“You should have scolded them,” Gemma said crossly.
“Gemma—”
“What is it?” She turned to look at him, as if alerted by something in his voice.
“I—” he began, but he couldn’t find the words to express the sense of loss he felt. Instead, he said, “I suppose it’s this business with Kit that has me out of sorts. If he won’t talk to me on the phone, I’m going to Cambridge to see him.” He realized he’d made the decision as he was speaking.
“I thought he didn’t want to see you.”
“Hazel said I needed to let him know my feelings hadn’t changed, no matter how he behaved. How can I do that if I can’t talk to him?” he asked, his frustration rising again.
Gemma sat up in the lawn chair, frowning. “That was before Ian complicated matters by waltzing back into Kit’s life. Maybe it would be less difficult for Kit now if you just let Ian get on with the job.”
“Just bow out? Just trust Ian’s judgment after everything we’ve been through? What’s to stop him from moving Kit back into the Grantchester cottage, then changing his mind again in a month or two?”
Shaking her head, Gemma said, “What option do you have?”
“I can still see him,” Kincaid said stubbornly, wondering why Gemma suddenly seemed to be at cross-purposes with him over everything.
“All right.” Gemma sighed and sank back into the curve of her chair. “Go tomorrow, then. I’ll cover for you. Just make sure you’ve placated the guv first, and if all hell breaks loose while you’re gone”—she gave him a pinched smile—“it’ll be on your wicket.”
THEY ATE IN THE GARDEN, BY the light of citronella candles lit to keep the flies away. Hazel’s tabouli combined the richness of feta cheese, Provencal olives, and ripe tomatoes with the freshness of lemon and mint, and Tim had opened a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio to accompany the dish. The children entertained themselves on the flagstones with a dog-eared deck of playing cards they’d discovered in the kitchen junk drawer, allowing the adults to eat in peace.
As Kincaid glanced across the table at Gemma, she turned and laughed at something Tim had said. In the candlelight, she looked relaxed and happy, and suddenly the thought of Annabelle Hammond intruded. Had Annabelle enjoyed her last dinner party as much as this?
She had been among friends, or at least so she thought—her sister, her fiance, her sister’s friends, and her adored nephew and niece—and then her pleasant evening had disintegrated into nightmare. First Harry Lowell, then Reg, then Gordon Finch—all male, and all, it seemed, turned against her in some way. Had Annabelle gone to someone else for solace—a woman, perhaps?
He thought suddenly of Teresa Robbins. They’d taken her at face value, the loyal and distressed employee, a trifle plain, a bit colorless; and yet she seemed to have settled quite competently into Annabelle’s job. What if Annabelle had gone to her, confiding something that Teresa was unwilling to reveal? She might be protecting Annabelle’s memory—or she might be protecting Reg Mortimer.
Or perhaps such speculation was just his way of salving his guilt at the thought of taking a morning off in the midst of a murder investigation. But he made a mental note to ask Gemma to have another word with her in the morning.
After dinner, he offered to do the washing up while Gemma gave the children their baths. Hazel and Tim had taken the opportunity to go for a walk in the cool of the evening, so he had the kitchen to himself. There was no dishwasher—refitting the kitchen was one of the luxuries Hazel and Tim had forgone when Hazel had quit her private practice to stay home with Holly—but Kincaid found the routine of soaping and rinsing relaxing.
As he filled the sink with lemon-scented suds and took a clean tea towel from the drawer, it abruptly occurred to him that this sort of life was what he wanted with Gemma, and that he had begun to take its eventuality for granted. But Gemma seemed to be pushing him away lately, and he didn’t know how to close the distance starting to yawn between them.
The kitchen door swung open with a thump and the children burst in, dressed in their pajamas, shouting, “Story, story!” Behind them came Gemma, tendrils of damp hair that had escaped from her ponytail curling round her face.
When he’d finished his task and read to the children, Gemma poured them both a glass of wine and they took their drinks outside and sat together for a few moments on the steps that led from her flat up into the Cavendishes’ garden.
He massaged her back where he knew she liked it best, between her shoulder blades, and when she leaned against him he wrapped an arm round her and brushed his lips against the nape of her neck. For a moment he felt her respond, pressing against him; then she pulled away.
“Toby’s been restless the last couple of nights,” she said, rising and finishing her wine. “Must be the remnants of his cold. And I didn’t sleep all that well myself last night.”
“I can take a hint,” he said lightly, standing and kissing her chastely on the cheek. “I’ll see you at Limehouse in the morning.”
But once at home in his own bed he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, especially when Sid settled himself heavily across his feet. At last he gave the cat a gentle boot and made a concentrated attempt to clear his mind of all its circular, nagging thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep, an image came to him with the bright lucidity of a dream.
Gemma stood in a sunlit field of barley, the light sparking from her hair as she laughed. Then as he watched, he realized it wasn’t Gemma he saw at all, but Annabelle Hammond.
AT A TINY TABLE WEDGED IN the pub’s back corner, Teresa sat across from Reg Mortimer.
When she’d finally got home after shutting things down at the warehouse for the day, she’d found a message from him on her answer phone, asking her to meet him at The Grapes in Limehouse, on Narrow Street. It was the first she’d heard from him since he’d left the solicitor’s office after lunch, and his voice held an odd note, pleading, almost. As the machine clicked off, she automatically ran a hand through her hair and straightened her blouse, then chided herself for thinking he’d asked to see her for any reason other than business.
But she’d not been able to stop herself from brushing her hair and putting on a bit of makeup before she ran out of the flat to catch the DLR at Crossharbour.
