“Only because there were rumors at the time of Matthew’s death, and you are bound to hear them if you poke long enough under rocks. Open accusations might have been refutable, but not the faceless whispers in the dark.”
“What did they say, the whisperers?” Kincaid said, knowing the answer even as he spoke.
Mead sighed. “Only what you might expect, human nature being what it is, as well as being fueled by her sometimes obvious jealousy of her brother. They insinuated that she didn’t try to save him… that she might even have pushed him.”
“She was jealous of him, then?”
The vicar sat up a bit in his chair and for the first time sounded a bit irascible. “Of course she was jealous! As any normal child would have been, given the circumstances.” His gray eyes held Kincaid’s. “But she also loved him, and would never willingly have allowed harm to come to him. Julia did as much to save her brother as anyone could expect of a frightened thirteen-year-old, probably more.” He stood up and began collecting the tea things on the tray. “I don’t possess the temerity to call a tragedy like that an act of God. And accidents, Mr. Kincaid, are often unanswerable.”
Placing his mug carefully on the tray, Kincaid said, “Thank you, Vicar. You’ve been very kind.”
Mead stood, tray balanced in his hands, gazing out the window at the churchyard. “I don’t profess to understand the workings of fate. Sometimes it’s best not to, in my business,” he added, the twinkle surfacing again, “but I’ve always wondered. The children usually took the bus home from school, but they were late that day and had to walk instead. What kept them?”
CHAPTER
7
Kincaid reshuffled the files on his desk and ran a hand through his hair until it stood up like a cockscomb. The late Sunday afternoon lull at the Yard usually provided the perfect time to catch up on paperwork, but today concentration eluded him. He stretched and glanced at his watch—past teatime, and the sudden hollow sensation in his stomach reminded him he’d missed lunch altogether. Tossing the reports he’d managed to finish into the out tray, he stood up and grabbed his jacket from the peg.
He’d go home, look after Sid, repack his bag, perhaps grab a Chinese take-away. Ordinarily the prospect would have contented him, but today it didn’t ease the restlessness that had dogged him since he left the vicarage and caught the train back to London. The image of Julia rose again in his mind. Her face was younger, softer, but pale against the darkness of her fever-matted hair, and she tossed in her white-sheeted bed, uncomforted.
He wondered just how much political clout the Ashertons wielded, and how carefully he need tread.
It was not until he’d exited the Yard garage into Caxton Street that he thought of phoning Gemma again. He’d rung periodically during the afternoon without reaching her, although she must have been finished with her interview at the ENO hours ago. He eyed the cellular phone but didn’t pick it up, and as he rounded St. James Park he found himself heading toward Islington rather than Hampstead. It had been weeks since Gemma moved into the new flat, and her rather embarrassed delight when she spoke of it intrigued him. He’d just pop by on the off-chance he’d catch her at home.
When he remembered how carefully she had avoided inviting him to her house in Leyton, he pushed it to the back of his mind.
He pulled up in front of the address Gemma had given, studying the house before him. A detached Victorian built of smooth honey-colored stone, it was one of a hodgepodge of houses lying rather incongruously between two of Islington’s Georgian crescents. Its two bow-fronted windows caught the late afternoon sun, and an iron fence surrounded the well-tended garden. From the front steps two large black dogs of indeterminate breed regarded him alertly, ready to protest if he should cross the bounds of the gate. Remembering Gemma’s description, he left the car in the nearest space and walked around the corner, following the garden wall.
The garage doors were painted a cheerful daffodil yellow, as was the smaller door to their left. Above it a discreet, black number
He heard her car before he saw it. “You’ll get a ticket, parking on the double-yellows,” he said as she opened the door.
“Not when it’s my own garage I’m blocking. What are you doing here, guv?”
She unbuckled Toby’s seat belt and he clambered across her, shouting with excitement.
“Nice to be appreciated,” Kincaid said, slapping Toby’s palm, then lifting him up and tousling the straight, fair hair. “Your engine’s developing a bit of a knock,” he continued to Gemma as she locked the Escort.
She grimaced. “Don’t remind me. Not just yet, anyway.” They stood awkwardly for a moment, Gemma clutching a bouquet of pink roses to her chest, and as the silence lengthened he grew ever more uncomfortable.
Why had he thought he could breach her carefully maintained barriers without consequence? His invasion seemed to stand between them, tangible as stone. He said, “I’m sorry. I’ll not come in. It’s just that I couldn’t reach you, and I thought we should connect.” Feeling more apologetic by the second, he added, “I could take you and Toby for something to eat.”
“Don’t be daft.” She dug in her handbag for her keys. “Do come in, please.” Smiling at him, she unlocked the door and stood back. Toby darted between them with a whoop. “This is it,” she said as she entered behind him.
Her clothes hung on an open rack beside the door. Brushing against a dress, he smelled for an instant the floral scent of the perfume she usually wore. He took his time, looking around with pleasure, considering. The simplicity surprised him, yet in some way it did not. “It suits you,” he said finally. “I like it.”
Gemma moved as if released, crossing the room to the tiny closet of a kitchen, filling a vase with water for the roses. “So do I. So does Toby, I think,” she said, nodding at her son, who was busily yanking out drawers from the bank beneath the garden windows. “But I’ve had a particularly severe thrashing from my mum this afternoon. She doesn’t think it a suitable place for a child.”
“On the contrary,” he said, wandering about the room on a closer tour of inspection. “There’s something rather
