Kincaid rang the bell and waited. He rang again, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot and whistling under his breath. No sound came from inside the flat, and he turned away, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment.
The sound of the door opening stopped him. When he turned back he found Julia looking at him silently, registering neither pleasure nor dismay at his presence. She lifted the wineglass she held in a mock salute. “Superintendent. Is this a social call? You can’t join me if you’re going to play the heavy.”
“My, my,” he said, taking in the faded red jersey she wore over black leggings, “an outbreak of color. Is this significant?”
“Sometimes one has to abandon one’s principles when one hasn’t done laundry,” she answered rather owlishly. “Do come in-what will you think of my manners? Of course,” she added as she stepped back into the sitting room, “it might be my concession to mourning.”
“A reverse statement?” Kincaid asked, following her into the kitchen.
“Something like that. I’ll get you a glass. The wine’s upstairs.” She opened a cupboard and stood up on her toes, stretching to reach a shelf. Kincaid noticed that she wore thick socks but no shoes, and her feet looked small and unprotected. “Con arranged everything in the kitchen to suit himself,” she said, snagging a glass. “And it seems whenever I want anything it’s always just out of reach.”
Kincaid felt as if he’d barged in on a party in progress. “Were you expecting someone? There’s no need for me to interrupt-I only wanted a quick word with you, and I thought I’d pick up Sharon Doyle’s things as well.”
Julia turned around and stood with her back against the counter, looking up at him, holding both glasses against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting a soul, Superintendent. There’s not a soul to expect.” She chuckled a little at her own humor. “Come on. We had graduated from ‘Superintendent,’ hadn’t we?” she added over her shoulder as she led him back through the sitting room. “I suppose I’m the one backsliding.”
She wasn’t more than a bit tipsy, Kincaid decided as he climbed the stairs after her. Her balance and coordination were still good, although she moved a little more carefully than usual. As they passed the first landing he glimpsed the tumbled, unmade bed through the bedroom’s open doorway, but the study door still stood tightly shut.
When they reached the studio he saw that the lamps were lit and the blinds drawn, and it seemed to him that the room had acquired another layer of Julia’s personality in the twenty-four hours since he’d seen it last. She had been working and a partially finished painting was pinned to the board on her worktable. Kincaid recognized the plant from the rambles of his Cheshire boyhood-speedwell, the gentian-blue flowers along the pathside that were said to “speed you well” upon your journey. He also remembered his dismay in discovering that its beauty could not be held captive-the delicate blooms wilted and died within minutes of picking.
The rest of the table’s surface held open botanical texts, crumpled papers and several used glasses. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, and very faintly of Julia’s perfume.
She padded across the Persian carpet and sank to the floor in front of the armchair, which she used as a backrest. Beside the chair were Julia’s ashtray, close to overflowing, and an ice bucket holding a bottle of white wine. She filled Kincaid’s glass. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Duncan. You can’t hold a funeral celebration standing up.”
Kincaid lowered himself to the floor and accepted his drink. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“With a bloody good Cap d’Antibes, too. Con would have liked a wake, don’t you think? He was all for Irish tradition.” Tasting what remained of her wine, she made a face. “Warm.” She refilled her glass, then lit a cigarette. “I’m going to cut down, I promise,” she said in anticipation of Kincaid’s protest, smiling.
“What are you doing, barricading yourself up here like this, Julia? The rest of the house doesn’t look like anyone’s been in it.” He examined her face, deciding that the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than they had been the day before. “Have you eaten anything?”
Shrugging, she said, “There were still some bits and pieces in the fridge. Con’s sort of bits, of course. I would have settled for bread and jam. I suppose I hadn’t realized,” she paused to draw on her cigarette, “that it would have become Con’s house. Not mine. Yesterday I spent most of the day cleaning, but it didn’t seem to make any difference-he’s everywhere.” She made a circular gesture with her head, indicating the studio. “Except here. If he ever came up here, he left no traces.”
“What makes you want to eradicate him so thoroughly?”
“I told you before, didn’t I?” She knitted her brow and gazed at him over the rim of her glass, as if she couldn’t quite remember. “Con was a first-class shit,” she said without heat. “A drinker, a gambler, a womanizer, a lout with a load of Irish blarney that he thought would get him anything he wanted-why would I want to be reminded of him?”
Kincaid raised a skeptical eyebrow and sipped his wine. “Can we attribute this to Con, too?” he asked, tasting its crisp delicacy against the roof of his mouth.
“He had good taste, and he was surprisingly adept at finding a bargain,” Julia admitted. “A legacy of his upbringing, I would imagine.”
Kincaid wondered if Connor’s attraction to Sharon Doyle stemmed from his upbringing as well-a spoiled only son of a doting mum might have considered devotion his due. He hoped that Con had also seen her value.
Uncannily echoing his thoughts, Julia said, “The mistress-what did you say she’s called?”
