“He also noted a growing sense of marital discord between the Rennies. That’s all on this lot-except a note of an old drug conviction against Maureen Hunsinger.”
Raskin spluttered. “Our Lady of the Earth? I thought nothing unnatural ever passed her lips.”
Kincaid grinned at his reaction. “It’s really not too unlikely. The natural foods movement is in some ways an outgrowth of the hippie culture of the sixties and seventies, and this conviction was twenty years old. How Sebastian found out about it I can’t imagine.”
“What about the others?” Raskin asked.
“This is the first visit for Hannah Alcock and the Lyles. Maybe he hadn’t come up with anything.”
“The same is true of the MacKenzies,” Raskin reminded him.
Kincaid frowned. “That’s something to consider. I wonder how he got hold of that little story.”
“Nothing on your cousin?” Raskin’s eyebrow tilted at a wicked angle.
“No, thank god,” Kincaid said with relief. “Jack was clean as a whistle. That would have put me in a spot.”
“And who,” said Raskin deliberately, “would you put your money on as the blackmail victim?”
Kincaid didn’t answer for a moment. He gazed at the silent bulk of the house, and when he spoke it was almost inaudibly. “Oddly enough, no one. I’m not sure Sebastian was blackmailing anyone. At least not for money. It looked like he kept a file on almost every owner. Mostly harmless stuff-almost like character studies. Maybe he only wanted emotional leverage.” Kincaid rubbed his face with his palms. “I don’t know… I’m riding completely on gut reaction. I just can’t see him as an extortionist.”
“I can imagine what my chief would have to say about that. He doesn’t go in much for gut reaction. Uses his for putting away beer.”
“I’ll bet.” Kincaid laughed, feeling restored by Raskin’s easy humor. “And speaking of your chief, I think I’ll make myself scarce for the afternoon, until my Guv’nor has had a chance to drop a few stones in the pond. Otherwise Nash might just run me in. Think I’ll do a bit of hiking. I am, after all,” Kincaid said ruefully, “supposed to be on holiday.”
The sight of Emma MacKenzie on the bench above the tennis court made Kincaid detour from his course toward the back of the garden. She peered intently at the tree tops through her binoculars, her concentration undisturbed even when Kincaid sat down beside her. He waited silently, following her gaze, and after a moment he saw a flash of red. “Blast. Lost it,” said Emma, lowering the binoculars.
“What was it?”
“A male bullfinch. Common enough but don’t often see them. They’re very shy.”
“I’ve never watched birds,” Kincaid offered. “Must be interesting.”
Emma gave him a pitying look, as if at a loss to explain a lifetime passion to one who could make such an innocuous remark. “Hmmmf.” She looked away from him, her gaze drawn to the trees. “An art. You should try it.” She thrust the binoculars at him. “Take them. I’m going in for the afternoon, worst time of day.”
“I will.” Kincaid took the binoculars and lowered the strap carefully over his head. “Thanks. I thought I might climb Sutton Bank.” He hesitated, then said as neutrally as he could, “Miss MacKenzie, did you talk much with Sebastian?”
Emma had been making gathering motions, as if to rise. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably on the bench. “He seemed an intelligent boy, but difficult. Quick to take things as slights, I’d say, under all that quick, sly patter.” She was silent for a moment, considering. “He could be kind, though. He was kind to Angela Frazer. I think he saw her as some sort of fellow outcast, always on the fringe of her father’s doings. And he seemed to despise Graham Frazer. I don’t know why. He was kind to the younger children as well, thought up activities for them, things that would amuse them. He seemed comfortable with them.”
“Kind to children and animals,” Kincaid muttered, more to himself than Emma. Her spine tensed and she inhaled sharply. He could see all her barriers going up and he cursed himself for his tactlessness. “No, no, I’m not ridiculing you,” he said quickly. “I found I liked him, too, even on such short acquaintance, and rather in spite of myself. And,” he added, with an easy smile, “you’re very perceptive.”
Emma had relaxed again, but he sensed that the flow had stopped. To press her would only activate her conscience, and she would censor any inclination to indulge in ‘idle gossip’.
“What should I look for?” he asked, gesturing with the binoculars.
“You wouldn’t know a robin from a magpie, I imagine. You’d better borrow this”-she handed him a small, well-worn guidebook-“so that you will have a reference. Just be observant. I shouldn’t think that watching birds would be all that different from watching people. Oh, yes,” she said, noting his surprised glance. “You’re very practiced. A talent partly learned and partly natural, I should think. You inspire confidence in others with that air of sincere attention to every word, a little well-judged flattery. And I had better go before I say something I shouldn’t.” With that, she pushed herself off the bench and strode toward the house without a backward glance.
CHAPTER 8
The footpath crossed a small stream at the back of the grounds, then turned abruptly right to follow the stream toward Sutton Bank. It was easy walking at first, cool under the overhanging branches, the ground padded with leaf litter and crunching acorns. Boughs heavy with horse-chestnuts drooped overhead, and twice Kincaid saw crimson toadstools among the fallen leaves, bright as drops of blood. There were no birds. The wood remained eerily still and silent.
He eventually came out into the sunlight and began to climb. The binoculars thumped regularly against his chest with each step, a second heartbeat. Blackberry brambles growing into the path scratched his hands and snagged his clothes. He paused every so often to extricate himself. As he neared the summit, Kincaid felt almost overcome by drowsiness, the sun and the dusty, pollen-laden air affecting his senses like a drug. He came across a patch of brown brake fern to the side of the path, trampled and flattened as though someone else had lain there. It was irresistible. Kincaid stretched out among the dying fronds and went instantly to sleep.
A shadow across his face woke him. It took his confused brain a second to sort out the images his eyes sent it-huge red and yellow barred wings hovered above him, and a human face suspended between them peered down at him. A hang glider. Bloody hell. Sutton Bank, he remembered reading in the brochures provided by the timeshare, was a popular spot for hang gliders, but the damn thing had nearly scared him out of his wits.
Kincaid sat up and watched the glider descend toward Followdale House, then raised Emma’s binoculars and focused them on the car park. Hannah’s metallic Citroen turned in the gate and stopped on the gravel, and her small form, distant and unrecognizable except for some quality of posture, made its way to the door. He lowered the glasses and stretched, then rested his elbows on his propped-up knees. The combination of deep sleep and sudden awakening had cleared his head like a tonic, leaving his mind remarkably sharp and focused.
The whole bloody business didn’t make sense, not from what he knew so far. He couldn’t for a minute see either of the MacKenzie sisters committing premeditated murder. Reluctant euthanasia, possibly, but killing someone to cover their deed up, never. He could, however, easily imagine them shielding someone else in a mistaken sense of duty or obligation.
Had Sebastian threatened to expose Cassie’s affair with Graham? That would certainly explain the conversation he had overheard. But if that were the case, why would either of them care enough to kill him to prevent it? The timeshare management might not approve of Cassie sleeping with the owners, but surely her behavior wouldn’t be that damaging.
And Graham? Kincaid didn’t believe custody judges expected divorced fathers to remain celibate. Besides, he’d wager Angela knew exactly what was going on, if not all the intimate details. She was a good bit sharper than her dad credited. So if Cassie and Graham were together the night of Sebastian’s death, why hadn’t they alibied one another?
Kincaid sighed. He didn’t have enough information for even these vague suppositions. Gemma might turn up something, but he couldn’t depend on it. There was no alternative he could see but to stretch his already untenable position a little farther. He couldn’t go back to his holiday resolution, blithely ignoring the whole matter. He had an unhealthy tendency, probably necessary to his job, of worrying at a thing like someone putting a tongue
