All Shall Be Well

by Deborah Crombie

  “It was nice to meet you, Theo. I’m sorry about your sister.” Gemma took Theo’s hand, surprised to find it ice-cold in the overheated room.

  Theo followed them down the steep stairs, and Gemma had a last glance at the brambly honey pot before Theo shut the shop door behind them.

  They left the shop without speaking and started down the footpath toward the river. Kincaid walked with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets, not looking at Gemma.

  “You suckered me into playing good cop-bad cop with that poor man. And after he was so touchingly grateful to you. Is that what you had in mind when you asked me to come?” Gemma stopped, forcing him to turn and meet her eyes.

  “No. Partly habit, I suppose. I feel like I’ve beaten a child. But Christ, Gemma. How could anyone really be so bloody gormless? You can’t believe he never gave a thought to what would happen to Jasmine’s money.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s stupid, Duncan.” Gemma started walking again and Kincaid followed. “Innocent, maybe, and a bit fragile. Surely you can’t think Theo had anything to do with Jasmine’s death?”

  “It’s that helpless quality of his,” Kincaid said with the beginning of a grin. “It’s aroused your protective instincts. Somebody probably felt the same way about Crippen.”

  “You’ve no reason not to believe him,” Gemma countered, stung. “Do you think about what would happen to your parents’ money, or your sister’s, if they were to die suddenly?”

  “No. But they’ve not been ill, and they don’t support me. It looks to me like Theo still needs all the help he can get. His business doesn’t exactly seem to be flourishing.”

  They turned now and followed the watercourse toward the bridge at the village end. Cress, dappled green in the sunlight, grew thickly in the stream’s running water. The children’s play equipment stood deserted in the meadow, an empty swing moving gently in the breeze, and Gemma found herself wishing intensely that the afternoon had held no motive more sinister than a walk by the water’s edge.

  “It’s nearly three o’clock, and by my count that’s the only pub in the village.” Kincaid pointed toward the low, whitewashed building standing at the T-junction on the other side of the bridge. “I guess that qualifies as across the road. If we want to have a friendly chat with the landlord of the Bull and Whistle before closing time, we’d better get to it. And,” the grin was back in full force, “I’ll buy you a sweet cider.”

  * * *

  The affable landlord of the Bull and Whistle confirmed that Theo had indeed eaten his supper there on Thursday evening. “Comes in every evening, about the same time. More likely I’d notice if he weren’t here than if he were. Vegetarian lasagna on Thursday, I remember he looked pleased as punch when he saw the board.” The publican replaced Gemma’s coaster and eyed her appreciatively. “Anything else, Miss?”

  “This is fine, thanks.”

  Gemma had ordered a dry cider with a quelling look at Kincaid, from which he deduced she was fed up with being teased about her preference for sweet drinks. She sat next to him at the bar, her expression inscrutable, looking crisp and as cool as her coloring would allow in pale trousers and a cinnamon cotton shirt. Looking at her, Kincaid felt rather rumpled and worse for wear.

  The blackboard above the bar bore nothing but a few chalky streaks. “Nothing on today?” asked Kincaid.

  “Wife takes Sunday off. Just cold pies and sausage rolls, or scotch eggs, if you like.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “Can you remember what time Theo Dent left here on Thursday?”

  The landlord scratched his head. “’Bout half past seven, I should think. Nothing special on that evening. Sometimes he’ll have another half of cider if there’s a darts match, or a good crowd.”

  “Gets on with the locals, does he?” asked Kincaid with some surprise.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that. But he’s friendly enough. Shy, maybe. More likely to watch than to join in, if you know what I mean.”

  “Have any idea where he went when he left here?”

  The landlord laughed. “In Abinger Hammer? There’s not much choice, is there? And he’s not got a car. Went home, as far as I know.”

  “Thanks.” Kincaid drained his pint and looked at Gemma.

  “Satisfied?” she asked acidly.

  Kincaid grinned. “Not yet. Let’s do a recce at the video shop.”

