said slowly, “I’m not sure that Claire discussed it with him. Many people prefer their visits to be entirely discreet, and I honor that. Now if you don’t mind …”
“Thank you for your time, Miss Wade,” Kincaid said as he rose and Deveney followed suit. She went ahead of them, depositing the tray in the kitchen, then came to see them out. Kincaid took the hand she offered. He found that women’s handshakes often fell into two categories—either a limp, dead-fish touching of fingers or an overcompensating, knuckle-breaking grasp—but Madeleine Wade’s strong, quick clasp was that of a woman comfortable with her place in the world.
He turned back to her as she opened the door. “Did you ever think of going into police work?”
The curve of her lips as she smiled made her jutting nose seem more pronounced, and her husky voice held amusement once more. “I did consider it, actually. The thought of having that secret edge was tempting, but I was afraid it would corrupt me in the end. I felt I could only find balance in offering healing and comfort to others, and I don’t think that’s in your job description, Superintendent.”
“Can you see guilt?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Guilt is a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, remorse, pity— much too complicated to separate into individual components. Nor would I implicate someone, even if I could. I don’t want that power, that responsibility, on my hands.”
Deveney waited until they’d shut themselves in the privacy of his car before he exploded. “She’s just as batty as she looks,” he said vehemently, cranking the starter a bit too hard.
While Deveney groused, Kincaid thought about hunches. He suspected that all good coppers had them, even depended on them to some extent, but it was something no one discussed comfortably. They had all taken courses instructing them in the science of reading body language, but was that methodology just a means of fitting intuition into a more acceptable framework?
All in all, he thought it prudent to regard Madeleine Wade with an open mind.
The vicarage faced directly on the village green, nestled between the pub and the little lane that led up to the church. Deveney, still muttering to himself, parked the car alongside the green. Kincaid stretched as he got out of the car, for the sun had warmed the afternoon air until it felt almost balmy for November. A light breeze had come up, and in it the green’s emerald grass rippled in velvet waves.
Crossing the tarmac, they let themselves into the vicarage garden through the gate. The house drowsed in the high-hedged enclosure, its square and solid red-brick facade looking respectably suited to its role. The garden, on the other hand, flaunted itself, as if rebelling against such stuffiness. A riot of color washed bravely against the subdued autumn background of hedge and trees. Everything that could still bloom did—impatiens, begonias, pansies, fuchsias, dahlias, primroses, verbenas, and the last of the roses, their heads full-blown on skeletal stems. Kincaid whistled in admiration. “I’d say the vicar has a different gift.” Then unable to resist the urge to tease Deveney just a bit, he added, “I wonder how he gets on with Madeleine Wade.”
Deveney gave him an irritated look, and they waited in silence for a few moments on the porch. When it seemed certain that Deveney’s assault on the bell was not going to produce a response, Kincaid turned away “Let’s try the church.”
Letting Deveney precede him out the gate, Kincaid gave the garden a last glance. The air shimmered slightly, as if it had been disturbed by their presence, then stilled. He shut the gate reluctantly and followed Deveney around the corner, then detoured a bit to read the notice board at the bottom of the lane. It proclaimed the activities of the Parish Church of St. Mary and reminded Kincaid that the seasonal rhythms of his boyhood had been marked by the church calendar.
The churchyard lay on their left as they climbed, the muted gray headstones decorated with a confetti of fallen leaves. Beyond it, the church sat astride the hill at an angle that might almost have been construed as playful. Kincaid smiled—he had to credit the architect with good showmanship as well as a sense of humor, for the position commanded the best possible view of the village.
As they neared the church, Deveney pulled out his notebook and rifled through it.
“What’s the vicar’s name?” asked Kincaid.
“Fielding,” Deveney replied after flipping through another few pages. “R. Fielding. Oh, hell.”
“R. Fielding O. Hell? Odd name for a vicar,” Kincaid said, grinning.
“Sorry, I’ve a stone in my shoe. I’ll catch you up.” Deveney bent and began unlacing.
Kincaid found the porch door unlocked. Entering, he stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. Even blindfolded, he would recognize that smell anywhere—damp and polish, overlain with a hint of flowers— ecclesiastical, institutional, and comforting as childhood memories.
When he opened his eyes he found the usual stacks of leaflets in the narthex and a collection box. When a soft, “Hullo, anybody about?” received no response, he wandered past the carved screens and into the dimness of the nave itself. Here the silence was almost palpable, and the only motion came from the dust motes stirring lazily in the rainbow-hued light that fell from the high windows.
The door creaked and Deveney’s voice called, “Any joy?”
Joining him a little regretfully, Kincaid said, “No, but I don’t think we’ve exhausted the possibilities.” He tried the door opposite the porch, and they entered a scuffed linoleum-floored hallway. To their left lay washrooms and a small kitchen, to the right a meeting room with stacks of plastic chairs. “A new building,” Kincaid mused, “but it’s a clever extension—I didn’t notice it from the outside. There’s no one here, though. I suppose we’ll have to try the good vicar again—”
The door to the ladies’ toilet opened and a woman came out. Thirtyish, Kincaid guessed, with a friendly face and a mop of dark curls, she wore jeans and an old sweater, and in her rubber glove-clad hands she held a utilitarian-looking brush and a jug of industrial-strength cleaner.
“Oh, hullo,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”
“We were hoping to have a word with the vicar,” Kincaid ventured.
She looked rather helplessly at the objects in her arms. “Just let me do something with this stuff, then. Won’t be a tick.” Glancing up again, she must have seen their uncertainty, for she paused and smiled. “I’m Rebecca Fielding, by the way.”
