Gemma stuck her head out the Escort’s window and called to the petrol station attendant. “Can you tell me how to find Grove House?” “Next left, miss, just round the corner. It’s the old manor house. You can’t miss it.” He was young, and nice looking, and his amiable response cheered her, even though she must have missed the damned house. Three times she’d driven around the village, and she couldn’t tell by this time where she’d been and where she hadn’t.
Villages gave her the pip, anyway, and this one made no exception. Deep in Wiltshire, surrounded on all sides by old gravel quarries, it was almost an island. No storybook high street here, with rows of neat shops-this one looked all higgledy-piggledy, with clusters of new houses that seemed to turn in on one another, and an occasional old place tucked in between.
None of them the right one, though. Number Two, Grove House. No street name or number. How was anyone expected to find it?
Gemma turned left at the pub, and before she knew it she found herself dead-ended in a cul-de-sac of newish homes. Working herself into a temper of frustration wouldn’t do a bit of good, she thought. She took a deep breath, carefully reversed the car, and crawled back along the curb.
Ten feet from the corner pub, she found a gap in the hedge. A small metal plaque had been set into the open wrought iron gate. Grove House, Gemma read. The Escort’s tires crunched on the gravel as she pulled the car into the drive and stopped. The clatter from the road came only faintly through the high hedges, and the smell of newly turned earth drifted in through the car’s open window. A wheelbarrow and spade stood near a heap of compost on the lawn. At least, she thought, it must be compost-her expertise in gardening consisted of cutting the six-foot-square patch of grass the advertisement for her house had called ‘a spacious back garden.’
The house itself gave a swift impression of gray stucco and slate and trailing green creeper, with a tangled hedge jutting out at a right angle from its center-the division between Number One and Number Two. She wondered how the house had looked new, and for a moment she imagined that the house had walled itself in, unchanging, as the village grew up around it. “A bit fanciful for you, love,” she said aloud, then shook herself and got out of the car.
Number Two turned out to be the lefthand side, half hidden behind the central hedge. Gemma smoothed her hair with her hands and adjusted her shoulder bag before she rang the bell. Quick footsteps sounded on tile and a woman opened the door. She was slender, with a fair, faded prettiness and a tentative smile. “Mrs. Rennie?” asked Gemma. “My name’s Gemma James.” She handed the woman her warrant card. “With London C.I.D. I’d like to speak with you for a few moments if I could.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Rennie looked puzzled. “What can I do for you?” Her expression became slightly apprehensive. “It’s not about that awful business up in Yorkshire, is it? Patrick telephoned and told us-” Gemma saw apprehension spring to alarm in the woman’s eyes. “It’s not Patrick? Something’s happened to Patrick?”
“No, no.” Gemma hastened to reassure her. “Your son’s fine, Mrs. Rennie. We’re just making some routine inquiries of all the guests at Followdale House.” She smiled her best encouraging smile.
“Silly of me. Just for a moment-” Mrs. Rennie collected herself and her manners, ushering Gemma into the foyer. “Do come in. I shouldn’t have kept you standing on the step.” An enormous bowl of meticulously arranged flowers stood on a narrow table-that, and the softly lit oil portraits running along the hall and up the stair, were all she glimpsed before Mrs. Rennie led her into the drawing room.
“Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely. I had quite a drive getting here,” Gemma answered, thinking that in this house she would not invite herself into the kitchen to help. Left alone, she examined the room. Like the rest of the house, it had an air of worn elegance-expensive things well used; the oriental rug under her feet had threadbare spots, the chintz-covered chairs and sofa sagged where most sat upon. There were books, and maps, and objects that she thought might have come from the Far East. And the room, with its shabby gentility redolent of good wools and sensible shoes, raised in Gemma a deep discomfort.
She smelled the mingled scents of flowers and furniture polish and dusty book bindings, and thought of her own semidetached, where the smell of grease and cooked cabbage from next door seemed to seep through her walls, and no matter how much she threw open her windows and aired things it never quite went away. She thought of the matching beige suite in her sitting room, with its rough, cheap fabric, and her fingers stroked the smooth chintz. Well, she did the best she could, what with her salary, and Toby’s day care, and Rob’s not being too dependable with his child support.
