gordon?”

  He didn’t answer. Without warning, the pieces had come together in a way he hadn’t thought possible, and he felt a surge of anger so intense it left him shaking.

  “Gordon?”

  Realizing he was still holding the receiver to his ear, he said, “I have to go,” and aimed the phone at the cradle as he turned away.

  He reached his flat in minutes and took the stairs three at a time, startling Sam into a volley of barking when he burst through the door. “It’s all right, boy,” he said automatically. But he knew nothing was all right unless he could make it so.

  Dropping to his knees, he dug under the bed until his fingers touched the smooth wood of the box stored there, a gift from his father on his twenty-first birthday, one of the few possessions he had carted from place to place over the years. He slid it free and clicked up the latches.

  “It’s a goddamned antique,” he muttered to Sam. A sentimental memento—he’d never dreamed of shooting anyone with it. But his father’s Webley Mark IV lay snug in its red felt cradle, clean and oiled, and beside it was an unopened box of .38 cartridges.

  KINCAID HAD DRIVEN BACK FROM SURREY slowly, thinking about Irene Burne-Jones and the things she had told him. He doubted Irene had ever loved anyone the way she’d loved Lewis Finch, and he’d found he hadn’t the heart to suggest to her that Lewis might have murdered Annabelle Hammond.

  Knowing something now of Lewis Finch’s history, he tried to imagine that Annabelle’s rejection of Lewis that night had been the loss that had tipped him into despair, driving him to murder. But for the first time he had doubts, and he still didn’t understand what had made Lewis so determined to take William Hammond’s property from him.

  He was still mulling it over when he pulled into the car park at Limehouse Station and saw Gemma coming out the door. She wore a black, sleeveless dress that just brushed the tops of her knees, but his pleasure at the sight of her faded when he saw her distracted frown. When he called out to her, she looked his way and came to intercept him. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Gordon Finch just rang me. He said he was sure his father didn’t kill Annabelle—and then he hung up.”

  “Was he ringing from his flat?”

  “Probably a call box. He doesn’t have a phone.”

  “We’ll try the flat first. Get in.”

  She came round the car, and as she buckled herself in, he asked, “Is that all he said?”

  “No. Duncan, they were protecting each other—Gordon and Lewis—but neither of them knew it. When Lewis realized Gordon hadn’t killed her, he said he should have known, and that he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again.’ ”

  “Let who?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think Gordon knew.”

  Kincaid’s phone rang as he pulled out into West India Dock Road. He answered, then said to Gemma as he rang off, “That was Janice. Forensics just called. They’ve found a trace amount of hair and blood in a sample taken from one of the tea chests in Annabelle Hammond’s office.”

  “So it looks like she was killed at Hammond’s,” Gemma said. “Who would she have met there in the middle of the night?”

  “If we assume it was neither of the Finches?” He switched on his wipers as rain spattered the windscreen. “Martin Lowell? If he wouldn’t let her come to his flat, and she wanted to have it out with him?”

  “We’ve had Brandy Bannister in again this morning. She hasn’t budged an inch on her statement. It looks as though Lowell’s alibi is good.” Gemma sounded unhappy about it.

  Kincaid frowned. “Maybe we should look at this from another angle. Who, besides Annabelle, had access to the warehouse?”

  “Reg Mortimer and Teresa, of course, but Mortimer’s the most obvious. He knew Annabelle liked to go there when she was troubled, and he desperately wanted to talk to her.”

  “But if he killed her in the warehouse, how did he get her body to the park?” Kincaid asked. “We’re back to square one.” Then, as he shook his head in frustration, he remembered something. “Teresa Robbins said that since his wife died, William Hammond turned up at the warehouse at odd hours, that he couldn’t bear to let go of the business.… What if it wasn’t a case of Annabelle arranging to meet someone, but an accidental encounter.…”

  “And you think William might have seen someone?”

  “It’s possible,” Kincaid said slowly. “But it’s also possible that it was William who killed her.”

