Deborah Crombie - All Shall Be Well

Kincaid sat back and sipped his coffee, temporarily giving up the offensive and taking another tack. "Why liquid morphine rather than tablets?"

"Difficulty swallowing. The tumor pressed against the esophagus as it grew. Jasmine was managing very little soft food as it was, and if she'd gone on much longer a feeding tube would have become necessary." Felicity sighed and relaxed a little in her chair. "Her pain would have increased considerably, too, perhaps beyond manageability with drugs. I've seen similar tumors crack the patient's ribs."

"Did Jasmine know this?" Gemma asked, horrified by the description.

"I imagine so. Jasmine was an informed patient, she kept up with things." Felicity smiled and fell silent, and Gemma saw weariness beneath the crisp exterior.

"How can you bear to do what you do, to watch people suffer so?"

This time Felicity's shrug was almost Gallic in its eloquence. "Somebody has to. And I'm good at it. I make them comfortable, and I reassure them."

Kincaid finished his coffee, leaned forward and set his empty cup down deliberately on the table. "Felicity, how could Jasmine have accumulated enough morphine to kill herself? Didn't you supply the prescription for her?"

"She requested a dosage increase weeks ago. We don't make an effort to limit terminal patients' opiate consumption, we simply try to keep them comfortable. It's quite possible that she told me she needed more morphine and then maintained the same dosage." Felicity studied Kincaid. "That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid."

Felicity obviously intended this as a dismissal, but Kincaid crossed his ankle over his knee and smiled at her. "You say you met Margaret a few times. Did her boyfriend ever come around? His name's Roger-I'm sure you'd remember him."

"No, Margaret always came alone when I was there, and Jasmine never mentioned meeting any friend."

"Did Jasmine say anything to you about making arrangements to see her brother?"

Felicity shook her head and began stacking their coffee cups on the tray. "We never talked about personal matters. Some patients like to tell you their life story, but not Jasmine."

"Did anyone visit her at all? Or did you see anyone unfamiliar in the building recently?"

"No. I'm sorry."

Kincaid gave in gracefully. He stood up and shook Felicity's hand. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

Gemma quickly followed suit. "Thanks for your time."

"It may be necessary for you to appear at the inquest," Kincaid added as an afterthought as they moved toward the door.

"All right. You'll notify me?"

Kincaid nodded and held the door open for Gemma. "Good-bye."

Gemma, turning back as the door closed to echo his farewell, had a last glimpse of Felicity Howarth standing alone in her sitting room.

They had joined the A24 toward Surrey before either of them spoke. Gemma glanced at Kincaid. He drove easily, hand resting lightly on the gear shift, his expression obscured by the sunglasses he'd pulled from the door pocket. "You're still not convinced, are you?" she asked.

He answered without taking his eyes from the road. "No. Perhaps I'm just being stubborn."

"You think she would have left a note for Margaret or Theo," said Gemma, and added "or you," silently. She found herself increasingly curious about this woman who had occupied such a large portion of Kincaid's life, and of whom she had known nothing. He'd made some passing references to visiting a neighbor, but she had somehow assumed the neighbor to be male-a going-down-to-the-pub sort of thing. Just what had been his relationship with Jasmine Dent? Were they lovers, with Jasmine so ill with cancer?

Stealing a glance at Kincaid's abstracted face, Gemma was shocked to realize how little she knew of his personal life. It had seemed to her that he moved through life with a graceful ease which she both admired and resented. But perhaps not everything came as easily to him as she'd supposed-he was obviously suffering both grief and guilt over Jasmine's death.

Now that she thought about it, when had she ever given him much chance to talk about what he did away from work? She had nattered on about Toby, and Kincaid had listened as if the activities of a two-year-old were absolutely fascinating. That she would have to attribute to natural good manners, and resolved to be less obtuse in the future.

"Gemma?"

She focused on Kincaid and flushed, feeling transparent. "Sorry?"

"You looked a bit glazed. I thought maybe my driving terrified you."

"No," Gemma answered, smiling. "I was just thinking," she scrambled for the first thing that popped into her head, "um, about Felicity. Wouldn't you think that if you spent your life caring for the dying, trying to offer some comfort, that you would need a very strong faith?"

"Possibly. Go on."

Gemma heard the frown she couldn't see behind Kincaid's sunglasses. "Eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning and Felicity was working in the garden-she hadn't been to church."

"Maybe she's R.C. and goes to early mass," Kincaid said, amused.

"No makeup," Gemma countered, "not even a trace of lipstick. Don't tell me a good-looking woman like Felicity gets up and goes to church on Sunday morning without a stitch of make-up."

"Very observant." Kincaid grinned at that, then sobered. "Maybe whatever faith sustains Felicity isn't the visible sort."

They were entering the outskirts of Dorking. Kincaid pulled a map from his door pocket and handed it to Gemma. "Make sure it's the A25 we want to Abinger Hammer, would you?" As Gemma rustled the map, he continued, "Meg comes from here. Says her father owns a garage. It's not far from London for her family to have cut her off so completely. You'd think-"

"Junction coming up," Gemma interrupted. "A25 west toward Guildford." After Kincaid navigated the roundabout she said, "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"Never mind. Let's think about lunch."

Abinger Hammer was more hamlet than village, a few shops, and a park with a stream running through it. Theo Dent's shop, Trifles, stood at the crook in the road, across from the tea room and the village clock with its distinctive wooden bell-ringer.

Gemma and Kincaid ate tomato and cheese sandwiches, sitting in the sun in the tea shop's tiny walled garden. The sandwiches came garnished with watercress, and were cheerfully delivered by a teenage waitress sporting pink hair and multiple earrings.

"Village punk," Kincaid said, tucking stray sprigs of cress into his mouth with a finger.

"Can't be much in the way of night life around here, surely?" Gemma hadn't conquered her Londoner's disdain for village life.

"Disco in the village hall, I imagine. Or video games in the pub for those old enough."

Gemma pulled a face. "Ugh!"

Kincaid laughed. "Think about it, Gemma. Isn't that just what you'd want for Toby when he's older? No trouble to get into?"

She shook her head. "I'm not willing to contemplate that yet." Gemma finished her sandwich and swatted at a fat bumblebee which was making bombing runs at their table. "Did you grow up in a place this small?"

"Not this small, no. Relatively civilized, by your standards. We had a coffee bar. No video games in those days, though, just darts." A flash of his grin told Gemma he was pulling her leg a bit. The persistent bee blundered into Kincaid's teacup. Kincaid dumped him out and stretched. "Let's go see what Theo Dent found to occupy himself last Thursday night."

Chimes rang somewhere in the back of the shop as Gemma and Kincaid stepped inside Trifles and closed the door behind them. The "Closed" sign hanging on the inside of the door bounced and swung rhythmically, a counterpoint to the fading bells.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the brilliant sunlight outside. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves," Kincaid said softly as he looked around. "Not much trade for a Sunday afternoon."