Now May You Weep

by Deborah Crombie

  A number seventy-three bus barreled by, turning the corner into Oxford Street, on its way to Euston and King’s Cross Station.

  King’s Cross. Fumbling in his pocket, Kit pulled out the spending money Duncan had given him for the week and counted it. There was enough—at least for a single ticket, and just now he didn’t care about the return. He wanted only to be someplace familiar, someplace that felt right, someplace where he could think things through.

  He set off after the bus at a run.

  “It’s our son,” Kincaid explained to Ross. “He seems to have taken advantage of our absence to play truant from school,” he added, trying to make light of it.

  “How old is the lad?” Ross asked.

  “Twelve.”

  “Och, I don’t envy ye, then,” Ross said sympathetically. “It’s a difficult age. Weel, I’ll leave ye to get on with it. I’m sure you’ll turn him up—or he’ll come home of his own accord when he gets hungry.” He got into the car, but as his sergeant began to reverse, he called out to them. “I didna realize the two of you were married. It’s verra confusing these days, what with the women having different names.”

  “Of all the—” began Gemma as Ross drove off, then she shook her head. “Never mind. Tell me exactly what Wesley said.”

  “He started to get worried when Kit didn’t come home at the usual time. After an hour, he rang one of Kit’s mates at school, the boy he’d been partnering on his science project—his name’s Sean, I think.” He should know this, Kincaid told himself furiously. It was his business to know these things. He forced himself to go on. “Sean told Wes that Kit wasn’t in school today at all.”

  “Did he leave a note?”

  “Not that Wes could find.”

  “What about Tess?” asked Gemma. “Did he take Tess?” Kit seldom went anywhere without the little terrier he had befriended in the days following his mother’s death.

  “No. But his school bag is gone, so he must have started out—”

  “Oh, God.” Gemma had gone dead white. “You don’t think—someone—”

  “No.” Kincaid pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “No, I don’t think anything’s happened to him. I think he was angry with me, and decided at the last minute to do a runner. I’m going to call Laura Miller.”

  Laura Miller had worked with Vic in the university’s English faculty, and Laura’s son, Colin, had been Kit’s best friend at school. Kit had stayed with the Millers for several months after Vic’s death and still visited Colin every few weekends.

  “Right.” Gemma gave him a shaky smile. “That’s where he will have gone.”

  But when Kincaid got Laura on the phone, she said she hadn’t seen Kit since the last time he’d come to visit. She promised to quiz Colin and to ring back if she learned anything.

  When he related this news to Gemma he saw the flare of panic in her eyes. “We’ll have to put out a bulletin,” she said. “If he’s been gone since first thing this morning, he could be anywhere—”

  “No, wait.” Kincaid held up a hand as a thought occurred to him. “Let me try one more thing.” This time he rang a Grantchester number. Nathan Winter had been Vic’s next-door neighbor and, briefly, her lover. A Cambridge biology professor, he had encouraged Kit in his love of science, and the two had become friends.

  “Hullo, Nathan? It’s Duncan—”

  “It’s all right, Duncan,” came Nathan’s familiar deep rumble. “He’s here. I found him down by the river a half hour ago. I’m just taking some tea and sandwiches out to the garden for him—he was ravenous, poor lad.”

  Relief left Kincaid’s muscles weak, but the emotion was quickly replaced by a rush of anger. What the hell had prompted Kit to go to Grantchester without telling them? And how was he going to get the boy home, if he couldn’t trust him? Even if he had Nathan put him on the train, he’d no guarantee that Kit would do as he was told. “Put him on the phone, Nathan. I want to speak to him.”

  “Duncan, wait. Let him stay with me for a bit, let me talk to him. He wouldn’t have come just on a whim. He muttered something about Ian having rung him this morning—”

  “Ian?”

  “That’s all I’ve got out of him, so far. But perhaps I can help him sort it out, whatever’s happened. I’ve a light day for tutorials tomorrow, and he can come with me.”

