Lavender Lane, Wildmeadow Estates. Ugh. What a horribly inappropriate name for this new housing estate on the outskirts of St. Albans. Boxlike clones of houses marched in neat rows across land that had been cleared of anything remotely resembling a wildflower. They didn’t look cheap, though-Mr. Edward Lyle must not be doing too badly.
The house belonging to the Lyles was indistinguishable from its neighbors. Gemma stopped the car and carefully noted the mileage in her notebook. Kincaid never remembered to record his and it exasperated her no end. Maybe on a Superintendent’s salary he could afford to be so careless. It must, she thought sardonically, be nice. Gemma sighed and wondered why she felt so out of sorts. She didn’t like working alone, that was part of it. She’d grown accustomed to Kincaid’s presence and found it oddly comforting-oddly because she remembered how nervous she’d been when first assigned to him.
And she felt so at sea with this case-if you could call it a case. How could she dig when she didn’t know what she was digging for? The action lay in Yorkshire and she had no idea whether the disconnected bits of information she turned up were of any use at all.
Lavender Lane seemed deserted, as if all the inhabitants had suddenly packed up and gone to the moon. Not a pram in sight, no children’s bikes or scooters left abandoned in the front gardens. Gemma tried the neighbors either side without success. Of course it must take two wage packets to pay the mortgages here-all the mums would be out working and the kiddies left with the sitter. She had turned back to the car in disgust when she caught the twitch of a net curtain in the house across the street.
The woman who answered Gemma’s ring wore jeans and a tee-shirt, a sticky-faced toddler attached to her hip. “If you’re looking for the Lyles,” she said before Gemma could speak, her eyes alight with curiosity, “they’ve gone on holiday.”
“I know. We’re making some routine inquiries about some things that have happened where they’re holidaying. Do you know them? Perhaps you could help me.”
“Janet’s all right, isn’t she?”? The child caught the note of alarm in his mother’s voice and began to fret.
“Mrs. Lyle’s fine, I’m sure, but there have been two unexplained deaths.”
“Unexplained? You mean accidents?” The woman’s arm tightened around the baby and he began to howl in earnest.
“Well, we’re not sure.” Gemma made an effort to pitch her voice over the baby’s din. “That’s why we’re making inquiries. If I could just ask-”
“You’d better come in.” The woman bounced the baby on her hip, saying, “Hush, Malcolm, hush,” then stuck out her free hand to shake Gemma’s. “I’m Helen North.” She gestured toward the back of the house with her head. “Come back to the kitchen. Janet and I are friendly enough when
Gemma followed her, thinking that Helen seemed rather an old-fashioned and elegant name for this rumpled young mother. Helen North seated Gemma at a small table in her bright kitchen, and set the baby down amidst a jumble of plastic blocks. “Here I am forgetting my manners. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Please.” Gemma usually thanked god for a strong bladder-her job required downing more cups of tea than a vicar’s-but for once tea actually sounded appealing. Her early stop in Finchley had not even brought the offer.
“Fine,” Helen said. “I’ll just be putting the kettle on.”
The faint sing-song in the woman’s voice had grown more pronounced with her last words. “You’re Irish,” Gemma said, making it a statement.
“County Cork.” Helen smiled. “I try not to sound fresh from the bog, but it has a way of slipping through on its own when I’m not paying attention. Would you believe,” she tousled her son’s ginger curls, “he gets his hair from his dad, and me Irish?”
“And my son,” answered Gemma, “has hair as fair and straight as a Dane’s.” They laughed, common ground firmly established.
“Maybe that’s why Eddie Lyle doesn’t like me,” Helen said as she set Gemma’s cup before her and seated herself opposite. “Doesn’t consider being Irish quite the thing. He’s ex-service, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Served in Northern Ireland and he lumps all the Irish together as a bad lot.
“Or maybe it’s because my husband works for the builder.” Her finger made a quick circular gesture, indicating the housing estate. “I don’t know where he gets off being such a snob. His parents owned an off-license in the old town. Perfectly respectable, but Janet says he doesn’t like it mentioned. If you ask me, the man has a slate off and one sliding.”
Under Helen North’s chatter Gemma detected more than a spark of malice. Edward Lyle must have snubbed her pretty thoroughly. “How did you and Janet get to be friends?”
“We’re the only two women on the street who stay at home. You get desperate for some adult conversation.” She cocked her head and looked thoughtfully at Gemma. “Sometimes I envy women like you, out in the real world with the grownups.”
“Probably not as much as I envy you,” answered Gemma. She touched the wandering baby’s hair and he gurgled at her.
“Well, it was my choice, after all, to stay at home and make do with a bit less. I shouldn’t grouse. But Janet, now, that was a different story. He wouldn’t let her work, not even when her Chloe went to school. Didn’t think it fitting, I ask you! And she trained as a nurse. God, what a waste.”
Helen subsided, a look of disgust on her face. “Though I suppose,” she continued thoughtfully after a moment, “her nursing came in handy when he moved his old mum in with them. Oh, yes,” she went on as if Gemma had doubted her, “the old thing got to where she couldn’t be trusted on her own, and who better than Janet to have the full-time job of looking after her? The old lady drank, you see. Started when her only sister died young, or so Janet thought. Overmedicated, too. She went to some old quack who insisted on filling her up with pills. It made Janet livid, but she couldn’t do a thing about it.”
“A dangerous combination,” said Gemma.
“Oh yes,” answered Helen, “it was.”
“Was?”
“You don’t know about the accident?” Gemma’s blank expression answered her question. “Tragic.” Helen clucked a little and shook her head. “The old woman took Janet’s car one day when Janet had walked to the shops. Smashed herself to Kingdom Come. She was tanked up with booze and pills, they discovered afterwards.”
“How terrible.” Gemma leaned forward in her chair, ready sympathy in her voice. “Janet must have felt awful.”
“She was sick with guilt. She should have done this, she should have done that. As if she could have watched the old woman every minute of the day. And didn’t he carry on, the grief-stricken son. He never had the time of day for her when she was alive. I went to the funeral, for Janet’s sake. He stood at the graveside, all dignified and proper with a little tear trickling down his cheek. Made me sick, I can tell you.” Helen drew her brows together in consternation. “Why does she put up with him, can you tell me that?”
The question seemed rhetorical, but Gemma shook her head. “No. I wish I could. Has it been long since old Mrs. Lyle died?”
The little boy began to fuss and pull at his mother’s shirt, having suffered inattention long enough. Gemma finished her tea and began to make leave-taking motions. “Thanks for the tea, and your time.”
Helen North suddenly became embarrassed, the aftermath of too much confession. “I shouldn’t have said… it’s not really fair to Janet…”
Gemma reassured her. “You haven’t said a thing I wouldn’t have said myself. I have a neighbor who looks after her husband’s mum-you wouldn’t believe the things she puts up with from the old lady…” By the time she’d finished her anecdote Helen had recovered her equilibrium, and Gemma took her leave as smoothly as a surgeon removing a knife.
Kincaid stood on his balcony, as had become his habit when he needed to think. He turned up his shirt collar against the chill little wind that played around his ears. The weather, damp and formless, suited his mood.
