“I’m the queen,” Bethany said imperiously, adjusting the white square of cloth on her head, “and this is my crown. You be the baby prince.”
“Don’t wanna be the baby prince.” Brian stuck out his lower lip.
“You be the baby prince or I won’t play.”
Brian shuffled his feet, hands in pockets, defeated but not about to give in gracefully. “Why? Why do I always have to be the baby?”
“Because.” Bethany spoke with the certainty of a seven-year-old’s power over a younger brother, the wisps of brown hair escaping from her braid detracting not a whit from her command. Kincaid stood in the hall outside his door and watched in amusement as Bethany draped a small blanket over her brother’s unwilling shoulders. The children were camped on the broad first-floor landing, illuminated by shafts of early morning sun from the three windows overlooking the drive.
“Once upon a time,” began Bethany, “there was a queen who lived in a castle with her darling baby, the prince.”
“Yuck!” said Brian vehemently. Bethany ignored him.
“One day an evil wizard came to the castle and stole the prince away to his cave. The queen didn’t know what to do.” Kincaid wondered how the queen had so conveniently rid herself of the king, and wondered at the thoroughly modern Maureen exposing her children to old-fashioned fairy tales. Maybe it was a modern fairy tale, with a liberated queen.
“Hullo,” he said, walking down the hall to join them.
“You two are up early.” His own night had been so unsatisfactory that he’d been glad to see the first faint light at the windows, and had waited impatiently, action constrained, until the house began to stir. “Is this the castle?” Kincaid indicated the landing with his hand.
Bethany nodded seriously. “You’re stepping in the moat.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Kincaid stepped back a pace and squatted on his heels. “Better?” A ghost of a smile accompanied the nod this time. “If I were the prince,” he continued, looking at Brian, “I’d think of some really super way to escape from the wizard. Put his dragon to sleep, or steal the wizard’s spells. The queen wouldn’t have to rescue you at all.”
The balance of the children’s expressions changed, Brian’s more cheerful, Bethany’s sliding toward belligerence. Brian wouldn’t keep the upper hand for long. Kincaid spoke to Bethany, a forestalling tactic. “I like your crown, Beth.” The children looked at one another and drew closer together, squabbles forgotten in sudden discomfort.
Kincaid’s attention sharpened. He looked more closely at the white cloth. A handkerchief, slightly frayed at the edges, most likely a man’s since it lacked any lace or embroidery. A small spot of rust marred one corner. Kincaid’s heart jumped. “Where did you get the crown, Beth?” He kept his voice calm.
The children only stood silently, their eyes widening. Kincaid tried again. “Is it your daddy’s?” Negative head shakes greeted this-an improvement over no response at all. “Did you find it somewhere?”
Brian looked at Bethany in mute appeal, and after Kincaid waited another patient moment, she spoke. “We were playing in the front hall. Mummy and Daddy said we could play anywhere in the house except the pool, but we weren’t to go outside.”
“Quite right, too, I should think,” Kincaid prompted, when she paused. “What were you playing?”
Bethany cast a quick glance at her brother and decided he wasn’t going to speak for himself. “Brian was playing with his Matchbox cars. He was driving one on the edge of the umbrella stand and it fell in.”
“And when you reached in for it, you found the handkerchief?”
Brian found his tongue, perhaps encouraged by Kincaid’s friendly tone. “Right at the bottom. All wadded up. Like this.” He made a fist. “Squashed.”
“Do you mind if I take it for a bit? I think Chief Inspector Nash might like to see it.” The children nodded vigorously. Kincaid imagined that their brief encounters with the Chief Inspector had not made them anxious to repeat the experience. He thought for a moment, decided two polythene bags from the kitchen might just do the trick. “Leave it just where it is for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.” Next time he went on holiday, if ever there was a next time, he’d pack his murder kit.
Voices came clearly through the open door of the untenanted ground-floor suite. Kincaid stood in the hall, his prize held gingerly between his fingers, and listened. “If God had given you sense enough to wipe your ass, laddie, you’d do as you’re told and not stand there gawking like a halfwit.” There was no mistaking Chief Inspector Nash’s dulcet tones. The indistinguishable reply must be Raskin, not off to a jolly start with his superior.
“Damn.” Kincaid swore under his breath. He’d seen Raskin’s battered Austin from the first-floor landing and had hoped to catch him alone, hoped to let Raskin take credit for the find. Bearing such a gift himself would do nothing to improve his working relationship with Nash, but getting it to the lab was too urgent to wait for a better moment. He stuck his head around the corner and peered in.
Nash sat at the small dining table, surrounded by files. The telephone cable stretched dangerously across the room from the sofa table so that the instrument could rest at Nash’s elbow. Probably Raskin’s point of contention, thought Kincaid. “Temporary incident room?” he asked pleasantly.
“And what’s it to you, laddie?” Nash replied, his black-currant eyes sweeping over Kincaid with displeasure.
