Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

Miles reached for his cup, and Gemma noticed that he held it only long enough to drink, then returned it to the table. “She didn’t actually say much to me about it at all. It struck me as rather odd, because Hannah and I have been friends for more years than I like to count.” He smiled, erasing the sternness from his thin face. “Hannah came to me almost fifteen years ago-highly recommended, of course-from a university research facility. I’m not a scientist, you know, and the success of our work here,” he made an encircling gesture with his hand, “is entirely due to Hannah’s brilliance and perseverance. Sergeant-” he stopped and stared at Gemma, his brow creasing. “I think that you are much too lovely to be addressed as Sergeant’. Could I call you ‘Miss’, or ‘Mrs.’, or perhaps the unpleasant and ubiquitous ‘Ms.’?”

Gemma, who dealt with catcalls from yobs in the street without turning an eyelash, felt herself coloring at the courtly compliment. It was also rather chauvinistic, she had to admit, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel offended. “Well, ‘Ms.’ will do, if you like.”

“All right, Ms. James. If you feel you need a character reference for Hannah, I know of nothing the least bit questionable in her past or present. I consider her as both friend and family, and would vouch for her behavior under any circumstances. Hannah is certainly not capable of killing anyone.” His clasped hands moved convulsively as he spoke, and Gemma saw that the trembling had increased.

“Mr. Sterrett, I don’t think the investigating officers seriously consider that a possibility, but we must make these inquiries. You do understand?” Gemma searched for a change of subject to ease his obvious distress. “Is the clinic named for someone in your family, Mr. Sterrett?”

“My wife. She died from Creutz-Jakob disease almost thirty years ago. At the time, very little was known about it, and as I inherited my money, I thought it might as well be put to good use.” He smiled at her again. “Don’t look so unhappy, Ms. James. I’m not still grieving over my dead wife. It was a very long time ago. We had no children-which may have been just as well, considering the family genes. Her only sister was emotionally unstable and my nephew is a pipsqueak.” Sobering, he added, “But I would not want anything to happen to Hannah. Not only for my sake, but this clinic depends on her, and what we do here is worthwhile.”

Miles stared into the fire and finished his coffee, then said, with what seemed to Gemma an effort, “I’m surprised that Hannah hasn’t called me. I suppose she thought it would worry me. It wouldn’t have occurred to her I might be visited by the police, in however attractive a guise.” Both smile and gallantry seemed forced this time, and Gemma thought she had outstayed her welcome.

She drank the last of her coffee, eyeing the thermos a little wistfully, and rose. “I’ve tired you, I’m afraid. Your receptionist would eat me alive.”

Miles chuckled. “It’s her way of staying even with Mrs. Milton. They’ve had a rivalry going for years.” He stood, insisting on seeing her out. At the top of the stairs he took her hand again. “You won’t mind if I don’t come down? Mrs. Milton will unlock the door for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” It was a stock phrase, but Gemma found she meant it.

She’d booked a room in a small hotel on the edge of the city, and once she’d checked in and unpacked, she spent the rest of the evening dialing Kincaid’s empty suite.

Hannah slept curled on the sofa where Anne Percy had left her, head half buried beneath the cushion, blanket slipping haphazardly to the floor.

In her dream she walked the suburban streets of her childhood, under blossoming cherry trees. Familiar voices she couldn’t quite place called from the gardens, and she increased her pace. Her house seemed always round the next corner-she felt sure she could find it if only the soft, insistent tapping would stop.

The sound nibbled at the edges of her dream, finally rousing her to a sluggish wakefulness. Her first instinctive movement brought a groan-her muscles were already stiffening and her head ached. The panes in the French door reflected her image. It was now fully dark and she couldn’t tell whether she had been asleep hours or minutes. The knocking continued as she made her slow progress to the door, and she heard his imploring voice before she reached it. “Hannah, it’s Patrick. Please, let me talk to you.”

A moment’s hesitation gripped her and then she flushed with shame. She would not doubt him, would not let fear rule her life. Humiliation had caused her withdrawal on the stairs, but since then she had thought much about prejudging. With unsteady fingers she pulled back the bolt on the door.

Patrick looked her over carefully before he spoke. “How are you feeling?”

“I imagine about as well as can be expected.” Absently Hannah touched her taped wrist. “Dr. Percy said I’d feel about a hundred years old by tomorrow, and it’s already begun.”

He followed her into the sitting room and tucked her up under the blanket solicitously. After pulling up a chair so that he could sit facing her, he said with disarming frankness, “Duncan Kincaid thinks I might have pushed you down the stairs, although he very politely didn’t quite say so.” Patrick smiled. “Somehow I don’t think good manners were his motivation. Hannah”-all traces of the smile vanished-“do you think I pushed you?”

She shook her head wearily. “No. Honestly. I would have told Duncan if I had.” She met his eyes for the first time since he had come in. Patrick might have aged ten years in the course of a day. Fine lines that she hadn’t noticed before crinkled around his eyes. It was as if he’d been stripped of a layer of veneer, thought Hannah, and he sat before her bare of his usual polish.

He sighed. “That’s all right, then. But I’m worried about you, you know. When you don’t understand why something’s happening it’s hard to put a stop to it.”

Hannah didn’t answer. She felt too exhausted to rehash her ignorance once again. After a moment Patrick continued. “And I was beastly to you this morning. I don’t know why. Too many childhood fantasies came crashing down at once, I suppose.” At her puzzled expression he tried to explain. “Oh, you know-the usual things. First it was my mother as Camille,” he raised his hand to his brow and grinned, “dying in childbirth, blessing me with her last frail breath. Then later I imagined she’d be warm and soft and comforting-she’d find me and welcome me into the fold of another family. An only child’s fantasy, that. Never”-he leaned forward and smiled at her again-“did I see her as successful, intelligent, stimulating, and attractive. It was quite a shock, I can tell you.”

Hannah jabbed her fingers through her hair, suddenly aware of how she must look. “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing whether she meant she was sorry for springing her identity on him or for not fitting his mother image.

“You’re sorry? I should have outgrown that emotional baggage long ago. And I never even asked about my father.” Patrick’s hands moved on his knees, and Hannah sensed a sudden vulnerability beneath his casual manner.

“I refused to tell my parents who he was, but I suppose you deserve to know something,” she said reluctantly. “His name was Matthew Carnegie. A good family.” Her mouth twisted. “As my father would have put it. I don’t know what became of him, I didn’t want to know. I never wanted to see him again.” She cast her mind back through the barriers she had erected over the years, trying to remember what had attracted a sixteen-year-old Hannah to Matthew. “He was fair-that’s where you get your coloring-and good-looking, in a lanky, unfinished way. He made me laugh.” The memory surprised her. “And he was gentle.”