Deborah Crombie - All Shall Be Well

When he had parked the car and come to sit beside her, Gemma said, "I thought you might like some company."

"The duty sergeant said you'd called." Although she had moved over to make room for him on the narrow step, their shoulders and thighs still touched, and he was surprised at the warmth generated by such a small area of contact.

"You'll have to tell me, you know. Was it very bad?"

He leaned against the doorjamb and closed his eyes for a moment, then rubbed his face with his hands. "From the beginning I felt Jasmine must have trusted whoever gave her the morphine, and Felicity was the obvious choice, but for my life I couldn't see why. Now I think I'd have been happier not knowing." He related the story as he had pieced it together. "Schizophrenia is a progressive disease. Timmy Franklin must have appeared almost normal unless something triggered a violent episode. Jasmine couldn't have known. I imagine he shook the baby to stop his crying."

"And Jasmine loved him enough to protect him?"

Kincaid brushed at a spot on the knee of his jeans. "Partly that. Partly guilt. I think she suffered all her life for that moment's well-meant negligence."

Gemma glanced at him, then said slowly, "So did Felicity Howarth and her son."

"Yes." He looked more carefully at her, noting consciously what had been only a vague impression. The past few weeks' tension was gone from the set of her shoulders, the tiny crease missing from her forehead, her hands lay still and relaxed in her lap. "What's happened, Gemma? It's not just the case, is it? You've made a decision."

She smiled. "The great detective displays his amazing powers of deduction. I called an estate agent this morning. I'm selling the house. There are some nice flats in Wan-stead, near the Common, that would do for Toby and me. It occurred to me that keeping the house was my way of holding on to Rob-that was his idea of what a family should do, should be. Perhaps if he'd been able to see other alternatives, it wouldn't have frightened him so much."

"And Toby?"

"We'll still be close enough for my mum to help out a bit more. Only a bit, mind you." Laughing, she looked up at him, and he felt an unaccountable release, as if Jasmine's and Felicity's lives no longer weighed quite so heavily upon his own.

"I promised you a walk on the Heath."

"So you did." She stood and stepped lightly down to the pavement, and he followed.

Kincaid held the squirming cat against his chest with one hand as he unlocked the door to his flat with the other. As soon as he'd maneuvered through the door he relaxed his grip and Sid leaped for the floor, leaving parallel lines of blood welling on the back of his hand.

"That's bloody grateful for you," Kincaid said, sucking his hand. "It'll take a bit of getting used to for both of us, mate." All but the tip of Sid's tail disappeared under the sofa, and Kincaid left him to adjust in his own time. He had moved the cat's things upstairs after Gemma had gone, tidying Jasmine's flat with a sense of finality.

One thing remained. He'd not felt it necessary to enter the blue composition book as evidence, as Felicity had made a full confession. Now he rescued it from the car and set it on the coffee table while he drew the blinds and poured himself a drink. "Glenfiddich, Sid. Reserved for special occasions." He sat, feeling the whiskey warm his empty stomach, watching the cat emerge and begin a delicate exploration.

Setting aside his glass, he picked up the book and leafed carefully through pages filled with neat, familiar script. The last entry was dated the day of Jasmine's death.

I realized today had not been such a bad day, nor the one before, nor the one before that. If I had lived every moment of my life with the same awareness and intensity as these last weeks, it would have been rich beyond measuring.

As it is, I seem to have been blessed with a peculiar sense of time slowing down and opening up, allowing experience and reflection simultaneously. A quirk of physics, an alteration in consciousness - whatever its origin, it is a gift I shall not refuse .

DEBORAH CROMBIE was born and educated in Texas and has lived in both England and Scotland. Her Kincaid and James novels have received Edgar ®, Agatha, and Macavity Award nominations, and her fifth novel, Dreaming of the Bones , was named a New York Times Notable Book of the Year and selected as one of the 100 Best Crime Novels of the Century by the Independent Mystery Booksellers of America. She is a bestselling author in Germany, and her novels are also published in Japan, Italy, Norway, the Netherlands, France, the Czech Republic, and the United Kingdom. Crombie travels to England several times a year and has been a featured speaker at St. Hilda’s College, Oxford. She lives in a small North Texas town, sharing a turn-of-the-century house with her husband, three cats, and a German shepherd.