And Justice There Is None

until the leaden February day she came home from school and found the doctor in the sitting room, his black bag by his side.

'What is it?' she asked her father, her heart thumping with sudden fear.

'Your mum's had quite a bad headache today.' Her dad looked exhausted, and for the first time she saw the deep lines scoring his cheeks. 'Even worse than usual. The doctor's given her something for the pain.'

'But why- What's wrong with her?'

'We don't know,' answered the doctor, a portly, bald man whose patient voice belied his stern expression. 'I think we shall have to take some pictures, Xrays, of your mother's brain. Then we shall see.'

'Will she have to have an operation?'

'That's one possibility, but it's too early to say.'

'I'm sure she'll be fine,' her father told her, sounding as if he were trying to reassure himself as much as her. But Angel somehow knew, in a moment of gut-squeezing terror, that her life was about to change forever.

***

Anthony Trollope was buried here. And William Thackeray,' Kincaid told Gemma as she bumped the car through the gates of Kensal Green Cemetery. It was just before eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, and they had been told that Dawn Arrowood's remains were to be interred in a graveside service.

'My God.' Gemma stopped at the first junction of roads and tracks that traversed the place. 'It's immense. I'd no idea.' Kensal Green lay at the northern edge of Notting Hill, tucked against the slow curve of the Grand Union Canal on one side and the Harrow Road on the other. A sign at the gate had informed them that this was a wildlife refuge, which meant that the grass was not mown nor the graves tended unless specifically directed by the owners of a plot. Desolate and shaggy under the gray December sky, the place had an air of comfortable decay. The bouquets of plastic flowers placed on the occasional grave looked pathetic and inadequate against the rank wildness of nature.

'It was a business. By the 1830s Londoners had run out of places to bury their dead. The churchyards were all full. So they formed a corporation to find land and build cemeteries. This was the first one, and very successful it was. It was quite the rage to be buried here.' Seeing Gemma's dubious glance, Kincaid added, 'Honestly. I'm not joking.'

'And how do you know so much about it?'

'I've been here before,' he replied, but didn't elaborate.

'Do you know how to find Dawn's gravesite, then?'

'Um, I'd go to the right, and look out for cars.'

'That's very helpful,' she said sarcastically, but did as he suggested. She followed the road for some way before she saw a dozen cars pulled up on the verge, empty. Away in the distance she glimpsed a knot of people in dark clothes, but the track leading in that direction was barred to motor traffic.

'Looks like we walk from here.' Stopping the car, Gemma looked down at her shoes and grimaced. She'd been expecting something far more civilized. 'Let's just hope it doesn't rain.'

'I wouldn't tempt it,' Kincaid warned, laughing, as he took her umbrella from the door pocket.

They walked along the track in silence. New headstones were interspersed among the older graves and monuments, but the newer markers were of shiny black marble and lacked the grace of their older counterparts.

'Now the Victorians,' Kincaid remarked softly beside her, 'they knew how to celebrate death.'

Never had Gemma seen so many angels: angels weeping, angels on guard, angels reaching heavenwards. The quiet of the place began to seep into her and she found herself taking a long, deep breath. Nor was the landscape as desolate as she had first thought. The gnarled trees and thickets were alive with birds of every kind, and squirrels ran busily in the long grass. To the right she began to glimpse a building through the trees, a large structure with white, classical columns.

'The Anglican chapel,' Kincaid told her. 'Although chapel seems a rather meager term for such a grandiose affair. I don't think it's in use.'

They approached the cluster of mourners, out of courtesy stopping a few feet away. An ornate coffin rested beside a dark hole in the earth, and at its head a black-robed cleric intoned the burial service. Karl Arrowood stood beside him in a black suit and overcoat, his head bowed, his gold hair glittering with drops of moisture. Dawn's parents stood opposite, as if trying to avoid contact with the widower. Gemma also recognized a softly weeping Natalie Caine, propped up by a stocky, cheerful-faced young man that Gemma assumed must be her husband; the remaining mourners appeared to be friends of Dawn's parents. 'No unusual suspects lurking about,' Kincaid murmured. 'Worse luck.'

The priest finished, closing his book. Karl Arrowood stepped forward and laid a single white rose on the coffin. Dawn's mother burst into anguished sobbing and her husband turned her away. Several people stepped up to Karl and shook his hand. With obvious reluctance, Natalie did the same, then gave Gemma a nod of recognition as she and her husband started back towards the cars.

Gemma and Kincaid waited until everyone had paid their respects. Arrowood stood as they approached, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat.

'Mr. Arrowood,' said Gemma, 'this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.'

'Do I take it this means the Yard has been called in? Perhaps you'll make some progress now in solving my wife's death.'

'I'm investigating a different murder, Mr. Arrowood,' Kincaid answered. 'It took place two months ago, in Camden Passage. A woman named Marianne Hoffman was killed in the same manner as your wife. Did you know her?'

'No,' said Arrowood, but he had paled. 'Who was she?'

'Mrs. Hoffman sold antique jewelry from her shop in Camden Passage. She lived above the premises. Do you know of any connection your wife might have had with this woman?'

'You say this woman sold jewelry? I bought all Dawn's jewelry for her. She'd have had no reason to frequent a shop like that.'

'When we spoke on Saturday, Mr. Arrowood,' Gemma said, 'and I told you your wife was pregnant when she died, you didn't happen to mention that you'd had a vasectomy prior to your marriage.' She saw a small tick at the corner of his mouth, swiftly controlled.

'And why should I have thought such a personal matter was any of your business?'

'Because if you'd learned of the pregnancy, you would naturally have assumed that your wife had a lover. In my book, that makes an extremely strong motive for murder.'

'If you are suggesting that I killed Dawn, Inspector, you had better be very careful. I loved my wife, although you seem to find that difficult to believe, and I had no reason to think her unfaithful. These procedures are known to fail, and that is what I naturally assumed.'

'And you'd no idea before Mrs. Arrowood's death that she was pregnant?' Gemma asked.

'No. I've told you before. I knew she hadn't been feeling well, but that possibility didn't occur to me at the time, for obvious reasons. But now that I know, I will not entertain the idea that the child was not mine.'

His face was set so implacably that Gemma wondered whom he most wanted to convince- them or himself? 'Speaking of children, Mr. Arrowood, have you seen your sons lately?'

'My sons? What have my children got to do with this?'

'You told me the other day that you'd made it clear to them not to expect anything from you.'

'I was fed up with them begging money for this and that. I never told them specifically- Surely you're not accusing them-'

'Money can be a powerful motivator. If they thought that Dawn's death would assure them of an inheritance-'

'No! That's absurd. I know my sons. They like things to come easily because their mother has spoiled them all