Clinking sounds from the direction of the kitchen broke into her reverie. She sighed, then straightened her spine against the chair’s soft back. Mrs. Rennie pushed open the swinging door with her shoulder and maneuvered the tea tray through it. When Gemma rose to help, Mrs. Rennie stopped her with a quick shake of her head. “No, don’t get up. I can manage,”
Gemma took the cup offered her and balanced it carefully on her knees. “Mrs. Rennie,” she asked as she stirred her tea, “have your son and his wife been visiting Followdale House long?”
“About two or three years, I’d say. Marta was quite keen on it at first, and they really looked forward to their visits.”
“And they don’t, now?” Gemma sipped her tea. It was Earl Grey, which she didn’t like, but its flowery perfume seemed appropriate to the room.
“Well, I suppose it’s become a bit old hat, as most things do. And Patrick’s so busy these days, with all his political commitments. But come to think of it,” Mrs. Rennie drew her brows together in a small frown, “it’s Marta who’s suggested they trade their time or spend it somewhere else.”
“But they didn’t?”
“No. No, Patrick wasn’t enthusiastic.”
“You must be proud of your son, Mrs. Rennie. I understand he’s doing very well.”
“Yes. Better even than we might have expected. They speak of his rise in the party as ‘meteoric’.” She smiled fondly, but Gemma heard in her voice some reserve, some hint that Patrick Rennie’s life might not be all it was cracked up to be.
“Have your son or daughter-in-law ever mentioned noticing anything odd at Followdale House? Sometimes,” Gemma continued confidentially, “people comment on things and then forget all about it.”
Mrs. Rennie considered for a moment. “Not that I can remember. Patrick is not one to say unkind things about people, or to repeat gossip.” Although the tone had been mild enough, Gemma felt she’d been rather subtly put in her place.
Gemma finished her tea and carefully set her cup and saucer down on the polished wood tray. “Thank you, Mrs. Rennie. You’ve been very kind and I mustn’t take up any more of your time.” They rose, and Gemma hesitated as they started toward the door. “Um, I wondered if I might wash my hands and freshen up a bit before I go?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Rennie led her into the foyer. “Up the stairs to your left.”
“Thanks.” Gemma stopped before the first portrait. The boy gazed inquiringly back at her. His fair hair seemed just about to break free of its neat brushing, and the blue eyes in the slender face seemed friendly and interested. About twelve or thirteen, Gemma guessed, with the top of a school tie peeping from the neck of the blue pullover he wore. She wondered if her Toby would ever be that good-looking. “What a wonderful portrait. Your son, Mrs. Rennie?”
“Yes, that’s Patrick. We had it commissioned. It is very good of him.”
“The resemblance between you is quite striking.”
Mrs. Rennie laughed. “Oh, yes. That’s our best family joke.” Gemma’s face must have registered her incomprehension, for Mrs. Rennie said quickly, “I’m sorry, I see you don’t know.”
“Know what, Mrs. Rennie?”
“That Patrick is adopted.” Her expression softened. “He was three days old when he came to us. It was all very quietly and discreetly done, none of the fuss of going through a national agency. My husband’s solicitor arranged it all. Of course, we explained it all to Patrick as soon as he was old enough to understand.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Gemma studied the portrait. “The resemblance is quite remarkable.”
“A little divine intervention, perhaps,” Mrs. Rennie answered, and Gemma saw a quirk of humor in her smile.
Gemma looked down into the drive from the toilet window. She’d heard the sound of a car as she dried her hands, and as she watched, a tan estate car disappeared into a carport around the side of the house. She didn’t dare snoop-the old wooden floorboards creaked and she felt sure the progress of every footstep would be audible downstairs.
The voices came clearly to her as she descended the stairs. “Louise, they have no right. It’s completely-” Their heads turned as she reached the last landing. The man was tall and thin, with the small bristly mustache that was almost a badge of the retired military.
“My husband, Major Rennie.” His wife rested her fingers lightly on his arm, a restraining gesture.
“I don’t know how we can help you.” His face had flushed pink-no wonder, thought Gemma, that his wife tried to soothe him. “I’m sure this sordid business has nothing to do with us, or our son. If you have any further questions you can put them to our solicitor-”
“John, I’m sure that’s not necessary-”
“As I told your wife, Mr. Rennie, it’s nothing to be concerned about. These sort of questions are routine in a murder investigation.”
Even softly spoken, the power of the word ‘murder’ silenced them both, and in their faces Gemma read the beginnings of fear.
