“Not if the wound was neat,” interrupted John. “That means the gun was close, maybe only inches—”
Louise was shaking her head at him, miming towards Hazel.
“Oh, sorry,” faltered John. “I didna think . . .” His accent was more pronounced than usual, making Gemma think painfully of Donald.
“Did anyone see anything?” she asked. “Or hear anything?”
“You know we were sharing a room,” volunteered Martin. “I heard Donald go out this morning.”
“What time was it?”
Martin shook his head, as if sorry to disappoint her.
“I’m not sure. I remember pulling the pillow over my eyes, so it must have been light. And the bloody birds were singing.”
When no one else spoke, Gemma turned to John.
“John. Your gun cabinet. You haven’t checked—”
John halted his pacing and stared at her. “My guns?
But why would—”
“Jesus Christ!” Heather uncoiled herself with unprecedented speed, her feet hitting the floor with a thud.
“You’re not suggesting it was one of us?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Gemma. “It’s the first question the police will ask once they’ve had a look round the house.”
John rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin, and it seemed to Gemma that the smell of sweat grew stronger. “I went out through the scullery door this morning,” he said, “but I didna look— The cabinet was locked— I always lock it—”
Gemma turned to Louise. “You were here, Louise, in and out of the kitchen. You didn’t notice?”
“No. I—” Louise stopped, frowning with the effort of recall. Slowly, she said, “I picked up my gardening things from the scullery, that I remember. And then afterwards, with Hazel—I never thought—”
At the sound of her name, Hazel looked up, blinking.
“Oh, God. What have I done?” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” Gemma reassured her swiftly, but she was aware of a sharpening of attention in the room. How could she prevent Hazel from saying things that could be so easily misinterpreted? Crossing the room to Hazel’s side, she said softly, “Hazel, you haven’t done anything.
You mustn’t say things like that. Do you understand?”
“She should never have come.” The words were harsh, the voice stretched to breaking. Turning, Gemma saw that Heather had stood. Her hair had come loose from its bind-ing and spilled wildly over her shoulders and across her face. With her trembling hand pointed at Hazel in accusation, she might have been an ancient prophetess. “We were all right before she came. And now Donald’s dead. I can’t believe he’s dead. What am I going to do without him?” She began to cry, with the dry, racking sobs of someone who didn’t often allow such release and had never learned to do it gracefully.
To Gemma’s surprise, it was not Pascal who went to
comfort her, but John. “It’s all right, lassie,” he crooned, easing her back into her chair. He reached for the whisky on the sideboard and poured her a stiff measure. “Have a wee dram for the shock. We’ll all have a wee dram.” Pouring another for himself, he drank it off in one swallow.
Louise reached out, as if to stop him. “John, are you sure that’s—”
“I don’t care if it’s wise, woman. He was my friend, a good man. And he’s dead.” He began splashing whisky into the round of glasses on a tray.
Taking one, Gemma went back to Hazel and knelt beside her. The sharp odor of the whisky reached her, lodg-ing in the back of her throat. “Have a sip, love,” she whispered. “John’s right. It will do you good.” Hazel’s hand trembled as she took the glass, and her teeth knocked against the rim. “Hazel,” Gemma continued softly, urgently, as the conversation rose around them,
“where did you go this morning, in the car?” She had to know before she talked to the police.
“The railway station. I was going to go home, without saying good-bye. I couldn’t face Donald again, after last night—”
“You didn’t see him this morning?”
“No. Not until—not until you told me—” Hazel pressed her fist to her mouth and began to cry sound-lessly, the tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks, but Gemma sat back, dizzy with the force of relief that washed through her.
After Gemma rang off, Kincaid abandoned his own breakfast and went upstairs to check on Kit, who had not yet appeared. He found the boy sitting cross-legged on his bed in an old T-shirt, rereading one of his Harry Potter novels.
“Finished with Kidnapped, then?” Kincaid asked, pulling the desk chair closer to the bed and sitting down.
Any idea he might have had of drawing parallels between the orphaned heroes was put paid to by the sight of the photo of Kit’s mother on the bedside table.
Gemma had given Kit the frame for Christmas, and until this morning the photo had resided unobtrusively on a corner of Kit’s desk.
Kit shrugged and kept his eyes on his book, although Kincaid could see that he wasn’t reading.
“You didn’t come down for breakfast,” Kincaid said, trying again. “You’re not ill, are you?”
“I’ll get cereal in a bit.” Kit still didn’t look at him.
“Where’s Tess?”
“Begging toast off Toby. I’m not used to seeing you without your familiar,” Kincaid quipped, and was rewarded by a twitch of Kit’s lip, a stifled smile. “Listen, Kit,” he went on, encouraged, “I’ve got to go out for a bit this morning, to see Tim Cavendish. There’s been an accident—”
“Not Gemma! Or Aunt Hazel!” Kit’s face went white and his book slipped from his fingers, its pages fluttering.
Cursing himself for his clumsiness, Kincaid said hurriedly, “No, no. It was a man—another guest at the B&B.
Gemma had a chance to ring and wanted me to let Tim know before he saw it on the news, so that he wouldn’t worry.”
Kit seemed to relax, but Kincaid could still see the pulse beating in the fragile hollow of the boy’s throat.
“Can they come home today, then?” Kit asked.
“Gemma and Hazel?”
“I don’t know. I expect they’ll have to stay on for a bit, at least until the preliminary questions are answered.”
“This man— It was a murder, wasn’t it? Not an accident.”
“I’m afraid it looks like it, yes.”
Kit studied him for a moment, his expression unread-able. “You’re going to go, too,” he said, making it a statement.
Kincaid thought of his offer to Gemma, so quickly re-buffed. “I hope it won’t come to that.” He reached out and tousled his son’s fair hair. “But in the meantime, will you look after Toby while I’m out?”
He knew he was going to have to talk to Kit again about his grandmother, but first he had to tackle Tim Cavendish.
The weather had held fine through the weekend, and deciding that he might as well enjoy the drive across London, Kincaid pulled the canvas cover off the Midget.
Although the little red car could be called a classic, in reality it had sagging springs and sometimes-unreliable parts. He hadn’t driven it for weeks, but for once the battery had held its charge and the engine puttered cooperatively to life on the first try.
He’d always maintained that Sunday was the day to drive in London for pleasure, but when, a half hour later, he found himself idling behind a queue of buses in the Euston Road, he wondered if he had been a bit precipitous.
Looking up at the ugly blocks of flats to his right, he thought of his sergeant, Doug Cullen, who lived nearby, and recalled uneasily the small falsehood he had told Gemma. He had spoken to Doug several times over the weekend—he’d only been stretching the truth a little when he’d said it was Doug who’d kept the phone line engaged.