Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

“No, Patrick, that’s not true, I never thought that.” Hannah’s voice rose in agitation. “I was afraid for you, afraid things might be difficult for you. I didn’t want you-

“To spoil your image of the perfect son? Kept sleeping all these years like the fairy prince, to wake at Mother’s kiss?”

Her tears spilled now, unheeded. “No, Patrick, please, that’s unfair.”

“I suppose it is,” he said after a moment, “but so were your expectations. You should, as they say,” his smile held no humor, “have left well enough alone.” Patrick studied her, seemed to come to some decision. “I’m sorry, Hannah.”

Hannah watched him lay his hand to the ruined sill, vault over it and walk away from her across the grass.

She sat on the toilet lid, a wet cloth pressed to her face. The tears had finally stopped and she felt drained, with that curious light-headedness that sometimes follows prolonged weeping. It had been years since she had cried like that, the sobs welling up from some place inside her she hadn’t been aware existed. Now she felt oddly peaceful, almost purged.

Patrick had been right, of course. What had she expected? Acceptance? Even love? It had been a fantasy, fed on need. She had created an image of the perfect son to fill some undefined void within herself.

Hannah sighed and dipped the cloth into the basin of cold water. Well, it was finished now. She had done what she set out to do-there was no point in lingering to humiliate herself even further. If the police would let her go, that is. She bathed her face once more with the cloth and then patted it gently with a towel, afraid to look in the mirror. It would be hours before the swelling subsided and she had better tackle Inspector Nash now. Otherwise she might lose her resolve altogether.

Hannah tried Kincaid’s suite first, hoping for moral support, but as she brushed her knuckles against the door, she found she couldn’t face him and turned away. Better to see Nash alone.

The hall was empty, the house silent, and Hannah realized she had no idea of the time. Lunch? Early afternoon? Teatime? The divisions had become meaningless to her. She stood a moment at the top of the stairs, rehearsing what she would say to Nash. Her mentor ill? A rush to return to Oxford, some urgent project at work?

Guilt flooded through her. How could she have forgotten Miles’ illness, these last few days. Not even a phone call to the clinic to check up on him, and after all he had done for her. It was high time she pulled herself together.

She heard no sound. Only the breath of air told her the door had opened behind her. Before she could turn, or speak, she felt a hard shove in the middle of her back.

As the stairs rushed up to meet her, her mind fastened on one small, inconsequential thing-the hand at her back had felt warm.

Suffolk to Sussex to Wiltshire to Oxfordshire, ring around the roses. It made Gemma dizzy to think of the past two days. And tired.

Her clothes already looked as if they’d been slept in and this was only her second stop of the morning. Lavender Lane, Wildmeadow Estates. Ugh. What a horribly inappropriate name for this new housing estate on the outskirts of St. Albans. Boxlike clones of houses marched in neat rows across land that had been cleared of anything remotely resembling a wildflower. They didn’t look cheap, though-Mr. Edward Lyle must not be doing too badly.

The house belonging to the Lyles was indistinguishable from its neighbors. Gemma stopped the car and carefully noted the mileage in her notebook. Kincaid never remembered to record his and it exasperated her no end. Maybe on a Superintendent’s salary he could afford to be so careless. It must, she thought sardonically, be nice. Gemma sighed and wondered why she felt so out of sorts. She didn’t like working alone, that was part of it. She’d grown accustomed to Kincaid’s presence and found it oddly comforting-oddly because she remembered how nervous she’d been when first assigned to him.

And she felt so at sea with this case-if you could call it a case. How could she dig when she didn’t know what she was digging for? The action lay in Yorkshire and she had no idea whether the disconnected bits of information she turned up were of any use at all.

Lavender Lane seemed deserted, as if all the inhabitants had suddenly packed up and gone to the moon. Not a pram in sight, no children’s bikes or scooters left abandoned in the front gardens. Gemma tried the neighbors either side without success. Of course it must take two wage packets to pay the mortgages here-all the mums would be out working and the kiddies left with the sitter. She had turned back to the car in disgust when she caught the twitch of a net curtain in the house across the street.

The woman who answered Gemma’s ring wore jeans and a tee-shirt, a sticky-faced toddler attached to her hip. “If you’re looking for the Lyles,” she said before Gemma could speak, her eyes alight with curiosity, “they’ve gone on holiday.”

“I know. We’re making some routine inquiries about some things that have happened where they’re holidaying. Do you know them? Perhaps you could help me.”

“Janet’s all right, isn’t she?”? The child caught the note of alarm in his mother’s voice and began to fret.

“Mrs. Lyle’s fine, I’m sure, but there have been two unexplained deaths.”

“Unexplained? You mean accidents?” The woman’s arm tightened around the baby and he began to howl in earnest.

“Well, we’re not sure.” Gemma made an effort to pitch her voice over the baby’s din. “That’s why we’re making inquiries. If I could just ask-”

“You’d better come in.” The woman bounced the baby on her hip, saying, “Hush, Malcolm, hush,” then stuck out her free hand to shake Gemma’s. “I’m Helen North.” She gestured toward the back of the house with her head. “Come back to the kitchen. Janet and I are friendly enough when he’s not around,” she said over her shoulder, “and I’d not like anything to happen to her. She’s had a hard enough time as it is, poor dear.”

Gemma followed her, thinking that Helen seemed rather an old-fashioned and elegant name for this rumpled young mother. Helen North seated Gemma at a small table in her bright kitchen, and set the baby down amidst a jumble of plastic blocks. “Here I am forgetting my manners. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Please.” Gemma usually thanked god for a strong bladder-her job required downing more cups of tea than a vicar’s-but for once tea actually sounded appealing. Her early stop in Finchley had not even brought the offer.

“Fine,” Helen said. “I’ll just be putting the kettle on.”

The faint sing-song in the woman’s voice had grown more pronounced with her last words. “You’re Irish,” Gemma said, making it a statement.

“County Cork.” Helen smiled. “I try not to sound fresh from the bog, but it has a way of slipping through on its own when I’m not paying attention. Would you believe,” she tousled her son’s ginger curls, “he gets his hair from his dad, and me Irish?”

“And my son,” answered Gemma, “has hair as fair and straight as a Dane’s.” They laughed, common ground firmly established.

“Maybe that’s why Eddie Lyle doesn’t like me,” Helen said as she set Gemma’s cup before her and seated herself opposite. “Doesn’t consider being Irish quite the thing. He’s ex-service, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Served in Northern Ireland and he lumps all the Irish together as a bad lot.

“Or maybe it’s because my husband works for the builder.” Her finger made a quick circular gesture, indicating the housing estate. “I don’t know where he gets off being such a snob. His parents owned an off-license in the old town. Perfectly respectable, but Janet says he doesn’t like it mentioned. If you ask me, the man has a slate off and one sliding.”