“I’ve commandeered Cassie Whitlake’s office.” Peter Raskin grinned. “I wouldn’t say it was graciously lent. Pick an inconspicuous spot and make yourself comfortable.” He surveyed the room from the door. “Only one chair this side of the desk.” He turned back into the bar and swept up a barstool with one hand. “This do?”
“Admirably,” answered Kincaid, and settled in a corner of the small office. “Suits my precarious position.” He watched as Raskin tested the swivel of Cassie’s chair and gave it an approving pat. Raskin’s deft fingers shoved and patted the tumbling pyramid of Cassie’s papers until he’d made a neat stack in one corner of her desk. “She won’t be too pleased.” Kincaid nodded toward the desk’s now clear and orderly surface.
“She won’t be the only one. All the guests are present and accounted for now, and I’ve had the P.C. round them up in the sitting room. They’re going to be tired and fretful and wanting their tea, so the sooner we get this over with, the better.
“Let’s have the Hunsingers first and get them out of the way. I understand from Emma Mackenzie that they were in the pool with the children all morning.” Raskin slid around Cassie’s desk and went into the bar, returning a moment later with a very subdued Maureen Hunsinger.
Maureen gave Kincaid a tremulous smile as Raskin offered her the chair. She perched stiff-backed on its edge, her white, crinkled-cotton dress ballooning about her. Kincaid thought she should have looked ridiculous-her hair even more frizzy than usual from her hours in the pool, her face red and puffy from weeping, but he found a certain dignity in her posture and in her obvious grief. A voluptuous and rather erratic madonna, he thought, and suppressed a smile.
“John’s with the children. Will you be wanting him, too?”
“Probably just to sign your statement,” Raskin answered diplomatically.
“It’s been terrible for the children. First Sebastian, now this. What are we to tell them that makes any sense? We thought this morning that if they had fun in the pool they would forget what had happened there, but now-” Maureen sounded near to tears again. “I wish we’d never come here.”
“I understand how you must feel, but I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to stay on a bit longer, at least until we complete the formalities.” Raskin’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, and Kincaid saw Maureen relax a little in her chair. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you did this morning?”
“The children woke us. We had breakfast, then after a bit we all went down to the pool. Emma joined us-”
“For how long?”
“Oh, about an hour, I suppose. She said she’d had enough, then not too long afterwards the children began to get hungry again, so we came up ourselves. We were just changing when Janet Lyle came and said something was happening-she didn’t know what.” Maureen leaned forward in entreaty. “Please tell me exactly what’s happened. I know Penny’s… dead, the constable told us. But what happened to her? Is it like… Sebastian?”
Raskin spoke formally, the policeman’s best emotional defense, Kincaid thought wryly. “Miss MacKenzie suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. I’m afraid that’s all we can tell you just now.”
Maureen sank back in her chair, and it seemed to Kincaid that with the confirmation of her worst fears, all the emotional tension drained from her. She took her leave quietly, but when she reached the door she turned and spoke. “I’m going to see about Emma. Someone must. She shouldn’t just be left on her own like this.” The set of her mouth brooked no argument.
They came and went in quick succession, with varying degrees of cooperativeness.
Cassie slid into the visitor’s chair, slipped off her pumps and tucked her feet up under her. It was as deliberate a demonstration of ownership, thought Kincaid, as he’d ever seen. She glared balefully at the neat stack of papers on her desk. “You do realize how long it will take me to put that right again?”
Peter Raskin allowed himself a hint of a smile. “And I thought I’d done you a favor.”
“Where’s Chief Inspector Nash?” Cassie’s eyes went quickly to Kincaid.
“Attending the autopsy,” Raskin said. “Rank hath its privileges. Now, if you wouldn’t mind-”
“I was here all morning. Working.”
“Did-”
“Oh, I used the downstairs loo once or twice, if that’s the sort of thing you want to know. I straightened the sitting room and the bar. Patrick Rennie was working at the sitting room desk. And Eddie Lyle came through for something or other. I saw no one else.”
“Admirably succinct, Miss Whitlake,” said Raskin, unruffled by her assumption of the interview.
“Call me Cassie. Please.” Cassie switched the seductiveness on full power, and Kincaid watched with interest to see how Raskin would respond. She stood suddenly and leaned over her desk, forcing Raskin to move back as she opened the center drawer. “Sorry.” After rummaging for a moment, she produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Secret vice. Doesn’t impress the customers.” Her hand trembled as she struck the match, and Kincaid thought that for all her aplomb, her nerves betrayed her.