“Sharon. Sharon Doyle.”
Julia nodded, as if it fit an image in her mind. “Blond and a little plump, young, not very sophisticated?”
“Have you seen her?” Kincaid asked, surprised.
“Didn’t need to.” Julia’s smile was rueful. “I only imagined my antithesis,” she said, having a little difficulty with the consonants. “Look at me.”
Kincaid found it all too easy to oblige. Framed in the dark bell of her hair, her face revealed humor and intelligence in equal measure. He said, teasing her, “I’ll only follow your hypothesis so far. Are you suggesting I should regard you as ancient and world-weary?”
“Well, not quite.” This time she gave him the full benefit of her grin, and Kincaid thought again how odd it seemed to see Sir Gerald’s smile translated so directly onto her thin face. “But you do see what I mean?”
“Why should Connor have wanted someone as unlike you as he could find?”
She hesitated a moment, then shook her head, shying away from it. “This girl-Sharon-how is she taking it?”
“I’d say she’s coping, just.”
“Do you think it would help if I spoke to her?” She ground out her cigarette and added more lightly, “I’ve never quite been sure of the proper protocol in these situations.”
Kincaid sensed how vulnerable Sharon would feel in Julia’s presence, and yet she had no one with whom she could share her grief. He had seen stranger alliances formed. “I don’t know, Julia. I think she’d like to attend Connor’s funeral. I’ll tell her she’s welcome, if you like. But I wouldn’t expect too much.”
“Con will have told her horror tales about me, I’m sure,” Julia said, nodding. “It’s only natural.”
Regarding her quizzically, Kincaid said, “You’re certainly feeling magnanimous tonight. Is it something in the air? I just had a word with Trevor Simons and he was in the same frame of mind.” He paused, swallowing a little more of his wine, and when Julia didn’t respond, he went on, “He’s says he’s willing to swear under oath that you were together the entire night, regardless of the damage to his marriage.”
She sighed. “Trev’s a decent sort. Surely it won’t come to that?” Wrapping her arms around her calves, she rested her chin on her knees and looked at Kincaid steadily. “You can’t really think I killed poor Con, can you?” When Kincaid didn’t answer she lifted her head and said, “You don’t think that, do you, Duncan?”
Kincaid ran the evidence through his mind. Connor had died between the closing of the gallery show and the very early hours of the morning, the time for which Trevor Simons had given Julia a cast-iron alibi. Simons was a decent sort, as Julia had so aptly put it, and Kincaid had disliked goading him, but he felt more certain now than ever that he would not have compromised himself by lying for Julia.
But even as he set out these facts, he knew that they had little to do with what he felt. He studied her face. Could one see guilt, if one had the right skills, the right information? He had sensed it often enough, and his rational mind told him the assessment must be based on a combination of subliminal cues-body language, smell, shadings in the voice. But he also knew that there was an element to it that transcended the rational-call it a hunch, or a feeling, it didn’t matter. It was based on an innate and inexplicable knowledge of another human being, and his knowledge of Julia went bone-deep. He was as certain of her innocence as his own.
Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I don’t think you killed Connor. But someone did, and I’m not sure we’re getting any closer to it.” His back had begun to ache and he stretched, recrossing his legs. “Do you know why Connor would have had dinner with Tommy Godwin the night he died?”
Julia sat up straight, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Tommy? Our Tommy? I’ve known Tommy since I was this high.” She held out a hand, toddler height. “I can’t imagine anything less likely than the two of them having a social get-together. Tommy never quite approved of Con, and I’m sure he made it clear. Very politely, of course,” she added fondly. “If Con had meant to see Tommy, surely he would have said?”
“According to Godwin, Con wanted his old job back, and thought he might help.”
Julia shook her head. “That’s piffle. Con had a screaming nervous breakdown. The firm wouldn’t have considered it.” Her eyes were peat-dark, and guileless.
Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, in hopes that removing her face from his sight would allow him to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again he found her watching him. “What did Connor say that day, Julia? It seems to me that his behavior only became out of the ordinary after he left you at lunchtime. I think you’ve not quite told me the whole truth.”
She looked away from him, fumbling for her cigarettes, then pushed the packet away and stood up, as graceful as a dancer. Moving to the table, she unscrewed the top of a paint tube and squeezed a drop of deep blue color onto her palette. Choosing a fine brush, she dabbed a little of the color onto the painting. “Can’t seem to get the bloody thing quite right, and I’m tired of looking at it. Maybe if I-”
“Julia.”
She stopped, paintbrush frozen in midair. After a long moment, she rinsed the brush and placed it carefully beside the drawing, then turned to him. “It began ordinarily enough, just the way I told you. A little row about money, about the flat.” She came back to the arm of the chair.
“Then what happened?” He moved closer to her and touched her hand, urging her on.
