Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“Hullo,” he said, walking down the hall to join them.

“You two are up early.” His own night had been so unsatisfactory that he’d been glad to see the first faint light at the windows, and had waited impatiently, action constrained, until the house began to stir. “Is this the castle?” Kincaid indicated the landing with his hand.

Bethany nodded seriously. “You’re stepping in the moat.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Kincaid stepped back a pace and squatted on his heels. “Better?” A ghost of a smile accompanied the nod this time. “If I were the prince,” he continued, looking at Brian, “I’d think of some really super way to escape from the wizard. Put his dragon to sleep, or steal the wizard’s spells. The queen wouldn’t have to rescue you at all.”

The balance of the children’s expressions changed, Brian’s more cheerful, Bethany’s sliding toward belligerence. Brian wouldn’t keep the upper hand for long. Kincaid spoke to Bethany, a forestalling tactic. “I like your crown, Beth.” The children looked at one another and drew closer together, squabbles forgotten in sudden discomfort.

Kincaid’s attention sharpened. He looked more closely at the white cloth. A handkerchief, slightly frayed at the edges, most likely a man’s since it lacked any lace or embroidery. A small spot of rust marred one corner. Kincaid’s heart jumped. “Where did you get the crown, Beth?” He kept his voice calm.

The children only stood silently, their eyes widening. Kincaid tried again. “Is it your daddy’s?” Negative head shakes greeted this-an improvement over no response at all. “Did you find it somewhere?”

Brian looked at Bethany in mute appeal, and after Kincaid waited another patient moment, she spoke. “We were playing in the front hall. Mummy and Daddy said we could play anywhere in the house except the pool, but we weren’t to go outside.”

“Quite right, too, I should think,” Kincaid prompted, when she paused. “What were you playing?”

Bethany cast a quick glance at her brother and decided he wasn’t going to speak for himself. “Brian was playing with his Matchbox cars. He was driving one on the edge of the umbrella stand and it fell in.”

“And when you reached in for it, you found the handkerchief?”

Brian found his tongue, perhaps encouraged by Kincaid’s friendly tone. “Right at the bottom. All wadded up. Like this.” He made a fist. “Squashed.”

“Do you mind if I take it for a bit? I think Chief Inspector Nash might like to see it.” The children nodded vigorously. Kincaid imagined that their brief encounters with the Chief Inspector had not made them anxious to repeat the experience. He thought for a moment, decided two polythene bags from the kitchen might just do the trick. “Leave it just where it is for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.” Next time he went on holiday, if ever there was a next time, he’d pack his murder kit.

Voices came clearly through the open door of the untenanted ground-floor suite. Kincaid stood in the hall, his prize held gingerly between his fingers, and listened. “If God had given you sense enough to wipe your ass, laddie, you’d do as you’re told and not stand there gawking like a halfwit.” There was no mistaking Chief Inspector Nash’s dulcet tones. The indistinguishable reply must be Raskin, not off to a jolly start with his superior.

“Damn.” Kincaid swore under his breath. He’d seen Raskin’s battered Austin from the first-floor landing and had hoped to catch him alone, hoped to let Raskin take credit for the find. Bearing such a gift himself would do nothing to improve his working relationship with Nash, but getting it to the lab was too urgent to wait for a better moment. He stuck his head around the corner and peered in.

Nash sat at the small dining table, surrounded by files. The telephone cable stretched dangerously across the room from the sofa table so that the instrument could rest at Nash’s elbow. Probably Raskin’s point of contention, thought Kincaid. “Temporary incident room?” he asked pleasantly.

“And what’s it to you, laddie?” Nash replied, his black-currant eyes sweeping over Kincaid with displeasure.

“Such as it is, sir.” Peter Raskin spoke into the pause. “It seemed the best option. Couldn’t take over Miss Whitlake’s office indefinitely. And it was a bit cramped.” Raskin seemed to hear himself chattering, opened his mouth and closed it again.

Kincaid crossed the room and carefully placed the polythene bag on the table before Nash. “The children found this in the umbrella stand this morning.”

Nash picked up the bag and held it to the light. “A handkerchief? Well, well, it quite takes my breath away.” He smiled derisively. “What will the wonder boy think of next?”

“Look, Inspector,” Kincaid said as patiently as he could, asking himself just how much his own instinctive dislike fueled Nash’s hostility. “The handkerchief has what looks to be a bloodstain in one corner. It could have been used to protect the tennis racquet from fingerprints. It’s certainly worth sending to the lab.”

“If there had been anything worth finding my scene-of-crime people would have found it.” Even the sarcastic pretense of civility vanished from Nash’s voice, as did the heavy Yorkshire accent. “You have no jur-”

Kincaid’s temper erupted. “If your scene-of-crime team had been doing its job properly they would never have missed this. I’m sick and tired of your deliberate opposition, Chief Inspector. The only reason you’re in charge of this investigation is that your Superintendent is laid up in hospital flat on his back. If you won’t cooperate and aren’t able to keep your feelings about me from obscuring your judgement in this case, I’ll see you never have this much authority again.” Nash’s face flushed such an unhealthy shade of purple that Kincaid felt suddenly afraid he’d gone too far-the man might have a stroke on the spot.

“You’ll do no-” The phone rang, its insistent burr startling them all. Nash grabbed the receiver. “Nash here. What-” Whatever diatribe he had been about to utter died on his lips. “Sir. Yes, sir, he’s here now.” His eyes darted to Kincaid. “Yes, sir. I think that’s clear. Every courtesy.” Nash replaced the receiver in the cradle with great deliberation, looked first at Raskin, then Kincaid before he could bring himself to speak. “It seems that the Chief Constable has had a chat with the Assistant Commissioner, Crime. The Chief Constable thinks you might be of some help to us in this investigation, and the A.C. has given his approval. Could it be,” the heavy sarcasm was directed at Kincaid, “that the A.C. was the one did the calling, not the other way around?”

“Could be,” Kincaid answered noncommittally. “Chief Inspector, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. I’d just like to have access to the investigation.”

“You mean you’d like to interfere whenever and wherever it bloody well suits you?”

“Something like that.” Kincaid smiled.

“I may have to let you stick your toffee-nosed face into my business, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Nash responded, his heavy face set implacably. “You.” He turned toward Peter Raskin, whose studied neutrality wouldn’t save him from becoming next in line as whipping boy.

“Chief Inspector,” Kincaid interrupted before Nash could vent his temper on Raskin’s undeserving head, “What about last night’s autopsy report?”

Nash shuffled the papers on the table until he found the manila folder, then scanned the contents. “According to the pathologist, she died sometime between the time she was last seen and the time she was found.” Kincaid saw a flash of humor in Nash’s eyes, evidence, he hoped, of a tiny thawing.