  “William Hammond?” Gemma’s voice rose on a note of disbelief. “Her own father? The poor man was devastated—you saw him.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But … everything seems to come back to William Hammond and Lewis Finch.” He told her about his interview with Irene Burne-Jones. As he negotiated Westferry Circus and headed south on Westferry Road, thunder boomed and rain began to beat against the roof of the car. “What did Hammond have against Finch? And why was Finch so determined to buy the warehouse when he knew its importance to William Hammond? Something happened in the last few months the three of them were together—William, Lewis, and Irene—that Irene isn’t willing to talk about, even after all these years.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” protested Gemma. “Why would William Hammond kill Annabelle when she’d just made up her mind to call off the deal with Lewis?”

  “I don’t know. But if Lewis Finch said he wasn’t going to ‘let him get away with it again,’ what could he have meant but murder? Someone was killed in those last few months those three children were together—the children’s tutor. Irene said it was an accident.…”

  “But what if it wasn’t?” said Gemma. She shook her head. “We’re missing too many pieces. Gordon must know something we don’t—”

  “And I don’t think it’s very likely we’re going to find him sitting at his flat, waiting for us.” He peered through the windscreen, but the curtain of rain obscured virtually everything. “Ring William Hammond’s house—do you have his number?”

  “In my notebook.” Gemma found the number and dialed her mobile. “No answer.”

  “Try Lewis Finch.”

  “At home?”

  Glancing at his watch, Kincaid nodded. “It’s already after five.”

  But Lewis Finch didn’t answer, either, and after a moment Gemma disconnected. Slowly, she said, “If it was William Hammond Lewis meant, and he thought he might find him at the warehouse …”

  “It’s worth a try,” Kincaid said as a flash of lightning illuminated the long line of cars crawling down Westferry Road ahead of them. “But we’re not getting anywhere in a hurry.”

  AS LEWIS PULLED UP THE MERCEDES on Saunders Ness, the square bulk of the Hammond’s warehouse was scarcely visible in the blinding rain. His hands shook as he lifted them from the wheel. He was sweating and nauseated, as powerless to stop the flow of memories now as he had once been to stop Freddie Haliburton.…

  He had passed the night in a black fury unabated by exhaustion. Unable to bear the thought of seeing anyone, or speaking to anyone, he had started on his chores in the barn without going up to the Hall for breakfast. He didn’t know what he would do if he saw William—he didn’t even want to think about William—but Irene was not so easy to avoid.

  She came looking for him, as he knew she would, gliding silently through the barn door and stopping in the shaft of sunlight that fell from the high window. “Lewis? What happened to you last night? Why didn’t you come to breakfast this morning?”

  “Just go away, Irene. I don’t want to talk to you,” he said roughly, turning back to the hay he was forking into Zeus’s manger. He felt her watching him, but she didn’t speak, and after a moment she went out again. Knowing how much he’d hurt her only stoked his rage. How could he touch her after what Freddie had done to him? And how could he stop it from happening again? Freddie had made clear that his refusal would mean compromising Irene, and that was the one thing Lewis could not allow to happen.

  It seemed
to him that he had only one option … and that would mean never seeing her again.

  I T WAS MIDMORNING WHEN F REDDIE FOUND him, sitting hunched against the stone wall that ran behind the kitchen garden.

  “There you are,” Freddie said sweetly as he came round the corner. “It’s not like you to miss lessons, Lewis. Whatever is the matter?”

  Lewis rose, fists clenched, but Freddie stopped just out of reach.

  “Cook’s quite worried about you, you know. If you miss another meal she’ll feel it’s her duty to tell Edwina, and I don’t think we want that, do we?” Freddie stretched his face into the grimace that mimicked a smile. “Oh, and when you’ve had your breakfast, you can get my car ready for me, there’s a good boy. I’m going up to town for the night and I want everything shipshape.”

  He turned away, as if that settled everything between them, but when he reached the end of the wall he looked over his shoulder and said, “But I’ll be back—and there’s always tomorrow, isn’t there, Lewis?”