Julia captured his hand between her palms and held it tightly. She looked down, rubbing the back of his hand with her fingertips. “He begged me,” she said so softly Kincaid had to strain to hear. “He literally got down on his knees and begged me. Begged me to take him back, begged me to love him. I don’t know what set him off that day. I’d thought he had pretty well accepted things.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That it was no use. That I meant to divorce him as soon as the two-year limit had passed, if he still refused to cooperate.” She met Kincaid’s eyes. “I was perfectly beastly to him, and it wasn’t his fault. None of it was.”
“What are you talking about?” Kincaid said, startled enough to forget for a moment the sensation of her fingers against his skin.
“It was all my fault, from the very beginning. I should never have married Con. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I was in love with the idea of getting married, and I suppose I thought we’d muddle through somehow.” She laughed, letting go his hand. “But the more he loved me, the more he needed, the less I had to give. In the end there was nothing at all.” Softly, she added, “Except pity.”
“Julia,” Kincaid said sharply, “you were not responsible for Connor’s needs. There are people who will suck you dry, no matter how much you give. You couldn’t-”
“You don’t understand.” She slipped from the arm of the chair, moving restlessly away from him, then turned back as she reached the worktable. “I knew when I married Con I couldn’t love him. Not him, not anyone, not even Trev, who hasn’t asked for much except honesty and affection. I can’t, do you see? I’m not capable.”
“Don’t be absurd, Julia,” Kincaid said, pushing to his feet. “Of course you-”
“No.” She stopped him with the one flat word. “I can’t. Because of Matty.”
The despair in her voice banished his anger as quickly as it had come. He went to her and drew her gently to him, stroking her hair as she laid her head against his shoulder. Her slender body fit into the curve of his arms as easily as if it had always been there, and her hair felt as silky as feathers against the palm of his hand. She smelled faintly, unexpectedly, of lilacs. Kincaid took a breath, steadying himself against the wave of dizziness that swept over him, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “What has Matty to do with it, Julia?”
“Everything. I loved him, too, you see, but that never seemed to occur to anyone… except Plummy, I suppose. She knew. I was ill, you know… afterward. But it gave me time to think, and it was then I decided that nothing would ever hurt me like that again.” She pulled away from him just enough to look up into his face. “It’s not worth it. Nothing is.”
“But surely the alternative-a lifetime of emotional isolation-is worse?”
She came back into his arms, resting her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. “It’s bearable, at least,” she said, her voice muffled, and he felt her breath, warm through the fabric of his shirt. “I tried to explain it to Con that day-why I could never give him what he wanted… a family, children. I had nothing to go by, you see, no blueprint for an ordinary life. And a child-I could never take that risk. You do you see that, don’t you?”
He saw himself with uncomfortable clarity, curling up like a wounded hedgehog after Vic had shattered his safe and comfortable existence. He had protected himself from risk as surely as Julia. But she, at least, had been honest with herself, while he had used work, with the convenient demands of a cop’s life, as an excuse for not making emotional commitments. “I do see it,” he said softly, “but I don’t agree with it.”
He rubbed her back, gently kneading the knotted muscles, and her shoulder blades felt sharp under his hands. “Did Connor understand?”
“It only made him more angry. It was then I was beastly to him. I said-” She stopped, shaking her head, and her hair tickled Kincaid’s nose. “Horrid things, really horrid. I’m so ashamed.” Harshly, she added, “It’s my fault he’s dead. I don’t know what he did after he left Badger’s End that day, but if I hadn’t sent him away so cruelly-” She was crying now, her words coming in hiccuping gulps.
Kincaid took her face in his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Julia, Julia. You don’t know that. You can’t know that. You were not responsible for Connor’s behavior, or for his death.” He looked down at her, and in her tousled hair and tear-streaked face he saw again the child of his vision, alone with her grief in the narrow white bed. After a moment he said, “Nor were you responsible for Matthew’s death. Look at me, Julia. Do you hear me?”
“How can you know that?” she asked fiercely. “Everyone thought… Mummy and Daddy never forgave-”
“Those who knew and loved you never held you responsible, Julia. I’ve spoken to Plummy. And the vicar. You’re the one who has never forgiven yourself. That’s too heavy a burden for anyone to carry for twenty years. Let it go.”
For a long moment she held his gaze, then he felt the tension drain from her body. She returned her head to his shoulder, slipped her arms around his waist and leaned against him, letting him support her weight.
Thus they stood, quietly, until Kincaid became aware of every point where their bodies made contact. For all her slenderness, her body seemed suddenly, undeniably solid against his, and her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears.
Julia gave a hiccuping sigh and raised her head a little. “I’ve gone and made your shirt all soggy,” she said, rubbing at the damp patch on his shoulder. Then she tilted her head so that she could look into his face and added, her voice husky with suppressed laughter, “Does Scotland Yard always render its services so… enthusiastically?”
He stepped back, flushing with embarrassment, wishing he had worn less-revealing jeans rather than slacks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“It’s all right,” she said, drawing him to her again. “I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”