Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“I was in my room, but Brian saw the pandas go by, lights and sirens. He called me down to help with the bar, then he went straight across the road, but they wouldn’t let him through. ‘There’s been an accident’ was all they’d tell him, and he came back in a right state. We didn’t know until Nick Deveney sent a constable over to make arrangements for you that it was the commander, not Lucy or Claire.”

“And that made a difference, did it?” asked Gemma, thinking how much people revealed unwittingly, just by the construction of their sentences, their emphasis on certain words.

“Of course it did.” Geoff sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Like I said, it’s a small place, and everybody knows everybody, especially neighbors. Lucy’s a nice kid, and Claire… everyone likes Claire.”

Odd, thought Gemma, if Claire Gilbert was so well thought of, that she had leaned on Will Darling rather than accepting comfort from a sympathetic neighbor. “But not Alastair Gilbert?” she asked. “You didn’t mind so much about him?”

“I didn’t say that.” Geoff frowned at her, their pleasant camaraderie definitely damaged. “It’s just that he’s not here -I mean he wasn’t here-what with his job and being in London most of the time.”

“I knew him,” said Gemma, putting her elbows on the table and propping her chin in one hand. She wondered why she hadn’t mentioned it to Kincaid, then shrugged. She hadn’t felt inclined to volunteer anything remotely personal.

“He was my super at Notting Hill when I first joined the force,” she continued. Geoff relaxed, looking interested and settling more comfortably into his chair, as if Gemma’s admission had put them back on equal footing. Sipping her tea, she said, “But I didn’t really know him, of course-there were more than four hundred officers at Notting Hill, and I was too lowly to come to his attention. He might have spoken ten words to me in all that time.” The man she remembered seemed to have little connection to the body sprawled so messily on the Gilberts’ kitchen floor. He’d been small and neat, soft-spoken and particular in his dress and his diction, and had occasionally given little pep talks to the ranks about the importance of rules. “‘A tight ship,’ my sergeant used to say. ‘Gilbert runs a tight ship.’ But I don’t think he meant it kindly.”

“He did like things his way.” Geoff broke another biscuit in two and popped one half into his mouth. Indistinctly, he said, “He was always on the outs with the village council over something, wanting them to enforce the parking restrictions round the green, things like that.” The second biscuit half followed the first, then he refilled both their cups. “And he had a row with the doctor a couple of weeks ago. If you can call it rowing when no one raises his voice.”

“Really?” Gemma sat up a bit. “What about?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t actually hear it. It was a Saturday, see, and I do some odd jobs for the doctor. When I went up to the kitchen door to ask her about the compost, he was just leaving. But something had happened-you know how you can tell sometimes, like bad feeling stays in the air. And Doc Wilson had that tight-lipped look.”

“Her? I mean she?” said Gemma, trying to sort out her cases.

“This is a very feminist village-lady doctor and lady vicar. And I don’t think the commander got on with either of them.”

Gemma remembered that Gilbert’s manner to the women under his command had bordered on condescending, and he’d been notorious for overlooking female officers for promotions.

“I can’t wait to meet them,” she said, toying with the idea of stealing a march on Kincaid by interviewing the doctor.

“This afternoon?” Geoff studied her with concern. “You look all in, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Thanks.”

Her evident sarcasm made Geoff blush. “I’m sorry. It’s just that-you know what I mean. You look tired, is all.”

She relented. “It’s okay. Maybe I will go up to my room for a bit. And thanks for looking after me. I’d have caved in, I think, if you hadn’t rescued me.”

“Any time, fair damsel.” He stood and gave a little bow. Gemma laughed, thinking doublet and hose would have suited him and imagining his fair curls under a plumed hat.

She followed him up the stairs, and when they reached the door of his room, he stopped. “Tell me if you need anything else. I’m at your-”

His words faded out of Gemma’s perception. A computer sat on a desk across his room, and she stood staring, fascinated by the image on the screen. “What is it?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the picture. Mist seemed to swirl in the eerie, three-dimensional scene, but she could make out a turreted castle, and through one of its doorways a vista of green grass and a path leading towards a mountain.

“It’s a role-playing game, an adventure. A girl finds herself transported to a strange land, and she must survive by her wits, her skills, and her small knowledge of magic. Only by following a certain path and collecting talismans can she discover the secrets of the land, and then she will have the power to stay or to go back to our world.

“You can play. I’ll show you.” He touched her arm, but Gemma shook her head, resisting the enchantment.

“I can’t. Not now.” Pulling her gaze away, she focused on his face. “What does she choose, in the end?”

He regarded her, the expression in his gray eyes unexpectedly serious. “I don’t know. That all depends on the player.”

Kincaid stood alone in the Gilberts’ kitchen, listening to the sound of the ticking clock. It hung above the refrigerator, and the large black hands and numerals against its white face were impossible to miss, reminding him that time was indeed fleeting. He should be concentrating on Alastair Gilbert’s murder, rather than wanting to punch his fist against the wall in frustration every time he thought about Gemma. After her outburst in the garden, she had left for Guildford without speaking an unnecessary word to him. What in hell had he done now? At least, he thought with a flare of satisfaction, he hadn’t sent her off traipsing around the county with Nick Deveney, after the way he’d leered at her last night.

Sighing, Kincaid ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing for it but to get on with things as best he could. Glancing automatically at his watch, he shrugged in irritation. He bloody well knew what time it was, and as long as he had to wait for Nick Deveney and had the ground floor of the house to himself, he might as well have a look round.

Entering the hall, he stood quietly for a moment, orienting himself. For the first time he noticed the higgledy-piggledy nature of the house-a step up here, a step down there-every room seemed to exist on a different level. The exposed beams in the walls were canted at slightly tipsy angles. For a moment he fancied he heard an echo of the kitchen clock, then traced the insistent ticking to a longcase clock half hidden in an alcove beneath the stairs. To his untrained eye, it looked old and probably quite valuable. A family heirloom, perhaps?

Nearest the kitchen lay the sitting room they had used last night, and a quick glance showed it quiet and empty, the fire burnt down to cold ash. Continuing down the hall towards the front of the house, he opened the next door and peered in.

A green-shaded lamp cast a pool of light on a massive desk. Lucy must have forgotten to switch it off when she collected the dog last night, thought Kincaid, as he entered and looked about. The room seemed almost a parody of a masculine retreat-the walls not covered with bookshelves were dark-paneled, and the sofa set before the heavily curtained windows was covered in a deep red tartan. Moving closer, he studied the pale oblongs on the dark walls-hunting prints, of course. The sound of the heavy clock on the desk mimicked his heartbeat, and for a moment he imagined the entire house ticking to its own internal rhythm. “Bloody hell!” Swearing aloud broke the spell, and he banished thoughts of the Edgar Allan Poe story from his mind.