“The Superintendent here,” again that swift glance at Kincaid, “thinks I ought to fess up. And I’d much rather confess to you, Inspector, than Chief Inspector Nash.” Cassie awarded Raskin a floodlit smile.
“Do go on.”
“I said that I spent Sunday night alone in my cottage. Well, it’s not true. I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t in my cottage. I’d met Graham Frazer in the empty suite… oh, around ten, I guess, and we were there until nearly midnight.” Kincaid marveled at her ability to turn a potentially embarrassing revelation into an almost flirtatious challenge.
“Did you do that often?” Raskin asked, then colored slightly as he realized how it sounded. “I mean, the two of you.” Not much better, thought Kincaid, amused to see a crack in the imperturbable Raskin’s composure.
“Well, we’ve had a thing, you might say, for the last year or so.” Cassie drew on her cigarette and leaned forward confidentially. “Graham didn’t want anyone to know. Custody problems. Of course, I would have said something right away if I’d known it would be important. I hope,” her voice became intense, “it won’t have to go any farther.”
Raskin stood and moved toward the door. “I can’t make any promises, of course.” He sounded ingratiatingly smitten. “Thank you for being so cooperative, Miss Whitlake.” Raskin’s emphasis fell on the formal address. He’d had the last word, after all.
“How’d you manage to worm that tidy bit of information out of her?” Raskin asked Kincaid when he had shut the door.
“My irresistible charm.” Kincaid grinned. “That, and a bull’s-eye guess. I told her I knew they’d been together, but I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t admit it. Figured I had nothing to lose.”
“Apparently not. Let’s have Mr. Frazer in next and see what he has to say about it all.”
Graham Frazer began as intractably as he meant to end, with a bulldog glare at Kincaid. “Stopped sitting on the fence, then? Give you a sore bum, I should think.” Angela, following in his wake, looked mortified.
“Daddy-” Frazer ignored her and sat in the chair, leaving his daughter to stand, awkward and hesitant. Kincaid stood and offered her his barstool with a flourish. He won a small smile.
“I was working in the suite all morning. Catching up on some paperwork,” Frazer said in response to Raskin’s question. “Angie was sleeping. That’s what teenagers do, isn’t it?”
Angela bristled on cue. “Daddy, that’s not-”
“Fair,” Raskin finished for her, and smiled. “What is your business, Mr. Frazer?”
“I’m in assurance. A bloody bore, but there it is. It pays the bills.”
“I see.” Raskin carefully straightened his notes. “And you didn’t leave your suite for any reason before ten o’clock this morning?”
“I did not.” Even the bullying humor had left Frazer’s voice, and he offered nothing further. “Now if you’re quite-”
“Angie,” Kincaid interrupted, “what time did you wake up this morning?”
She looked at her father before she met Kincaid’s eyes. “About ten, I think.”
“Angie,” said Raskin, “you can go now, if you’ve nothing to add to your father’s statement.” Frazer started to rise. “Mr. Frazer, if you don’t mind, I’ve a few more questions to ask.”
“I do mind. Do I have a choice?”
Raskin waited until Angela had gone out and closed the door behind her. “You can have a solicitor present if you wish, of course, but these are very informal inquiries, Mr. Frazer. We are not accusing you of anything.” Frazer deliberated, then nodded once. He’s decided he’s better off not to make a fuss at this point, thought Kincaid.
“Mr. Frazer, Miss Whitlake has informed us that the two of you were together on Sunday evening, from around ten o’clock until midnight. You had both previously made statements to the contrary. According to Miss Whitlake you urged her not to mention this as you were concerned about your child-custody hearing.”
Graham Frazer’s flat, heavy face didn’t register emotions easily, but Kincaid thought his utter stillness indicated the extent of his shock. After a long moment, he spluttered, “She told you that? Cassie? She was the one who insisted-” He fell silent, then said softly, “Bitch. I knew she was trying something on.”
“Are you saying that you were not the one to suggest lying about your activities that evening?” Some of Raskin’s polite formality had dropped away.
“Yes. I mean no. It wasn’t my idea. Why should it make any difference to the damned custody hearing? And even if it did, I’m not sure I’d care-I’m beginning to think Marjorie’s welcome to her. No, Cassie was the one worried about her reputation. Begged me not to embarrass her.” Frazer gave a mirthless snort. “She’s the one who’s made me look a fool.”
