“I’M BEGINNING TO SUSPECT THAT WILLIAM Hammond may have had a convenient blind spot where his daughter was concerned,” Kincaid said as they walked down the hill towards Greenwich center in the intensifying heat of early afternoon.
“Surely that’s not unusual,” countered Gemma. “Most parents want to think the best of their children— especially if it has to do with sex. On the other hand, Jo Lowell certainly didn’t seem surprised at the suggestion that her sister had cheated on her fiance.”
“I wonder where Mortimer fell in that spectrum. Did he think Annabelle beyond reproach? If that was the case and he found out about her affair with Gordon Finch, the shock might have driven him to kill her.”
“Or if he was suspicious already and suddenly had his fears proved. But that doesn’t explain the row at the dinner party—and we only have Jo’s word about that—or the fact that he left her in the tunnel with Gordon Finch,” argued Gemma. “And the answering machine messages seem to support his story.”
They had reached Royal Hill and Gemma paused, looking in the window of a cheese shop. In the glass, Kincaid could see the reflection of the police station across the street. “He could easily have killed her, then left messages to give himself an alibi,” he said.
Gemma walked on, swinging her handbag against the skirt of her cotton dress, leaving behind the temptations of white Stilton with ginger and Shropshire blue. “But you could hear the noise of the pub in the background, so it must have been before closing, and the pathologist says Annabelle died after midnight.”
“We’re not going to get anywhere with this until we see Mortimer again,” said Kincaid. “And in the meantime, I’d like to know why Jo Lowell was so reluctant for us to interview her husband.”
“Your curiosity is about to be satisfied.”
They found the bank as easily as Jo had promised, and the clerk at the window directed them back to Martin Lowell’s office.
“Mr. Lowell?” Kincaid tapped on the open door of the small cubicle. “We’re from Scotland Yard—Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant James.” He showed his identification. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
The man at the desk glanced up, a look of irritation marring his handsome face. Dark and clean-cut, he wore the banker’s uniform of white shirt and dark tie, but he’d rolled up his sleeves against the heat. “Scotland Yard? How can I help you? I’m afraid I have a meeting in”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes, so I hope this won’t take long.”
“It’s about your former sister-in-law, Annabelle Hammond,” Kincaid said, adjusting one of the visitors’ chairs for Gemma and taking the other himself. Lowell had neither risen nor offered his hand, and now he made no response to Kincaid’s remark. “Has the Hammonds’ solicitor been in touch with you?”
“Yes, this morning. But I don’t see why this should be any concern of yours.”
“Really?” Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “A murder and an unexpected disposition of property usually merit some interest, Mr. Lowell.”
Martin Lowell smiled for the first time. “Are you suggesting I killed Annabelle for my children’s interest in the firm, Superintendent … what did you say your name was? You must be quite desperate.”
Kincaid had no doubt that Lowell remembered his name. “Your suggestion, Mr. Lowell, not mine.” He smiled back. “I was merely wondering if you were aware of Annabelle Hammond’s intentions.”
“I’d no idea until the solicitor rang me this morning. I was certainly surprised, but I’m curious as to why you seem to think Annabelle’s leaving her shares to her only niece and nephew an unusual bequest.”
“It was the fact that she designated you as trustee I found odd, since you’re no longer married to her sister.”
Lowell shrugged. “According to the solicitor, she made the will shortly after her mother’s death, and never got round to changing it. And she may have thought me better suited than Jo to look after the children’s financial interests.”
