Deborah Crombie - Mourn Not Your Dead

“And you, Mr. Wilson?” asked Deveney. “ You were at home?”

“Until about half past two in the morning, when my wife called me to pull her out of a ditch. It’s not the first time,” he added affectionately “I’ve considered that a part of my job description for years, always keep a tow rope in the boot of the Volvo.”

“And you heard nothing unusual, either?” Deveney’s voice held a touch of exasperation.

“No, I had the telly on in the back. It was only when I took Bess for her bedtime outing that I saw the lights flashing and went to investigate. I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely apologetic.

Kincaid let the silence linger a moment, then said softly, “I understand that you had a disagreement with Commander Gilbert recently, Dr. Wilson.”

The doctor’s coffee cup paused for an instant in its journey to her mouth, but she recovered quickly. “Whatever gave you that idea?” She sounded amused, but she shifted slightly in her chair, turning her head so that her husband wasn’t directly in her line of sight.

“Geoff Genovase told my sergeant that he overheard the tail end of a quarrel between you.”

She relaxed a bit, sipping at the last of her coffee. “Ah, that would have been the Saturday before last, when Geoff was here to mulch the beds. I wouldn’t give too much credence to Geoff’s account, Superintendent. The boy has a very active imagination-comes from playing too many of those silly computer games, if you ask me.”

“According to Sergeant James,” put in Deveney, “Geoff had the very distinct impression that you’d had a row.”

Paul Wilson had been leaning against the counter with his arms folded, listening with an expression of friendly interest. Now he came to stand behind his wife, hands on the back of her chair. “The commander’s manner was often abrupt,” he said. “Pookie’s right, you know. I’m sure that Geoff misinterpreted something perfectly ordinary.”

“Excuse me?” said Kincaid, wondering if he’d missed something.

The doctor laughed. “That’s been my nickname since childhood, Superintendent. ‘Gabriella’ was too big a mouthful for my brothers and sisters.”

The nickname suited her, he thought, without diminishing her dignity. She seemed a person to whom directness came naturally, and he wondered why she was evading the issue. “Why did Commander Gilbert come to see you that day?” he asked.

“Superintendent, I’d be violating my patient’s confidentiality if I told you that,” she said firmly, but she tilted her head back against her husband’s hand as if drawing support from his touch. “I can assure you it had nothing to do with his death.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Doctor? You have no way of knowing what may be important in a murder investigation. And besides”-he paused, looking at her until she dropped her gaze-“you can’t violate the confidentiality of a dead man.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell. There was no row.”

“You’ll be late for your rounds if you don’t get a move on, love,” her husband murmured, but Kincaid saw his fingers tighten on her shoulders.

Nodding, she stood and helped him gather their dishes. “Old Mrs. Parkinson will be ringing any minute, wanting to know where I am,” she grumbled as she carried their plates to the sink.

“Just a moment, Doctor.” Kincaid still sat among the welter of paper, arms folded, even though Deveney had risen with the Wilsons. “You reported a burglary several weeks ago. Can you tell me exactly what was taken?”

“Oh, that.” Doc Wilson dumped the plates in the sink and turned back to him. “I wish now I hadn’t bothered to phone it in. It’s been more trouble than it’s worth, what with the paperwork and all, and we never had any hope of getting the things back. Well, you don’t, do you?”

“It was only a few items of inexpensive jewelry and some keepsakes… mementos, that sort of thing,” said Paul Wilson. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want them, and they left the TV and video. A very odd business altogether.”

“And you didn’t see anyone or notice anything unusual about that time?”

“No suspicious men lurking about in the shrubbery, Superintendent,” said the doctor, shrugging into her coat. “We certainly would have said if we had.”

“All right, Doctor, Mr. Wilson, thank you.” Kincaid stood and joined Deveney at the door. “We’ll see ourselves out. But do please let us know if you remember anything.”

He and Deveney were only halfway down the front walk when the doctor’s car shot down the graveled drive in reverse. She nodded to them as she went by, backed into the lane, and sped off towards the village.

“No wonder she ends up in the ditch,” Deveney said, chuckling.

Although the sun had come out while they were in the house, the garden still held a thin glaze of moisture. Heavy, bronze heads of hydrangeas hung over the path, leaving damp streaks on their trouser legs.

“What do you suppose she’s playing at?” Deveney continued after a moment. “She knew Gilbert’s death would release her from any obligation of confidentiality, especially about his medical condition.”

Kincaid pushed open the garden gate, then stopped and turned to Deveney as they reached the car. “But Claire is still her patient, and I think it’s Claire’s confidentiality she’s protecting.”

“She could’ve just told us that he’d come about his medical condition,” mused Deveney, “and we would have gone merrily on our way.”

Kincaid opened the door and slid into the passenger seat, thinking about the slightly off-center feel of the whole interview. “I think the good doctor is entirely too honest for her own good, Nick,” he said as Deveney joined him. “She couldn’t bear to tell an outright lie.”

Next on their list of burglary victims was Madeleine Wade, owner of the village shop. They drove through the center of the village and past the garage, and after a wrong turn or two found the shop, tucked away in a cul-de-sac halfway up the hill. Fruit and vegetables were displayed in boxes outside the door: lovely perfumed Spanish tangerines, cukes, leeks, apples, and the inevitable potatoes.

Nick Deveney picked a small, earthy pippin from a box of apples and brushed it against his sleeve. A bell tinkled as they entered the shop’s postage-stamp interior, and the girl behind the counter looked up from her magazine. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her soft voice held a trace of Scots. Straight fair hair framed a fragile-looking face, and she regarded them seriously, as if her question had been more than rote. Beneath the short sleeves of her knitted top her arms looked thin and unprotected. She seemed about the same age as Lucy Penmaric and made Kincaid think of his ex-wife.

The shop smelled faintly of coffee and chocolate. For its size it was very well stocked, even to a small freezer case filled with good quality frozen dinners. While Deveney handed his apple over for weighing and dug in his pocket for change, Kincaid flipped through his notebook, and when they’d completed their transaction, he took Deveney’s place at the counter. “We’re looking for Madeleine Wade, the owner. Is she here?”

“Oh, aye,” said the girl, favoring them with a shy smile. “Madeleine’s upstairs in her studio, but I don’t think she has a client just now.”

“Client?” repeated Kincaid, wondering bemusedly if the shopkeeper led a double life as the village prostitute. He’d known stranger combinations than that.

The girl tapped on a card Cello-taped to the countertop. REFLEXOLOGY, AROMATHERAPY & MASSAGE, it read in neat calligraphy, and beneath that, BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, and a phone number.