“It wasn’t what Hannah knew, or heard, about Sebastian’s murder.” Kincaid’s hands came up to grip Gemma’s shoulders. “Hannah was the target all along.”
CHAPTER 19
It came to Hannah, as she stood shivering in the cold seeping from the great stone slabs beneath her feet, that she had deceived herself. The feverish energy that had gripped her on waking had drained away and left her as light and hollow as an empty husk, and what seemed sensible enough then failed the test of logic now.
Bravado, that’s what had sent her slamming out of the house this morning. She wouldn’t let fear dictate her life, wouldn’t be coddled and cosseted like some feeble old woman.
It had sounded convincing enough. But she might as well face it-she’d been running away as if all the hounds of hell were on her tail, away from the house and its faceless, hovering malice.
She pushed the thought away and looked downriver at the gentle valley of the Ure spread beneath her. A cloud blotted out the sun and Hannah hugged her cardigan closer. She might be alone in the world for all the signs of human habitation visible-not even sheep or drystone walls, only the falling slope of trees and a blue horizon, and on the opposite bank a shining carpet of russet leaves.
The sound of the water gurgling and murmuring across its stone bed should have been soothing, but it only increased her sense of isolation. Up toward the Middle Falls a family jumped about between the half-submerged stones, but she could only see their mouths moving, as if they were laughing and shouting in a silent film.
Hannah sighed, absently cradling her sore wrist against her chest. There was no comfort here. She might as well go back and face the music. Duncan would be furious, and Patrick-if Patrick saw her as a burden to be looked after, there was no help for it.
Hannah turned to the slope behind her, her tenuous resolve flagging at the thought of the steep climb back to the path. A figure appeared at the trail’s head and slipped and slid down the incline toward her, tweed-jacketed, a Tyrolean hat set at a jaunty angle, walking stick swinging, round spectacles reflecting the light. With a start she recognized Eddie Lyle.
How odd, thought Hannah. He didn’t strike her as the outdoors type. And how irritating-he was an irritating little man at the best of times, and just now she hadn’t the energy to cope with him. She couldn’t escape-he’d seen her and picked up his pace, waving cheerfully at her.
“How jolly to see a familiar face,” Lyle said as he came abreast of her. “Thought I recognized your car in the car park.” Hannah could think of no polite rejoinder, so she smiled at him rather weakly. He expanded his narrow chest with a deep breath and exhaled noisily. “Lovely, isn’t it? Have you seen the Upper Falls as well? I must say I find these the most pleasant, whatever anyone else might say.”
This last remark was uttered with that air of righteous superiority that she found so annoying, but she merely said, “yes, quite,” not willing to prolong the encounter by disagreeing. Hannah wondered how the man’s wife tolerated him. She’d seemed pleasant enough, the few times they’d spoken. Maybe she escaped him whenever possible, thought Hannah, with a faint inward smile.
Lyle rattled on, pointing his stick about as he described the geographical features of the valley. Hannah made monosyllabic replies and glanced at him curiously. His manner seemed oddly agitated. He kept turning and scanning the banks behind them as he talked, as if watching for someone.
Hannah followed his gaze upstream and saw that the stone-jumping family were straggling toward the wooden steps that led from the Middle Falls up to the path. The last child vanished behind a screen of trees, its head hanging dejectedly.
“Look. Just here, in these stones.” Lyle bent forward and aimed his stick at the river’s edge. “Fossilized bracken, if I’m not mistaken.”
Rather unwillingly, Hannah crossed to him and peered down. The fern shape in the white sheet of rock might have been a photograph, its clear outline as strong and delicate as ancient bones.
“Get Peter Raskin on the phone. Tell him-”
“Let me come with you,” Gemma interrupted. “I’ll phone from the car.”
As Kincaid hesitated, Patrick Rennie came out the front door and walked toward them, his expression concerned. “Hullo!” he called to them. “Have you seen Hannah?”
