No Mark upon Her

his evening tipple.

Making his way to the snug, he took a seat at the bar and ordered a pint of Loddon Hoppit. According to the chalkboard behind the bar, it was a local beer, and Kincaid found the name irresistible.

The beer, when the barman brought it, was a shimmering red-amber, and Kincaid could smell the hops before he tasted it.

“That’s good ale,” he said to the barman, wiping the foam from his upper lip.

“Brewed just outside Reading,” said the barman. He was a lean man who didn’t look as if he overindulged in his own wares. “You’re not from around here, I take it?” he continued, knowing full well, Kincaid felt sure, that he was not.

Well, it would do as a conversation starter, and the tiny room was empty except for the two of them, a nice advantage. Kincaid decided to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“London.” He drank some more of the Loddon, reminding himself that he had to drive back to Henley, and that the beer was meant as window dressing. “Scotland Yard, actually,” he added, lowering his voice to a confidential tone. “I’m here about the rower who drowned the other day.”

He felt a stab of guilt at referring to Becca Meredith so impersonally. It now seemed to him as if he had known her, and her loss felt like the loss of a friend.

“Terrible thing, that.” The barman sounded genuinely sorry. “My mate’s wife is on the search and rescue team. They always take it hard. Can’t say I blame them.”

“No. Nor can I.” Kincaid thought of Kieran and Tavie, wondered how Kieran was coping.

“Well, it can’t be easy for you either, in your job. I guess you’ve been to the scene, down at the Mill?” There was a definite query at the end of the barman’s sentence. So the man did like a bit of a gossip—a quality that in Kincaid’s experience was necessary to a successful publican. “Hambleden is a bit off the beaten track.”

“I’ve been to see Assistant Commissioner Craig, to tell the truth,” Kincaid said. “A courtesy call. We are working on his home turf, after all.”

“Ah. I’m sure he appreciated that.”

It was a pleasant, noncommittal answer. But Kincaid had seen the telltale change of expression, the shifting of the bartender’s eyes away from his. This man knew Angus Craig for what he was.

“It was he who recommended you,” Kincaid went on. “The best beer, he said, and his local.” He took another sip of his pint. “Lucky man. He comes in most days, I take it?”

The barman wiped an already clean glass. “Most evenings.” He glanced at the clock above the door. “Usually about this time.”

Kincaid thought it would be just as well if he didn’t linger. He was trying to figure out how he could discreetly check Craig’s alibi when the barman added, “Missed him last night. He must have been away.”

“I believe he said something about a meeting in London . . . no, no.” Kincaid put on a perplexed frown. “He said he was away on Monday. That was it.”

“No, he was here. Although he came in a bit late. I remember because we were all talking about it next day —the thought of us all safe in the pub while that poor woman was washing away down the Thames.” The barman shook his head.

“Maybe he’d been fishing,” Kincaid suggested. “It would have been a fine day for it.”

The barman looked at him curiously. “Fishing? Whatever gave you that idea? Mr. Craig doesn’t fish. Hunting’s his cup of tea.”

“Ah, well,” said Kincaid, having ventured as far out on a limb as he could go without falling off. “Then the pub suits him to a T, wouldn’t you say?”

Giving him the perfunctory smile the lame comment deserved, the barman nodded. “He’s said the same himself. Many a time.”

Resigned to the fact that by this time the man must think him a toady, currying favor with Craig, as well as a bit of an idiot, Kincaid said, “Lovely house. I understand it’s been in Mrs. Craig’s family for a long time. Sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”

The barman’s face softened. “Nice lady, Mrs. Craig. Her family’s been in Hambleden for yonks, and Edie does more for people here than most.” He nodded towards the center of the village. “Matter of fact, I think she’s at the church, helping with the preparations for a wedding on Saturday.”

“Is that so? Maybe I’ll stop and pay my respects.” Kincaid gave an exaggerated glance at his watch. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was so late.” He drank a little more of his pint, then set the glass on the bar, still half full.

During his brief visit to the Stag and Huntsman, he’d presented himself as a nitwit, a stalker, and now a man who couldn’t hold his beer.

“Must dash,” he said, and made his less-than-dignified exit.

Kincaid left his car in the pub car park and walked through the village center. A chill wind eddied a drift of brown leaves along the street. He turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t left his overcoat in the Astra’s boot. The fine day was over.

He’d remembered seeing a signpost for the church as he drove through the village earlier. Like the church in Henley, it was called St. Mary the Virgin, but when he reached it, he saw that it was much less grand. The long, low building seemed more suited to human comfort than divine glorification.

As he reached the lych-gate, a woman stepped out into the church porch, then turned to lock the door behind her. In that moment, he’d seen her clearly in the porch light, and he stopped, surprised.

He wondered what he’d expected. It had not been this tall, slender woman, her graying hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She wore a swinging woolen skirt that just brushed the tops of her knee-high leather boots, an anorak, and, round her neck, a long green scarf that fell to the hem of her skirt. The scarf was a cheerful color that made him think of new leaves and green apples.

When she turned round again, the key in her hand, she saw him and stopped. “Can I help you?” she asked.

There was no fear in her voice, just gentle inquiry.

“Mrs. Craig?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He stepped forward into the light. “No. My name’s Duncan Kincaid. Detective superintendent, Scotland Yard.”

She walked towards him until she met him under the gate. “If you’re looking for my husband, I think you’ll find him at home.” She was still gracious, and perhaps slightly curious.

“No, actually, it’s you I wanted a word with,” he said with unexpected reluctance. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He saw the caution settle over her like a cloak, then she moved so that the shadow of the lych-gate fell across her face. “I’m sure this will suit well enough, Superintendent.”

“Mrs. Craig—” Kincaid suddenly found himself at a loss. No subterfuge seemed appropriate with this woman. He would simply ask what he needed to ask. “Do you know where your husband was late on Monday afternoon, from around four o’clock on?”

A second passed, then another. He heard the wind move in the trees, saw the light from the church porch catch the green of her scarf as she reached up to loop it round her throat. “He was at home,” she said, “with me. Then, he went to the pub, as he usually does.”

Had she been relieved at his question, or had he just imagined it? Perhaps it was just that Angus Craig’s outing to the pub was the best part of her day.

“Mrs. Craig. You’ll have heard about the police officer who drowned. Rebecca Meredith.”

“Yes. The rower. The news has been all over the village.”

“Did your husband mention that he knew her? Did he tell you—”

“Superintendent.” Her voice might have been a touch on his arm, the only plea she would allow herself. “Whatever it is that you feel you need to ask, you must remember that he’s my husband.” There was finality in her words.

She moved, and when the light caught her face, he thought he glimpsed a despair that was beyond his imagining. Then she had stepped past him. “I must get home. I’ve left Barney too long.”

“Barney?” he said, confused. Surely there wasn’t a child still at home.

“My dog. Angus doesn’t care for him in the house. Good night, Superintendent.”