Edward Lyle entered ahead of his wife, and only remembered to offer her the chair when Raskin greeted her. Kincaid quietly fetched another stool and resumed his unobtrusive seat. Lyle seemed subdued, less bristly with righteous indignation than Kincaid had seen him before. “I don’t know what I can tell you, Inspector.” Lyle ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Most unfortunate, most unfortunate about poor Miss MacKenzie.”
Unfortunate? Kincaid thought it an odd word choice. The morning had been rather more than unfortunate. Raskin let the comment fade into silence before he spoke. “If you would just tell me what you and your wife were doing this morning, I’m sure that will be sufficient, Mr. Lyle.”
“Well, we breakfasted as usual-I like a proper breakfast, you know. Then I walked down to the village for a paper, left Janet writing some letters in the suite. After I returned I had a look at the paper, and we had begun going over some maps, planning the afternoon’s outing, when all the commotion began. That’s all, Inspector. I must say-” he began, his voice sliding into the querulous range, when Raskin broke in.
“Is that correct, Mrs. Lyle?” Lyle drew breath to protest, but his wife began to speak.
“Yes… of course. I was writing to Chloe, our daughter. She’s at boarding school. It’s such a shame we weren’t able to acquire time that coincided with Chloe’s holidays. She would have-” She glimpsed her husband’s disapproving expression. “Sorry. How stupid of me. I’m glad she’s not here.” Her brow furrowed and she took a breath, as though nerving herself to speak. “Inspector, this is terrible, what’s happened, but I don’t understand what it has to do with us.” She turned toward Kincaid as she spoke, including him in her appeal, the severity of her thick, dark hair softened by the lightest dusting of gray, her skin clear, her dark eyes expressive.
Kincaid thought suddenly what an attractive woman she was-or would be, if she didn’t wear that constant air of anxious diffidence. He remembered the burst of animation he’d seen as she sat in the tea shop with Maureen, and he wondered what she would have been like if she had not married Edward Lyle. And why had she married him? That, Kincaid considered, was the real question. Fifteen, twenty years ago, had she seen some promise, now dissipated, in this weedy, self-important man?
“Mrs. Lyle,” Raskin answered, interrupting Kincaid’s musing, “we must ask everyone the same questions, just in case they might have seen or heard something helpful. I’m sure you must understand that.”
“We’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary at all, Inspector,” said Lyle. “Nothing at all.”
Patrick Rennie, always the gentleman, solicitously seated his wife in the chair. Marta looked as if she needed all the support she could get-she was obviously not one of those lucky few who escaped hangovers. The flaxen hair hung limply, pulled back from her face with a plain elastic band.
“Marta,” Patrick explained, “spent the morning in bed, as she didn’t feel well.” His expression earnest and pleasant, he didn’t look at his wife as he spoke. He had gone down to the sitting room to work on a speech, he told them, so as not to disturb her.
“Did you stay there all morning, Mr. Rennie?” asked Raskin.
“Oh, I popped in and out. You know how it is. Said ‘hallo’ to Cassie. Ran upstairs for a book-quotations come in handy when you’re writing a speech. Lyle came in and waffled about for a bit. Ruined my concentration, just when I was getting to the good bit. Didn’t see anyone else. Oh, and Inspector,” there was just a hint of playfulness in his voice, “I did see you and your chief come through. Saw the car pull up through the sitting-room window.” Cocky bastard, thought Kincaid.
“Mrs. Rennie?” asked Raskin.
She hadn’t been able to keep her hands still, fretting for something more than her tea, Kincaid imagined. She licked her lips before she spoke. “I slept all morning, just as Patrick says. Felt bloody awful. Flu or something. I’d just got up and started coffee when Patrick came in and said there was a lot of running up and down stairs, slamming doors, something going on.” She fumbled in her bag for a cigarette. “I’m sorry about Miss MacKenzie. She seemed a nice person.” An inadequate eulogy if he’d ever heard one, thought Kincaid, but at least Marta Rennie had spared a thought for Penny.
“Miss MacKenzie seemed rather upset when she left us last night. She couldn’t have-”
“No, Mr. Rennie,” Raskin answered his unspoken question, “I’m afraid there’s no possibility the injuries could have been self-inflicted.”