Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“I thought the same,” Peter said thoughtfully. “But in either case he didn’t have much to lose. Sebastian wouldn’t have seen him. He could have hit Penny again if she hadn’t fallen unconscious. Do you suppose he waited?” Peter looked at Kincaid from under his raised brow. “I don’t think she died right away. She bled quite a bit.”

“Bloody bastard.” The dam Kincaid had clamped on his anger cracked and he drew a deep breath, fighting it back. “I doubt it. Too chancy, even for our chummy. Now we’re both saying ‘he’. There’s no indication.”

“Merely generic,” Peter answered. “No, there’s nothing in either case to rule out a woman. If it is the same person.”

“Oh, I think so. I’d even bet on it. The same person, both times for the same reason. Penny saw something connected with Sebastian’s death, I’m sure of it. She started to tell me, but we were interrupted and I never found out what it was. But Sebastian… what did Sebastian see? Or find out? That’s the question. What runs behind all this? And,” Kincaid stood up and straightened his stiff knees as he looked toward the gate, “just where the hell is your chief? He’s taking his own sweet time about it.”

“Well, you know Chief Inspector Nash, sir,” said Raskin, sardonically, “he likes to delegate.”

“Then he can delegate someone to take Miss Alcock’s statement later. I’m going to take her up to the house. He can erupt as much as he likes.” But Kincaid stood a moment longer, staring at the tennis racquet. Most of the varnish had long since disappeared from its wooden perimeter, some of the webbing had sprung and the grip was stained and frayed. Not, thought Kincaid, exactly state of the art. “Where did he-chummy-get the racquet? He couldn’t have carried it with him just on the off-chance he might find someone to bash with it.”

“There,” Raskin pointed, “behind the gate.” The wooden box blended into the shrubbery outside the fence, its faded green paint acting almost as camouflage. About the size of a child’s coffin, the box was secured with a simple metal hasp. “For guests’ use, I imagine.”

“Okay,” Kincaid thought aloud, “say he sees Penny going off alone and follows her… she stands so conveniently with her back to him, concentrating on a bird… he knows where the racquets are kept… but he won’t have picked it up bare handed, not our chummy. What did he use? A glove? A plastic bag? He will have gotten rid of it, most likely. I’d tell scene-of-crime to have a look for it.”

“I’ll pass the suggestion along.” Peter Raskin grinned. “Strictly as my own, of course.”

Hannah sat with her eyes closed, her cheek resting against her drawn-up knees. As Kincaid bent over her she opened her eyes and then smiled sleepily at him. “Do you know, I think I actually went to sleep. How extraordinary. I feel weak as a kitten.”

“It’s the shock.” Kincaid held out a hand to her. “It does strange things to the system sometimes. What you need is a cup of the good old British restorative-hot, sweet tea. I’m going to take you up to the house. Nash can send someone to take your statement later.”

“All right. Duncan,” Hannah looked down at the court, where Peter Raskin stood quietly waiting, “someone will have to tell Emma. What if-”

“No, no, don’t even think about it. If we pass anyone, say you don’t feel well. I think,” Kincaid added, his voice grim, “I should tell Emma myself.”

Kincaid’s knock on the door of the MacKenzies’ suite echoed hollowly. He had taken Hannah in through the rear entrance, the sound of the children shrieking in the swimming pool came clearly to them through the pool’s glass door. The rest of the house seemed deserted, and he had turned away from Emma’s door when he heard it open behind him.

“Sorry,” Emma said, “I was dripping. Been swimming with the children, the little monsters.” She continued rubbing her hair with a towel and it stuck up in dark spikes, making her look oddly young and reminding him for a moment of Angela. The bathing suit, however, was vintage post-war, black, with a skirt in the front that discreetly hid the tops of the thighs. Emma gave him one of her rare, surprising smiles. “If it’s Penny you want, you’re out of luck. Went out to do some early birding. Don’t know what got into her, usually she’s a lazy duck.”

“No, Emma, actually it’s you I wanted. Could we sit down?” Kincaid wondered what universal formula required that a person should sit down to receive bad news. Was it merely a precaution against fainting or falling, or had it become a kind of foreshadowing, effective in easing the shock?

“Of course.” Emma looked puzzled, but led him to the sofa without protest. She sat carefully in the armchair, spreading the towel under her damp suit, and Kincaid leaned toward her.

“Emma, I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news.” She didn’t speak, but he saw the fear spread across her face. “It’s Penny.”

Emma’s hand went to her chest, fingers clenching into a ball. “Dead?” The word came out in a whisper.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

Emma closed her eyes and leaned her head against the chair’s back, only the gentle rise and fall of her chest assuring Kincaid that she was breathing. After a moment he began to wonder if she had fainted, but then she spoke to him, without opening her eyes. “What happened?”

“We don’t know yet, exactly. Hannah found her in the tennis court. Her head had been injured.”

“Could she… could she have fallen? Hit her head?”

“It’s… possible.”

Emma heard the hesitation in his voice. She opened her eyes and transfixed Kincaid with her stare. “You don’t think so.” Kincaid didn’t answer. It had been a statement, not a question. Emma pulled herself upright in the chair and spoke again, her voice regaining some of its gruff strength. “I want to see her.”

“Um… I’ll see what I can do. You’ll have to wait until the doctor and the police team are finished. If you’d like to get dressed, and collect yourself a bit, I’ll wait for you outside the front door. Emma,” Kincaid hesitated. Expressing condolences never became any easier, even with years of practice on strangers. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Emma answered, and Kincaid thought he had never seen an expression so bleak.

Inspector Raskin breasted the tennis court path and raised a hand to Kincaid, who stood irresolute in the gravel forecourt. They met on the lawn, Raskin puffing a bit from his quick climb. “Have to take up jogging again. Getting warm, too.” He ran a finger under his collar and moved his shoulders as if he’d like to shrug out of his jacket. “Mission accomplished?”

“Yes. And Peter, I’ve been to see Miss MacKenzie.”

Raskin’s habitual expression of sardonic amusement softened. “Thanks. You saved me that one. How did she take it?”

“Quietly. You didn’t expect her to have hysterics, did you?” Kincaid paused. “But very hard, I think. She wants to see her sister. I told her I’d try to arrange it.”

Raskin thought for a moment. “Dr. Percy’s here, you’ll be pleased to know.” He grinned slyly at Kincaid. “Scene-of-crime unit’s here as well.”

“I gathered that.” Kincaid nodded toward several strange cars parked haphazardly on the gravel.

“The Home Office pathologist is on his way, and the undertaker’s van. If Miss MacKenzie could see her before they load her up, it would save her having to make a formal identification at the undertakers. Don’t see why not. I’ll take statements as soon as they’re finished down below. You want to tag along? Or are you still neither fish nor fowl?”

“Fowl, I think, by this time. But I told Miss MacKenzie I’d wait for her.”