Her delight and envy must have shown on her face because Kincaid said contritely, 'I should have invited you up before now.'
Gemma judged the balcony Toby-proof and let him go, then leaned against the rail with her eyes closed and her face turned up to the sun. She felt a sense of peace here, of retreat, that she never found at home. She didn't wonder that he guarded it jealously. Sighing, she turned to face him and found him watching her. 'You didn't ring me just so that I could admire the scenery. What's up?'
Kincaid explained the circumstances of Jasmine's death, and more hesitantly, his doubts. As he spoke he watched Toby digging happily with a stick in his sole pot of pansies. 'Stupid of me, I suppose, but I feel somehow responsible, as if I let her down without knowing it.'
In the clear light Gemma saw the shadows under his eyes and new lines framing his mouth. She looked out across the rooftops again, thinking. 'You were close friends?'
'Yes. At least I thought so.'
'Well,' Gemma turned reluctantly from the view, 'let's go have a look then, shall we?'
'Afterwards, I'll take you and Toby for lunch at the pub, and then maybe a walk on the Heath?' His tone was light but Gemma sensed entreaty, and it occurred to her that her usually self-contained superior dreaded spending the day alone.
'A bribe?'
He smiled. 'If you like.'
The first thing Gemma noticed about Jasmine Dent's flat was the smell-faintly elusive, sweet and spicy at once. She wrinkled her nose, trying to place it, then her face cleared. 'It's incense. I haven't smelled incense since I left school.'
Kincaid looked blank. 'What?'
'You don't smell it?'
He sniffed, shook his head. 'Must be used to it, I suppose.'
Gemma squelched an illogical flare of jealousy that he had spent so many hours in this flat, with this woman she'd known nothing about. It was none of her business how he spent his time.
She looked around, while keeping a wary eye on Toby. A lifetime's accumulation, she thought, of a woman who had cared about things-things loved for their color and texture and their associations rather than their material value.
One wall held prints and Gemma went closer to study them. The center of the grouping was a sepia-tinted photograph of Edward VIII as a young man in Scouting uniform, smiling and handsome, long before the cares of Mrs. Simpson and abdication. A memento of Jasmine's parents, perhaps? Beside it a delicate, gold-washed print portrayed two turbaned Indian princes on elephants charging one another, their armies ranged behind them. The artist apparently had no knowledge of perspective and the elephants appeared to be floating in mid-air, giving the whole composition a stylized and whimsical air.
Gemma moved to the sitting room window and ran her fingers lightly over the carved wooden elephants parading across the sill. 'Aren't elephants supposed to be lucky? Here, Toby, come and look. Aren't they lovely?' She turned to Kincaid and asked, 'Do you think he might play with them? They seem sturdy enough.'
'I don't see why not.' He came across to her and lifted the window sash, and they leaned out and looked down into the garden together.
'Ohhh.' Gemma exhaled the word as she took in the square of lawn, emerald green, smooth as a bowling green, bordered by ranks of multi-colored tulips, crowned with springing forsythia and the opening buds of the plum trees. 'It is lovely.' She thought of her shriveled patch of garden, usually more mud than grass, and looked at Toby intently lining the elephants up nose to tail. 'Could he-'
'Better not.' Kincaid shook his head. 'Not until we can go down with him. If he trampled the tulips the Major might eat him.' He grinned and ruffled Toby's fair hair. 'Do you think we should divide up the-'
They both heard the mewing, faint even in the quiet flat.
They turned and watched as the black cat crept from under Jasmine's bed and crouched, ready to retreat. 'A cat! You didn't tell me she had a cat.'
'I keep forgetting,' Kincaid said, a little shamefaced.
Gemma knelt and called to him. After a moment's hesitation he padded toward her and she scooped him up, holding him under her chin. 'What's he called?'
'Sid. He wouldn't come for me.' Kincaid sounded aggrieved.
'Maybe my voice reminded him of her,' Gemma suggested.
Kincaid knelt and checked the food he'd left under the bed. 'He's still not eating, though.'
'No wonder.' Gemma wrinkled her nose in disgust at the crusted food. 'You'll have to do better than that.' She put the cat down and rummaged through the kitchen cupboards until she found a tin of tuna. 'This might do the trick.' She opened the tin and spooned a little tuna into a clean dish, then set it before the cat. Sidhi sniffed and looked at her, then settled over the dish and took a tentative bite.
Kincaid had wandered back into the sitting room, touching objects absently before moving on to something else. 'This won't do at all,' Gemma said under her breath, remembering his normal assertiveness. 'He couldn't find a haystack in the middle of the sitting room in this state, could he, Sid?' The cat ignored her, intent now on his food.
Kincaid stopped in front of the solid, oak bookcase and contemplated the spines as if they might reveal something if he stared long enough. Books were jammed in every which way, taking up every inch of available space.
Gemma joined him and scanned the titles. Scott, Forster, Delderfield, Galsworthy, a much worn, leather set of Jane Austen. 'There aren't any new ones,' said Gemma, realizing what struck her as odd. 'No paperbacks, no bestsellers, no mysteries or romances.'
'She reread these. Like old friends.'
Gemma studied him as intently as he studied the books, deciding to take matters in hand. 'Look. You start with the desk, all right? And I'll tackle the bedroom.'
Kincaid nodded and crossed to the secretary. He sat in the chair, which looked much too delicate to bear his six-foot frame, and gingerly opened the top drawer.
Jasmine's small bedroom faced north, toward the street, and Gemma turned on the shaded dressing table lamp. The room held a narrow single bed with an old chenille spread stretched tightly over it, the dresser, a nightstand, and a heavy wardrobe-and unlike the sitting room, it reflected none of its owner's personality. Gemma sensed that the room had been used for sleeping and storage only, not inhabited in the same sense as the rest of the flat.
She started with the dressing table, working her way gently through layers of underclothes and bottles of half-empty cosmetics. Under slips and stockings in a bottom drawer lay a picture frame, face down. Gemma lifted it out and turned it over. A dark-eyed young woman stared back at her from a black-and-white studio photograph. Slipping the backing from the frame, she examined the back of the photograph itself. Neatly penciled letters read 'Jasmine, 1962.' Gemma turned the photo over again. The dark hair was long and straight, parted in the center, the face small and oval, the mouth held a hint of a smile at some secret not shared with the observer. In spite of the date on the back, the girl had an old-fashioned look-she might have modeled for a Renaissance Madonna.
Gemma opened her mouth to call Kincaid, hesitated, then carefully placed the photo back in the top of its drawer, facedown.
She moved to the wardrobe and swung open the heavy doors. It held mostly good business suits, dresses, and a few silk caftans. Gemma ran her hands appreciatively over the fabrics, then lifted the trousers and sweaters in the drawers.
The wardrobe's top shelf held rows of neatly stacked shoe boxes. Gemma slipped off her shoes, stepped up on the bottom shelf and lifted the top off a box, peering inside. Quickly she pulled the boxes off the shelves and laid them on the bed, removing the tops.
'Guv. You'd better come and look at these.'
He came to the doorway, dusting off his hands. 'What's up?'
'Composition books. Lots of them, all alike.' Gemma opened one and showed him the pages covered with the same neat, italic script she'd seen on the back of the photo. She was suddenly very aware of his nearness in the
