Kissed a Sad Goodbye

“No. Annabelle shared the one next door. It’s been hard on Teresa, the last few days. The constant reminder … I don’t think I could bear …” Mortimer shook his head. “We’ve always been short of office space here— that’s one of the problems with this drafty old pile of brick. That and the damp,” he added absently, and Gemma had the impression he was talking on autopilot while his mind was somewhere else entirely.

“There are just a few things we’d like to go over with you, Mr. Mortimer,” Kincaid said. “Were you aware that Annabelle had left her shares in the company to Harry and Sarah Lowell, naming their father as trustee?”

Gemma pulled her notebook unobtrusively from her bag as she watched Mortimer’s response. Although he didn’t quite mask a grimace, he answered readily enough, and she thought he must have been prepared.

“I’d no idea until yesterday. Teresa and I are meeting with the solicitor this afternoon, to see if there is anything that can be done.”

“So you share Jo Lowell’s opinion that her ex-husband is likely to be difficult?”

“I’ve nothing against Martin Lowell personally. But we would be concerned at the idea of anyone without direct experience of the business controlling a large block of voting shares. I’m sure you can understand that,” Mortimer said smoothly.

Gemma looked up from her notes. “Don’t you find it odd that your fiancee didn’t share something as important as the disposition of her assets with you?”

Mortimer tilted his chair back a bit and reangled the pen on his blotter. “Annabelle was rather obsessive about her privacy. And in any case, I’m sure it’s not something she thought would be necessary to discuss,” he added, his expression bleak.

“Perhaps she meant to wait until you were married, then sign them over to you,” Gemma suggested.

“Trying to predict what Annabelle might have done seems a particularly fruitless exercise.”

Spotting her opening, Gemma said, “Had Annabelle changed her mind about your engagement? Is that what your argument was about on Friday evening?”

Mortimer paled visibly. “What—what are you talking about? Of course she hadn’t changed her mind. I’ve told you—she wasn’t feeling well.”

“That’s funny,” Kincaid said, picking it up. “Jo Lowell says the two of you had a row, and that you waited for Annabelle in the lane, not even saying good night to your hostess. I don’t believe you’d have behaved so rudely unless you’d had a disagreement.”

Mortimer glanced from Kincaid to Gemma. “It sounds so utterly stupid now.” His eyes filled with tears and he brushed at them with the back of his hand. “And there’s no taking any of it back, the things we said.…”

“Everyone has stupid rows,” said Gemma, very deliberately not looking at Kincaid. “And if we’re lucky we get to make them up. Don’t let this grow out of proportion because you didn’t.”

A faint color rose in Reg’s cheeks. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Annabelle was furious because she thought Jo was flirting with me.… I told you it was idiotic.”

“Was Jo flirting with you?” Kincaid asked. “Was there something going on between you?”

“No, of course not. Annabelle was just very out of sorts.” Reg looked away, moving his shoulders in an embarrassed shrug. “Maybe I took a bit more notice of Jo than usual, just because Annabelle was being so bloody. And Jo seemed to be enjoying the attention, but that was all. It was silly, I know, but sometimes when you’ve known one another a long time, you seem to fall back into the way you behaved as children.”

“Have you any idea why Annabelle was out of sorts?”

“Not a glimmer. Except that things had been more stressful than usual here lately.” His gesture indicated the warehouse. “She’d been making changes that would have enormous impact on the future of the company—new products, new packaging, new marketing strategies. Now …” Reg slumped back in his chair with a shake of his head. “I don’t know how we’ll carry on without her.”

Gemma thought of the distinctive tins Annabelle had designed, of Teresa Robbins’s animation when she spoke of Annabelle’s plans for pushing Hammond’s into a new niche in the market, of the obvious grief and shock of the company’s employees. Could Hammond’s go on successfully, without Annabelle’s drive and vision? “Was there anyone within the company who stood to gain from her death?” she asked.

“Not that I can see,” Reg answered wearily. “Even Martin Lowell may find those shares more of a liability than an asset, without Annabelle behind them,” he added, and Gemma thought she heard a trace of satisfaction in his voice.

Kincaid studied him for a moment. “Are you sure it was Annabelle who was jealous that night, and not you?”

“What?” Mortimer’s hands, which had been idly rolling the pen back and forth, were suddenly still.

“It seems you’d have had good reason, Reg.” Kincaid sounded sympathetic. “Were you aware that she knew the busker she spoke to in the tunnel? And that she’d been having an affair with him?”

“What?” Mortimer said again. His throat moved as he swallowed convulsively. “That’s not possible. I … How could Annabelle possibly have known this chap, much less … A busker? You must be mistaken.”

Gemma thought of the photos from the Tatler she’d seen on Annabelle’s corkboard —Annabelle and Reg moving graciously from one society party to another, inhabiting a world that had no place for anyone outside its class or social set, unless the contact was made as an official act of charity.

She manufactured a smile. “He’s really quite good. I’d say the entertainment’s a bargain for a few coins tossed in a case.” Too late, she felt Kincaid’s swift, curious glance.

“But he’s not just your ordinary street musician, if that makes you feel any better,” offered Kincaid. “His name is Gordon Finch, and he’s Lewis Finch’s son.”

This time Mortimer simply stared.

“Do you know Lewis Finch?”