Shrugging, Vivian said, “I know it sounds a bit silly to say one felt sorry for someone as larger-than-life as Con, but Julia baffled him.” The gold buttons on her cardigan caught the light as she shifted in her chair. “He could never make her respond in the way he wanted, and he hadn’t any experience with that. So he sometimes behaved… inappropriately.” A door slammed in the front of the house and she cocked her head, listening. Half-rising from her chair, she said, “They’re back. Let me tell—”
“One more thing, please, Mrs. Plumley,” Kincaid said. “Did you see Connor on Thursday?”
She sank down again, but perched on the edge of her seat with the tentative posture of one who doesn’t intend staying long. “Of course I saw him. I prepared lunch—just cold salads and cheese—and we all ate together in the dining room.”
“All except Julia?”
“Yes, but she often works through luncheon. I took a plate up to her myself.”
“Did Connor seem his usual self?” Kincaid asked, his tone conversational, but Gemma knew from his still concentration that he was intent on her answer.
Vivian relaxed as she thought, leaning back in her chair again and absently tracing the raised flower pattern on her mug with her fingers. “Con was always teasing and joking, but perhaps it seemed a bit forced. I don’t know.” She looked up at Kincaid, frowning. “Quite possibly I’m distorting things after the fact. I’m not sure I trust my own judgment.”
Kincaid nodded. “I appreciate your candor. Did he mention any plans for later in the day? It’s important that we trace his movements.”
“I remember him glancing at his watch and saying something about a meeting, but he didn’t say where or with whom. That was toward the end of the meal, and as soon as everyone had finished I came in here to do the washing up, then went to my room for a lie-down. You might ask Caro or Gerald if he said something more to them.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that,” Kincaid said with such courtesy that Gemma felt sure it would never occur to Vivian Plumley that she’d just told him how to do his job. “It’s strictly a formality, of course, but I must ask you about your movements on Thursday night,” he added almost apologetically.
“An alibi? You’re asking me for an alibi for Connor’s death?” Vivian asked, sounding more surprised than offended.
“We don’t yet know exactly when Connor died. And it’s more a matter of building known factors—the more we know about the movements of everyone connected with Connor, the easier it becomes to see gaps. Logic holes.” He made a circular gesture with his hands.
“All right.” She smiled, appeased. “That’s easy enough. Caro and I had an early supper in front of the fire in the sitting room. We often do when Gerald’s away.”
“And after that?”
“We sat before the fire, reading, watching the telly, talking a little. I made some cocoa around ten o’clock, and when we’d finished it I went up to bed.” She added with a touch of irony, “I remember thinking it had been a particularly peaceful and pleasant evening.”
“Nothing else?” Kincaid asked, straightening up in his chair and pushing away his empty mug.
“No,” Vivian said, but then paused and stared into space for a moment. “I do remember something, but it’s quite silly.” When Kincaid nodded encouragement, she continued. “Just after I’d fallen asleep I thought I heard the doorbell, but when I sat up and listened, the house was perfectly quiet. I must have been dreaming. Gerald and Julia both have their own keys, of course, so there was no need to wait up for them.”
“Did you hear either of them come in?”
“I thought I heard Gerald around midnight, but I wasn’t properly awake, and the next thing I knew it was daybreak and the rooks were making a god-awful racket in the beeches outside my window.”
“Couldn’t it have been Julia?” Kincaid asked.
She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. “I suppose it could, but if it’s not terribly late, Julia usually looks in on me before she goes up.”
“And she didn’t that evening?”
When Vivian shook her head, Kincaid smiled at her and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Plumley. You’ve been very helpful.”
This time, before rising, Vivian Plumley looked at him and said, “Shall I tell them you’re here?”
Sir Gerald Asherton stood with his back to the sitting room fire, hands clasped behind him. He made a perfect picture of a nineteenth-century country squire, thought Gemma, with his feet spread apart in a relaxed posture and his bulk encased in rather hairy tweeds. He even sported suede elbow patches on his jacket. The only things needed to complete the tableau were a pipe and a pair of hunting hounds sprawled at his feet.
“So sorry to have kept you waiting.” He came toward them, pumped their hands and gestured them toward the sofa.
Gemma found the courtesy rather disarming, and suspected it was meant to be.
“Thank you, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid said, returning it in kind. “And Dame Caroline?”
“Gone for a bit of a lie-down. Found the business at the undertakers rather upsetting, I’m afraid.” Sir Gerald sat in the armchair opposite them, crossed one foot over his knee and adjusted his trouser leg. An expanse of Argyle sock in autumnal orange and brown appeared between shoe and trouser cuff.
“If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid smiled as he spoke, “it seems a little odd that your daughter didn’t take care of the arrangements herself. Connor was, after all, her husband.”
“Just so,” answered Sir Gerald with a touch of asperity. “Sometimes these things are best left to those not quite so close to the matter. And funeral directors are notorious for preying on the emotions of the newly bereaved.” Gemma felt a stab of pity at the reminder that this burly, confident man spoke from the worst possible
