Byrne pulled another folder from his desk drawer, and Kincaid was glad to see that he had at least kept Lydia’s file at hand. “Let’s see,” Byrne muttered as he opened the folder and skimmed the pages, using his finger to mark his place. “Lydia took digoxin for a minor heart arrhythmia, although there’s a note here from the pathologist that digoxin is not usually the first choice for that condition, because the therapeutic dose is so near the toxic dose. If Lydia had not had a previous history of attempted suicide, he would have been inclined to rule it an accidental death.”
“But they can’t tell if Vic was given the same thing?”
Byrne steepled his fingers again. “No. Nor can we even be certain that Lydia Brooke actually died from an overdose of her own medication, even though digoxin was present in her body, because—as I understand it, and I’m no chemist—digoxin is one of the metabolic by-products of digitoxin.” He glanced at the report. “The twelve-hydroxy analog, to be exact, if that’s any help.”
“So basically what you’re telling me is that it all comes down to the same thing in the end,” said Kincaid. “Was there anything else?”
Switching folders, Byrne said, “Dr. McClellan had a trace of alcohol in her blood, but nothing else of interest that I can see.”
“So she might have had wine or beer with her lunch?” asked Kincaid. He didn’t remember that Vic had been fond of drinking during the day, but perhaps she’d changed her habits.
“Her stomach was empty, but that doesn’t necessarily tell us anything, as she’d have digested her lunch by that time anyway. We have yet to confirm where or with whom she had a meal.”
Kincaid refrained from saying that they’d had almost forty-eight hours, and just what exactly had they been doing? Instead he made an effort to say mildly, “And did you turn up anything in the garden?”
Byrne grimaced in disgust. “You’d think a herd of cows had been milling about on the river side of that sodding gate. We’ve taken a few casts, but I don’t expect much from them.”
More likely every busybody in the village, thought Kincaid, and any passerby curious enough to wonder what the villagers were gawking at. But he said noncommittally, “Mmmm. And the house?”
“Nothing of interest so far, although it looks as though Dr. McClellan might have meant to make herself a cup of tea when she … um, lost consciousness. According to the doc, she might have felt a headache coming on, or some nausea. If she hadn’t been alone, it’s quite possible she could have been saved.”
Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment. Dear God, he thought, don’t let Kit ever hear that. The child would carry enough guilt as it was. “What about time of death?” he asked. “Could the pathologist narrow it down at all?”
Smiling, Byrne said, “That’s about as likely as squeezing blood out of a turnip. Her son said he thought she was still breathing when he found her at five o’clock, and I think we’ll have to take that as fact, at least for now.” He shuffled the papers back into their respective files. “The coroner held the inquest this morning, and I believe the family has asked the vicar to arrange a small memorial service, as the release of the body may be delayed indefinitely. They feel the boy needs some sort of closure.”
For once, Kincaid had to agree with his former in-laws, but he felt certain that any real consideration for Kit’s feelings came from Bob rather than Eugenia. “Do you know when they’ve scheduled the service?”
“I believe it’s Friday at one o’clock, in the church at Grantchester.”
“Tomorrow? They have pushed things a bit, haven’t they?” The formal arrangements made Kincaid realize he hadn’t rung his own parents, and that he must do so, as painful as it would be. His mother, especially, had been fond of Vic and had been very distressed at the breakup of their marriage, though she’d never criticized either of them.
“So, what’s next then, Alec?” he asked as neutrally as he could manage.
“The usual routine. We’ve started the house-to-house in the village, in case anyone saw anything unusual that afternoon. And we’ll interview her colleagues at work, of course.”
In other words, sod all, thought Kincaid, and said, “Of course.”
Byrne sat forwards suddenly, palms flat on the desk. “I don’t need your help with this investigation, Duncan, and I’ll thank you not to interfere any further.”
“Oh, come on, Alec, be reasonable,” said Kincaid at his most persuasive. “You can’t stop me talking to people. After all, I can’t make them answer, and I can’t threaten to throw them in the nick, so why should you mind? And if I should just happen to find out something, you can be sure I’ll let you know. As far as I can see, it’s all in your favor. Have you any leads on the husband, by the way?”
The question effectively took the wind out of Byrne’s sails, and he answered grudgingly, “He’s no longer at the forwarding address he left with his college. We’re checking to see if the Home Office has any record of his reentering the country.”
“Didn’t he take one of his graduate students with him? Maybe her people would know where they are.” Kincaid could tell from Byrne’s expression that he hadn’t been privy to this bit of information. “I’m sure someone in his department can turn up the girl’s name and particulars for you, with a little
Byrne sat back with an air of weary resignation. “Just don’t let me hear anyone complain you’ve been harassing them, or misrepresenting yourself as having any authority in this investigation,” he said, and on that friendly basis they parted.
Kincaid had a hurried and mediocre lunch at one of the pubs in Grantchester. When he’d finished, he waited until the barman had a free moment and made his way to the bar. “Do you happen to know where Nathan Winter lives?” he asked.
The man’s round, friendly face creased with instant concern. “It’s just two cottages up the way,” he said, pointing back towards Cambridge. “The white one with the black trim and the thatched roof. Lots of flowers in the front.” Studying Kincaid with undisguised curiosity, he added, “Do you know about our Dr. McClellan, then?” He shook his head. “Who’d have thought it? A beautiful young woman like her dying like that. And who’d have thought Nathan would go absolutely berserk when he heard she was dead? Tried to break her door down, he did, until the neighbors pulled him off and got old Dr. Warren to come and dress his hand.”