  Shop turned out to be an exaggerated description. Newsagent, post office and video rental were squeezed into a space about the size of Kincaid’s bathroom. The young woman behind the counter chewed her gum slowly while she considered Kincaid’s query, contributing to a rather unfortunate bovine resemblance.

  Carefully, she counted the days backwards on her fingers. “Yeah. It was Thursday Random Harvest came in. Special ordered it for him.” She revolved her index finger around her ear. “Weird guy. Nutty about old films. I tried to turn him on to some really good stuff, you know, The Terminator, Lethal Weapon, like that, but he wasn’t having any. Only watches dusty old things. The week before he wanted, uh, what’s it called with Cary Grant? Arsenic and Old Ladies?”

  “Arsenic and Old Lace,” Kincaid corrected, smothering a grin. “And did he return Random Harvest the next day?”

  “First thing,” the girl answered, puzzled.

  “Thanks.”

  “You wouldn’t dare make anything of it.” Gemma had glared at him as they got in the car. “Lots of people love that film and don’t go about poisoning their relatives.”

  Kincaid had to admit he found it difficult to imagine that Theo had got himself inconspicuously to London, murdered his sister, and managed to return home in time to watch a much anticipated video. He mulled it over as he drove, playing out various unlikely scenarios.

  By the time they reached Hampstead he’d come up with nothing more definite than a resolve to discover if Theo were really as unaware of Jasmine’s affairs as he claimed. He’d see Jasmine’s solicitor straight away.

  Kincaid couldn’t persuade Gemma to stay when they reached the Hampstead flat, not even by tempting her with an offer of a drink on the balcony. She’d been restive on the drive back from Surrey, checking her watch often. What had started as a pleasant day had gradually deteriorated, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d failed her in some unknown expectation.

  Perhaps she was still cross with him for bullying Theo, and truthfully he couldn’t blame her. He’d only intended to gather a little information, but the man’s helplessness made him feel awkward and inadequate, and that in turn irritated him.

  Kincaid opened Gemma’s car door and closed it as she got in. He stood, resting his hands on the open windowsill, so that she had to tilt her head to look up at him. “Thanks for coming with me, Gemma.”

  “Not much help, I’m afraid.” She smiled and turned the key in the ignition. “Mind now, don’t forget to look after the cat,” she said as she pulled away, but Kincaid thought both the smile and the admonition seemed absent-minded.

  He took the reminder to heart. After retrieving a beer and a stack of blue journals from his flat, he quietly let himself in Jasmine’s door. Sid, curled in the middle of the hospital bed, began a rumbly purr when Kincaid stepped into the room. “Actually glad to see me this time, are you?” Kincaid addressed him. “Or just hungry, more likely.” He spooned some tinned food into a bowl and set it down. The cat unbent enough to allow Kincaid to scratch behind his ears before turning all his attention to the bowl.

  Beer in hand and journals tucked under his arm, Kincaid opened the French doors and sat down on the top step overlooking the empty garden. Leaning against the rail, as Jasmine had so often done, he began to read.

  September 22, 1957

  It’s cold here. Cold all the bloody time, even though Aunt May says it’s a “fair autumn”. My hands and feet hurt from the chill and these stupid woolen clothes itch. I’ve come up in little red bumps all over. At least I’ll never be as pale as these English, with their skin like raw potatoes,
faces blank as shuttered windows, voices like rusty saws scraping.

  May’s given me a bed in the cottage attic, Theo the spare room. She says it’s because he’s the youngest, but she favors him. Me she disliked from the moment she set eyes on my face.

  I lie in the little bed at night and listen to the sound the wind makes in the rafters, and think about going barefoot in the dust, about cool, cotton dresses, and coconut milk, and pomegranates, and passionfruit, and the way the sunlight came through the green bamboo blinds in the Mohur Street house and made my room look like it was under water.

  She says I’ve got to stay in school till I’m sixteen, it’s the law. The girls don’t speak to me except to make rude remarks. The boys just look.

  Theo’s fared better. He goes out with some of the boys after school. He’s even starting to sound a bit like them.

