Gemma? Will they get him for Gilbert and your friend, too?”
“I don’t know. They’re checking his statement now.”
“Is Claire all right?” He shook his head in admiration. “Wasn’t she a cracker, the way she stood up to him?”
“You were the brave one, Will. I’m glad you’re all right. I should have—”
“Gemma.” He raised his hand from the sheet to halt her. “Bits of last night are fuzzy, but I remember what you did. The doctor said you saved my life.”
“Will, I only—”
“Don’t argue. I owe you, and I won’t forget it. Now, tell me everything from the beginning, blow by blow.”
She hadn’t reached his own part in the drama when his eyelids drooped, fluttered, drooped again. Leaning over, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back, Will.”
“How is he?” Kincaid asked as they left Guildford Police Station. Gemma had met him there after her visit to hospital, looking considerably brighter than the evening before. For a moment he felt jealous of her concern for Will, then he chided himself for such small-mindedness, wondering if he were not compensating for his own sense of failure.
“Game enough, even if a bit thin around the edges,” answered Gemma, smiling. “But the sister told me afterwards it’ll be a slow job, mending that leg.”
“You mean to visit him,” Kincaid said as he opened the Rover’s door, making every effort to sound casually unconcerned.
“As often as I can”—she glanced at him as she buckled herself into the passenger seat—“once this case is finished.”
Ogilvie’s painter had been found and interviewed first thing that morning, and he had, indeed, confirmed Ogilvie’s alibi. Deveney was now digging with bulldog determination, trying to find a hole in the man’s story or a connection between the two men. A second futile search of Gilbert’s study had been made after Ogilvie had been taken into custody, and they could only hope that C&D would have better luck turning up Gilbert’s evidence of Ogilvie’s corruption.
As if aware of his thoughts, Gemma said, “You believe Ogilvie, don’t you, guv?” as they swung around the roundabout and headed towards Holmbury St. Mary. “Why?”
Shrugging, Kincaid said, “I’m not sure I know.” Then he grinned at her. “The infamous gut feeling. Seriously … he lied about some things, and I could tell. Gilbert’s response when he told him he’d not do his dirty work anymore, for instance. But I don’t think he’s lying about Gilbert or Jackie.”
“Even if you’re right about that, and I don’t grant it to you, why Claire?”
He thought he heard a trace of resentment in her voice. Sighing, he thought he couldn’t blame her. He liked Claire Gilbert, too—admired her, even. And maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. “In the first place, there’s no physical evidence to place him there—not a hair nor a fiber in that kitchen.
“Then think about everything we’ve learned about Alastair Gilbert. He was a jealous and vindictive man with a megalomaniac’s thirst for power. He enjoyed inflicting pain on others, whether physical or emotional. Who would have borne the brunt of it?” He glanced at Gemma’s profile, then said emphatically, “His wife. I’ve always said this murder was committed in rage, and I think Claire Gilbert hated her husband.”
“
Claire met them at the back door with an anxious expression. “I’ve called the hospital and they’re being very closemouthed about Constable Darling. Have you heard anything?”
“Better than that,” Gemma reassured her. “I’ve seen him, first thing this morning, and he’s doing fine.”
Kincaid paused in the mudroom, running his eye along the macintoshes hanging on a row of hooks. When he saw what he was searching for he didn’t know whether he felt jubilant or sorry.
“And … David?” Claire asked as they entered the kitchen. She looked at Kincaid.
“He’s still helping us with our inquiries.”
Lewis was lying on Lucy’s quilt, but this morning he lifted his head and thumped his tail. Kincaid knelt and scratched his ears. “I see this patient is improving, too, though he’s not entirely back to his rambunctious self.”
“Lucy insisted on staying up with him all night. It was only after the vet came an hour ago that I was able to convince her to curl up on the sofa in the conservatory.” Claire hesitated, fingering the silk scarf bunched in the neck of the crisply tailored white shirt she wore. “About David … he was a good man, once. Whatever has happened to him in the last few years, I still can’t imagine him capable of…killing anyone.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Kincaid said, feeling Gemma’s sharp glance.
Claire gave him a relieved smile. “Thank you for coming to set my mind at rest. Can I get you a coffee or some tea?”
Kincaid took a breath. “Actually, we’d like a word with you. Someplace a bit more private, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Her smile faltered, but she agreed readily enough. “We can use the sitting room. I’d rather not disturb Lucy just now.”
They followed her into the room that had seemed so welcoming the night Alastair Gilbert died, leaving the door just slightly ajar. The fire was cold in the hearth, and the red walls seemed tawdry in the thin daylight streaking through the shutters.
Kincaid sat stiffly on the armchair’s chintz seat. He had rehearsed angle after angle, how he might surprise her, trick her, but in the end he began simply.
“Mrs. Gilbert, I’ve learned several things this last week that have led me to believe your husband physically
