led them like heavily padded ducklings when they had piled out of the car.
Although it was masked by evergreens, Gemma could see that the wall was built of a dark brick, as was the house that rose behind
it. Near the gate, a narrow path overgrown with foliage led straight back from the cul-de-sac.
“The town center is only a five minutes’ walk that way,” Hugh said cheerfully, nodding at the path as he opened the gate, but Gemma could only think that she wouldn’t care to walk there alone.
The atmosphere of the entire place struck her as secretive: the dark tunnel of the path, the house brooding like a fortress behind its high wall. Nor did the sight of the garden improve her first impression.
Small and enclosed, it was planted entirely with shrubs sculpted in different shapes and sizes. No patch of lawn welcomed dogs—or children, for that matter.
But she could see that everything was immaculately maintained, and there were footprints leading to the door and welcoming lights in the windows. Sam charged ahead and flung open the front door, shouting, “Mum!”
It was Duncan, however, not Juliet, who came hurrying into the hall to meet them. “Jules is changing,” he explained, “and Caspar seems to have gone walkabout.”
“Did Mummy really find a body?” asked Sam, hopping from one foot to the other with impatience.
“Yes, I’m afraid she did,” Kincaid answered gravely. “I’ll let her tell you about it if she wants.”
“But what did it—”
Rosemary, still holding the punch box, forestalled her grandson.
“Let’s get these things in the kitchen. Gemma, I’ll do the honors for Juliet. Take off your coats—there’s a cupboard just to your right.”
While Sam and Lally shoved their things into the cupboard willy-nilly, followed a little more carefully by Kit and Toby, Gemma took the opportunity to look about her. The sitting room to her right had forest-green walls and pristine white sofas, while the magnifi cent Christmas tree in one corner was decorated with white silk roses and shimmering crystal drops. The dining room on the left was just as elegant, but done in deep reds, and the long mahogany table was
already set with china and crystal, as if awaiting a feast for ghosts.
The rooms had none of the slightly shabby comfort of the Kincaids’
house, and none of the effortless style. It made Gemma think of a stage set, and she could see why Juliet was happy to spend her days mucking about on a building site.
When their coats were stowed—and Gemma realized that here nothing would ever be tossed casually over the back of a chair—
Hugh took the box from his wife, saying, “Just tell me where you want this.”
“In the kitchen, of course,” she snapped, but Gemma had the feeling that her sharpness was not really directed at her husband.
She seemed ill at ease, and Gemma suspected it had to do with her son- in- law’s absence.
“Come see our rooms,” Sam demanded of Kit and Toby, and as the children trooped obediently after him up the wide staircase, Gemma found herself momentarily alone with Duncan. He seemed to slump a little, as if glad of a respite.
“Are you all right?” he asked, touching her cheek. “Is Kit? I’m sorry it took longer than I expected.”
“What was—” she began, but he interrupted her.
“A baby. But it had been there a long time, probably years. Jules is a bit upset.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes, and his face wore the careful expression she had come to recognize.
God, how she wished he would stop treating her as if she were made of glass, and would shatter at the mere mention of an infant.
She was about to protest when she heard a rustling on the stairs.
Looking up, she saw a dark- haired woman coming down, dressed in just the sort of red velvet dress Gemma had imagined appropriate for the evening. While Gemma would have recognized her from the few family photos Duncan had shown her, she had not envisioned Juliet Newcombe’s delicacy, nor the haunted look about her eyes.
“You must be Gemma,” said Juliet as she reached them. She took both Gemma’s hands in her own, and although her smile s
seemed to take an effort, her voice held genuine warmth. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
At that moment, Gemma realized that she had been prepared to dislike Juliet, and felt a rising blush of shame. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult night,” she told her, giving Juliet’s small, cold hands a squeeze before letting them go.
“Not the best of circumstances,” Juliet agreed. “But still, I’m glad you’re here, both of you.” She turned to Kincaid. “The children—I thought I heard—”
“Upstairs. Sam’s acting the tour guide,” answered Duncan.
“And Caspar— Has he—”
Duncan shook his head. “Not here yet. You should have rung him, Jules. Maybe he’s out looking for you.”
“I doubt that,” she answered, and this time her smile was as brittle as ice.
“Look,” Duncan said into the awkward silence that followed this conversation stopper, “Mum and Dad are in the kitchen making the famous punch. Can we help with any—”
The front door opened and Juliet froze as a man stepped into the hall, her hand raised to her breast in an unconsciously defensive gesture. “Caspar.”
Tall and thin, dark haired like his wife, Caspar Newcombe was fastidiously dressed and wore expensive- looking rimless glasses. His rather patrician good looks were marred, however, by the peevish set of his mouth and the cold glare he directed at his wife. He neither greeted nor acknowledged Gemma and Duncan. It was only when he took a step forward and listed dangerously to one side that Gemma realized he was drunk. He put a hand to the wall and propped himself up with deliberate nonchalance.
Juliet returned the glare and took the offensive. “Where have you been? ”
“The Bowling Green.” Caspar made no effort to keep his voice down. “Having a bit of Christmas cheer, which I’m not likely to get
at home, am I, my dear wife? I could ask you the same, but at least I know you’ve not been dispensing your favors to my partner, because he was in the office with me. But maybe you’ve been having a bit of rough-and- tumble with one of your lads? Or is the correct term ‘co-worker’ these days?” He smirked at his own cleverness.
“You bastard,” Juliet said quietly. “Did Piers just happen to suggest that to you, too, over a confidential drink? Or did you think of it yourself?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma glimpsed a movement at the top of the stairs. Looking up, she saw the treaded bottom of a trainer and a ragged denim cuff disappear round the landing. Lally. She’d noticed earlier that the bottoms of Lally’s jeans were fashionably shredded. She reached out to Juliet in warning, but Juliet was speaking again, her attention so focused on her husband that the house could have come down round their ears before she noticed.
“You’re a gullible fool, Caspar,” said Juliet, her voice rising now.
“But whatever you think I am, and whatever you think I’ve done,
At least he was warm, thought Ronnie Babcock as he stood in the Fosters’ sitting room, although he suspected that soon his damp clothes would start to visibly steam. Tom and Donna Foster had invited him in, albeit grudgingly, but had not taken his coat, or given him a seat. Nor had they offered that most obvious of courtesies on such a miserable night—a drink. Maybe they’d simply thought he’d refuse on principle, but that was a charitable interpretation.
He guessed the couple to be in their mid- to late fifties, townies who had embraced the country life and brought their slice of heaven along with them, transforming the interior of what must once have been a charming traditional farmhouse into a replica of the most banal suburban semidetached.
The electric two-bar heater that had been pulled in front of the s
empty brick hearth radiated waves of a harsh, dry heat that had at least defrosted Babcock’s extremities,
