"It's not Farley we're interested in at the moment," said Cullen, stepping into the breach with enthusiasm. "Would you mind telling us where you were on Christmas Eve, Miss Poole?"
Bryony's half-smile froze on her face. "You're not serious?"
"We have to speak to anyone with access to a certain type of instrument-"
"A scalpel. Karl was killed with a scalpel, wasn't he?"
"It was in fact the same brand you use, Miss Poole," said Cullen. "The same type of scalpel that was stolen from this surgery."
"And since you haven't been able to pin anything on Gavin, you thought you'd try me! That's simply beastly! I wish I'd never told Gemma about the thefts- or about Gavin's row with Dawn."
"Or the photos?" Cullen interjected stubbornly.
"Oh, yes. I made a right fool of myself over that, didn't I? Well, I don't care what you think. I saw those photos. I know Gavin was spying on Dawn and Alex, and I'm not crazy. What I don't understand is why you think I'd have told you any of those things if I were guilty? And why on earth would I have wanted to hurt either Dawn or Karl Arrowood?"
"You might have told us because you thought it would throw suspicion on Mr. Farley, as it did. And as for motive, you do have a bit of temper, Miss Poole," Cullen told her. "There was a matter of a former boyfriend, I believe, who charged you with assault after you pushed him down the stairs-"
"And do you know that he dropped the charges because no judge would touch the case? I came home after taking my final exams at veterinary college- I had literally studied night and day for months- to find my so-called fiancé in my bed, in my flat, with a prostitute. I threw them both down the stairs, and their clothes after them." Bryony folded her arms tightly across her chest and glared at them, but her eyes had filled with furious tears.
"I think I might have done the same," Kincaid said, remembering the fury he'd felt when he'd learned of Vic's affair with Ian McClellan- and he had not been unfortunate enough to catch them in the act.
"It was not a good time in my life, but I didn't go around murdering anyone, and I certainly haven't done so now." Bryony scribbled something on a pad, tore the page loose and thrust it at Kincaid, ignoring Cullen's outstretched hand. "This is my parents' address and phone number in Wimbledon. I arrived there late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve and stayed until mid-morning on Christmas. I'm sure my parents and my assorted relatives will be able to vouch for me. Now, if you don't mind, I have a surgery scheduled this morning, and I'd like to get to work."
"You've been very cooperative, Miss Poole," said Kincaid, "and we appreciate that, as well as your previous help."
"Obviously," Bryony spat back. "Do give Gemma my best, won't you?" Her sarcasm was scathing. "I'm sure you can see yourselves out."
"How would you like to go to Wimbledon this afternoon, Doug?" Kincaid asked as they reached the car.
"But it's bound to be a wild-goose chase, isn't it? If she was really with her family in Wimbledon, she couldn't very well have just popped out for a quick murder," Cullen protested.
"We still have to follow through on it, but rather you than me. And I have other things on my agenda."
One of which was his commitment to take Kit to meet his grandparents for tea- an outing neither of them was anticipating with any enthusiasm; the other was to try to salvage things with Gemma over the matter of Bryony Poole.
When she pulled up to the curb outside Alex Dunn's mews flat, Gemma saw that the boot of his Volkswagen stood open. Before she could ring the bell he came out, carrying a duffel bag.
"Inspector James!"
"Hello, Alex. Do you have a minute?" She looked from the bag in his hand to the car. "Are you going somewhere?"
"Just down to see my aunt in Sussex for a day or two. Is that a problem?"
"No. Not as long as we can get in touch with you if we should need to. You won't leave the country, will you?" she asked with a half-smile.
"You can have my passport, if you like."
She shook her head. "That's not necessary. But a phone number would be helpful."
"Would you like to come in? Have a coffee or something?" Beneath his unfailing politeness, she sensed impatience.
"No, that's all right, thanks." She held out the small, brown paper package she'd brought with her. "This is Fern's knife. I thought you might want to return it to her yourself."
"Oh, right." Taking the package from her, he looked around vaguely before stuffing it in the pocket of his bag.
"Is there some particular reason you're going to visit your aunt? She's not ill, is she?"
"Jane? No, of course not. It's just that it's where I grew up. My aunt Jane raised me." He seemed to focus on her a little more clearly. "Um, I take it the knife got a clean bill of health?"
"Yes."
"Right. I'll just give you that address." He wrote it for her on the back of one of his business cards.
As she said good-bye and returned to the office, she realized something odd: Alex Dunn seemed suddenly to have lost all interest in his lover's murder.
It was almost noon before Gemma managed to get away from the station again for the little outing she'd planned. First, she bought the best bottle of sherry the corner store possessed and had it wrapped in a decorative gift bag.
She knew from previous visits that her friend Erika Rosenthal liked sherry. Gemma had discovered quite by chance, while investigating a burglary a few months previously, that the elderly victim was Dr. Rosenthal, a noted historian. Erika was also a German Jew who had come to Notting Hill shortly after the war, and as far as Gemma knew had been there ever since. She lived in a pale gray brick town house in Arundel Gardens, not terribly far from Otto's Café.
"Gemma James! How lovely."
"I've brought you a little gift," said Gemma, smiling at the sight of her friend's beaming, wizened-apple face.
"Sherry! Even more lovely. Come in by the sitting room fire and we'll pour a glass."
"Just the tiniest bit for me, please." The room was just as she remembered it, filled with books and paintings, fresh flowers, and, of course, the piano.
Handing her a half-inch of amber liquid in a crystal glass, Dr. Rosenthal examined her with bright, shoe-button eyes. "You're pregnant, aren't you, my dear? I thought as much the last time I saw you, but it was too soon to be sure."
"I suppose I am beginning to show! The baby's due in May." One of Dr. Rosenthal's specialties was the history of Celtic goddess cults, and Gemma couldn't help wondering if the woman had absorbed more than facts in her study.
"It's more that certain glow, actually," Dr. Rosenthal said. "And then there's the sherry. I won't mind if you don't drink it, although in my experience a sip or two of sherry never did anyone any harm."
"It certainly hasn't done you any damage," observed Gemma, laughing. "I do have some other news, if you haven't worked it out just by looking at me."
"I confess I am utterly baffled."
"I've moved house. It's just a few blocks from here. Or I should say, we've moved house- my son and I, my… friend, and his son, along with two dogs and a cat."
"You're taking on the settled life, I see. That's quite a challenge, with your job, and another child on the way. Congratulations. But I find it hard to believe that with all that, you've found time to make a purely social call," Dr. Rosenthal added with a twinkle. "Go on, ask away. I don't mind. In fact, it's rather gratifying to be considered useful."