Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  “She should never have come.” The words were harsh, the voice stretched to breaking. Turning, Gemma saw that Heather had stood. Her hair had come loose from its binding and spilled wildly over her shoulders and across her face. With her trembling hand pointed at Hazel in accusation, she might have been an ancient prophetess. “We were all right before she came. And now Donald’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead. What am I going to do without him?” She began to cry, with the dry, racking sobs of someone who didn’t often allow such release and had never learned to do it gracefully.

  To Gemma’s surprise, it was not Pascal who went to comfort her, but John. “It’s all right, lassie,” he crooned, easing her back into her chair. He reached for the whisky on the sideboard and poured her a stiff measure. “Have a wee dram for the shock. We’ll all have a wee dram.” Pouring another for himself, he drank it off in one swallow.

  Louise reached out, as if to stop him. “John, are you sure that’s—”

  “I don’t care if it’s wise, woman. He was my friend, a good man. And he’s dead.” He began splashing whisky into the round of glasses on a tray.

  Taking one, Gemma went back to Hazel and knelt beside her. The sharp odor of the whisky reached her, lodging in the back of her throat. “Have a sip, love,” she whispered. “John’s right. It will do you good.” Hazel’s hand trembled as she took the glass, and her teeth knocked against the rim. “Hazel,” Gemma continued softly, urgently, as the conversation rose around them, “where did you go this morning, in the car?” She had to know before she talked to the police.

  “The railway station. I was going to go home, without saying good-bye. I couldn’t face Donald again, after last night—”

  “You didn’t see him this morning?”

  “No. Not until—not until you told me—” Hazel pressed her fist to her mouth and began to cry soundlessly, the tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks, but Gemma sat back, dizzy with the force of relief that washed through her.

  After Gemma rang off, Kincaid abandoned his own breakfast and went upstairs to check on Kit, who had not yet appeared. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on his bed in an old T-shirt, rereading one of his Harry Potter novels.

  “Finished with Kidnapped, then?” Kincaid asked, pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down. Any idea he might have had of drawing parallels between the orphaned heroes was put paid to by the sight of the photo of Kit’s mother on the bedside table.

  Gemma had given Kit the frame for Christmas, and until this morning the photo had resided unobtrusively on a corner of Kit’s desk.

  Kit shrugged and kept his eyes on his book, although Kincaid could see that he wasn’t reading.

  “You didn’t come down for breakfast,” Kincaid said, trying again. “You’re not ill, are you?”

  “I’ll get cereal in a bit.” Kit still didn’t look at him. “Where’s Tess?”

  “Begging toast off Toby. I’m not used to seeing you without your familiar,” Kincaid quipped, and was rewarded by a twitch of Kit’s lip, a stifled smile. “Listen, Kit,” he went on, encouraged, “I’ve got to go out for a bit this morning, to see Tim Cavendish. There’s been an accident—”

  “Not Gemma! Or Aunt Hazel!” Kit’s face went white and his book slipped from his fingers, its pages fluttering.

  Cursing himself for his clumsiness, Kincaid said hurriedly, “No, no. It was a man—another guest at the B&B. Gemma had a chance to ring and wanted me to let Tim know before he saw it on the news, so that he wouldn’t worry.”

  Kit seemed to relax, but Kincaid could still see the pulse beating in the fragile hollow of the boy’s throat.

  “Can they come home today, then?” Kit asked. “Gemma and Hazel?”

  “I don’t know. I expect they’ll have to stay on for a bit, at least until the preliminary questions are answered.”

  “This man—It was a murder, wasn’t it? Not an accident.”

  “I’m afraid it looks like it, yes.”

  Kit studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re going to go, too,” he said, making it a statement.

  Kincaid thought of his offer to Gemma, so quickly rebuffed. “I hope it won’t come to that.” He reached out and tousled his son’s fair hair. “But in the meantime, will you look after Toby while I’m out?”

