Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“Have you noticed,” Kincaid said to Nick Deveney as they wound their way through the series of tracks that lay between villages, “that no one seems to be grieving for Alastair Gilbert? Even his wife seems to be shocked but not distraught.”

“True enough.” Deveney flashed his lights at an oncoming car and backed into the nearest passing place. “But that doesn’t give us a motive for murder. If that were the case, my ex-mother-in-law would be dead twenty times over.” The other driver lifted a hand in a wave as he passed, and Deveney pulled out into the road again. “Hope you don’t mind the shortcut. Actually, I’m not sure it is a shortcut, but I like driving through the hills. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Storm clouds had gathered in the west, but as he spoke a shaft of sun broke through, illuminating the air deep in the woods. Deveney glanced in his rearview mirror. “I’ll bet they’re getting a soaking in Guildford,” he said, then he pointed at the elaborate gates of an estate as they passed. “Look. It’s people like that who keep this part of Surrey from being overrun by tourists. They come here from London, bringing their money with them, so that we don’t really need to boost our economy by encouraging trippers.” Shrugging, he added, “But it’s a double-edged sword. Although they buy property and use services, many of them are never really accepted by the locals, and that generates some conflicts.”

“And that was true of Gilbert, too? He certainly fit the classic commuter profile,” Kincaid said as they came around a curve and gaps in the trees revealed a sweeping view across the North Downs.

“Oh, definitely, I’d say, and he was treated with a mixture of disdain and flattery. I mean, after all, you don’t really want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, do you? You just don’t want it to think it can sit at your table.”

Kincaid gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose not. Do you think Gilbert was aware that he wasn’t accepted, probably would never be accepted? Did it matter to him?”

“I didn’t really know him personally, just spoke with him a few times at police functions.” Downshifting, Deveney added, “I only know Brian Genovase because we played in the same over-the-hill rugby league.” The road had descended quickly from the hills, and now became a narrow street with picture-postcard cottages either side. “Holmbury St. Mary is quite unspoilt, while this village is competing for the ‘prettiest village in England’ title. That’s the Tillingbourne River,” he added as they crossed a clear stream, “star of many a postcard.”

“It’s not too bad, surely,” Kincaid said as Deveney deftly parked against the curb. He’d seen a rather flowery tea shop but nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary.

“No, but I’m afraid the tarting up is inevitable.”

“Cynic.” Kincaid followed Deveney out of the car, flexing toes that had suffered from the failure of the Vauxhall’s heating system.

Laughing, Deveney agreed, then added, “I’m too young to sound like such an old codger. Must be divorce has a tendency to sour a man’s outlook. Now this shop is certainly not a bad thing”-he gestured at a sign reading KITCHEN CONCEPTS-“and it wouldn’t be possible without commuters like Alastair Gilbert. It would never occur to the local farmers to have their kitchens refitted in Euro-chic.”

The window showed them colorful expanses of tile interspersed with gleaming copper fittings. Kincaid, who had refitted the kitchen in his Hampstead flat using mostly do-it-yourself materials, opened the door with some anticipation. A wellie-clad woman holding carrier bags stood chatting with a man near a display of cabinet fronts, but their conversation came to an awkward halt as Kincaid and Deveney entered.

After a moment the woman said, “Well, I’ll be off then. Cheerio, Malcolm.” She gave them a bright, interested glance as she squeezed out the door, holding her shopping to her chest like a bulging shield. What was the use of being out of uniform, Kincaid often wondered, when you might as well be wearing a sign on your chest that said POLICE?

Deveney had his warrant card out, and introduced himself and Kincaid as Malcolm Reid came forwards to greet them. Kincaid was happy to play second fiddle for a bit, as it gave him a chance to observe Claire Gilbert’s employer. Tall, with short silvery-blond hair and evenly tanned skin that spoke of a recent holiday in a warmer clime, Reid spoke in a soft, unaccented voice. “You’ve come about Alastair Gilbert? It’s absolutely dreadful. Who would do such a thing?”

“That’s what we’re attempting to find out, Mr. Reid,” said Deveney, “and we’d appreciate any help you can give us. Did you know Commander Gilbert personally?”

Reid put his hands in his pockets before answering. He wore good quality trousers, Kincaid noticed, and along with the gray pullover and discreet navy tie they created just the impression needed for Reid’s position-not too casual for the owner of a successful business, not too formal for a small village. “Well, of course I’d met him. Claire had Val-that’s my wife, Valerie-and me to dinner once or twice, but I can’t say that I knew him well. We didn’t have much in common.” He gestured at the showroom, his expression slightly amused.

“But surely Gilbert was interested in his wife’s career?” said Kincaid.

“Look, let’s have a seat, shall we?” Reid led them to a desk at the rear of the showroom and waved them into two comfortable-looking visitors’ chairs before seating himself. “That’s not an easy question.” He picked up a pencil and watched it meditatively while he rolled it between his fingers, then looked up at them. “If you want an honest answer, I’d say he only tolerated Claire’s job as long as it didn’t interfere with his social schedule or his comforts. Do you know how Claire came to work for me?” He put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. “She came to me as a client, when Alastair finally gave her permission to decorate their kitchen. The house is Victorian, you know, and what little had been done to it had been done badly, as is so often the case. Claire had been nagging him for years, and I think he only gave in when their entertaining reached such a scale that it embarrassed him for guests to see the kitchen.”

For a man who professed not to know Gilbert well, Reid had certainly managed to build up an active dislike of him, Kincaid thought as he nodded encouragingly.

“Claire hadn’t any design training,” continued Reid, “but she had natural talent, which is even better in my book. When we started her kitchen she was brimming with imaginative and workable ideas-they don’t always go together, you see-and when she came to the shop she’d help other customers, too.”

“And you didn’t mind?” Deveney asked a bit skeptically.

Reid shook his head. “Her enthusiasm was contagious. And the customers liked her ideas, which increased my sales. She’s very good, though you’d never know it by looking at their house.”

“What’s wrong with their house?” Deveney scratched his head in bewilderment-whether real or feigned Kincaid couldn’t guess.

“Too stuffily traditional for my taste, but Alastair kept a tight rein on things and that’s what he liked. It was his idea of middle-class respectability.”

Reid’s judgment certainly seemed to fit Gilbert as Kincaid had known him. As an instructor he had been unimaginative, insisting on rules where flexibility might have been more productive, attached to traditions simply because they were traditions. His curiosity aroused, he asked Reid, “Do you know anything about Gilbert’s background?”

“I believe his father managed a dairy farm near Dorking, and Gilbert attended the local grammar school.”