Hazel, when consulted, had told him, 'You can't rush her. You're going to have to let her do this in her own way, in her own time. There's more than grief over the baby's death here- she's blaming herself for what happened, and no one else can absolve her of that burden.'
He knew Hazel was right, yet he also knew that he must be ready to support Gemma in any way he could- and that he must put aside his own grief for the moment. Later, he would think about his son, so perfect, so still… and of what might have been.
But now he must concentrate on Toby, and Kit, and on providing the foundation that would hold their family together.
Wanting to spend as much time with Gemma and the children as possible, he rearranged his schedule, going into the Yard only to finish up the most essential paperwork on the Arrowood case. So it was that he was at home with Kit on an afternoon later in the week when Wesley Howard came to see them.
'I hope you don't mind me coming round,' Wesley said hesitantly. 'I wanted to ask about Gemma… and to say how sorry I was.'
Kincaid invited him into the kitchen, where Kit made them all coffee. 'It's just that I feel responsible,' Wesley continued, gazing morosely into his cup. 'If I hadn't told Marc what I'd learned, none of this would have happened.'
'It's not your fault, Wes,' said Kit. 'I should have told someone I'd seen Marc hanging about-'
'Stop right there, Kit,' interrupted Kincaid. 'We'd have thought nothing of it if you had. The doctors say it's likely Gemma would have lost the baby anyway. And as for what happened in the soup kitchen- that's no one's fault but Marc Mitchell's.'
But how true was that, Kincaid wondered?
How much blame lay with the parents who had let themselves become involved in something illegal and dangerous, how much with the grandmother who had poisoned an already damaged child, and how much with Karl Arrowood, whose ruthless ambition and disregard for others had begun the tragic chain of events?
According to the police psychologist, Mitchell's already unstable personality had begun to disintegrate on his grandmother's death. Then, his mission accomplished with Karl Arrowood's murder, he had been desperate for some purpose in his life, as well as some sense of justification for the things he'd done. It seemed likely that he'd have sought out Gemma as a confidant, had she not gone to him.
'What I don't understand,' said Wesley, 'is how Marc could have done such terrible things. I saw him help people all the time and he seemed to genuinely care for them. I can't believe that his charity was simply a sham, a blind for tracking down his victims.'
'No. Perhaps he saw the homeless as fellow lost souls. I don't know.' Had the grief that twisted Marc's psyche left some small portion undamaged? And if so, was it that kernel of wholeness that had led him to reach out to Gemma? Kincaid found the irony too painful to contemplate.
'There is at least one good thing that's come of all this,' he said aloud. 'Wes, I've spoken to your cousin Eliza in Bedford. She's asked me to give you her phone number. It would mean a good deal to her to get to know her family.'
Flowers filled every spare inch of space in Gemma's hospital room, and when she returned to it after her enforced walks in the corridor, the hothouse scent seemed overpowering.
She had a stream of visitors as well, including Hazel and Kate Ling, Doug Cullen, and an unexpected and gruff Gerry Franks. She managed to nod when they extended their condolences, and then to carry on ordinary conversations as if the content mattered to her.
But when her parents came, she found she could not talk to them at all, and simply turned her face away while her mother sat beside her and patted her hand.
Bryony hesitated outside the door of the hospital room, not at all sure she could bring herself to go in. She thought of Gemma as she'd seen her last, and felt a wave of terror so intense she clutched at the wall for support. Breathing deeply, she let the familiar, faintly antiseptic hospital odors soothe her.
She realized her fear was mixed with shame- shame for not having done more to help her friend, shame that she had been so blindly deceived by Marc- and shame that within those emotions lay a small knot of resentment. Why had it been Gemma Marc confessed to, and not her?
Furious with herself for even entertaining such a thought, Bryony squared her shoulders and entered the room.
'Bryony!' Gemma looked pale and oddly defenseless, with her coppery hair spread out against the pillow like a fan, but her smile was warm and welcoming.
'I'm so glad you're all right,' Bryony told her. She pulled up a chair beside the bed. 'And I'm sorry about-'
'Thanks. And what about you?' Gemma asked quickly, forestalling any further conversation about the baby. 'Are you okay?'
'I quit the surgery. Somehow I couldn't see going in to work with Gavin every day, wondering what he was up to…'
'I can't say that I blame you. But what will you do?'
'At first I thought I'd pack it in, leave London altogether. I even looked at job adverts up north. But then Alex and Fern and Wesley came to see me. They said I should keep on with what I'd started, that they'd help me find funding for the clinic. And I realized…' She rubbed at the healing dog bite on her finger. '…I realized that I didn't want to leave my home, my neighborhood, my friends. I won't let
'How are you… about Marc, I mean?' Gemma asked, her hand clenching on the coverlet. 'Will you go to see him?'
Bryony stood and went to the window, looking out over the grimy spires of the hospital rooftops. 'I-' She swallowed convulsively, tried again. 'No. I don't think I could bear that.' Turning back to Gemma, she asked, 'Do you think he started the soup kitchen just because Karl got that award for helping the homeless? A sort of sick one-upmanship?'
Gemma frowned, then answered slowly, 'No… I think he had an honest desire to help. And a genuine connection with those in need, however convoluted its inception-'
'And what about me? Was I ever anything more than a convenience to him? A means of access to… things he needed?' Bryony heard the bitterness flood her voice, and despised herself for it.
'I'm sure he cared for you,' Gemma answered, just a little too quickly.
Bryony smiled and came back to the bedside. 'It doesn't matter. But I'll never be quite certain, will I?'
One day, as Gemma's hospital stay drew to an end, Alex Dunn came to see her. He carried a gift bag, which he handed to her.
'I've brought you a little something.'
Reaching into the nested tissue, Gemma felt a cold, hard object, which she gently lifted out. It was the Clarice Cliff teapot she had so admired in his flat.
'Alex! You can't- I can't accept this. It's worth a fortune, and besides…'
'I want you to have it. It suits you. I've decided I don't need a daily reminder of what might have been- or of what I imagined might have been, to put it more accurately.'
Gemma glanced again at the vibrant red-roofed houses dancing across the pot. 'But Alex- I hardly-'
'You can begin your own collection. And there's another reason I want you to have it. It's a reminder, from me to you, that we have choices in how we deal with things… and that we're capable of more than we think.' He smiled at her and changed the subject, forestalling any more argument on her part. 'Fern says hello, by the way.'