  He knew he was going to have to talk to Kit again about his grandmother, but first he had to tackle Tim Cavendish.

  The weather had held fine through the weekend, and deciding that he might as well enjoy the drive across London, Kincaid pulled the canvas cover off the Midget. Although the little red car could be called a classic, in reality it had sagging springs and sometimes-unreliable parts. He hadn’t driven it for weeks, but for once the battery had held its charge and the engine puttered cooperatively to life on the first try.

  He’d always maintained that Sunday was the day to drive in London for pleasure, but when, a half hour later, he found himself idling behind a queue of buses in the Euston Road, he wondered if he had been a bit precipitous.

  Looking up at the ugly blocks of flats to his right, he thought of his sergeant, Doug Cullen, who lived nearby, and recalled uneasily the small falsehood he had told Gemma. He had spoken to Doug several times over the weekend—he’d only been stretching the truth a little when he’d said it was Doug who’d kept the phone line engaged.

  But he knew well enough that even little lies, however kindly meant, had a way of assuming monstrous proportions, and he wished that he had been honest with Gemma from the beginning. Now, in the light of what had happened in Scotland, his omission was going to be even more awkward to explain. He would, he resolved, tell her as soon as he spoke with her again.

  When, a few minutes later, he turned north from Pentonville Road into the sedate crescents of Islington, he realized it was the first time he’d been to the Cavendishes’ house since Gemma had moved out. He had to remind himself not to pull round to the garage in the back. Although he knew that Hazel now used the flat as an office, he found it impossible to imagine it other than it had been, stamped by Gemma’s and Toby’s presence. Would he someday come to feel the same way about the Notting Hill house? It seemed to him that their full possession of the place was still marred by the emptiness of the nursery.

  Pushing such thoughts aside, he parked in front of the Cavendishes’ house, a detached Victorian built of honey-colored stone, unexpectedly situated between two Georgian terraces. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed that the garden, previously a model of tidiness, looked weedy and neglected.

  The house seemed quiet, turned in upon itself, the front drapes still drawn. Kincaid wondered if Tim had gone out—no one with an active four-year-old slept in until midmorning, even on a Sunday—but the pealing of the bell brought quick footsteps in response.

  The door swung wide, revealing a pleasant-faced woman in her sixties with smartly bobbed graying hair. “Can I help you?” she asked with an inquiring smile. She wore a raspberry shell suit, and her features seemed vaguely familiar.

  “Is Tim at home? I’m Duncan Kincaid.”

  “Oh, you’re Toby’s dad,” she said with obvious delight. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Holding out her hand, she added, “I’m Carolyn Cavendish, Tim’s mum.”

  Kincaid clasped her well-manicured fingers. “Nice to meet you.” He had not quite got used to being referred to as Toby’s dad, and he felt an unexpected flush of pleasure.

  “Come in, won’t you?” Stepping back, she ushered him into the house. “Holly is quite smitten with you.”

  “And vice versa.” Kincaid looked round, prepared for the onslaught of Holly’s usual enthusiastic welcome, but the child didn’t appear.

  “I’ve just made some coffee,” said Carolyn Cavendish, “if you’ll join me?”

  As Kincaid surveyed the familiar array of slightly worn furniture and children’s toys, the magnitude of what Gemma had told him that morning truly registered for the first time. How could Hazel, of all peo
ple, have possibly been having an affair?

  He had never known anyone so contented, so at home in her domestic environment. He caught sight of the piano, music still open on the stand as if Gemma had just finished practicing, and felt a pang of loss for a time that had been innocent at least in memory.

  Realizing that Mrs. Cavendish was watching him curiously, he brought himself back to the present with an effort. “Thanks. I’d like to wait if Tim won’t be long—”

  “Oh, but Tim’s gone.” Leading the way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cavendish pulled two mugs from a rack above the cooker. “But I’m glad of the company.” As she pressed the coffee already standing in the pot, she added, “Tony—that’s Tim’s father—has taken Holly for a swing on the school playground, and I had nothing on my agenda more pressing than the Sunday papers.”

