“Nathan Winter wants us to ring him right away.”
“It couldn’t have been Nathan Winter, do you see?” Kincaid pulled his cell phone from his pocket as they pushed through the school’s swinging front doors. “She must have been poisoned before she left work, not after she got home. And it can’t have been foxglove—the digitoxin in it acts too quickly.” He’d been transferring the number from his pager to his phone as he talked, and as they reached the car he pushed SEND.
“Nathan, it’s Duncan Kin—” He stopped, listening, then said, “Bloody hell. Can you stall him until we get there? Good man. Ten minutes.”
He disconnected and looked at Gemma. “Ian McClellan’s at the cottage, loading things into his car.”
CHAPTER
19
Love wakens love! I felt your hot wrist shiver,
And suddenly the mad victory I planned
Flashed real, in your burning bending head …
My conqueror’s blood was cool as a deep river
In shadow; and my heart beneath your hand
Quieter than a dead man on a bed.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “Lust”
“It still doesn’t make sense,” said Kincaid as Gemma reversed the car from the school car park. “If it wasn’t digitoxin, it must have been digoxin. But the expected reaction time for digoxin is five to six hours. According to Laura, Vic showed no symptoms of illness when she left the English Faculty at half past two—and yet she died just after five o’clock. So it was too slow for digitoxin, and too quick for digoxin.” With part of his mind he heard himself speaking, as if Vic’s death had been something removed from him, a statistic, a simple problem to be solved—yet he knew his detachment was essential if he were going to find her killer. He would have to hold on to it… for now.
Glancing at Gemma, he found her scowling at the rear end of the farm tractor creeping along ahead of them. They were not going to make record time to Grantchester. He thought a moment, then opened his notebook and checked a number. Dr. Winstead, the pathologist at High Wycombe General Hospital, had proved helpful to Kincaid on several occasions since they’d met during an earlier investigation, and if Kincaid remembered correctly, he was something of an expert on poisons.
“Hullo, Winnie?” he said when the direct number rang through. “Duncan Kincaid here.”
After responding to Winstead’s cheerful greeting, Kincaid gave him a rough outline of the case, adding, “Do you know of anything that might potentiate digoxin, making it act more quickly than expected?” He rolled his eyes as Winstead began a lecture on the metabolic breakdown of poisons derived from digitalis. “Wait, Winnie, I don’t have much time. Just give me a list, okay? Reserpine … quinidine … succinylcholine …” he repeated as he wrote in his notebook. “Laxative abuse … calcium or potassium loss due to diuretics—” Giving Gemma a startled look, he said, “Winnie, what kind of diuretic? Does it matter if it was natural or pharmaceutical? She drank diuretic herbal teas.” He listened a moment. “Could someone have put the tablets in her tea? How many would it have taken? She had no history of heart trouble, but Lydia did. Right. Right. Okay, thanks, Winnie. I’ll let you know.”
“What?” Gemma asked as he rang off. Just then the road widened and she zipped round the tractor. “Bloody nuisance,” she muttered.
“Winnie said the tea might have potentiated the digoxin, although he doesn’t know if it would have disguised the taste of the tablets. The tablets are small, though, and very soluble. Lydia would have needed very few, as she was already sensitized to the medication—Vic maybe twice that.”
“So it probably would’ve tasted bitter,” said Gemma, but Kincaid didn’t answer. They’d crossed the motorway and would be in Grantchester within minutes. He supposed he hadn’t really expected Ian McClellan to come back … and he supposed he’d expected to feel relieved if McClellan did … surely that would be best for Kit, after all, to stay where he’d been happy and secure …
And it was all absolute bollocks, Kincaid thought as they reached the High Street junction. What he really felt at the prospect of confronting Ian McClellan was a deep and simmering anger, and the thought of McClellan taking Kit out of his life brought with it a frightening sense of loss.
Gemma pulled into the cottage’s drive with a spray of gravel, blocking the new model Renault parked near the back door.
Nathan Winter stood near the Renault’s bonnet, talking to a slender, bearded man in a brown corduroy sports jacket, and from their gestures, Kincaid surmised that the discussion was not friendly As he and Gemma got out of the car, he heard McClellan say, “As far as I know this is still my bloody house, and neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me taking my things from it.”
“Good morning,” Kincaid said as they came up to the two men, “you must be Ian McClellan.”
McClellan turned, glaring at them. “Who the hell are—” He stopped, his eyes widening as he focused on Kincaid. “My God,” he said slowly. “I don’t believe it. The ex-husband himself, riding to the rescue. You’ve a lot of nerve coming here.”
Kincaid’s anger rose in a dizzying, sickening rush. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he’d grabbed the front of McClellan’s jacket with one hand and jerked him close. “That would be offensive if Vic were alive,” he said. “And now—”
“Duncan.” Gemma took his arm, pulling at him. “Duncan, let him go.”
Taking a breath, he released McClellan’s jacket and stepped back. “You’re the one who left her,” he said, jabbing his finger at McClellan. “And Kit.”
“So you want to talk about Kit, do you?” McClellan smiled and leaned back against his car, folding his arms, but a pulse beat in his neck. “I’d say you left it a bit late.”
Kincaid stared at him. “What—what are you saying?”
