“Me?” Brian’s mouth dropped in astonishment. “But… I suppose you have to ask everyone?”
“You’d just got lucky up to now,” Kincaid said with a smile. “Were you here?”
“Course I was bloody here. Where else would I be?”
“By yourself?”
Shaking his head, Brian said, “John was on the bar, and Meghan was here, the girl that helps out in the kitchen. It was a busy night for middle of the week.”
“Did you leave at any time, even for a few minutes?” asked Kincaid. “Think carefully now. It’s important to be accurate with these things.”
Brian frowned and rubbed his chin. “There’s only one thing I remember,” he said after a moment. “Somewhere between about half-six and seven I went to the storeroom and broke out a new case of lemonade. I can’t have been away from the bar much more than five minutes.”
“Can you reach the storeroom from inside the pub?”
“No. You have to go the long way round, through the car park.” Then Brian added, with the air of sharing a confidence, “Bloody miserable when it’s raining, I can tell you.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual, however small?”
“Only the mice. We lost our mouser a few months back. It’s time we found a new puss. Usually they come to us, but not a one’s turned up so far. Maybe the word hasn’t gone round that the position’s vacant.” Brian grinned, obviously regaining his equilibrium.
Good, thought Kincaid. Now that he’d got him relaxed and a bit pleased with himself, it was time to hit below the belt. “Brian, I’ve gathered the impression that you and Claire Gilbert are quite good friends.”
Brian took a glass from the tray and slotted it into the rack, almost concealing his momentary hesitation. “No more than most neighbors. We help each other out when needed.” He kept his eyes on his task as he spoke.
“How did her husband feel about that?”
“I don’t know why he should have been bothered one way or the other.” Irritation edged Brian’s voice, but he still hadn’t met Kincaid’s eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind—”
“I think he might have been quite bothered, actually,” Kincaid interrupted. “It seems that Alastair Gilbert was irrationally jealous of his wife. He might have misinterpreted the most innocent of gestures.”
“I hardly knew the man.” Brian’s brows were drawn together in a scowl, and the glasses clinked dangerously as he slid them into position. “He didn’t frequent the pub, and he certainly didn’t consider me his social or professional equal. He called me a bloody shopkeeper once, and him a farmer’s son from Dorking.”
Resting his elbows on the bar, Kincaid leaned close to Brian and said, “You knew him well enough to ask him for help when Geoff got into trouble, and he turned you down flat. You hated him, didn’t you, Brian? No one could say you didn’t have good cause.”
The wineglass in Brian’s hand cracked, the head separating from its stem and falling unscathed to the bar. Blood welled from his thumb and he held it to his mouth for a moment, glaring at Kincaid. “All right, I hated him. What do you want me to say? He was a bastard who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Claire and Lucy. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re getting at. He laughed at me when I asked him to help Geoff—treated me like I was some kind of scum. I might have been tempted then, but I didn’t touch him, so why should I have done it now?”
“I’ll give you two good reasons,” Kincaid said. “He found out what Geoff was up to and told you he intended to take action.” I think he would have wanted to gloat over it a bit first, would have enjoyed making you squirm. Gilbert liked playing the petty tyrant, didn’t he, Brian? And you could have shut him up once and for all.”
“But I didn’t—”
“And what if he suspected you were dallying with his wife? Gilbert was not the sort of man to step nobly aside, was he? I think he’d have been determined to make your life as miserable as possible, no matter the cost.”
“But he didn’t—”
The kitchen door swung open. Through it came a thin girl enveloped in a white chef’s apron several sizes too large for her. “Could you give me a hand with the veg, Bri?” she asked, then, as she took in Kincaid and the tense atmosphere, “Oh, sorry.” The smell of roasting beef reached Kincaid’s nose, and he swallowed involuntarily.
“I’ll be right there, Meghan.” Brian gave her a quick smile and turned back to Kincaid as she disappeared into the kitchen. “Look, Superintendent, this is all nonsense. You can’t seriously—”
The front door opened and a group dressed in Sunday best came in, laughing and calling greetings to Brian. Kincaid met Brian’s eyes and smiled. “I’d better get that table, hadn’t I?” He knew when to beat a graceful retreat.
* * *
Kincaid found himself once again outside the Moon, but this time he was stuffed to the popping point with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Although the state of his stomach made him long for nothing more taxing than a nap, he felt restless and unsettled as he contemplated the afternoon stretching before him.
He’d reached the point in this case where he hadn’t an idea what to do next, but he knew that his mounting frustration was counterproductive.
What he needed was a walk. It would help clear his mind, as well as lessen the impact of his Sunday lunch. Having been informed of several promising routes by some of the regulars in the bar, he changed into the trainers and lightweight anorak he kept in his overnight bag.
The westerly wind had brought clouds with it, but Kincaid judged the weather not seriously threatening. He chose the way that led through the village and up the hill, past Madeleine Wade’s closed shop. Soon the track left the paved road and he climbed steeply, passing the silent cricket pitch, following the signposts designating the Greensand Way, as he’d been instructed. Winded, he reached a large level clearing, the junction of many paths running through the Hurtwood. A good metaphor, he thought, for the many avenues this case seemed to be taking,
