Deborah Crombie - All Shall Be Well

Margaret, sitting with her back to the door, frowned at Kincaid in bewilderment and said, "What's the-"

"Well." The man spoke, the single syllable dripping with unsavory implications.

Margaret jerked at the sound of his voice and leapt to her feet, her face flushing an unbecoming, splotchy scarlet. "Rog-"

"Don't get up, Meg. I didn't expect you to be entertaining." Apart from a brief glance in Margaret's direction, all his attention was fixed on Kincaid.

Returning the scrutiny with interest and an immediate dislike, Kincaid saw a slender man of middle height, in perhaps his late twenties, wearing designer jeans and an expensive white cotton shirt open part way down the chest, cuffs turned back. He wore his light red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his features were clearly cut. He was, Kincaid thought wryly, smashingly good-looking.

Margaret stood rigidly, gripping the back of her chair, and when she spoke her voice was high and uncontrolled. "Roger, where have you been? I've been wait-"

"Why the panic, Meg?" Roger didn't move from his slouching stance in the middle of the room, and made no effort to touch or comfort Margaret. "Don't you think introductions are in order?"

Kincaid took the initiative before Margaret could blurt anything out. "My name's Kincaid." He stood and held his hand out to Roger, who shook it with no great enthusiasm. "I'm a neighbor of Margaret's friend Jasmine Dent."

"Jasmine's dead, Rog. She died on Thursday night. I couldn't reach you anywhere." Margaret trembled visibly.

Roger's eyebrows lifted. "Is that so? And you came to tell Margaret?"

"I came to see how she was getting on," Kincaid said mildly, leaning back against the edge of the table and folding his arms.

"How kind of you." Roger's public-school accent expressed sarcasm well. "Poor Meg." For the first time he took a step toward her, reaching out and pulling her stiff body to him in a brief embrace. He swiveled her around toward Kincaid again and rested a hand lightly on the back of her neck. "It must have been a shock, her going sooner than anyone expected."

"It wasn't like that. Jasmine died from an overdose of morphine," Margaret said, watching Kincaid's face as she spoke, seeking support. Roger let her go abruptly and she moved away from him.

"That's too bad, Meg. I'm sorry she-"

"Duncan knows about the suicide," she jerked her head toward Kincaid, "so don't bother to say you're sorry, Rog. I know you're not. No need for you to worry now."

"Worry? Don't be absurd, Meg."

Roger's voice was light, almost playful, but Kincaid sensed wariness replacing the nonchalance. "There is another possibility, you know," Kincaid said into the tension that vibrated in the room. Both faces turned toward him, Meg's bewildered, Roger's alert. "Someone might have given Jasmine help she didn't want."

"I don't…" Margaret began, then looked at Roger who, Kincaid thought, understood all too well.

The silence lengthened, until Kincaid straightened up and stretched. "I'm afraid I never caught your last name," he said to Roger.

Roger hesitated, then volunteered grudgingly, "It's Leveson-Gower." He pronounced it "Loos-n-gor."

How fittingly posh, Kincaid thought. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Margaret. "I'll be off, then. Are you sure you'll be all right, Meg?"

Margaret nodded uncertainly. Roger wrapped an arm around her waist, and with the other ran his fingernails slowly up her bare arm. Kincaid saw her nipples grow hard under her thin cotton shirt. She looked away from him, flushing.

"Meg will be just fine, won't you, love?" said Roger.

Kincaid turned back to them as he opened the door. "By the way, Roger, where were you on Thursday night?"

Roger still held Margaret before him, part shield, part possession. "What's it to you?"

"I've a bad habit of liking people to account for themselves. I'm a copper." Kincaid smiled at them both and let himself out.

The east side of Carlingford Road lay in deep shadow when Kincaid drew the Midget up to the curb. He rolled up the windows and snapped the soft top shut, then stood for a moment looking up at his building. It seemed unnaturally still and silent, the windows showing no light or signs of movement. Kincaid shrugged and put it down to his own skewed perception, but halfway up the stairs to his flat he realized he hadn't seen the Major since yesterday evening.

His heart gave a little lurch of alarm and he told himself not to be an ass-there was no reason anything should have happened to the Major. Death hadn't stayed lurking in the building like some gothic specter. Nevertheless, he found himself back downstairs, knocking on the Major's door.

No answer. Kincaid turned back to the street, thinking to go through Jasmine's flat to check the garden, when he saw the Major turn the corner into the road. He walked slowly, hampered by the two shrubs he carried, a plastic tub tucked under each arm.

Kincaid went quickly to meet him. "Thought you might need some help."

"Much obliged."

Kincaid, accepting one of the five-gallon tubs, heard the breath whistling through the Major's nostrils.

"Long pull uphill from the bus."

"What are they?" Kincaid asked, shortening his stride to match his step to the Major's.

"Roses. Antiques. From a nursery in Bucks."

"Today?" Kincaid asked in some surprise. "You've carried these from Buckinghamshire on the bus?"

They had reached the steps leading down to the Major's door. Setting down his tub, the Major pulled off his cap and wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. "Only place to get 'em. Himalayan Musk, they're called."

As he set down his own tub, Kincaid looked doubtfully at the bare, thorny stems. "But couldn't-"

The Major shook his head vigorously. "Wrong time of year, of course. But it had to be something special." At Kincaid's even more perplexed expression, he wiped his face and continued, "For Jasmine. It's the scent, you see, not like those modern hybrid teas. She loved the scented flowers, said she didn't care what they looked like. These bloom once, late in spring. Masses of pale pink blooms, smell like heaven."

It took Kincaid a moment to respond, never having heard the Major make such a long speech, nor say anything remotely poetic. "Yes, you're right. I think she would have liked them."

The Major unlocked his door and stooped for the tubs. "Let me give you a hand," Kincaid said, lifting one easily.

The Major opened his mouth to refuse, hesitated, then said, "Right. Thanks."

Kincaid followed him through the door of the flat. His first impression was of unrelieved brown. The Major flipped on a light switch and the impression expanded into neat, clean, and brown. A faded floral wallpaper in tints of rose and brown, brown carpet, brown covers on the inexpensive settee and armchair. No paintings, no photographs, no books that Kincaid could see as he followed the Major through the sitting room. The only splash of bright color came from the gardening magazines and catalogs stacked tidily on the pine coffee table.

The Major led Kincaid through the kitchen and opened a door into the concreted area which ran beneath the steps descending from Jasmine's flat. To the right, in the corner formed by the fence and the wall of the building, the Major had built a covered potting area. Kincaid stuck his head in the door and was rewarded with a rich, humic smell so strong it caught in his throat.

The Major climbed the steps to lawn level and put down his tub. Kincaid did the same and stood looking at the garden, struck by the contrast between the Major's flat and this small oasis of color and perfection. He wondered what sustained the Major during the winter months when nothing grew except a few sturdy perennials.