child. They were benevolent elves, if I remember correctly, and I sense no malice in this.”
Kincaid found her reference to her past and her last comment equally intriguing. While he was deciding which he wanted to pursue first, Deveney sat forwards and said, “But surely you have other people visiting your flat. Clients, friends—and what about Sarah, the girl who works downstairs? Could she have taken the things?”
“Never!” Madeleine stiffened, pulling her feet back from their relaxed position, and for the first time she looked awkward, as if she were too tall to sit comfortably on the sofa. Fiercely, she said, “Sarah’s helped me since she was fourteen. She’s a good girl, and almost like my own child. Why would she suddenly take things from me?”
The reasons a seventeen-year-old girl might steal struck Kincaid as too myriad to list (the foremost being either drugs or a boyfriend using drugs), but he didn’t wish to antagonize Madeleine further. And having met Sarah, he felt inclined to agree with Madeleine’s assessment. For a moment he wished urgently for Gemma, who would have eased tactfully into such a suggestion, if she had made it at all.
“You can’t be too cau—”
“I’m sure Miss Wade’s right, Nick,” interrupted Kincaid, giving Deveney a sharp glance.
Deveney flushed and set his mug down with a noticeable thump.
“Tell me, Miss Wade,” said Kincaid, “what exactly did you mean when you said you didn’t sense any malice involved in the thefts?”
She looked at him for a moment, as if she were making a determination, then sighed. Her flare of anger seemed to have burnt away the amusement he’d sensed in her manner, and now she spoke with quiet gravity. “I was born with a gift, Superintendent. Not that it’s so very unusual—I believe that many people have psychic talents, which they either use or suppress according to their degree of discomfort with the phenomenon. I also decided long ago that the vehicle used for expressing these talents is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter whether one reads palms or predicts race results, any more than it matters whether one writes a novel using a legal pad and pencil or the latest word-processing software. It comes from the same source.”
Although Kincaid had shown no sign of impatience, she glanced at him as if gauging his response and said, “Bear with me, please. You must understand that I am not condemning those who suppress their abilities.” Her eyes, green and direct, met his again. “I was one of them. By the time I started school I’d learned that it wasn’t acceptable to talk about what I could see and feel, at least not to adults. It didn’t seem to bother other children, but if they should happen to mention it to their parents, I was no longer welcomed. Children usually have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation, and I was no exception. I buried my difference as deeply as I could.”
Kincaid could all too easily imagine Madeleine as an awkward and remarkably plain child. Having no control over the features that would already have made her an easy target for ridicule, she would have controlled whatever else was within her power. And, he thought, no matter the cost. “You spoke in the past tense, Miss Wade. Are we to assume that things changed?”
“Things always change, Superintendent,” she said, and he heard the flicker of amusement return to her voice. “But you’re right, of course. I kept things buried for many years, toeing the more conservative end of the established line. I became an investment banker, if you can believe it.” Chuckling, she added, “Sometimes it seems like a past life, and I’m not at all sure that I believe in reincarnation.” Then, growing serious once more, she said, “But as the years went by I seemed to shrivel, wither away inside. Even though I often used my … talents … in my work, I refused to acknowledge what I was doing. Eventually I had a moment of epiphany, the cause of which need not concern you, and I packed it all in. Quit my job, gave up my flat on the river, donated my power suits to Oxfam, and came here.”
“Miss Wade,” Kincaid said carefully, “you haven’t told us exactly what these special abilities are. Can you see the past or the future? Do you know what happened to Alastair Gilbert?”
Shaking her head, she said fervently, “I thank God every day that I don’t have the power to see into the future. That would be an unbearable burden. Nor can I unravel the past. My small gift, Superintendent, is the ability to see emotions. I know instantly if someone is unhappy, hurt, afraid, joyous, contented. I’ve always disliked the term
Kincaid suddenly felt as vulnerable as if he’d been stripped of his clothes. Did she sense his hurt and anger, even his skepticism? He saw Deveney shift uncomfortably in his chair and knew he must be experiencing the same feelings. “Miss Wade,” he said, attempting to focus his attention on something safer than himself, “you didn’t answer my question about Alastair Gilbert.”
“All I can tell you about Gilbert is that he was a very unhappy man. Anger seeped from him all the time, like water welling from an underground spring.” She folded her arms across her chest protectively. “I find that sort of energy difficult to tolerate for any length of time.”
“Was he your client?”
She gave a peal of laughter. “Oh, my, no. People like Alastair Gilbert don’t come to the likes of me. Their anger won’t let them reach out, search for help. They wear it like a shield.”
“And Claire Gilbert?”
“Yes, Claire is my client.” Madeleine leaned forwards, arranging their mugs carefully in the center of the tray, then looked up at Kincaid. “I can see where you’re going with this, Superintendent, and I’m afraid I can’t cooperate. I don’t know what my legal rights are—I’ve never been confronted with this situation before. But I do know that on moral grounds I must keep sacrosanct anything that my clients reveal during the course of their treatment.” She gestured towards the massage table. “Aromatherapy in particular is very powerful. It stimulates the brain and memory directly, bypassing the intellectual armor we build around our experiences. Often it enables clients to work out fears, past traumas, and it can be a very emotional catharsis. Any revelations made at these times could be misleading.”
“Are you telling us that Claire Gilbert made such revelations?” Deveney asked. It sounded to Kincaid as if he’d chosen aggression as the method of dealing with
“No, no, of course not. I’m merely illustrating why I find such self-imposed restrictions necessary when talking about
“Just one more thing, Miss Wade. How did Alastair Gilbert feel about his wife consulting you?”
For the first time, Kincaid sensed hesitation. She shifted her weight, balancing the tray on her right hip, then
