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

“It’s a local scenic spot, near the farm shop. John’s never mentioned walking there.” She looked baffled.

“I’ve no idea where he could have been—I didn’t realize,

until the chief inspector said, that he was away for so long.” Frowning, she added hesitantly, “But there have been other times lately when he’s disappeared without telling me, or been gone a good bit longer than an errand required.” She looked up at Kincaid, color suffusing her fair skin. “And once or twice, I’ve awakened in the night and found him gone. I thought— But it can’t have anything to do with Donald.”

Kincaid was trying to think of some way to reassure her, a difficult proposition, as he had no idea what John Innes had been getting up to, when he realized Gemma had followed the detectives and John Innes from the room.

“Louise, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to catch Gemma up.

We’ll talk later, I promise.”

He dashed through the house, and as he burst out the front door, he found his suspicions confirmed. John was safely tucked into the unmarked car with Sergeant Munro, and Gemma was standing in the drive, arguing with the chief inspector.

As Kincaid came up to them, he heard her say, “You can’t rule out the possibility that someone outside the house had access to the gun—or that the gun was taken for another reason.”

Ross seemed to be making a monumental effort to keep his temper in check. “And what reason would that be?”

“What if someone wanted to cast suspicion on John, or on the household in general?”

“Who?” Ross barked.

“I don’t know,” countered Gemma, without the least sign of being intimidated. “But you can’t ignore Alison Grant and Callum MacGillivray. They both had motive, and neither had an alibi. And what about Tim Cavendish?”

Ross shook his head in disbelief. “Do ye want your friend’s husband to be guilty of murder, lassie?”

“No, of course not!” said Gemma, sounding less sure of herself. She turned to Kincaid, as if for confirmation.

“I just want—”

“Ye canna protect them all, lass. You must see that.

Someone fired that shotgun into Donald Brodie’s chest, and the odds are that it was someone in this house. Ye canna hide from the fact. Why don’t ye take Mrs.

Cavendish and go back to London? Ye’ll be weel out of it.”

“I—”

Whatever Gemma had meant to say was cut off by the ringing of Kincaid’s phone. “Sorry,” he said, turning away as he slipped the phone from his belt. It was about time Doug Cullen rang him back.

But it was not Cullen, and as Kincaid listened, his surroundings faded until he was aware of nothing but the cold dread squeezing his chest.

“No,” he said at last. “No. Don’t do anything yet. Let me make a few calls. I’ll ring you back.”

As he hung up, he felt the feather brush of Gemma’s fingers against his arm. “Is it Tim?” she asked, clearly alarmed by his tone. “What’s happened? Has he—”

“No.” Kincaid forced himself to breathe, to meet her eyes. “That was Wesley. It’s Kit. He’s disappeared.”

Chapter Sixteen

And I remember home and the old time, The winding river, the white morning rime, The autumn robin by the riverside, That pipes in the grey eve.

—robert louis stevenson, “The Family”

Kit walked aimlessly for hours, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, his mind playing and replaying the events of the morning. He had been finishing a last-minute piece of toast before school when the phone rang. Wesley had already left with Toby, and he’d assumed it was Wes calling from his mobile phone with a last-minute instruction.

When he’d heard Ian’s voice on the other end of the line he’d whooped with surprise.

“Dad! What are you doing ringing this time of morning? It must be the middle of the night in Canada.” He felt awkward now saying Dad, but what else could he call the man he’d thought of as his father for almost twelve years?

Absently, he tossed the dogs their ball and watched them scramble after it.

“It’s almost two,” said Ian, “a bit late for an old man

like me, I’ll admit.” Kit thought he sounded slightly tipsy.

“But I wanted to catch you before you left for school.”

Kit felt a little clutch of fear, and the last bit of his toast seemed to stick on the way down. “Why? Is something wrong? You know about the letter?”

“Yes, but that’s not why I called, Kit. And nothing’s wrong. In fact, I’ve got some rather good news to share with you. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Kit’s heart leaped. “You’re coming home? Back to Cambridge?”

“Um, no.” Ian sounded suddenly hesitant. “It looks like I’ll be staying in Toronto permanently. There are two things I had to tell you, actually, Kit. The house in Grantchester finally sold.”

Kit’s throat tightened. It was all he could do to speak.

“That’s . . . good. That’s . . . that’s what you wanted.”

“I know the idea’s going to be a little bit of an adjust-ment for you, but it had to be done. You do understand that, don’t you, Kit?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” Kit said, trying very hard to sound as if he did. The dogs had come back to him, panting, Tess the proud possessor of the ball, but he ignored them.

“I’ve got to make a new life. We both do.” Ian paused again, clearing his throat. “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you. That’s why I was up so late. I’ve been at a party, celebrating my engagement.”

“Engagement?” Kit said blankly. In the moment’s silence, he heard the tick of the kitchen clock, and as he gazed at Gemma’s black and red teapot, the colors swam before his eyes.

“She’s a wonderful girl, Kit. I know you’ll like her.

Melinda—her name’s Melinda—is really looking forward to meeting you. Of course, she is a bit young for me.” Ian gave a chuckle. “But who am I to complain?”

“You’re getting married?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you.” Ian’s patience sounded forced. “The first of July. Just a small ceremony —”

“How can you be getting married?” Kit shouted, taking it in at last. “Mum’s only been dead a year—”

“Kit! That’s enough,” snapped Ian. “Look,” he went on more gently, “I understand this is a shock, but you know your mother and I hadn’t been on good terms for a while before she . . . died. It’s time for me to move on, concentrate on the living. And this means you’ll have a new home, in Canada, when you come to visit.”

“I don’t want—”

“That’s the other thing, Kit. I know we’d talked about your coming at the end of June, when your term finishes, but Melinda and I will be on our honeymoon. I’m sure we can work something out later in the sum—”

Kit didn’t hear the rest of Ian’s plan because he had, for the first time in his life, hung up on an adult in the middle of a conversation. When the phone rang again, he was walking out the door. It was only after he turned the corner that the insistent burring faded away.