Hannah sat with her eyes closed, her cheek resting against her drawn-up knees. As Kincaid bent over her she opened her eyes and then smiled sleepily at him. “Do you know, I think I actually went to sleep. How extraordinary. I feel weak as a kitten.”
“It’s the shock.” Kincaid held out a hand to her. “It does strange things to the system sometimes. What you need is a cup of the good old British restorative-hot, sweet tea. I’m going to take you up to the house. Nash can send someone to take your statement later.”
“All right. Duncan,” Hannah looked down at the court, where Peter Raskin stood quietly waiting, “someone will have to tell Emma. What if-”
“No, no, don’t even think about it. If we pass anyone, say you don’t feel well. I think,” Kincaid added, his voice grim, “I should tell Emma myself.”
Kincaid’s knock on the door of the MacKenzies’ suite echoed hollowly. He had taken Hannah in through the rear entrance, the sound of the children shrieking in the swimming pool came clearly to them through the pool’s glass door. The rest of the house seemed deserted, and he had turned away from Emma’s door when he heard it open behind him.
“Sorry,” Emma said, “I was dripping. Been swimming with the children, the little monsters.” She continued rubbing her hair with a towel and it stuck up in dark spikes, making her look oddly young and reminding him for a moment of Angela. The bathing suit, however, was vintage post-war, black, with a skirt in the front that discreetly hid the tops of the thighs. Emma gave him one of her rare, surprising smiles. “If it’s Penny you want, you’re out of luck. Went out to do some early birding. Don’t know what got into her, usually she’s a lazy duck.”
“No, Emma, actually it’s you I wanted. Could we sit down?” Kincaid wondered what universal formula required that a person should sit down to receive bad news. Was it merely a precaution against fainting or falling, or had it become a kind of foreshadowing, effective in easing the shock?
“Of course.” Emma looked puzzled, but led him to the sofa without protest. She sat carefully in the armchair, spreading the towel under her damp suit, and Kincaid leaned toward her.
“Emma, I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news.” She didn’t speak, but he saw the fear spread across her face. “It’s Penny.”
Emma’s hand went to her chest, fingers clenching into a ball. “Dead?” The word came out in a whisper.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
Emma closed her eyes and leaned her head against the chair’s back, only the gentle rise and fall of her chest assuring Kincaid that she was breathing. After a moment he began to wonder if she had fainted, but then she spoke to him, without opening her eyes. “What happened?”
“We don’t know yet, exactly. Hannah found her in the tennis court. Her head had been injured.”
“Could she… could she have fallen? Hit her head?”
“It’s… possible.”
Emma heard the hesitation in his voice. She opened her eyes and transfixed Kincaid with her stare. “You don’t think so.” Kincaid didn’t answer. It had been a statement, not a question. Emma pulled herself upright in the chair and spoke again, her voice regaining some of its gruff strength. “I want to see her.”
“Um… I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to wait until the doctor and the police team are finished. If you’d
“I know,” Emma answered, and Kincaid thought he had never seen an expression so bleak.
Inspector Raskin breasted the tennis court path and raised a hand to Kincaid, who stood irresolute in the gravel forecourt. They met on the lawn, Raskin puffing a bit from his quick climb. “Have to take up jogging again. Getting warm, too.” He ran a finger under his collar and moved his shoulders as if he’d like to shrug out of his jacket. “Mission accomplished?”
“Yes. And Peter, I’ve been to see Miss MacKenzie.”
Raskin’s habitual expression of sardonic amusement softened. “Thanks. You saved me that one. How did she take it?”
“Quietly. You didn’t expect her to have hysterics, did you?” Kincaid paused. “But very hard, I think. She wants to see her sister. I told her I’d try to arrange it.”
Raskin thought for a moment. “Dr. Percy’s here, you’ll be pleased to know.” He grinned slyly at Kincaid. “Scene-of-crime unit’s here as well.”
“I gathered that.” Kincaid nodded toward several strange cars parked haphazardly on the gravel.
“The Home Office pathologist is on his way, and the undertaker’s van. If Miss MacKenzie could see her before they load her up, it would save her having to make a formal identification at the undertakers. Don’t see why not. I’ll take statements as soon as they’re finished down below. You want to tag along? Or are you still neither fish nor fowl?”
“Fowl, I think, by this time. But I told Miss MacKenzie I’d wait for her.”
Kincaid left him and walked down the path until he could see the activity in the court. A uniformed constable stood sentinel at the gate and an area around Penny’s body had been marked off with white tape. Anne Percy knelt at Penny’s side, and Nash stood silently nearby, surveying the scene like a malevolent idol.
Dr. Percy closed her bag, rose, and went to speak to Chief Inspector Nash. She looked up, saw Kincaid on the path and flashed him a brief smile. Kincaid thought she looked more professional today and even more attractive than before dressed in heather-colored sweater and trousers.
She came up the path toward him, swinging her black bag. “I may get used to standing in for the police surgeon,” she said by way of greeting. “I’ve certified death, that’s about all I can do here.”
“Will you wait for the pathologist?” Kincaid asked.
“Yes. I understand Miss MacKenzie has a sister. Do you think I should see her?”
“Would you?” Kincaid asked. “Although I’m not sure she’ll welcome it.”
Anne Percy smiled. “That’s all right. I’m used to these situations.”
The undertaker’s van stood with its rear doors open, waiting, and Kincaid stood waiting as well. He found it odd not to be directing the swirl of activity around him, or even performing an assigned task, as he had done often enough.
The front door opened softly behind him and he turned to see Emma MacKenzie hesitating in its sheltered arch. She seemed to have shrunk, her take-charge briskness evaporated. The lines between nose and mouth cut sharply into her face.
“Are you all right?” Kincaid asked.
“Your Dr. Percy’s been to see me. Kind, but unnecessary.”
It relieved Kincaid to find her voice as scratchy and acerbic as ever, although he thought she, in her gruff way, was acknowledging his concern. She looked past him at the waiting van, started to speak, then lifted her hand in a supplicating gesture. “Not long now,” he said gently. “I believe they’re almost finished.”
Emma fixed her eyes on Kincaid’s face. “She seemed so resolute this morning. Purposeful. You know how Penny always flits… flitted from one thing to the next.
Quiet, too. When I questioned her she just smiled. Silly goose, I thought, keeping secrets…” her voice faltered.
“Miss MacKenzie, don’t. We’re both guilty of not taking her seriously.”
A shuffling sound came from the garden. The undertaker’s attendants maneuvered the stretcher over the crest of the path and started across the lawn, followed closely by Inspector Raskin. Penny lay wrapped and taped in black polythene, as neat as a Christmas package.
Kincaid took Emma’s arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Emma’s head jerked once in assent, but she didn’t brush away Kincaid’s hand as they started down the steps. The polythene’s final closure had been left undone, and Raskin carefully turned back the fold to reveal Penny’s face. Emma stared for a long moment, then nodded once again. Raskin refolded the polythene and sealed it with a roll of tape he carried in his hand. The attendants slid the stretcher into the van and closed the doors with the swift, fluid movements of long experience, and as the driver climbed into his seat Kincaid heard him say, “C’mon mate. We’ll miss our dinner if we’re not careful.” The van’s brake lights flashed as it turned into the road, and Kincaid realized that the day had grown overcast.
“She did say something this morning,” Emma broke into his thoughts. “While she was collecting her things. It