  I’d leave here the day I’m sixteen but I can’t leave Theo in May’s clutches. She’s got plans for him, she’s already worried about his marks, filling his head with talk about university.

  We did fine, Theo and I, without any interference from her, and we will again, I swear it.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Monday dawned cold and blustery, ending the idyllic weather that had accompanied Jasmine’s death. Kincaid knotted his tie and shrugged into a wool jacket with a sense of relief mingled with anticipation. He studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror, expecting to find some visible mark of the weekend’s slow passage, but the blue eyes staring back at him looked ordinary and not quite awake. With a last pass of the hairbrush, he judged himself presentable. Pausing only to pick up keys and wallet and to dump his unfinished coffee in the sink, he left the flat.

  He took the tube, and exited at St. James Park. A few minutes walk brought him into the cold shadow of the steel and concrete tower which housed New Scotland Yard. The pavements were deserted except for the uniformed guard standing sentinel before the glass doors. Litter rattled as it blew in the gutter. Not exactly a comforting sight, the Yard, but then Kincaid didn’t suppose the architects had succor in mind. He gave a casual wave to the guard and entered the building.

  The short walk had given him time to marshal his arguments and he went straight to his Chief Superintendent’s office. Denis Childs’ secretary, a plump, dark-haired girl, looked up from her typing and beamed at him. “Morning, Mr. Kincaid. What can I do for you?”

  The Chief Superintendent had a talent for choosing staff both good natured and efficient, and they kept his political machinery well-oiled. “Is he in, Holly?” Kincaid nodded toward the closed door of the inner office.

  “Reading his reports, I should think. Nothing pressing on this morning. Just give the door a tap.” She’d turned back to the keyboard before she finished her sentence, her fingers flying over the keys.

  The Chief Superintendent had done his office in Scandinavian Modern, all blond wood, cane, and greenery, and Kincaid suspected his motivation was more a matter of playing against convention than strong preference.

  Denis Childs reclined in the chair behind his desk, report propped on his crossed knee, cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on the desk’s edge. Childs’ bulk made the furniture seem insubstantial, the subtle color scheme paling to anemic against his dark hair and lively brown eyes.

  “What’s up, Duncan? Pull up a chair.” He flicked over the last page of the report and tossed it into his out-tray, stubbed out the cigarette and folded his hands across his middle, preparing to listen, as he usually did, with his attention fully engaged.

  After settling himself in the visitor’s armchair, Kincaid recounted the details of Jasmine’s death and his subsequent actions.

  “I’d like to make an official inquiry,” he concluded. “Shouldn’t require much manpower, just Gemma and myself, really.”

  Childs considered a moment before he spoke, steepling his fingers over his belly. “Sounds like a fairly straightforward suicide. You know we usually look the other way in these cases—nothing to be gained by pursuing the matter, particularly for the family. However, if there is any direct evidence that the young woman—what was her name?”

  “Margaret Bellamy.”

  “—that Margaret Bellamy was present and physically assisted your friend’s suicide in any way, we would have to press charges.”

  “I can’t rule that out. She says she wasn’t there that evening, but she has no corroboration.” Kincaid shifted in his seat and the chair creaked alarmingly. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why mention the suicide pact? She need never have said anything, and I doubt I would have felt uneasy enough to order an autopsy.”

  “Shock?” Childs suggested, lighting a Player’s from the pack on his desk and squinting at Kincaid through the smoke.

  Kincaid shrugged in irritation. “She was shocked, yes, and probably not emotionally competent at the best of times, but she’s not stupid. She must know the law. And that,” he sat forward in the chair and gripped the arms, “is what really bothers me. Jasmine would have known the risk involved for Meg. I’ve read Exit’s literature—” Kincaid ignored his chief’s raised eyebrows at that “—and they recommend most strongly that one let friends and family know one’s intentions, and leave indemnifying documents in case of suspicion.”

  “Suicide note?”

  “Not necessarily … not if she wanted it to be thought a natural death. But Exit suggests a detailed statement of intent, signed and dated, in case the death is questioned. We’re not talking about a scrawled ‘just can’t cope anymore’ note. Jasmine left not a shred that I’ve been able to find.”

