Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

Kincaid snorted. “Very hopeful, that. What else?”

“Penny MacKenzie’s skull seems to have been unusually thin. Great physical strength would not have been required to strike the blow. He estimates the assailant to have been of average height, male or female. If a woman struck the blow she probably used both hands.” Nash leaned back and the fragile dining chair creaked alarmingly. “It occurs to me, Superintendent,” he said conversationally, a smile stretching the corners of his mouth, “that your lady friend, Miss Hannah Alcock, found herself very conveniently placed to discover poor Miss MacKenzie’s body.” Nash’s détente had been brief.

The phone rang again before Kincaid could reply. He appreciated the reprieve. Wandering absently about the room as Nash spoke, Kincaid stopped at the bedroom door, where Cassie and Graham said they had met the night Sebastian died. He remembered the flash of light he and Hannah saw through the window. Ten to midnight, Cassie had said. A long time for what Cassie had portrayed as a hurried sexual encounter. What else had gone on between them? Had they argued?

The names ran through Kincaid’s head-Cassie and Graham, Hannah and Patrick, Cassie and Patrick… The idea that came to him seemed plausible. Might Hannah, like Penny, have found out something that cast suspicion on someone else? And might Hannah, like Penny, be withholding it out of some sense of honor or fair play?

Nash finished his call, and Raskin took advantage of the opportunity to speak. “I’ll just get this off to the lab, sir.” He swept the plastic bag off the table. Kincaid met his quizzical glance and thought they might call themselves even in favors rendered.

“Thanks,” Kincaid said, then turned to Nash. “I’ll be off, then, Chief Inspector, if there’s nothing else? I’ll be around the house if you should want my advice.” He lifted a hand and left the room before the idea of taking his advice could give Nash apoplexy.

As he crossed the hall his eye fell on the umbrella stand in the entry, a brass bucket with a red-and-green paper print of a hunting scene wrapped around it. Gay red-jacketed riders jumped elongated horses over fences. Before them the hounds ran, then clustered on their quarry. The fox lay dying.

Hannah answered her door quickly, with the air of someone expecting bad tidings. She had taken more pains with her appearance than yesterday, yet the skillfully applied makeup didn’t hide the unnatural pallor of her skin or the shadows under her eyes.

“Duncan.” She spoke his name in a breathless rush, Kincaid caught the same flicker of disappointment in her eyes that he imagined he’d seen that first night, as he stood at her table and introduced himself. “What… Is there…”

“No,” he said softly, answering her unspoken question. “There’s no news. I only came to see about you.” And what he could see made him distinctly uneasy.

“Come in, come in. Let me make you some coffee. I was just having some.” Hannah turned abruptly and went into the kitchen, bumping her arm against the counter as she rounded it.

Hannah’s suite, as Kincaid had discovered yesterday, was not the mirror image of his own. The size and placement of the rooms differed slightly, as did the color scheme-dusty pinks rather than dusty greens. Nor had it acquired, as had his, the lived-in look of a near-week’s worth of occupancy. No books or clothes scattered absentmindedly about the sitting room, no dishes left drying on the draining-board.

Kincaid stood awkwardly in the doorway of the galley kitchen, watching Hannah’s jerky movements, so different from her usual self-contained gestures. Whatever had been troubling her, Kincaid guessed, she had resolved on a course of action and was working herself up to it. “Can I help?” he asked, as Hannah spilled coffee grounds across the counter.

“No. I can manage. Thanks.” She swept the spilled coffee into the filter and put together the small drip pot. “There. Won’t be a sec now.” Hannah’s gaze drifted across Kincaid’s face and away, not meeting his eyes. The coffee pot had not quite finished dripping when she yanked the filter out and splashed coffee into a cup.

“Come on. Let’s go sit down.” He placed a hand between her shoulders and guided her into the sitting room, wondering all the while how he could ease into what he wanted to say. Sitting down didn’t seem to calm Hannah-she sat hunched on the sofa’s edge and her hands trembled as she lifted her cup.

“Cold?” Kincaid asked.

“Me or the coffee?”

“Weak. Your humor, not the coffee.” Kincaid smiled and she seemed to relax a bit. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “has Patrick Rennie ever said anything to you about Cassie Whitlake?”

“No,” she answered, puzzled, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time, “why should he? I mean,” her response grew more forceful, “why should he speak to me about Cassie, and why should he know anything to speak of? You don’t think that Cassie… had anything to do with…”

“I think that Patrick might know quite a bit about what Cassie has or hasn’t had anything to do with-might know, in fact, far more about Cassie Whitlake than he’d like anyone to guess, especially his wife.”

“Patrick… and Cassie?” The patches of rouge on Hannah’s cheekbones flared scarlet against the sudden chalkiness of her skin.

“Oh, I think so.” Kincaid spoke conversationally, sipping his coffee. “You see, Cassie’s been having an affair with Graham Frazer for some time, but I gather there’s been a change recently. A new lover, someone with real prospects, a rising star. And Cassie has become desperately anxious that no one find out she’s still seeing Graham.”

He paused, gauging Hannah’s reaction. She sat very still, the coffee cup sagging, forgotten, in her fingers. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s tried to end it with Graham, and he’s being stubborn about it. He strikes me as the stubborn type.

“Now,” Kincaid continued, “give the situation a half-degree twist and look at it again. Cassie doesn’t want Patrick to find out about Graham, right? End of romance, end of prospects, real or imagined. But what about Patrick? What would it mean to Patrick if anyone, especially his wife, found out about Cassie? Marital squabble? Messy divorce? Scandal in the gutter press?”

He tilted his head questioningly, as if Hannah had expressed some skepticism. “Old-fashioned, you think? Not scandal enough to ruin a budding political career? Maybe not. But consider this-Marta Rennie’s parents are very politically active in the constituency where Patrick is standing his by-election. In fact, they’re Patrick’s biggest financial supporters. I’d say it’s not the best time for them to find out he’s been cheating on their darling daughter. Wouldn’t you?”

“No.” The word was barely a whisper. Hannah seemed to gather herself, then spoke again. “No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Patrick would never-” Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “How could you say such things? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Hannah, listen to me.” Kincaid leaned forward, reached out a hand toward her. She jerked away from his touch as if she’d been stung. “Hannah, if you know something about Patrick Rennie, something you saw or heard, something he told you, you mustn’t keep it to yourself. It could be dangerous. I don’t want to see you end up like-”

“No! That’s absurd. I won’t even listen to it.” She stood up, her breath coming in short gasps. “Just get out.”

Kincaid stood and they faced one another. He could see her body trembling, feel her breath against his face. “Why, Hannah? What loyalty do you owe him? What has Patrick Rennie ever done for you?”