Kincaid met Gemma’s eyes. “There’s no time. Find Peter Raskin, then bring Rennie with you. He’ll insist on it, and I might need him if Peter doesn’t make it.” He grabbed the map from the bonnet and slid into the Midget, blessing the quick rumble of the engine.
“But what do I tell-” Gemma’s fingers grasped the window’s edge.
“Anything you like. Just come.” Kincaid slipped the car into gear and pulled away, leaving Gemma to cope with Rennie’s open-mouthed bewilderment. As Kincaid glanced back Gemma took Rennie’s hand, saying, “He’s going to look for Hannah. Come on…” Her voice faded as he turned into the road. Trust Gemma to have things well in hand.
The way Kincaid downshifted into the curves he might have been going for the cup at Monaco. The map lay open on the passenger seat, a snaky route marked quickly in ink so he wouldn’t have to keep hunting for it. He left the main road at Thirsk, trusting to luck that the more direct B roads wouldn’t slow him down. Looking down, Kincaid saw his knuckles bleached white and loosened his grip on the wheel. He drove on with methodical concentration, checking the map, scanning the road, but all the while the thoughts ran unbidden through his mind.
He should have seen it. All the bits and pieces had slotted into place as neatly as a shuffled deck and he’d held them in his hand. Could little things-contradictions, coincidences-add up to such a fatal sum? Eddie Lyle had apparently told his wife that he’d been unable to buy a week outside term-time. Yet when Kincaid, thinking about the Frazers, had suggested such a difficulty to Cassie, she’d been astonished. And Lyle had intimated more than once that the holiday had been Janet’s idea, when according to both Janet and her neighbor, it had been entirely his. Gemma had described Lyle as overextended… with aspirations beyond his means… Kincaid’s mind went back to the conversation he’d overheard that day in The Blue Plate-Janet worrying over Eddie’s plans to send their daughter to a university she was sure they’d never be able to afford… Eddie’s aunt dying young of a rare disease, as had Miles Sterrett’s wife… Miles’ despised nephew, and Hannah barring the way to Miles’ estate.
Kincaid shook his head. Perhaps he was making it up out of whole cloth, his fear for Hannah distorting his logic. But then he thought of Eddie Lyle tearing off, shortly after Hannah’s departure, on an unnecessary and unexplained errand, and his hands tightened again on the wheel.
The light shifted across the tops of the moors as Kincaid entered Wensleydale. He pushed his speed up on the straight stretches until the pastures ran into a green blur.
The ancient town of Middleham registered only as bright flags on the castle battlements and the steaming hindquarters of racehorses disappearing around a corner. Wensley and sleepy West Witton slowed him as old men and pram-pushing mothers turned to stare-then one last stretch of clear road to Aysgarth.
Just when he’d begun to breathe a little easier, a flock of sheep ambled across the road in front of him. He came to a dead stop and swore. There was no hurrying sheep. They milled about, a wooly, white, pulsating mass, marked with great splashes of red or blue dye. Kincaid leaned on his horn and nudged the stragglers with his bumper. The shepherd shook his crook at him, and the last sheep cleared the road with a scatter of stones.
The road made one last sharp turn and swooped down to cross the River Ure, and there on the left lay the car park for Aysgarth Falls. Kincaid left the Midget skewed across the first empty space and stood up to get his bearings. Hannah’s green Citroen sat sedately in a corner by itself, empty.
Before him lay the path to the Upper Falls; behind him, across the road and down the valley, the path led to the Middle and Lower Falls.
Kincaid hesitated a moment, then sprinted down the Upper path, bumping sightseers and backpackers as he ran. The way grew dark with overhanging trees, mossy underfoot and filled with the sound of running water. Foreboding clutched him, but when he came into the open all he found were family picnics and booted hikers posing on the great stones. Of Hannah there was no sign.
The path across the road was as calm as a country lane. Open meadow lay on one side, and on the other the dense growth of the river bank. A family straggled into the path from a flight of wooden steps. The children looked