  Kincaid thought of the circumstances that had sent Kit running to Grantchester once before. Then, he’d been escaping from his grandmother’s abuse. What could Ian have said to the boy to induce such a response? And if he had been home, would Kit have confided in him, instead of running away?

  “All right,” he said to Nathan at last, feeling as if he’d set the seal on his failure. “Perhaps for a day or two, until I can get back. But you should know what’s been going on.” He told Nathan about Eugenia’s latest maneuver. “I’ve asked Kit to have DNA testing, to put paid to her once and for all, and Ian’s agreed, but Kit won’t consider it. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  “I’ll do my best. Look, I’d better go. He’s coming in from the garden.”

  “Okay. Tell him he can stay tomorrow, at the least, and ring me when you’ve had a chance to speak to him. And, Nathan,” Kincaid added, “don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Dinner that night was a strained affair. Louise served Gemma, Kincaid, Martin, and Hazel in the dining room, Heather and Pascal having gone to Benvulin for the night.

  Everyone seemed preoccupied with his or her own worries. Hazel had at last reached her mother-in-law, Carolyn Cavendish, who had told her that Tim was being questioned by the London police. Louise had not heard anything from John since Chief Inspector Ross had taken him to Aviemore, and both Gemma and Kincaid were concerned about Kit. Since his discussion with Nathan, Kincaid had been trying to ring Ian in Toronto, with no success.

  Martin, to his credit, had offered to help Louise in the kitchen, but she’d refused him with a marked lack of graciousness, and he had been glowering at her ever since.

  When Louise had set the last bowl of steaming fish stew before them, Hazel said, “Louise, come sit down and join us, please.”

  Louise stopped in the doorway, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands. “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t think I can bear to sit, to tell the truth, not until John’s…I’ll just get some more hot bread.” She vanished back into the kitchen.

  Gemma felt as if the painted fish swimming round the walls were staring down at her accusingly. With an apologetic nod at the largest trout, she took a bite of her stew and found it much better than she’d anticipated.

  “How long can they keep him?” asked Martin, frowning at his soup bowl. “It’s not like they can charge him with anything—can they?” The sudden appeal in his voice made him sound very young.

  “I shouldn’t think so,” answered Gemma, “based on what Chief Inspector Ross said.” She leaned forward, catching the fresh green scent of the boughs Louise had placed on the sideboard. “But, Martin, you have to understand that we’re not privy to all the chief inspector’s information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Forensics results, witness reports—”

  “You’re saying he may have more evidence against John than he told us? But John can’t have—John wouldn’t—”

  “Martin.” Louise had slipped back into the room, unnoticed, a basket of sliced bread in her hand. “Just shut up. You don’t know anything, and you’ll only make things worse by going on about it.”

  “Worse?” Martin’s voice rose to a squeak. “How could asking questions possibly make anything worse? Good God, Louise, anyone would think you believed John had done—” He stared at her, his eyes widening. “That is what you think, isn’t it? You actually believe your own husband shot Donald!”

  “You’ve no idea what I think.” Louise bit the words off furiously. “And I’m bloody sick and tired of you swanning round my house as if you owned it, spouting your opinions, as if anyone actually cared what you th
ought. When John gets back—”

  “Louise—” began Hazel, but Martin stood, rocking the table and sloshing soup on the tablecloth.

  “Right. That’s it. I’m going, and when John gets back, you can explain to him why I left.” Martin brushed by Louise and stalked out of the room. A moment later they heard his footsteps clattering up the stairs.

  “Louise,” said Hazel again, but Louise turned and bolted back into the kitchen.

  The other three sat looking at one another for a moment, then Gemma said quietly, “He’s got no place to go.”

  “Maybe I should have a friendly word with him.” Kincaid’s offer was given so swiftly that Gemma suspected he’d been looking for an excuse to leave the room and ring Ian again.