  Childs sighed and gently swiveled his chair back and forth. “And you feel that’s not in character? When people are ill they don’t always behave—”

  “You’re not the first to suggest that, but I doubt I ever met anyone more rational than Jasmine, and you could certainly consider suicide as a rational decision for someone terminally ill.”

  “Have you spoken to her solicitor? She might have left the indemnifying documents with him.”

  “First on my list,” Kincaid said, relieved at the interview’s direction. He knew how reluctantly his chief let go a problem once he started to worry at it.

  “I’ll authorize a warrant to access the solicitor’s files. Anything left for the forensics lads?”

  Kincaid snorted. “It’d take a miracle, would have even in the first place. The place is clean. There are a couple of nearly full vials of morphine in the fridge, very unlikely there’s enough missing to account for Jasmine’s death. I’ll bring them in, but I doubt very much we’ll find anyone’s prints who didn’t have normal access. If it was murder, it was done very carefully.” He chewed his thumb for a moment while he thought. “If Jasmine killed herself, what did she do with the empty morphine vial? I’ve done a fairly thorough search.”

  Childs tilted his chair forward and ground out the stub of his cigarette. “I can spare you a few days, if nothing major comes in. I’ll put Sullivan on this morning’s lot, he’s due for a headache.” The wickedly benign smile accompanying the last comment made Kincaid glad not to be in Bill Sullivan’s shoes.

  “Gemma?” Kincaid asked.

  “The last time I assigned her to Sullivan I got a right bollicking. Two redheads do not a team make, at least not these two. You can have her for a couple of days, if she’ll put up with you—and mind you, this is only as long as I can spare you.”

  “Right,” Kincaid said, standing up to go. “Thanks, guv.”

  Kincaid found Gemma already in his office, ensconced in the chair behind his desk. When she started to rise, he waved her back into the chair and propped himself on the edge of his battered desk. His office decor had never progressed beyond functional—he never seemed to get around to requisitioning more than bookcases from the Yard.

  Every available inch of space in the small cubicle housed books. His mother’s book graveyard, Kincaid thought as he surveyed the volumes jammed into the shelves without rhyme or classification.
They arrived regularly in the post from Cheshire, always something she had ‘just happened to come across’ in the shop. From do-it-yourself plumbing manuals to Russian sci-fi, they ran the gamut of his mother’s enthusiasms. In her battle for his continuing education Kincaid saw his mother’s disappointment in his refusal to attend university, and he could never quite bring himself to return the books or give them away. And although he teased his mum about her obsessions, one couldn’t grow up with books as he had and not love them for their own sakes.

  Gemma closed the folder she’d been scanning and handed it to Kincaid. “Jasmine’s p.m. report. No evidence of puncture marks, so the morphine must have been administered through the catheter.”

  “No surprise there.”

  “And I’ve been on to the coroner’s office. The inquest is set for Wednesday.” Gemma stood up and brushed some crumbs off the blotter, then picked up a coffee mug bearing lipstick traces on its rim. She’d traded her usual tailored outfit for a long, navy cardigan and a printed skirt in some soft material.

  “Quick off the mark this morning, aren’t you?” Kincaid grinned at her. “Second breakfast?”

  Gemma ignored the dig. “I heard you’d gone straight in to see the boss. Did he okay it?”

  Kincaid sobered. “We’ve a couple of days, if nothing comes in that Sullivan can’t handle. The rest are up to their eyeballs.” He went around the desk and took the chair Gemma had vacated, leaning back and ticking items off on his fingers. “Jasmine’s solicitor first off—I’ll take that one. I’d like you to go round the borough planning office where Meg and Jasmine worked and see Meg. Find out what Jasmine told her about the legality of assisted suicide. Then interview whoever else seems likely. But first I want you to trace the lovely Roger Leveson-Gower. See what you make of him.” Smiling at the thought of pitting Gemma’s temper against Leveson-Gower’s snide sarcasm, Kincaid added, “Maybe he’ll tell you where he was on Thursday evening. He bloody well won’t tell me.”