All Shall Be Well

wasn't really on it, if you know what I mean.'

'Did he leave straight away?'

Meg shook her head. 'No. I wanted him to go. All that elation I'd felt on the way home just vanished-like I'd been pricked with a pin. But I knew it was no use asking. It would just make him that much more difficult.'

Kincaid remembered the emphatic quality of his wife's silences, and the discomfort of being confined in a small space with someone who used non-communication as a weapon. 'You tried to talk to him, didn't you?' he said, pity making him more gentle than he intended. 'To please him, to get some response?' She didn't answer, the shamed expression on her face more eloquent than words. After a moment she said, 'I just curled up on the bed, finally, closed my eyes and pretended he wasn't there until he went away.'

'Where were your keys, Meg?'

Her startled eyes met his. She reached for her handbag and patted it. 'Here. Where they always are.'

'Did you leave the room any time while Roger was there?'

'No, of course I-' She stopped, frowning. 'Well, I did go to the loo.'

'Did you go out again that night, or use your keys for any reason?'

'No.' The word was a whisper.

'And when did he-'

'Look, Mr. Kincaid,' Theo interrupted, 'I don't know what you're getting at, but I think you're bullying Miss Bellamy unnecessarily. Don't you think-'

Kincaid held up a hand. 'One more question, Theo, that's all.' He found himself tempted to treat her as Roger did and take advantage of her conditioned response, but he also knew mat crossing that line would damage his own integrity beyond repair. 'Meg, when did Roger come back?'

'Late. After midnight. He made a copy of the front door key, even though I told him that Mrs. Wilson would throw me out if she caught him sneaking in late at night that way.'

'Were you asleep?'

She nodded. 'It was only when he got in bed that I-' She glanced at Theo and stopped, her quick color rising. 'I mean…'

Kincaid thought it was time he let her off the hook. 'Theo,' he said conversationally, 'are you sure you had no idea how Jasmine intended to leave her money? You could use it, couldn't you? Something gives me the impression that the antique business isn't going all that well.' A look passed between Theo and Meg that Kincaid could have sworn was conspiratorial. If so, they'd made a quick alliance.

'I'll be honest with you, Mr. Kincaid.' Theo leaned forward, forearms on the table. 'I've told Margaret that things were pretty desperate. I needed the money, all right. But I didn't intend to tell Jasmine, even after she called last Thursday and said she wanted to see me.'

'Very noble of you, I'm sure,' Kincaid said, and Theo pressed his lips together at the sarcasm.

'You can believe what you like, Mr. Kincaid. I've no proof of anything. But I loved my sister and I thought she'd suffered over me enough.' He looked at his watch, then stood and carried his cup to the sink. 'And if I don't go I'll miss my train. You know where to reach me if you want anything further from me, although I can't imagine how I could help you.' Leaning across the table, Theo held out a hand to Meg. 'Margaret Thanks.'

The smile stayed on Meg's face until the door closed behind him.

'The party's over, I guess, Meg.' Kincaid rose and took her cup and his own to the sink. She stayed at the table, hands locked tightly in her lap, while he did the washing up and spooned tinned food into Sid's bowl.

He finished his chores and stood studying her downcast face, sensing her reluctance. 'You know, I don't see any reason you shouldn't stay here for a bit if you want.'

She looked up at him, her expression more tentative than hopeful, as if letting herself want something too badly automatically meant it would be snatched away. 'Honestly? Do you think it would be all right? I could look after things-' Her smile vanished as quickly as it had come. 'No. He'd find me, and I don't want him here again, in these rooms.'

'You wouldn't have to let him in, or let him stay.'

She was already snaking her head before he'd finished the sentence. 'You don't understand. Until today I'd man-aged to keep him away from here. Nothing would have been the same.' She gestured around the room and Kincaid saw it through her eyes, familiar and secure in the lamplight 'You don't know Roger. He spoils everything he touches.'

Having insisted on walking Meg to her bus, Kincaid stood, hands in pockets against the chill, at the top of Hampstead High Street. This growing sense of responsibility toward Margaret Bellamy might be disastrous if she proved to have been involved in Jasmine's death, yet every time he encountered her, the temptation to act in loco parentis became stronger. He thought suddenly of Gemma and smiled. Although the two women must be near the same age, Gemma never inspired the least bit of parental feeling.

A sliver of moon hung above the fading pink in the western sky. People pushed past, hurrying home to their suppers in the gathering dusk. Kincaid looked east and west along Heath Street at the array of restaurants-Italian, Mexican, Indian, Greek, Thai, Japanese, even Cajun. If one wanted traditional British fare, Hampstead was not the place to be.

Although hungry, he felt too restless to settle down to a restaurant dinner, whatever its persuasion, on his own. He walked the short half-block west on Heath Street to the top of Fitzjohn Avenue and pushed open the door of the Italian deli. The smells of garlic and olive oil poured out into the street, tempting other passers-by. Inside, the counter beneath the window held pottery bowls filled with dark purple olives and multi-colored pastas, seafood marinating in olive oil, peppers and aubergine mixed with sliced garlic. Overwhelmed by the profusion, Kincaid bought his usual, a ready-to-cook pizza made with roasted sweet peppers and fresh mozzarella.

He stopped in the off-license across the street for a bottle of red wine, then started down the hill toward home, thinking that he might almost be going to some long-awaited assignation.

In a sense, he supposed he was, although the faded blue copy-books kept no account of time.

The wind scoured the streets today, shredding scraps of paper and hurling grit into the air, stinging skin and eyes like nettles. Punishment.

Waiting in the bus queue, huddled behind the Plexiglas partition, suddenly I thought of long-ago evenings spent sitting on the veranda in Mohur Street. There was a stillness to things then, an almost melancholy anticipation. Something exciting seemed always waiting just round the corner, if I could only see it.

Did I ever imagine that days could be lived with such numbing repetition?

Seems odd leaving Bayswater after so many years. At least I knew the shopkeepers, even the neighbors' cats. Carlingford Road radiates quiet and respectability in comparison, all the things I used to find least appealing. Have I grown old without noticing?

I feel more at home in this flat than anywhere I've lived since childhood. I don't know why. It fits me somehow, or I fit it. The furniture looks as though it's been here for years; my things seemed naturally to find their appointed spots. When I wake at night I know exactly where I am and I can find my way around the flat in the dark.

Met my downstairs neighbor. Major Keith. What a funny old bird, so formal and polite, yet something about him seems familiar. He lifts his cap to me, calls me Miss Dent. It's the Major who keeps the garden looking so lovely. Now that the air's warming a bit he's out every day, tidying this and that, but really I think he's watching for the first buds, the first green shoots to push through the earth. Even though he doesn't speak to me much, I don't think he minds my sitting on my steps while he works.

This cough is worrying me. I thought it was a spring cold, but it's lingered now for months. Suppose I'll have to see someone about it if it doesn't clear up soon.

My poor Theo. What am I to do if this doesn't work out? Surely he can manage this little shop with some semblance of competence? But then he's never done so-why should things suddenly change? Wishful