  When he’d gone out, Hazel dropped her face into her hands. “And I should go talk to Louise,” she said, her voice muffled.

  “You’ve enough on your plate just now,” Gemma told her gently. “Give her a minute to cool down and I’ll go in. But in the meantime, I want a word with you.” They hadn’t had a moment alone since Hazel had spoken with Heather in the barn. “Hazel, Heather did tell you—”

  “Yes.” Dropping her hands, Hazel looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Have you any idea why Donald left you his shares?” asked Gemma.

  “No.” Hazel shook her head in bewilderment. “Especially considering the way his father felt about me. I’m the last person Bruce Brodie would have wanted in control of his business.”

  “Could that have been why Donald chose you?”

  “To show his father up? But Bruce has been dead for years.”

  “What if he felt his father had ruined his life by driving you away…a bit far-fetched, I’ll admit,” Gemma added with a sigh. She thought for a moment. “But what if Donald meant it as a gesture to prove his commitment to your future together? In which case, he must have in tended to tell you what he’d done.” Gemma’s heart gave a lurch as she realized where her supposition led. “Hazel, Donald didn’t tell you, did he?”

  Hazel looked appalled. “Of course not! You can’t think I knew—”

  “No, no. I’m sorry.” Gemma reached across the table and touched Hazel’s hand. “That was stupid of me. But what if Donald told someone else?”

  “You think someone murdered him because of it? But why would someone kill Donald because he’d left his shares to me?”

  “Is there any way someone could profit from your ownership?” asked Gemma. “What about Heather?”

  “No. Heather’s the one who’s lost most over this, after everything she did for him. Only if I—” Hazel looked down at her stew and seemed to focus great concentration on taking a bite.

  “What? Tell me what you were going to say,” demanded Gemma.

  “Nothing. It was nothing. We should eat,” Hazel added brightly. “The stew’s getting cold.”

  “That’s bollocks.” Gemma caught Hazel’s gaze, held it. “If you keep things from me, I can’t help. You do want to find out who killed Donald, don’t you?”

  “You know I do.” Hazel shut her eyes, and Gemma saw her shudder, as if she were recalling the sight of Donald’s body. “All right,” she said at last. “It’s just that Heather made me an offer today. She said Pascal’s firm would buy my shares outright, immediately. She said I could just walk away from the whole thing, easy as pie.”

  “That’s what she wanted from Donald,” mused Gemma. “But he wouldn’t give it to her. Maybe she thought you’d be an easier mark.”

  “I don’t believe that. She’s my cousin, for God’s sake. I’ve known her since she was a child.”

  “You don’t know her now,” Gemma argued. “You haven’t seen her in ten years.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I know she couldn’t have shot Donald. She loved him—I don’t mean they were lovers, but they were friends. She was like family to him.”

  Too often, Gemma had seen love mutate into violence, but she didn’t have the heart to share that with Hazel. Instead she asked, “What are you going to do? Will you sell Pascal the shares?”

  “How could I? That would mean betraying Donald—and how could I agree to profit from Donald’s death? That’s—that’s obscene.” Hazel pushed her bowl away abruptly, as if the smell made her ill. Her eyes filled with the tears she’d managed to hold in check for two days. “This is too much. And then, when I talked to Carolyn tonight…”

  “Tim’s mum?”

  Hazel nodded. “We were friends, Carolyn and I, and now I’ve betrayed her, too. She kept trying to comfort me, telling me it was all some dreadful mistake and that things would be all right. But it’s not going to be all right. If I’d had the slightest hope that Tim and I could patch things up, Donald giving me those shares put an end to it. How can I possibly explain this to Tim?”

  “Right now it’s more a question of Tim explaining where he was over the weekend,” said Gemma practically. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Tim had been there, perhaps close enough to touch, and yet she knew that was the last thing Hazel would accept.

  “I’m sure he just wanted some time on his own. Why are the police talking to him, anyway, if they think Donald was shot with John’s gun?”