  Kincaid accepted the mug and sank slowly into a seat at the scarred wooden table where he had spent so much time with Hazel, Gemma, and the children. The kitchen looked much the same; the old glass-fronted cabinets were still stained a mossy green, the walls sponged peach, and a basket of Hazel’s knitting sat on the table end.

  “Tim’s out?”

  “Away for the weekend,” she corrected. “Well, it was such lovely weather, and it was no trouble for us to come from Wimbledon. Usually, Holly comes to us, but she had a birthday party here in the neighborhood yesterday. One of her school friends. Not that Hazel would have approved of all the sugar,” she added ruefully. “You should have seen them, little savages—”

  “Mrs. Cavendish.” Kincaid abandoned his manners in his rising anxiety. “Where is Tim?”

  “Walking. Some friends rang on Friday, after Hazel had got the train, and invited him to go. It seemed the perfect opportunity. He hasn’t had a holiday in ages, poor dear.”

  “Where are Tim and his friends walking?” he asked carefully, trying not to betray his dismay.

  “Um, Hampshire, I think he said. The Downs.”

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “Sometime this evening.” She frowned slightly. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Can you get in touch with him? Did he take his mobile phone?”

  “No, I don’t believe he did. He said they were planning a real getaway. Has something happened?”

  He forced a smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that there’s been an accident at the B&B where Hazel and Gemma are staying—Hazel’s fine, don’t worry—but I thought Tim should know as soon as possible.”

  “An accident?”

  “One of the other guests,” Kincaid explained. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. The police will have questions, and it’s always possible that the story could make the national media. I didn’t want Tim reading about it in the papers before Hazel had a chance to call him.”

  He finished his coffee and stood. “Will you tell Tim to ring me as soon as he gets in?”

  “Yes, of course, but—” She touched his arm. “This man, you said there was an accident. What happened?”

  “He was shot.”

  Mrs. Cavendish lifted a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. You’re sure Hazel’s all right? Did she—”

  “Hazel’s fine,” he assured her again. “But that’s all I know, Mrs. Cavendish. I’ll let you know as soon as there’s more news.” He took his leave, but once in the car he sat for a moment, his unease growing as he thought over what he had heard.

  Surely it was a coincidence that Tim Cavendish had had an unexpected invitation to go out of town on the very weekend Hazel had meant to see another man—the weather was lovely, after all. But although he didn’t think of Tim as a close friend, they had spent a good deal of time in idle chat, and he had never once heard Tim mention an interest in walking.

  That could well be coincidence again—perhaps the subject had just never happened to come up. But Kincaid had learned over the years to distrust coincidence—especially when there was murder involved.

  God, how he hated outdoor crime scenes. Chief Inspector Alun Ross had acted quickly to initiate the tedious and painstaking process of securing the scene and gathering evidence, but since he’d arrived, the sun had disappeared behind an increasingly ominous bank of cloud and chill spurts of wind eddied through the trees and bracken. If the rain held off another hour, they would be lucky.

  At least the police surgeon, Jimmy Webb, arrived quickly. Giving Ross no more than a nod of greeting, he suited up and knelt over the body. Although the heavy-jowled Webb was taciturn, he was direct and efficient, and Ross was always glad to find him on duty.

  Webb soon finished with his poking and prodding, and shucked his white coverall like a mollusk sliding out of its shell. “You’d best get your tarps up,” he said, glancing at the sky as he came over to Ross.

  “The lads are fetching them now.” Ross gestured at the team of uniformed officers emerging from the woods, carrying awkward bundles of canvas sheeting. “What can you tell me?”

  “Cause of death is obvious enough, but I can’t be definite about the size of the gun. The pathologist should be able to tell you more when he gets him on the slab.” Wadding up his coverall, Webb handed it to the nearest constable. “I can tell ye that it’s my opinion the body hasn’t been moved.”

