Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“What was it?”

“A male bullfinch. Common enough but don’t often see them. They’re very shy.”

“I’ve never watched birds,” Kincaid offered. “Must be interesting.”

Emma gave him a pitying look, as if at a loss to explain a lifetime passion to one who could make such an innocuous remark. “Hmmmf.” She looked away from him, her gaze drawn to the trees. “An art. You should try it.” She thrust the binoculars at him. “Take them. I’m going in for the afternoon, worst time of day.”

“I will.” Kincaid took the binoculars and lowered the strap carefully over his head. “Thanks. I thought I might climb Sutton Bank.” He hesitated, then said as neutrally as he could, “Miss MacKenzie, did you talk much with Sebastian?”

Emma had been making gathering motions, as if to rise. She paused, then settled herself more comfortably on the bench. “He seemed an intelligent boy, but difficult. Quick to take things as slights, I’d say, under all that quick, sly patter.” She was silent for a moment, considering. “He could be kind, though. He was kind to Angela Frazer. I think he saw her as some sort of fellow outcast, always on the fringe of her father’s doings. And he seemed to despise Graham Frazer. I don’t know why. He was kind to the younger children as well, thought up activities for them, things that would amuse them. He seemed comfortable with them.”

“Kind to children and animals,” Kincaid muttered, more to himself than Emma. Her spine tensed and she inhaled sharply. He could see all her barriers going up and he cursed himself for his tactlessness. “No, no, I’m not ridiculing you,” he said quickly. “I found I liked him, too, even on such short acquaintance, and rather in spite of myself. And,” he added, with an easy smile, “you’re very perceptive.”

Emma had relaxed again, but he sensed that the flow had stopped. To press her would only activate her conscience, and she would censor any inclination to indulge in ‘idle gossip’.

“What should I look for?” he asked, gesturing with the binoculars.

“You wouldn’t know a robin from a magpie, I imagine. You’d better borrow this”-she handed him a small, well-worn guidebook-“so that you will have a reference. Just be observant. I shouldn’t think that watching birds would be all that different from watching people. Oh, yes,” she said, noting his surprised glance. “You’re very practiced. A talent partly learned and partly natural, I should think. You inspire confidence in others with that air of sincere attention to every word, a little well-judged flattery. And I had better go before I say something I shouldn’t.” With that, she pushed herself off the bench and strode toward the house without a backward glance.

The footpath crossed a small stream at the back of the grounds, then turned abruptly right to follow the stream toward Sutton Bank. It was easy walking at first, cool under the overhanging branches, the ground padded with leaf litter and crunching acorns. Boughs heavy with horse-chestnuts drooped overhead, and twice Kincaid saw crimson toadstools among the fallen leaves, bright as drops of blood. There were no birds. The wood remained eerily still and silent.

He eventually came out into the sunlight and began to climb. The binoculars thumped regularly against his chest with each step, a second heartbeat. Blackberry brambles growing into the path scratched his hands and snagged his clothes. He paused every so often to extricate himself. As he neared the summit, Kincaid felt almost overcome by drowsiness, the sun and the dusty, pollen-laden air affecting his senses like a drug. He came across a patch of brown brake fern to the side of the path, trampled and flattened as though someone else had lain there. It was irresistible. Kincaid stretched out among the dying fronds and went instantly to sleep.

A shadow across his face woke him. It took his confused brain a second to sort out the images his eyes sent it-huge red and yellow barred wings hovered above him, and a human face suspended between them peered down at him. A hang glider. Bloody hell. Sutton Bank, he remembered reading in the brochures provided by the timeshare, was a popular spot for hang gliders, but the damn thing had nearly scared him out of his wits.

Kincaid sat up and watched the glider descend toward Followdale House, then raised Emma’s binoculars and focused them on the car park. Hannah’s metallic Citroën turned in the gate and stopped on the gravel, and her small form, distant and unrecognizable except for some quality of posture, made its way to the door. He lowered the glasses and stretched, then rested his elbows on his propped-up knees. The combination of deep sleep and sudden awakening had cleared his head like a tonic, leaving his mind remarkably sharp and focused.

The whole bloody business didn’t make sense, not from what he knew so far. He couldn’t for a minute see either of the MacKenzie sisters committing premeditated murder. Reluctant euthanasia, possibly, but killing someone to cover their deed up, never. He could, however, easily imagine them shielding someone else in a mistaken sense of duty or obligation.

Had Sebastian threatened to expose Cassie’s affair with Graham? That would certainly explain the conversation he had overheard. But if that were the case, why would either of them care enough to kill him to prevent it? The timeshare management might not approve of Cassie sleeping with the owners, but surely her behavior wouldn’t be that damaging.

And Graham? Kincaid didn’t believe custody judges expected divorced fathers to remain celibate. Besides, he’d wager Angela knew exactly what was going on, if not all the intimate details. She was a good bit sharper than her dad credited. So if Cassie and Graham were together the night of Sebastian’s death, why hadn’t they alibied one another?

Kincaid sighed. He didn’t have enough information for even these vague suppositions. Gemma might turn up something, but he couldn’t depend on it. There was no alternative he could see but to stretch his already untenable position a little farther. He couldn’t go back to his holiday resolution, blithely ignoring the whole matter. He had an unhealthy tendency, probably necessary to his job, of worrying at a thing like someone putting a tongue to a sore tooth-the more it hurt, the harder it was to leave it alone.

But there was something more, a sense that the script played on untended, heedless of his puny actions.

Enough. Kincaid stood up abruptly. He’d be reading Camus and crying in his beer if he went on like this. It was time he did some more digging of his own.

The cocktail hour drew Followdale’s guests like the curious at the scene of an accident. They came, Kincaid thought, overcoming their distaste, their self-preserving instinct for gossip stronger than their discomfort in one another’s company.

Discomfort wasn’t exactly the noun Kincaid would have chosen to describe the tableau presented by the M.P., Patrick Rennie, and Hannah. They stood before the mantelpiece in animated conversation, seemingly unaware of the bodies milling about them. Rennie looked elegantly casual, his gleaming pale hair accentuated by the teal blue of his pullover. Cashmere, thought Kincaid, it had to be cashmere. Nothing else would do. Hannah laughed, her face turned up to Rennie’s, her expression almost jubilant.

Kincaid stood still in the doorway, feeling childishly, ridiculously, slighted. How absurd. They had enjoyed each other’s company, nothing more. He had no claim on Hannah’s attention, or affections.

He made for the bar, turning a bland smile on Maureen as he passed, determined to reach the bar before she could buttonhole him. Beer tonight, he thought. The bar’s whiskey was best kept for medicinal purposes. He poured a pint of dark ale and conscientiously clinked his money into the bowl.