Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“Sir, I’d just about given up on you,” said Raskin, by way of greeting. “Thought you might like to know what the scene of crime lab came up with.”

Kincaid glanced up at the blank faces of the windows above them. “We do need to talk. Let’s move away a bit.” They strolled down to the bench at the end of the garden-the same spot where he and Hannah had stood two nights before and thought how gay and welcoming the house looked with the light spilling from its windows. “You first,” said Kincaid, when they had settled themselves on the bench.

“You were right about the heater and the plug. There’s not a smudge of a print anywhere on it that doesn’t belong to Cassie Whitlake. So, either Cassie plugged it in, and in that case why would she implicate herself, or the person who did wore gloves. Now, if it were Sebastian-and I never heard of a suicide wearing gloves-what did he do with them? His clothes, his shoes, his wallet, even his handkerchief and comb were folded in a neat stack by the bench. Did he plug the heater in, go dispose of the gloves somewhere, then come back and undress and hop in? I don’t buy it.” Raskin paused. “The heater might have shorted itself out before he could get in the pool. And I never knew a neat suicide not to leave a note.”

“I didn’t buy it, either,” said Kincaid. “What about the p.m.?”

“The best the doc can give us from the stomach contents is between ten and midnight.”

“Not much help, but then I didn’t expect it would be. None of the guests have a definite alibi?”

“Not to speak of.” Raskin ticked them off his fingers. “Cassie says she went to her cottage, alone, around ten, and didn’t come out again. The Hunsingers had gone to bed and to sleep, after tucking in the children and having some herbal tea. Marta and Patrick Rennie say they were in their suite all the time, but she doesn’t look too comfortable about it. The MacKenzie ladies retired around ten, were both asleep by eleven. Janet Lyle had a headache, and her husband fixed her a cup of tea. She then went to sleep and he did, too. Um, let’s see, who’s left?”

“The Frazers?” Kincaid prompted.

“The Frazers, father and daughter, arrived back from dinner in York about ten-thirty, whereupon they both went to bed.”

“And Hannah and I,” Kincaid continued for him, “were walking in this garden around eleven o’clock-”

“After which you each went, alone, to your separate suites,” finished Raskin, and stretched his fingers until the knuckles popped.

“Pretty bloody useless, the whole lot,” said Kincaid in disgust. “Any of them could be lying and we’d never be the wiser. For starters, I don’t think Angela Frazer has a clue whether her dad was in the suite or not. They had a terrible row on the way home and she locked herself in the bathroom. Went to sleep on the tiles.”

Raskin grinned. “Your interrogation technique must be a sight better than my chief’s-he didn’t get more than sullen ‘yeses’ and ‘noes’ out of her.”

“I don’t doubt it. Peter,” said Kincaid, feeling his way cautiously, “I paid a call on Sebastian’s mum.” Raskin merely raised his eyebrows. “I had a look at his room. He kept files on the timeshare owners, some of them potentially damaging.”

Both Raskin’s eyebrows shot up this time. “Nash’ll have you on a platter, sir. Since the lab work came back he’s sent a team round there-he’ll likely have a stroke when he finds out you’ve been there before him.”

Kincaid grinned a little guiltily. “It wasn’t premeditated. I’ve since repented and pulled a few strings to smooth your chief’s ruffled feathers. But it might be wise on my part to stay out of his way until things have had a chance to percolate down from the top. If Nash chews me out and then has to eat his words, it’ll make him even more difficult to deal with.”

Raskin gave him a considering look. “Scotland Yard going to be ‘helping us with our inquiries’?”

“Could be. All very politely and politically done, of course.”

“Of course,” Raskin responded, and they grinned at each other in complete understanding. “All right,” prompted Raskin, “could you tell me, sir? Just what sort of dirt did the ever-curious Mr. Wade dig up?”

Kincaid stretched out his legs and contemplated the toes of his trainers meditatively. “There were files on a number of guests who must own other weeks, but I think it would be practical to assume that we should concentrate on those who are here this week. Somehow Sebastian came across a rumor circulating in Dedham village that Emma and Penny MacKenzie helped their dear old dad to a speedier end than nature intended.” Raskin looked startled but didn’t interrupt. “He was diabetic and they administered his insulin themselves-they could have increased his dosage a bit.”

“I suppose it’s possible. I’ve heard more unlikely stories. Next prospect?”

“Graham Frazer. It seems that he’s been carrying on a very torrid affair with Cassie Whitlake-a situation that doesn’t appear to be too damaging to either of them, except that Frazer is involved in a bitter custody battle over Angela and any misconduct might provide ammunition to be used against him. Those are Sebastian’s assumptions, by the way. He was very thorough.

“He also noted a growing sense of marital discord between the Rennies. That’s all on this lot-except a note of an old drug conviction against Maureen Hunsinger.”

Raskin spluttered. “Our Lady of the Earth? I thought nothing unnatural ever passed her lips.”

Kincaid grinned at his reaction. “It’s really not too unlikely. The natural foods movement is in some ways an outgrowth of the hippie culture of the sixties and seventies, and this conviction was twenty years old. How Sebastian found out about it I can’t imagine.”

“What about the others?” Raskin asked.

“This is the first visit for Hannah Alcock and the Lyles. Maybe he hadn’t come up with anything.”

“The same is true of the MacKenzies,” Raskin reminded him.

Kincaid frowned. “That’s something to consider. I wonder how he got hold of that little story.”

“Nothing on your cousin?” Raskin’s eyebrow tilted at a wicked angle.

“No, thank god,” Kincaid said with relief. “Jack was clean as a whistle. That would have put me in a spot.”

“And who,” said Raskin deliberately, “would you put your money on as the blackmail victim?”

Kincaid didn’t answer for a moment. He gazed at the silent bulk of the house, and when he spoke it was almost inaudibly. “Oddly enough, no one. I’m not sure Sebastian was blackmailing anyone. At least not for money. It looked like he kept a file on almost every owner. Mostly harmless stuff-almost like character studies. Maybe he only wanted emotional leverage.” Kincaid rubbed his face with his palms. “I don’t know… I’m riding completely on gut reaction. I just can’t see him as an extortionist.”

“I can imagine what my chief would have to say about that. He doesn’t go in much for gut reaction. Uses his for putting away beer.”

“I’ll bet.” Kincaid laughed, feeling restored by Raskin’s easy humor. “And speaking of your chief, I think I’ll make myself scarce for the afternoon, until my Guv’nor has had a chance to drop a few stones in the pond. Otherwise Nash might just run me in. Think I’ll do a bit of hiking. I am, after all,” Kincaid said ruefully, “supposed to be on holiday.”

The sight of Emma MacKenzie on the bench above the tennis court made Kincaid detour from his course toward the back of the garden. She peered intently at the tree tops through her binoculars, her concentration undisturbed even when Kincaid sat down beside her. He waited silently, following her gaze, and after a moment he saw a flash of red. “Blast. Lost it,” said Emma, lowering the binoculars.