Deborah Crombie - Duncan Kincaid & Gemma James 09 - Now May You Weep

last night—”

“You didn’t see him this morning?”

“No. Not until—not until you told me—” Hazel pressed her fist to her mouth and began to cry sound-lessly, the tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks, but Gemma sat back, dizzy with the force of relief that washed through her.

After Gemma rang off, Kincaid abandoned his own breakfast and went upstairs to check on Kit, who had not yet appeared. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on his bed in an old T-shirt, rereading one of his Harry Potter novels.

“Finished with Kidnapped, then?” Kincaid asked, pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down.

Any idea he might have had of drawing parallels between the orphaned heroes was put paid to by the sight of the photo of Kit’s mother on the bedside table.

Gemma had given Kit the frame for Christmas, and until this morning the photo had resided unobtrusively on a corner of Kit’s desk.

Kit shrugged and kept his eyes on his book, although Kincaid could see that he wasn’t reading.

“You didn’t come down for breakfast,” Kincaid said, trying again. “You’re not ill, are you?”

“I’ll get cereal in a bit.” Kit still didn’t look at him.

“Where’s Tess?”

“Begging toast off Toby. I’m not used to seeing you without your familiar,” Kincaid quipped, and was rewarded by a twitch of Kit’s lip, a stifled smile. “Listen, Kit,” he went on, encouraged, “I’ve got to go out for a bit this morning, to see Tim Cavendish. There’s been an accident—”

“Not Gemma! Or Aunt Hazel!” Kit’s face went white and his book slipped from his fingers, its pages fluttering.

Cursing himself for his clumsiness, Kincaid said hurriedly, “No, no. It was a man—another guest at the B&B.

Gemma had a chance to ring and wanted me to let Tim know before he saw it on the news, so that he wouldn’t worry.”

Kit seemed to relax, but Kincaid could still see the pulse beating in the fragile hollow of the boy’s throat.

“Can they come home today, then?” Kit asked.

“Gemma and Hazel?”

“I don’t know. I expect they’ll have to stay on for a bit, at least until the preliminary questions are answered.”

“This man— It was a murder, wasn’t it? Not an accident.”

“I’m afraid it looks like it, yes.”

Kit studied him for a moment, his expression unread-able. “You’re going to go, too,” he said, making it a statement.

Kincaid thought of his offer to Gemma, so quickly re-buffed. “I hope it won’t come to that.” He reached out and tousled his son’s fair hair. “But in the meantime, will you look after Toby while I’m out?”

He knew he was going to have to talk to Kit again about his grandmother, but first he had to tackle Tim Cavendish.

The weather had held fine through the weekend, and deciding that he might as well enjoy the drive across London, Kincaid pulled the canvas cover off the Midget.

Although the little red car could be called a classic, in reality it had sagging springs and sometimes-unreliable parts. He hadn’t driven it for weeks, but for once the battery had held its charge and the engine puttered cooperatively to life on the first try.

He’d always maintained that Sunday was the day to drive in London for pleasure, but when, a half hour later, he found himself idling behind a queue of buses in the Euston Road, he wondered if he had been a bit precipitous.

Looking up at the ugly blocks of flats to his right, he thought of his sergeant, Doug Cullen, who lived nearby, and recalled uneasily the small falsehood he had told Gemma. He had spoken to Doug several times over the weekend—he’d only been stretching the truth a little when he’d said it was Doug who’d kept the phone line engaged.

But he knew well enough that even little lies, however kindly meant, had a way of assuming monstrous propor-

tions, and he wished that he had been honest with Gemma from the beginning. Now, in the light of what had happened in Scotland, his omission was going to be even more awkward to explain. He would, he resolved, tell her as soon as he spoke with her again.

When, a few minutes later, he turned north from Pen-tonville Road into the sedate crescents of Islington, he realized it was the first time he’d been to the Cavendishes’

house since Gemma had moved out. He had to remind himself not to pull round to the garage in the back. Although he knew that Hazel now used the flat as an office, he found it impossible to imagine it other than it had been, stamped by Gemma’s and Toby’s presence. Would he someday come to feel the same way about the Notting Hill house? It seemed to him that their full possession of the place was still marred by the emptiness of the nursery.

Pushing such thoughts aside, he parked in front of the Cavendishes’ house, a detached Victorian built of honey-colored stone, unexpectedly situated between two Georgian terraces. As he climbed out of the car, he noticed that the garden, previously a model of tidiness, looked weedy and neglected.

The house seemed quiet, turned in upon itself, the front drapes still drawn. Kincaid wondered if Tim had gone out—no one with an active four-year-old slept in until midmorning, even on a Sunday—but the pealing of the bell brought quick footsteps in response.

The door swung wide, revealing a pleasant-faced woman in her sixties with smartly bobbed graying hair.

“Can I help you?” she asked with an inquiring smile. She wore a raspberry shell suit, and her features seemed vaguely familiar.

“Is Tim at home? I’m Duncan Kincaid.”

“Oh, you’re Toby’s dad,” she said with obvious de-

light. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Holding out her hand, she added, “I’m Carolyn Cavendish, Tim’s mum.”

Kincaid clasped her well-manicured fingers. “Nice to meet you.” He had not quite got used to being referred to as Toby’s dad, and he felt an unexpected flush of pleasure.

“Come in, won’t you?” Stepping back, she ushered him into the house. “Holly is quite smitten with you.”

“And vice versa.” Kincaid looked round, prepared for the onslaught of Holly’s usual enthusiastic welcome, but the child didn’t appear.

“I’ve just made some coffee,” said Carolyn Cavendish,

“if you’ll join me?”

As Kincaid surveyed the familiar array of slightly worn furniture and children’s toys, the magnitude of what Gemma had told him that morning truly registered for the first time. How could Hazel, of all people, have possibly been having an affair?

He had never known anyone so contented, so at home in her domestic environment. He caught sight of the piano, music still open on the stand as if Gemma had just finished practicing, and felt a pang of loss for a time that had been innocent at least in memory.

Realizing that Mrs. Cavendish was watching him curiously, he brought himself back to the present with an effort. “Thanks. I’d like to wait if Tim won’t be long—”

“Oh, but Tim’s gone.” Leading the way to the kitchen, Mrs. Cavendish pulled two mugs from a rack above the cooker. “But I’m glad of the company.” As she pressed the coffee already standing in the pot, she added,

“Tony—that’s Tim’s father—has taken Holly for a swing on the school playground, and I had nothing on my agenda more pressing than the Sunday papers.”

Kincaid accepted the mug and sank slowly into a seat