And Justice There Is None

'How is she? Did she- Have you-'

'We're working on being friends. For the moment, that's enough.'

***

She took the baby and fled north. It was only a name on the railway schedule, and a half- remembered comment by one of the father's friends, that made her decide to stop in York. 'A good place for antiques,' she had heard, 'full of tourists with money to spend.' But what mattered most to her was that it was far away from Karl.

With the money Ronnie had saved for his own business, she rented a tiny shop near the city wall and stocked it with whatever antiques and bits of jewelry she could find at a decent price. She went back to using her maiden name, and her father's things took pride of place in the display case.

The shop had living quarters upstairs, a blessing, as she had no money left for a flat. The single room was small and shabby, but sufficient for her and the baby.

She tried not to think of Ronnie, or of the life she had left behind. Still, there were days when grief and loneliness threatened to overwhelm her, when she thought she couldn't possibly go on. Then she would cuddle Eliza to her breast, stroking the baby's soft cheek, twining her finger in the dark, curling hair.

It was enough. It would have to be enough. They would be all right.

***

A week after Gemma came home from the hospital, she went back to work at Notting Hill Station. At first, everyone was a bit too kind, a little oversolicitous. Although she appreciated her colleagues' concern, it made her feel awkward, and she was much relieved when after a day or two things seemed to return to normal.

She could not say the same for life at home, where it was required that one do more than show up and go through the motions- because going through the motions seemed all she was able to do. Although she was there in body, nothing seemed really to touch her.

Kit grew silent, and Toby fretful, waking often in the night with bad dreams. And although she knew that Kincaid was grieving over the baby as well, she found herself paralyzed, unable to reach out to him.

He came to her one day as she stood on the threshold of the second bedroom, looking in.

'We should move Kit into this room,' she told him. 'There's no need now for him to share with Toby.'

'Gemma.' Kincaid put his hands on her shoulders. 'Let's leave it for now. It's too soon to be making any changes.'

She let him pull her to him, and although she relaxed against him, there was a small hard core within her that would not soften, would not dissolve, even under his touch.

One afternoon, as the month drew to an end, she left work early to pay a call that had been weighing on her.

Erika Rosenthal was at home, and her glance took in Gemma's now slender figure. 'Something has happened,' she said when she'd led Gemma into the sitting room. 'I read in the papers about the man arrested for the murders, but I didn't know about your child…'

'I lost my baby,' Gemma confirmed bluntly. 'I thought you would want to know.'

'I am so sorry, my dear. Why don't you tell me everything?'

As Gemma related the story of Karl Arrowood and Marianne Wolowski, of little orphaned Evan Byatt, who had become Marc Mitchell, the elements joined together in her own mind in a way they had not until that moment. 'It all seems such a terrible waste,' she said wearily. 'And there are so many questions that will never be answered now. So many 'what ifs,' so many little choices that might have changed everything, might have prevented…'

'You're thinking you could have prevented the loss of your child?'

'If I hadn't worked so hard,' Gemma cried, the words tumbling out. 'If I had never adopted the dog from Bryony. If I had never talked to Marc… If I had never doubted whether or not I should have the baby… That's the worst of all…'

'You cannot torture yourself with 'what ifs.' What happened to your child is no one's fault- not yours, not that poor, twisted man-child's, not God's. Some children die, some children live. As will you, my dear…'

***

Gemma walked home from Arundel Gardens. It had grown dark, and the glow of the street lamps etched the bare branches of the trees as sharply as an image in Ronnie Thomas's photographs.

She thought of Marianne- Angel- of Bryony, of Alex. All had faced loss and gone on. Angel had built a life for herself and her daughter, Eliza; Bryony had consciously focused on her friends and her work. And Alex had indeed turned down Karl's inheritance, Gemma had learned, choosing to live a life of his own making. How had they found the strength?

When she reached the house, it was silent. Kit had gone to a new friend's; Kincaid would be fetching Toby from his after-school care.

She let the dogs out and put on the kettle. Then, on an impulse, she reached for the bold yellow-and-red teapot that sat in the place of honor above the Aga. It was daft to actually use such an expensive object, but it seemed to her that in a way it was sacrilege not to use it, and that Alex had understood. This pot had been lovingly designed and crafted for hands to grasp, for ordinary teas, for everyday lives- and those moments were all one had.

Suddenly the things around her seemed intensely beautiful; the scuff marks inflicted on the chair legs by the boys' shoes, the dishcloth, a crayoned drawing hanging haphazardly from the refrigerator door.

Names formed in her mind… Angel, Marc, Dawn, Alex, Bryony, Ronnie… A chain of lives damaged or destroyed by Karl Arrowood's actions… ending with her own child. And yet… Of all those affected, only she had kept what was most precious to her.

The water boiled, the steam rose from the pot, and Gemma sat down to wait for her family.

About the Author

DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar^®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones, was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. She is a bestselling author in Germany, and her novels are also published in Japan, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd.

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