“Such as it is, sir.” Peter Raskin spoke into the pause. “It seemed the best option. Couldn’t take over Miss Whitlake’s office indefinitely. And it was a bit cramped.” Raskin seemed to hear himself chattering, opened his mouth and closed it again.
Kincaid crossed the room and carefully placed the polythene bag on the table before Nash. “The children found this in the umbrella stand this morning.”
Nash picked up the bag and held it to the light. “A handkerchief? Well, well, it quite takes my breath away.” He smiled derisively. “What will the wonder boy think of next?”
“Look, Inspector,” Kincaid said as patiently as he could, asking himself just how much his own instinctive dislike fueled Nash’s hostility. “The handkerchief has what looks to be a bloodstain in one corner. It could have been used to protect the tennis racquet from fingerprints. It’s certainly worth sending to the lab.”
“If there had been anything worth finding my scene-of-crime people would have found it.” Even the sarcastic pretense of civility vanished from Nash’s voice, as did the heavy Yorkshire accent. “You have no jur-”
Kincaid’s temper erupted. “If your scene-of-crime team had been doing its job properly they would never have missed this. I’m sick and tired of your deliberate opposition, Chief Inspector. The only reason you’re in charge of this investigation is that your Superintendent is laid up in hospital flat on his back. If you won’t cooperate and aren’t able to keep your feelings about me from obscuring your judgement in this case, I’ll see you never have this much authority again.” Nash’s face flushed such an unhealthy shade of purple that Kincaid felt suddenly afraid he’d gone too far-the man might have a stroke on the spot.
“You’ll do no-” The phone rang, its insistent burr startling them all. Nash grabbed the receiver. “Nash here. What-” Whatever diatribe he had been about to utter died on his lips. “Sir. Yes, sir, he’s here now.” His eyes darted to Kincaid. “Yes, sir. I think that’s clear. Every courtesy.” Nash replaced the receiver in the cradle with great deliberation, looked first at Raskin, then Kincaid before he could bring himself to speak. “It seems that the Chief Constable has had a chat with the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. The Chief Constable thinks you might be of some help to us in this investigation, and the A.C. has given his approval. Could it be,” the heavy sarcasm was directed at Kincaid, “that the A.C. was the one did the calling, not the other way around?”
“Could be,” Kincaid answered noncommittally. “Chief Inspector, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. I’d just like to have access to the investigation.”
“You mean you’d like to interfere whenever and wherever it bloody well suits you?”
“Something like that.” Kincaid smiled.
“I may have to let you stick your toffee-nosed face into my business, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Nash responded, his heavy face set implacably. “You.” He turned toward Peter Raskin, whose studied neutrality wouldn’t save him from becoming next in line as whipping boy.
“Chief Inspector,” Kincaid interrupted before Nash could vent his temper on Raskin’s undeserving head, “What about last night’s autopsy report?”
Nash shuffled the papers on the table until he found the manila folder, then scanned the contents. “According to the pathologist, she died sometime between the time she was last seen and the time she was found.” Kincaid saw a flash of humor in Nash’s eyes, evidence, he hoped, of a tiny thawing.
Kincaid snorted. “Very hopeful, that. What else?”
“Penny MacKenzie’s skull seems to have been unusually thin. Great physical strength would not have been required to strike the blow. He estimates the assailant to have been of average height, male or female. If a woman struck the blow she probably used both hands.” Nash leaned back and the fragile dining chair creaked alarmingly. “It occurs to me, Superintendent,” he said conversationally, a smile stretching the corners of his mouth, “that your lady friend, Miss Hannah Alcock, found herself very conveniently placed to discover poor Miss MacKenzie’s body.” Nash’s détente had been brief.
The phone rang again before Kincaid could reply. He appreciated the reprieve. Wandering absently about the room as Nash spoke, Kincaid stopped at the bedroom door, where Cassie and Graham said they had met the night Sebastian died. He remembered the flash of light he and Hannah saw through the window. Ten to midnight, Cassie had said. A long time for what Cassie had portrayed as a hurried sexual encounter. What else had gone on between them? Had they argued?
The names ran through Kincaid’s head-Cassie and Graham, Hannah and Patrick, Cassie and Patrick… The idea that came to him seemed plausible. Might Hannah, like Penny, have found out something that cast suspicion on someone else? And might Hannah, like Penny, be withholding it out of some sense of honor or fair play?
Nash finished his call, and Raskin took advantage of the opportunity to speak. “I’ll just get this off to the lab, sir.” He swept the plastic bag off the table. Kincaid met his quizzical glance and thought they might call themselves even in favors rendered.
“Thanks,” Kincaid said, then turned to Nash. “I’ll be off, then, Chief Inspector, if there’s nothing else? I’ll be around the house if you should want my advice.” He lifted a hand and left the room before the idea of taking his advice could give Nash apoplexy.
As he crossed the hall his eye fell on the umbrella stand in the entry, a brass bucket with a red-and-green paper print of a hunting scene wrapped around it. Gay red-jacketed riders jumped elongated horses over fences. Before them the hounds ran, then clustered on their quarry. The fox lay dying.
