“I only heard of the one daughter. But they did say something about being nearer the grandchildren,” answered Mrs. Foster. Then she gaped as the realization struck her. “You surely don’t think the Smiths had anything to do with the child you found? But that’s—
that’s—”
“We have to examine all the possibilities.” Babcock thought it likely he could rule out the Fosters themselves. Still, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to put the wind up these two, if only for the momentary satisfaction of wiping the smug expression off Tom Foster’s face. “And you, Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” he said. “Do you have any children?”
The snow had stopped but for the occasional fl ake drifting erratically through the air, like a sheep straying from its flock. Hugh Kincaid led Gemma through the shrouded garden, his jacket brushing miniature flurries from the shrubs as he passed. When they reached the street, he paused and gazed up at the star sparkling clearly in the eastern sky.
“I think that’s it for tonight,” he said. “The storm seems to have blown itself out—just in time, too. I hate to think of the roads blocked on Christmas.”
Gemma took a deep breath, shaking off the atmosphere of the house, and the frigid air rushing into her nasal passages seemed to sear straight into her brain—a result, she suspected, of drinking too much of Rosemary’s lethal punch. Making an effort not to wobble on her feet, she glanced back towards the house and said hesitantly,
“Are you sure we should go? I feel we should be helping tidy—”
“Not to worry. I promised you a tour of the town, and it’s the least I can do to make up for the first impression you must have of us,”
answered Hugh, sounding pained. The subject of Juliet and Caspar’s behavior, and the fiasco that had been dinner, hung awkwardly in the silence that followed his comment.
Gemma hated to embarrass him further by agreeing, yet to pretend the evening had gone smoothly would be akin to ignoring an accident in the middle of the road—and a bloody accident, at that. “It must be difficult,” she ventured after a moment. “For you. And for the children.”
Earlier, Rosemary had put a stop to the shouting match in the hall, coming in from the kitchen with the fury of the Valkyries blazing in her face. “What ever this is about, you will stop it this moment, and behave in a civilized manner,” she commanded. “The children will hear you, and you have guests, in case you’d forgotten.”
Juliet flushed as scarlet as her dress and looked round, belatedly, towards the top of the stairs. Caspar glared at his mother- in- law, as if he might rebel, but after a charged moment, he stomped off to his study and slammed the door.
“Thank you for reminding me, Mother,” Juliet had said stiffl y, but without apparent sarcasm, and she then led the way back into the kitchen. There she’d organized the food and passed it to Duncan to carry to the table, all without speaking an unnecessary word.
With her head up and her back held ramrod straight, she’d seemed almost to vibrate with repressed tension and anger.
Gemma had found herself wanting to offer a touch or a word of
comfort, but had no idea how she might approach this woman she barely knew—or whether her sympathy would be welcome.
When the meal was ready, Rosemary had called the children, while Hugh had tactfully volunteered to fetch Caspar. Caspar had not appeared until everyone else was seated, then had taken his place at the head of the table with all the grace of a petulant child.
He toyed with his food and downed liberal glasses of punch, the combined actions being unlikely, in Gemma’s opinion, to improve the situation.
The dinner—cold ham, a stuffed, sliced breast of turkey, and beautifully composed salads—had been delicious, but might have been sawdust for all the enthusiasm displayed by those gathered round the table. Even the children had seemed subdued, and Gemma wondered if Lally had shared what she’d overheard.
Duncan and his parents had made a valiant attempt to carry the conversation, but when every effort to include Caspar and Juliet had fallen flat, Hugh resorted to telling them in great and excruciating detail about his acquisition of the rare Dickens Christmas story.
As soon as the meal could decently be declared over, Caspar had retreated to his lair again, and Lally had asked if she and Kit could go early to church to save seats for the rest of the party. Juliet had agreed, and Sam, rather to Gemma’s surprise, had seemed quite happy to stay behind with Toby. Duncan had offered to help his mother and sister with the washing up and had rolled up his sleeves with aplomb.
Now Hugh hooked his gloved hand through Gemma’s arm and steered her, not towards the car, but towards the dark path that led away from the gate.
Gemma yielded reluctantly to the pressure. “Is this—um, are you sure it’s safe?” she asked.
“Safe?” Hugh glanced down at her in surprise. “Well, we might get a bit of the white stuff down our necks, but I doubt we’ll be mugged, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He smiled. “This
wich, not London, and North Crofts is a very respectable avenue.”
“Avenue?” Gemma repeated curiously, now that she had a chance to look about her. What she saw resembled nothing she would call an avenue. The little lane, accessible only to pedestrians, was fenced on the right, and on the left had houses set back behind long, narrow walled gardens. A light showed here and there in a window; otherwise the lane seemed as deserted as the moon. “Difficult to get the shopping in, I should think,” she said, and even her voice seemed muffled by the snow and silence.
Hugh chuckled. “Spoken like a true Londoner. But there’s an alleyway behind the houses that serves both North and South Crofts.
The houses on South Crofts have some lovely Victorian decorations—
stained glass, mosaic tiles.”
Soon the lane curved to the left—the bottom of the horseshoe formed by the two streets, Hugh explained— and they passed the alleyway he had mentioned. Hugh steered her gently again, this time towards the dark mouth of a tunnel formed by overarching green-ery. The snow was lighter, but footprints were still visible in the dusting of powder.
“Public footpath,” he explained. “It connects the Crofts with the center of town. The children will have come this way before us.”
Gemma ducked and pulled up her collar as a clump of snow fell from one of the overhanging branches. “I thought public footpaths crossed farmers’ fields.”
“This one probably did, at one time. Now, however,” he added as they emerged from the tunnel, “it brings us to Monk’s Lane. There are very fine Georgian buildings here.” Gemma looked where Hugh pointed, but again her view was blocked by a wall. Walls, tunnels, secrets, and enveloping deathly quiet—Gemma wasn’t sure she liked this place at all.
“Caspar’s office is just there,” Hugh said as they reached the end of the row, his tone indicating that Caspar didn’t deserve to have an office in a hovel, much less a fine Georgian building. “And off to the
left is the Bowling Green pub, where Caspar stopped off on his way home.”
“Does he make a habit of it?” asked Gemma.
“I don’t know. I’m not usually privy to Caspar’s habits. Although we work such a short distance apart, I seldom see him except for family occasions.” He paused, then said more slowly, “I hadn’t realized how bad things had got. Juliet doesn’t talk to us about it—or at least not to me.”
Gemma recalled that she’d said nothing to her parents about the problems she and Rob were having until she’d filed for divorce—
she’d been too humiliated to admit to her parents that her marriage was a failure. She considered sharing this with Hugh, but doubted he would find it comforting.
Hugh stopped, hands in his pockets, staring up at the dark mass of the church now rising like a fortress above them. Even in the dim light Gemma could see that his face looked drawn. “I should have stopped it tonight. She’s my daughter, for God’s sake. He practically called her a whore.”
“You couldn’t have known what he was going to say.”
“No. But I could have waded in afterwards, not left it to Rosemary,” argued Hugh. “Rosemary doesn’t have to think out what to do, she just goes ahead and does it.”