  I T CAME TO HIM AS HE lay beneath Freddie’s car. It was so simple—a nick in a hydraulic line and the whole system would lose pressure—that he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before. Everyone knew Freddie Haliburton drove like a maniac—even Cook was always clucking and predicting he’d come to a bad end. No one would think anything of it. He would be safe, and Irene would be safe, and William … he didn’t care about William.

  He felt as if he were divided into two people—one who concentrated on the task, and one who observed. That Lewis heard his mother’s voice, but the Lewis who acted ignored them both, and his hands were steady and precise with the knowledge John Pebbles had given him. It was not until he had finished and slid from beneath the car that he realized he was being watched.

  William stood just inside the stable door, and Lewis had no idea how long he had been there or what he’d seen. “You have to understand,” William said, stepping forward, and Lewis saw that his face was white and strained. “My grandfather was killed in the Somme. My father was decorated, even though he was only nineteen, and he’s suffered from the gas ever since. If they found out—”

  “I don’t care about your bloody pamphlets! You could have stopped him—”

  “There was nothing I could do! And now he says maybe he’ll tell my parents anyway, just because he hates cowards. They’ll disown me—”

  “Then it serves you bloody right, William Hammond!” Lewis shoved William hard in the chest and bolted out the door.

  He ran through the yard and down the hill to the meadow, then along the stream, legs and heart pumping, until at last he collapsed facedown in the soft moss along the bank, sobbing as if his heart would break.

  It was an hour before he returned to the house, calm from his weeping, determined to undo what he had done. Then he would tell Irene goodbye and leave.… It was the only way. He’d lie about his age and join up, or get work somewhere, it didn’t matter.

  But when he reached the stable yard he heard a wail of anguish from the kitchen, and he knew he had come too late.

  IT WAS IRENE WHO TOLD HIM that Edwina had been killed with Freddie. There had been a farm cart in the lane, just over the crest of the hill, and the car had been unable to stop in time. It was Irene who had grown up from one minute to the next and taken charge, helping Cook to her bed and going to ring her father with the news; Irene who had left Lewis alone in the kitchen with William.…

  “She wasn’t supposed to go,” Lewis said numbly. His brain and his tongue felt as if they were frozen, and the words seemed to hang in the air, brittle as ice.

  “She … she changed her mind at the last minute.” William sat slumped at the kitchen table, his face blotchy with weeping. “He was taking her to see my parents. He said … he said he was going to tell them. I didn’t think. I didn’t think she’d be …”

  The import of William’s words dawned slowly on Lewis. He shook his head from side to side to stop the ringing in his ears. “You mean you knew? You knew about the car … and you let Edwina go?”

  “I’m not as stupid as you think. You jumped when you saw me standing in the barn, so when you ran away I looked.… I only thought it would delay them—”

  “Delay them? You know how Freddie drives and you let Edwina go?” He lunged for William, yanking him from his chair by his collar. “You—you bastard!” Lewis shouted, shaking him. “I’ll kill you for this.” When his fist struck William’s face, the sight of the bright blood flowing from William’s nose only made him angrier.

  William hit him back and they grappled, straining for a better hold, another blow.

  Then Irene was between them, shouting, pulling them apart.

  “Stop it! What’s the matter with you? Stop it! Lewis, how could you?”

  Panting, he stared at her. “I … He …” In that moment Lewis realized he couldn’t tell Irene what he’d done that day—he could never tell her. And when he met William’s eyes, he saw that William knew it, too.

  He had no memory of the days before Edwina’s funeral, only of Irene, afterwards, coming to him in the barn. His case was packed; he had meant to leave without telling her goodbye.

  “You can’t tell me you don’t love me,” she said. “I won’t believe you.”

  “No,” he had answered her. “I won’t tell you that. But it doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. I’m sorry.”

  He had left Irene then, left the Hall, left them all behind. And he’d never told anyone the truth … until the night Annabelle had told him she loved his son and called him a cheat and a liar. She’d said she’d never hurt her father for him, that she couldn’t believe she had ever considered doing something that would cause William Hammond so much pain.

