bed, I think, is what she needs.”
And what about Kit? thought Kincaid, but he didn’t speak.
“Eugenia thinks … that is, we feel that the house should be secured, and that we should keep the key…” Potts said, twisting his hands together. “That is, if you don’t mind …”
Kincaid fished the key Byrne had given him from his pocket. “I didn’t intend going off with the silver, Bob,” he said dryly as he held the key out.
“No, no, I didn’t mean … what I meant was …” Potts gestured helplessly at the house. “Would you … could you possibly, before you go … I don’t think I could possibly go back in the house just now, you see.”
Kincaid did see, finally, and silently chided himself for an insensitive clod. “Of course. You wait here with your granddad, Kit, and I’ll be back in a tick.”
He checked the house quickly, securing the French doors in the sitting room, then the kitchen door, and turning out most of the lights. Then he grabbed Kit’s bag from the hall and went out, locking the front door behind him.
They waited for him in the drive, their breath forming clouds of mist in the still, cold air. Kincaid pressed the key into Vic’s father’s hand, said, “All right, then. You’d best be on your way.
“I’ll see you, mate,” he said to Kit, and thumped him on the shoulder.
They walked away across the drive. When Kit reached the car he turned round and looked at Kincaid once more, then opened the back door and disappeared into the dark interior.
Kincaid watched the car pull out into the street, watched its tail lamps flash at the Coton Road junction before it vanished from his sight.
His inadequacy rose up to engulf him, and he protested aloud, “What else could I have bloody done?”
There was no answer except the echo of his voice, and it was only then, standing alone before the dark and empty house, that he let himself believe she was gone.
Ralph was the first to break the stunned silence in Margery Lester’s dining room. “But how… where … an accident?”
Iris shook her head. “Apparently not. They seem to think it was heart failure, but that’s all I know.”
“Iris, are
Galvanized into action by Darcy’s words, Adam leapt to his feet and helped Iris into her chair.
She smiled up at him gratefully before she went on. “The police rang Laura trying to get in touch with me, and she rang Enid. They’re very anxious to notify Ian, of course.”
“Who’s Ian?” asked Adam.
“Her husband,” explained Darcy. “We should all be so lucky. Beginning of Michaelmas term, he packed himself off to the south of France with a delectable graduate student. No forwarding address.”
“Darcy—” began Margery, but she really hadn’t the heart to continue her reprimand, and for once his tone had held no malice. She felt surprised at her own sense of loss, for she had met Victoria McClellan only a few times at Faculty gatherings, but something about the younger woman had reminded Margery of herself at that age. Vic had been raising a son—more or less on her own, Margery had guessed, even before her husband’s disappearance—and she’d had a sense of purpose about her own work that Margery recognized.
“Sorry, Mother,” said Darcy. “Habit, I’m afraid. This is all rather dreadful.”
Iris looked near tears. “I know it’s selfish of me even to think it, but it’s a dreadful blow to the department as well. How will we possibly replace her?” She shook her head. “It makes me wonder if the department really is unlucky. First there was poor Henry’s awful business—”
“Let’s not talk about it tonight, Iris, please,” said Margery as a wave of exhaustion washed over her.
“I met her—Dr. McClellan, that is,” said Ralph. “Did I tell you that, Margery? I liked her very much. I wonder what will happen now to her biography of Lydia Brooke?” He met his wife’s eyes across the table and read some reproof in them. “Oh, sorry. That was rather inappropriate, I suppose, but it wasn’t meant avariciously. I was just curious.”
“We ought to be going, Ralph,” said Christine affectionately, “before you put your foot in any further. Why don’t you let us take you home, Iris? You’ve had a shock and there’s no need for you to drive.”
Iris made a halfhearted protest. “But Enid will need the car tomorrow. It’s her shopping day.”
“Ride with me, then, and Ralph can drive your car,” Christine said firmly. “There, it’s settled.” She rose, the others followed suit, and they all made their way into the hall with murmured apologies and thanks.
“You’ll come again, won’t you, Adam?” said Margery as he bid her good-bye, for he seemed a bit lost. “Under better circumstances?”
Adam smiled at her, and his genuine pleasure warmed her. “Yes, I will, if you’ll have me.”
Then the door closed behind them, and Margery and Darcy moved to the sitting room in unspoken accord.
“Pour me a drink, please, Darcy,” said Margery as she sank into the chair nearest the fire. “A generous one.”
“Don’t you think I should help you into bed?” he asked solicitously. “It’s been a very trying evening.”
“Don’t cosset me,” she said crossly. “Grace is bad enough without you starting in, too.” She glared at him until he sighed and went to the drinks trolley.
“You’re impossible,” he said, but he brought her a whisky, and he hadn’t stinted too much.
Margery relented. “If I need any help getting into bed, you can be sure Grace will provide it. And to tell you the truth, I’m too unsettled by all this to think about sleep.” She looked with concern at her son, who had poured