  “They have to be thorough,” Gemma told her, feeling a twinge of guilt for having insisted that Ross have Tim interviewed.

  “Not that I believe for a minute that John would do something like that,” continued Hazel. “I mean, why would he have wanted to hurt Donald?”

  Gemma thought of the usual motives for murder. There was jealousy, but John had never met Hazel until that weekend. There was greed, but she couldn’t see how John had benefited from Donald’s death. There was revenge, but as far as she knew, Donald had been a good friend to John. And then there was the desire to protect a secret.

  “Hazel, what do you really know about John?” she asked. “You and Louise hadn’t seen each other for years.”

  Hazel considered for a moment. “Louise met John after Donald and I split up—after I’d gone back to England—so I never knew him when Louise and I were living in Grantown. I don’t think she ever really dated anyone seriously until she met John, come to think of it. Um, let’s see.” She chewed her thumbnail. “I know he sold commercial real estate in Edinburgh before they came here, and that he and Louise had a flat in the New Town. I know he always wanted to cook. And then there are the obvious things, of course—he’s married to Louise; he has a much younger brother, Martin, from his mother’s second marriage.”

  John did have another connection with Donald, Gemma realized, one she had forgotten. They had both been friends with Callum MacGillivray.

  “This is dreadful,” Hazel said suddenly. “These are my friends. How can I be sitting here, speculating about them?” She pushed her bowl aside.

  “I’m sorry.” Gemma could have kicked herself for being so insensitive. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked you. This is hard enough for me, and I’ve only known them a few days.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Hazel gave her a tremulous smile. “You’re trying to help, and I snapped at you. And here you must be worried sick about Kit, and I’ve been no use to you at all.”

  “I’m certain he’s all right with Nathan,” said Gemma, reassuring herself as much as Hazel. She wondered what had happened to Duncan, and if he had succeeded in reaching Ian. “Why don’t you go on to bed,” she told Hazel, “and I’ll give Louise a hand in the kitchen.”

  Hazel had protested, but without much force, and Gemma soon convinced her to go back to her room for a bath.

  “You’re not staying with me, are you?” asked Hazel. “I think Louise meant to put you and Duncan in Pascal’s room.”

  “You’re certain you don’t mind?” Gemma still didn’t feel entirely comfortable leaving Hazel alone, but she didn’t want to worry her by saying so.

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. I’ll just pop in and get my things later on.”

  When s
he had seen Hazel out the front door, she stood in the hall for a moment, listening. There was a low murmur of male voices from upstairs. Duncan and Martin had obviously found something to talk about.

  Collecting a stack of dirty dishes from the dining room, she carried them into the kitchen and looked around. There were cooking pots piled in the sink and an unfinished bowl of Cullen Skink on the small table, but there was no sign of Louise. Gemma thought she would have heard if Louise had gone up the stairs, so she stepped out through the scullery to have a look outside.

  The garden was quiet, deep in the shadows of the late dusk. From somewhere nearby she caught the faint, pungent scent of tobacco smoke. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she noticed a flickering glow of light coming from the garden shed. “Louise?” she called out, crossing the lawn.

  When she looked inside the shed’s open door, she saw Louise sitting on a campstool, smoking a cigarette. On the potting bench burned a small spirit lamp. “Do you mind if I come in?” Gemma asked.

  “Suit yourself. I had to get out for a bit.” Louise had thrown a cardigan on over her kitchen apron but still hugged herself as if she were cold.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” Gemma said as she took the other stool.

  “I don’t, usually. These are John’s. It’s a little game we play. I pretend I don’t know he smokes them, and then occasionally I nick one or two, but he can’t say anything to me without admitting that he bought them in the first place.”

  Gemma smiled. “That sounds like one of those things that keep marriage interesting.”

  “I suppose you could look at it like that.” Louise took a last drag on the cigarette, ground it out under her foot, then set the fag end carefully on the bench. “But you and Duncan aren’t married, are you? Why not?”