  He hadn’t known until that moment how much Annabelle had come to mean to him—that she should turn against him was beyond bearing. His words poured out—he’d wanted to hurt her—and he told her that her precious father was a coward and a murderer, and he told her exactly what William had done.

  Lewis opened the door of the car and stumbled out into the rain. He was soaked by the time he reached the warehouse, but he hardly felt it. The door was unlocked, and he stepped for the first time into the building he had tried for years to destroy.

  As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw that the large main floor was empty, but a light shone from a door on the catwalk that ran along the left-hand side of the building. Feeling his way carefully to the stairs, he began to climb. He heard a faint sound, and as he neared the top of the staircase, the sound sorted itself into a singsong voice, rising and falling beyond the open doorway.

  William Hammond sat behind one of the scarred oak desks in the center of the room. He was talking to himself, his hands busy with the colorful tea tins on the desktop, but when he looked up and saw Lewis he didn’t seem at all surprised.

  “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” said William, his eyes drifting back to the tins. “She made these for me. My favorite colors, cobalt and russet. Russet like her hair. She looked like her mother, so beautiful.”

  “William.” Lewis stepped further into the room. “Why did you do it? What did Annabelle say to you?”

  “Do you remember, Lewis?” William’s gaze skated across his again. “Do you remember the watercress? And the deer? I’ve been thinking.… It all seems so vivid, like it was just yesterday.”

  “Did Annabelle find you here, William? She was angry with you, wasn’t she?”

  For an instant William’s eyes were clear. “Annabelle loved me. She was a perfect daughter.”

  “I know she was. But she found out, didn’t she … about Edwina.”

  William froze, the tea tins suspended in midshuffle like a shell game gone awry. “She said things … terrible things. She said she’d tell people … Sir Peter, even. That she would sell … this.” His hand looked almost translucent as he gestured round the room. “And she said … she said she’d spent her whole life trying to live up to me—and that I was a hollow man. A hollow man,” he
repeated. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You didn’t mean to kill her?” said a voice behind Lewis, and without turning he knew it was his son.

  Lifting a hand to halt him, Lewis warned, “Gordon, no.” But Gordon came on, and as Lewis felt the force of his son’s fury, he realized his own had drained away at last.

  William rose. “I only wanted to stop her from saying those things. I never meant …” He looked impossibly frail.

  “But I do.” A gun appeared in Gordon’s hand—and Lewis saw that it was his own.

  IT WAS STILL POURING WHEN THEY reached the warehouse. Kincaid killed the engine as the Rover coasted to a stop behind a gray Mercedes.

  “Lewis’s car?” asked Gemma, thinking she remembered seeing it in the car park at Heron Quays.

  Kincaid nodded, meeting her eyes. “Careful.”

  They dashed through the pelting rain to the warehouse. The door stood open a few inches. Kincaid eased inside and Gemma followed, coming to a halt beside him in the shadowy interior.

  They heard the voices immediately, coming from the open door of Annabelle and Teresa’s office high above them. Gemma felt Kincaid touch her arm, lightly, then move away towards the staircase. She followed as quietly as she could, cursing the fact that she’d worn slick-soled shoes.

  Halfway up, she found she could distinguish the voices—Lewis’s; Gordon’s; and, though less familiar to her, William’s—if not quite make out the words. Then, as they neared the top, she heard Lewis shout, “Gordon, don’t be a bloody fool! Give it to me.”

  There was the sound of a scuffle, then the smack of something hard hitting the floorboards.

  Gemma skidded to a halt inches from Kincaid and peered through the doorway. Gordon and Lewis Finch were locked together as if frozen in the midst of a dance, Lewis’s hand clamped round Gordon’s wrist, Gordon’s fingers splayed, empty. Their eyes were fixed on the opposite side of the room, where William Hammond stooped and straightened again, a gun in his hand.

  He held it awkwardly, staring at it as if not quite certain what it was. Then he looked up at them, and Gemma saw in his faded blue eyes not surprise, but a grief so bleak it made her bones feel cold.