  “Time of death?”

  “Sometime after midnight.” Web smiled at Ross’s grimace. “Well, what did ye expect, man? Miracles?” He shook his head. “It’s a shame, that. The man made good whisky.”

  And that, thought Ross as the doctor stumped away, was surely the highest compliment a Highlander could give.

  He directed a team to set up shelter over the trysting place in the wood as well, but there was no way he could protect all the area that needed to be covered in the fingertip search. The officers would just have to do the best they could if it rained. It wouldn’t be the first time they had worked in the muck, nor would it be the last.

  Damn it! He needed more men, and soon, while the weather held off. He made his way back to the house and stopped at the garden’s edge, looking for his sergeant, Munro. The graveled car park was a hive of yellow-jacketed activity, the officers’ muted conversation providing a constant hum. But after a moment’s search he spotted Munro, giving instructions to a newly arrived search team. Not that Munro would be easy to miss, Ross thought affectionately—the man was a head taller than anyone else, with a pale cadaverous face that concealed a quick wit and slightly malicious sense of humor.

  Munro having acknowledged his presence with a nod and a lift of his hand, Ross surveyed his surroundings while he waited for the sergeant to finish. It was a nice old property, well situated, and he recognized the hand of a fellow gardener at work. But why, with his own grand house just down the road, had Donald Brodie chosen to stay the night at a B&B?

  Nor would he be the only one speculating, thought Ross as he saw the first of the television vans pull up at the drive’s end. The constable on duty refused the driver entry, but this one was merely the first of many—soon the media would be thick as maggots on a corpse.

  While he waited for Munro to join him, Ross examined the list of the B&B’s residents and guests compiled by the first officer on the scene. Mackenzie, her name was, and a bonny wee lass who had no business in a man’s uniform. She was sharp enough, though, and according to her report, the woman who had discovered the body was a London copper, CID, no less.

  Well, he supposed even the Metropolitan Police deserved a holiday now and again, but still, it struck him as odd to find another copper at a murder scene. He would definitely interview Detective Inspector Gemma James first.

  She sat across from him at the dining room table, her posture relaxed, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. He found something slightly old-fashioned about her face, and he wondered briefly if her background was Scots. She reminded him a bit of his daughter, Ross thought as he studied her, not so much in looks or coloring, but in her direct and confident manner. Her hair was the deep red of burnished copper; her face bore a light
dusting of freckles; a wide, generous mouth; hazel eyes with flecks of gold in the irises. She was attractive rather than beautiful, he decided, with an air of friendly competence—and he found that he thoroughly distrusted her.

  He’d begun by asking her to relate the events of the morning, while behind him, Munro took notes from a chair in the corner. With the ease born of practice, Inspector James told her story with a conciseness marred only by the occasional furrowing of her brow as she added a detail. Once or twice she paused to allow Munro to catch up, and he saw his normally lugubrious sergeant tighten his lips in what passed for a smile.

  Deliberately, Ross refrained from using her title. “Miss James, your friend that was sick in the woods—I understand you’re sharing a room?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you alone heard the shot—or what you thought was a shot? And you alone went to investigate?”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  No elaboration, Ross thought. She would know well that unnecessary elaboration could trip one up, lead to careless disclosure. His interest quickened.

  “And yet it was this same friend”—he glanced at his notes—“Mrs. Cavendish, I believe?”

  “Yes, Hazel.”

  “It was this same friend who was sick on seeing the body?”

  “Yes.” Gemma James’s posture didn’t change, but he thought he saw a faint heightening of the color along her cheekbones.

  “But she wasn’t with you when you made the initial discovery. Was she still sleeping?”

  “No. She’d gone for a drive. She arrived back just as I was about to ring the police.”

  “I see. And you told her where you had found Mr. Brodie?”

  “No—I—I said I’d found Donald in the meadow. And that he was dead.”

  “Then you took her to see the body?” Ross allowed disapproval to creep into his voice.