Hannah answered her door quickly, with the air of someone expecting bad tidings. She had taken more pains with her appearance than yesterday, yet the skillfully applied makeup didn’t hide the unnatural pallor of her skin or the shadows under her eyes.
“Duncan.” She spoke his name in a breathless rush, Kincaid caught the same flicker of disappointment in her eyes that he imagined he’d seen that first night, as he stood at her table and introduced himself. “What… Is there…”
“No,” he said softly, answering her unspoken question. “There’s no news. I only came to see about you.” And what he could see made him distinctly uneasy.
“Come in, come in. Let me make you some coffee. I was just having some.” Hannah turned abruptly and went into the kitchen, bumping her arm against the counter as she rounded it.
Hannah’s suite, as Kincaid had discovered yesterday, was not the mirror image of his own. The size and placement of the rooms differed slightly, as did the color scheme-dusty pinks rather than dusty greens. Nor had it acquired, as had his, the lived-in look of a near-week’s worth of occupancy. No books or clothes scattered absentmindedly about the sitting room, no dishes left drying on the draining-board.
Kincaid stood awkwardly in the doorway of the galley kitchen, watching Hannah’s jerky movements, so different from her usual self-contained gestures. Whatever had been troubling her, Kincaid guessed, she had resolved on a course of action and was working herself up to it. “Can I help?” he asked, as Hannah spilled coffee grounds across the counter.
“No. I can manage. Thanks.” She swept the spilled coffee into the filter and put together the small drip pot. “There. Won’t be a sec now.” Hannah’s gaze drifted across Kincaid’s face and away, not meeting his eyes. The coffee pot had not quite finished dripping when she yanked the filter out and splashed coffee into a cup.
“Come on. Let’s go sit down.” He placed a hand between her shoulders and guided her into the sitting room, wondering all the while how he could ease into what he wanted to say. Sitting down didn’t seem to calm Hannah-she sat hunched on the sofa’s edge and her hands trembled as she lifted her cup.
“Cold?” Kincaid asked.
“Me or the coffee?”
“Weak. Your humor, not the coffee.” Kincaid smiled and she seemed to relax a bit. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “has Patrick Rennie ever said anything to you about Cassie Whitlake?”
“No,” she answered, puzzled, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time, “why should he? I mean,” her response grew more forceful, “why should he speak to me about Cassie, and why should he know anything to speak of? You don’t think that Cassie… had anything to do with…”
“I think that Patrick might know quite a bit about what Cassie has or hasn’t had anything to do with-might know, in fact, far more about Cassie Whitlake than he’d like anyone to guess, especially his wife.”
“Patrick… and Cassie?” The patches of rouge on Hannah’s cheekbones flared scarlet against the sudden chalkiness of her skin.
“Oh, I think so.” Kincaid spoke conversationally, sipping his coffee. “You see, Cassie’s been having an affair with Graham Frazer for some time, but I gather there’s been a change recently. A new lover, someone with real prospects, a rising star. And Cassie has become desperately anxious that no one find out she’s still seeing Graham.”
He paused, gauging Hannah’s reaction. She sat very still, the coffee cup sagging, forgotten, in her fingers. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s tried to end it with Graham, and he’s being stubborn about it. He strikes me as the stubborn type.
“Now,” Kincaid continued, “give the situation a half-degree twist and look at it again. Cassie doesn’t want Patrick to find out about Graham, right? End of romance, end of prospects, real or imagined. But what about Patrick? What would it mean to Patrick if anyone, especially his wife, found out about Cassie? Marital squabble? Messy divorce? Scandal in the gutter press?”
He tilted his head questioningly, as if Hannah had expressed some skepticism. “Old-fashioned, you think? Not scandal enough to ruin a budding political career? Maybe not. But consider this-Marta Rennie’s parents are very politically active in the constituency where Patrick is standing his by-election. In fact, they’re Patrick’s biggest financial supporters. I’d say it’s not the best time for them to find out he’s been cheating on their darling daughter. Wouldn’t you?”
“No.” The word was barely a whisper. Hannah seemed to gather herself, then spoke again. “No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Patrick would never-” Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “How could you say such things? Why are you doing this to me?”
“Hannah, listen to me.” Kincaid leaned forward, reached out a hand toward her. She jerked away from his touch as if she’d been stung. “Hannah, if you know something about Patrick Rennie, something you saw or heard, something he told you, you mustn’t keep it to yourself. It could be dangerous. I don’t want to see you end up like-”
“No! That’s absurd. I won’t even listen to it.” She stood up, her breath coming in short gasps. “Just get out.”
Kincaid stood and they faced one another. He could see her body trembling, feel her breath against his face. “Why, Hannah? What loyalty do you owe him? What has Patrick Rennie ever done for you?”
For a long moment he held her gaze, then the fury seemed to drain from her. She half turned from him, her head drooping as if her slender neck no longer had the strength to support it. “Patrick Rennie,” she said simply, “is my son.”