says she can’t find a few items of jewelry. There have been a few thefts reported in the area recently. Petty things.”
“No suspects in the thefts?”
Deveney shook his head.
“All right, then. Where are the Gilberts?”
“I’ve a constable with them in the sitting room. I’ll take you through.”
Pausing in the doorway for a final glimpse of the body, Kincaid thought of Alastair Gilbert as he had seen him last—lecturing from a podium, extolling the virtues of order, discipline, and logical thinking in police work—and he felt an unexpected stirring of pity.
CHAPTER
2
As they entered the sitting room, Kincaid gathered a quick impression of deep red walls and understated elegance. A fire burnt in the grate, and across the room a plainclothes constable sat in a straight-backed chair with a teacup balanced on his knee, looking not at all uncomfortable. From the corner of his eye, Kincaid saw Gemma’s eyes widen as she took in the male hand holder, then his attention was drawn to the two women seated side by side on the sofa.
Mother and daughter—the mother fair, small-boned, and delicate of feature; the daughter a darker copy, her long, thick hair framing a heart-shaped face. Above her pointed chin her mouth looked disproportionately large, as if she hadn’t quite grown into it. Why had he thought of the Gilberts’ daughter as a child? Although his wife appeared considerably younger, Gilbert had been in his mid-fifties, and certainly they might have had a grown, or nearly grown, daughter.
The women looked up inquiringly, their faces composed. But the perfection of the little tableau was marred by Claire Gilbert’s clothes. The front of her white, turtle-necked sweater was decorated with a Rorschach stain of dried blood, and the knees of her navy trousers bore darker splotches as well.
The constable had set down his cup and crossed the room to have a murmured word with his boss. Deveney nodded at him as he left the room, then turned back to the women and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gilbert, this is Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant James from Scotland Yard. They’ll be helping us in our inquiries. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course.” Her voice was low and almost hoarse, huskier than Kincaid had expected for a woman of her size, and controlled. But when she set her cup on the low table, her hand trembled.
Kincaid and Gemma took the two armchairs opposite the sofa, and Deveney shifted the constable’s chair so that he sat beside Gemma.
“I knew your husband, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid said. “I’m very sorry”
“Did you?” she asked in a tone of bright interest. Then she added, “Would you like some tea?” The low table before her held a tray with a pot and some extra cups and saucers. When Kincaid and Gemma both murmured affirmatives, she leaned forwards and poured a little into her own cup, then sat back, looking around vaguely. “What time is it?” she asked, but the question didn’t seem to be directed to anyone in particular.
“Let me do that for you,” said Gemma after a moment, when it became clear that tea was not forthcoming. She filled two cups with milk and strong tea, then glanced at Deveney, who shook his head.
Accepting a cup from Gemma, Kincaid said, “It’s very late, Mrs. Gilbert, but I want to go over one or two things while they’re clear in your mind.”
The carriage clock on the mantel began to chime midnight. Claire stared at it, frowning. “It is late, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized.”
The daughter had been sitting so quietly that Kincaid had almost forgotten her presence, but now she shifted restlessly, drawing his attention. Her clothes made a rustling sound against the sofa’s cream-and-red-striped chintz as she repositioned herself, turning towards Claire and touching her knee. “Mummy, please, you must get some rest,” she said, and from the entreaty in her voice Kincaid guessed that it was not the first time she’d made the request. “You can’t keep on like this.” She looked at Kincaid and added, “Tell her, Superintendent, please. She’ll listen to you.”
Kincaid examined her more closely. She wore a bulky jumper over a tight black miniskirt, but in spite of the sophistication of her clothes, there was an unfinished quality about her that made Kincaid revise his estimate of her age down to late teens, perhaps even younger. Her face looked pinched with stress, and as he watched she rubbed the back of her hand against her lips as if to stop them quivering. “You’re absolutely right—” He paused, realizing he didn’t know her name.
Obligingly, she filled it in for him. “I’m Lucy. Lucy Penmaric. Can’t you—” A muffled yelping came from somewhere nearby and she paused, listening. Kincaid heard the frustration in the sound, as if the dog had given up hoping for a response. “That’s Lewis,” she said. “We had to shut him in Alastair’s study to keep him from … you know, getting into things.”
“A very good idea,” Kincaid said absently as he added what he’d just heard to his assessment of the situation. Her name wasn’t Gilbert, and she referred to the commander as “Alastair.” A stepdaughter, rather than a daughter. He thought of the man he had known and realized what had struck him as odd. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite manage to imagine Gilbert relaxed before the fire, a large (from the sound of it) dog sprawled comfortably at his feet. Nor did this room, with its rich velvets and chintzes and the deep pile of a Persian carpet under their feet, seem a likely habitat for a dog. “I wouldn’t have thought of Commander Gilbert as a dog man,” he ventured. “I’m surprised he allowed a dog in the house.”
“Alastair made us—”
“Alastair preferred that we confine Lewis to his kennel,” interrupted Claire, and Lucy looked away, her face losing the brief spark of animation he’d seen when she spoke of the dog. “But under the circumstances …” Claire smiled at them, as if excusing a lapse in manners, then looked around vaguely. “Would you like some tea?”
“We’re quite all right, Mrs. Gilbert,” he said. Lucy was right: her mother needed rest. Claire’s eyes had the glazed look of impending collapse, and her coherence seemed to fade in and out like a weak radio signal. But even though he knew he couldn’t press her much further, he wanted to ask a few more questions before letting her go. “Mrs. Gilbert, I realize how difficult this must be for you, but if you could just tell us exactly what happened this
