Deborah Crombie - A Share In Death

Hannah followed her gaze across the room, where a tall man leaned against the wall, pinned like a moth by a well-endowed woman in an appalling dress. He didn’t look like a civil servant. Nice looking, mid-thirties, or perhaps a bit older, with rumpled, toffee-brown hair and a slightly irregular nose. He listened to Maureen with an expression of amused interest, yet Hannah sensed a watchful quality about him, a stillness that set him apart.

“Kincaid,” said Penny. “His name is Duncan Kincaid.” Hannah looked away and chided herself for indulging in such a ridiculous flight of fancy when she had more pressing concerns. Then, as though aware of her regard, Kincaid turned and met her eyes, and smiled. A Cheshire Cat grin, equal parts mischief and sweetness, and utterly disarming.

Cassie appeared at Hannah’s side with her usual silent efficiency, first heralded by the sharp, crisp scent she wore. It reminded Hannah of burning leaves.

“You and Miss MacKenzie met this morning, I think? Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”

Cassie performed her duties as professional hostess to perfection, as Hannah had known she would. The meeting she desired so fiercely would be accomplished as easily and effortlessly as any chance encounter. She must not, by some slip of the tongue or uncontrolled gesture, give herself away. Her abdominal muscles were clenched so tightly that she was hardly breathing. She forced herself to relax and inhale deeply, forced herself to say, with a smile as brittle as Cassie’s own, “Yes, I’d like that.”

The tranquil air was thick with the smell of wood smoke and cooking. Kincaid sniffed appreciatively as he walked along the short path from the car park of the Carpenter’s Arms, and his stomach grumbled in response. Maureen Hunsinger’s discourse on the benefits of seaweed and tofu had left him with traitorous visions of steaming steak-and-kidney pie, crisp fried potatoes and apple crumble covered with cream. Cassie had recommended this as the favorite haunt of well-heeled locals, and as Kincaid pushed open the heavy door he could see why. Tarted up the place might be, but the wood fire blazing in the massive stone fireplace at the bar’s end beckoned invitingly. He bought a pint of the local ale at the bar and moved to warm his back at the fire, in no hurry now to eat.

Sunday was a slow night for custom and the lounge was quiet. Kincaid sipped his beer and looked around the room with interest. A few regulars chatted with the bartender about the next day’s racing at Catterick.

At the far end of the lounge, a woman was seated at a small table, reading glasses perched on her nose as she studied a menu. He recognized Hannah Alcock, although he hadn’t met her at the party. Cassie had managed to introduce him to most of the others, but Hannah slipped away early, and alone. She was intent now upon her menu, and thinking he’d not find a better time to remedy the omission, he made his way across the room toward her.

Hannah Alcock looked up in surprise as he stopped at her table and introduced himself. He thought he saw a brief flicker of disappointment cross her face before she smiled at him, but the impression was so fleeting he put it down to his imagination. She slipped her glasses off her nose and quickly folded them into her bag. “A small vanity,” she apologized. “The specs are a necessity of age, and I’ve not got used to them. Join me?”

“Thanks. They say near vision is the first to go, then before we know it we’ll be wearing bifocals. Cheerful thought, isn’t it?”

“God forbid.” She laughed. “In that case my vanity could become a serious inconvenience. I know who you are, from the party. Penny MacKenzie was quite taken with you.”

“The feeling was mutual. Penny’s a dear, but I don’t seem to have made much progress with her sister. She makes me feel as if I’ve forgotten my lessons, or my shirttail’s untucked.”

Hannah laughed. “I know what you mean. Is this your first visit?”

“Yes, and only by my cousin’s generosity. And you?”

“Yes. I drove up this morning. It seemed a good idea,” she paused and Kincaid had the feeling she had been about to say something else, “to try a different sort of holiday. I’ve always-”

“Excuse me, Miss. Your table’s ready.” The waitress glanced at Kincaid, uncertain. “Will this gent-”

Kincaid stood up, feeling foolishly inane. “Don’t let me keep you-”

Hannah reached up to touch his wrist. “No, no. It would be silly for us both to eat alone. Share my table. I’d like the company, really.”

“If you’re sure…” was about all the polite refusal he could muster, suddenly depressed by the thought of his solitary meal.

The steak-and-kidney pie lived up to his every expectation, its crust golden, its interior rich with wine and mushrooms. A surfeit of mushrooms, in fact, for they had begun with the house specialty, mushrooms stuffed with pâté, breaded and deep fried. Maureen Hunsinger, he thought with satisfaction, would be appalled.

Hannah had eaten her trout in parchment with delicate precision and now she aligned her knife and fork in the center of her plate, laying them side by side as neatly as dead soldiers. She contemplated Kincaid over the rim of her wine glass. “Are you married?”

“Divorced.”

“Children?”

Mouth still full, he shook his head.

“Are you on good terms, then?”

“Typical.” He shrugged and heard the echo of bitterness in his voice. It surprised him that it still bit so sharply. It had been long enough, after all, for time to have worked its healing magic. He’d been doing his Inspector’s course at Bramshill then, had accepted an invitation to an Oxford party, and been felled like a sapling under the ax. Victoria. Her name had suited her-fine-boned and blindingly fair (like sunlight on white marble, he’d told her once, in a fit of poetic excess which mortified him to remember), with candy-floss hair and a gravity of expression that intrigued him.

The sweetness lasted less than two years. How could he, trained to read expressions and body language, have been so blind? Lectures missed, dissertation not completed, unexplained absences, and her serious countenance transformed into an impenetrable barrier. When the magnitude of the change finally seeped into his overworked and exhausted consciousness, it had been too late.

“I’m sorry.” Hannah’s voice recalled him. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

Kincaid smiled, shaking off the momentary gloom. “It could be worse, I suppose. What about you?”

“I’m a spinster. A good British legal term, that. Very descriptive.”

“Not for you, legal or not. Spinster calls to mind little gray-haired grannies, and you certainly don’t fit that bill.” Kincaid studied her, wondering why such an attractive woman had never married.

As if anticipating him, Hannah said, “I love my work. And I like my independence. It seemed enough.” She pulled absent-mindedly at a ring on her right hand as she spoke. Kincaid wondered if the use of the past tense was unconscious.

“Sebastian said you’re a scientist.”

“A biogeneticist. I’m director of a privately endowed clinic that researches rare viral diseases. Our patron’s wife died of CJ and he’s devoted himself to finding a cure ever since.”

“What’s CJ?” asked Kincaid. “Or am I supposed to know?”

“Sorry. It stands for Cruetz-Jakob disease. It causes disorientation, muscle seizures, premature dementia. And it’s fatal. It’s thought to be caused by a viral particle called a prion.” At his questioning look, she elaborated. “Prions are sub-viruses, pure protein with no DNA of their own. They exploit the protein in host cells in order to replicate. Prion seems to be an infectious perversion of a normal human protein called PrP… oh dear, never mind. I’ve lost you. You’d think I’d know better by this time. I’ve seen that glazed look often enough.”