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

At least it’s been a good summer; we’ll have barley to spare if we can stay in production.”

Livvy took a breath. “Rab, if there’s anything we can do . . .”

“Duncan!” Hazel came straight to him and he en-folded her in a hug. She clung to him, burying her face against his chest. Her dark curls just brushed his chin, and compared with Gemma’s, her frame felt delicate under his hands. He had never before thought of her as fragile.

“Have you spoken to Tim?” Hazel asked as she let him go. “Gemma said you saw Holly— How is she?”

“What shall I answer first?” he said with a smile, wanting to reassure her. “No, I haven’t talked to Tim today, and yes, I saw Holly, and she was full of mischief as usual.” Beyond Hazel, he saw Pascal glance at Heather in silent question, and Heather shrug in reply. Just how much did they have riding on Hazel’s response to Donald’s bequest? he wondered.

Before he could speculate further, the door to the hall swung open and a gangly young man came hurriedly into

the kitchen. Kincaid surmised that he must be John Innes’s younger brother, Martin, although he could see no resemblance.

“It’s that policeman,” the young man said. “He’s here again.”

There was an instant’s pause in the room, as if a film had frozen at a single frame. Then John turned back to the cooker, saying, a bit too loudly, “I suppose I’d better put the kettle on again.” Louise dropped the bough she’d been trimming into the sink and reached for a towel.

Heather moved a little closer to Pascal’s chair.

Only Hazel still stood without moving. “He won’t—

He can’t take me in again, can he?” she whispered, her face pale.

“I shouldn’t think so.” Kincaid gave her shoulder a squeeze and urged her towards the stool he had vacated.

“Gemma must be talking to him now.”

Then he heard voices from the hall, and Gemma came into the kitchen, followed by a solid, graying man in a rumpled suit, and a tall, thin man with a cadaverous face.

The shorter man had an unmistakable air of authority.

If he was going to pull rank, Kincaid thought, he had better do it now. He stepped forward, hand extended.

“Chief Inspector Ross? My name’s Kincaid. Superintendent, Scotland Yard.” Someone in the room inhaled sharply, as if surprised at this news, but he couldn’t be sure of the source.

As Ross gave him an assessing glance and a perfunc-tory handshake, Kincaid felt his usefulness being weighed, an unusual sensation. “If I can be of any help . . . ,” he offered, and Ross made an indecipherable grumbling noise in his throat.

“And why exactly are you here, Superintendent?” Ross asked, casting a look in Gemma’s direction.

“Gemma—Inspector James—and I are personal friends of Mrs. Cavendish.”

“So you came to lend your support? Verra thoughtful of you,” Ross said with only a slight grimace. It seemed he had decided to err on the side of caution. “But it’s actually not Mrs. Cavendish I’ve come to see,” he continued. “I’ve a wee matter to discuss with Mr. Innes.

Sergeant”—he nodded at the tall man—“if ye’d be so good.”

The other detective stepped forward, and Kincaid saw that he carried a folder. Ross took it from him and, clearing a space on the work island, laid the contents out before John Innes, large, glossy, color photos of a shotgun.

“Is this your gun, Mr. Innes?”

“Oh, Christ.” John Innes touched an unsteady finger to the top photograph. “I— It looks like it, yes. The scroll-work is fairly distinctive. But how— Where—”

“We found it in the river, fifty yards or so downstream from the body. It’s possible the current dragged it along the bottom.”

“No fingerprints, I suppose?” Kincaid asked, forgetting his role as observer in his interest.

“No, just a few wee smudges.”

“Had the gun been wiped before being submerged?”

“It’s difficult to say, Mr. Kincaid.” Ross gave him a quelling glance. “But we can be sure that the gun used to kill Donald Brodie came from this house—”

“You can’t be certain,” interrupted Gemma. “There’s no way to get an absolute ballistics match on a shotgun—”

“Inspector James.” Ross scowled at her. “I find it verra unlikely that this gun just happened to end up in the river at the same time Donald Brodie was shot with a different small-bore gun.” He turned back to John. “Mr. Innes, you’ll need to come into the station to make a formal

identification. You’ll also need to do a much better job of accounting for your time on Sunday morning.”

John stared at him blankly. “But I’ve told you. I went to buy eggs—”

“You didn’t arrive at the farm shop until seven o’clock, after the police had been called to the scene, and yet, according to your wife, you left home some time before Inspector James discovered the body.”

“No!” Louise took a step towards John. “I said I wasn’t sure of the time. I didn’t look at the clock—”

“How could ye not see the clock, Mrs. Innes?” Ross looked pointedly at the large-faced kitchen clock mounted on the wall above the table. “Especially when your business depends on keeping a schedule in the mornings?”

“Don’t ye badger her,” said John, his fists clenching.

“It’s nothing to do with Louise. I took a wee walk along Loch an Eilean, if ye must know. There’s no crime in that.”

“Then why didn’t ye see fit to mention it?” Ross asked.

“I didna think anything of it.” John appeared to be struggling for nonchalance. Louise was staring at him, her delicate brows lifted in surprise. “I often go there when I’ve an errand at the estate shop,” John added.

“Did anyone see you?”

“I didna notice. Wait— There was a couple walking their dog, an Alsatian.”

“That’s very helpful of you, Mr. Innes,” said Ross, with scathing sarcasm. “I’m sure we’ll have no trouble verifying that. In the meantime, we’ve requested a warrant to have our forensics team go over your car—a Land Rover, isn’t it? But if you were to demonstrate your cooperation by turning it over voluntarily, it would make things easier for everyone concerned.”

As John glanced at him in mute appeal, Kincaid began to realize just how awkward a position he and Gemma had got themselves into. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded at John. Ross would have the car searched re- gardless, and John would do himself no good by trying to obstruct it.

“All right,” said John, with a show of bravado. “Go ahead. I’ve nothing to hide.”

“Good. That’s verra sensible of you.” Ross looked more weary than pleased. “Now, why don’t ye come with us to the station, and we’ll send a constable along to take charge of the car.”

“Wait.” Louise stepped forward. “I want a word with my husband, Chief Inspector.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Innes, I’d rather you didna do that until he’s amended his statement. If you have something different to tell us, I’d suggest you do it now.”

Louise hesitated, glancing at John, then back at Ross.

“No. I— It was nothing.”

Sergeant Munro gathered the photos together, then stepped back, gesturing at John to precede him.

As John reached the door, he called back, “The soup—

Louise, you’ll see to the soup?”

“Soup?” Louise wailed as the door swung shut. “How can he think of soup when—”

A babble of voices broke out as everyone began to comment, drowning her words. Kincaid put a hand on her arm and guided her into a quieter corner of the room.

“Louise,” he said softly, “do you know what John was doing yesterday morning—other than not walking around Loch an Eilean, whatever that is.”