Deborah Crombie - All Shall Be Well

Kincaid hadn't been prepared for sympathy. "Yes," he said, answering both question and statement, then took a breath and straightened up. It couldn't be put off indefinitely. "I was a friend of Jasmine's, but I'm also a policeman. When Jasmine's nurse and I found her this morning we assumed she had died of natural causes. Then Jasmine's friend Margaret arrived and told us that she had agreed to help Jasmine commit suicide."

Theo's pacing had taken him back to the dining chair. He collapsed in it as suddenly as if his legs had been cut from under him. "Suicide?"

"Margaret said that yesterday Jasmine told her she'd changed her mind, but now she thinks Jasmine just intended releasing her from her obligation."

"But why? Why would she kill herself?"

"Perhaps she didn't want to become too dependent on anyone, or suffer any more than necessary."

"Of course. Stupid of me." Theo's eyes had lost their focus, and he absently stroked the porcelain elephant he still held. "That would be like her."

"Theo, I had the coroner's office request a post mortem." Seeing Theo's look of incomprehension, Kincaid continued. "In a situation like this it's necessary to find out exactly what did happen."

"Is it?" Theo asked, still sounding puzzled.

"Well, it's the usual procedure if there's any uncertainty as to cause of death." It seemed to Kincaid that the second shock had rendered Theo unable to cope, and the whiskey probably hadn't improved matters. "I'm afraid the funeral arrangements will have to wait until afterwards. Perhaps you could get in touch with her solicitor?" Theo looked at him blankly. "Do you know her solicitor's name?" Kincaid asked.

Theo made an effort to collect himself. "Thomas… Thompson… I'm not sure." He stood up, still clutching the elephant. "Look. You've been very kind. Would you mind looking after things here a bit longer? I think I'd like to go home."

Kincaid wondered if he would make it. "Shall I walk with you to the tube station?"

Theo shook his head. "No. I'm fine, really." He stood up, and only as he held out his hand to Kincaid did he seem to realize he still held the small elephant. "It was mine as a child," he said in answer to Kincaid's questioning look. "I gave it to Jasmine when I moved into my first digs. Didn't think it fashionable, or grown-up, I suppose." He gave a self-deprecating snort and placed the elephant very carefully back in its position on Jasmine's desk. "You'll let me know?" he asked, turning to Kincaid and shaking his hand.

"Yes. As soon as I hear."

Theo turned and let himself out, leaving Kincaid in doubtful possession of Jasmine's flat.

Kincaid stood for a moment organizing his thoughts, determined to ignore the rumblings of his stomach a bit longer. Theo Dent's revelation that Jasmine had arranged to see him this weekend, after a six month hiatus, made Kincaid feel even more uneasy about the whole business. Had Jasmine lied to both Margaret and Theo? In Margaret's case it might have been motivated by kindness, but surely not in Theo's.

Kincaid stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed as he looked around the familiar room. It seemed to him that Jasmine's quiet presence had provided an anchor in more than one life-both Margaret and Theo had wailed "What shall I do now?" as bereft as abandoned children, yet he had no idea what Jasmine had felt for them, or anyone else, for that matter. Her presence was already as elusive as smoke, and he thought he had known her quite well.

He went to the kitchen sink, intending to dry and put away the whiskey tumblers. His foot nudged something and he looked down curiously. It was the bowl of food he had put out that morning for the cat-untouched, dried, and crusted over. "Damn and blast," Kincaid swore. He had forgotten about the cat. He'd meant to speak to Theo about it, hoping Theo would take the beast home, or make arrangements for it.

He knelt and peered under Jasmine's bed. The dark, hunched shape of the cat remained exactly where he had seen it last, and he wondered if it had moved at all. "Kitty, kitty, kitty," he coaxed, which elicited as little response as before. Returning to the sink, Kincaid scraped the dried food into the bin and refilled the bowl. He shoved this offering as far under the bed as he could reach, then stayed down on knees and elbows, contemplating the cat. He felt guilty as well as helpless in the face of the animal's grief, and he had no experience with cats.

"Look," he addressed the cat, "that's all I can do for now. Whether or not you eat is up to you. I can't go on calling you "kitty," and I'm not going to call you 'Sidhi' or anything equally absurd." The cat closed its eyes, whether from relaxation or boredom Kincaid couldn't guess. "Sid. From now on you're just plain Sid, okay?" He took silence as assent and got up, dusting off his knees.

He must find a key if he were to continue looking after the cat-he couldn't go on playing the amateur burglar.

Where had Jasmine kept her keys? He thought she hadn't often used them since she became ill, but they must have been easily accessible. The small secretary seemed the obvious choice, and his search did not take more than a few minutes. He found a single key on a monogrammed brass key ring, tucked away in a wooden catch-all box on the desk's surface.

As he turned away a flash of color in one of the secretary's slots caught his attention. It was a weekly engagement calendar of the type sold by museum shops-each week's page accompanied by a Constable painting. He flipped through the last few months, finding visits to the clinic, birthdays, and his own name entered with increasing regularity. In the weeks of March he began to see botanical notations; the blooming of the japonica and forsythia, the daffodils, and as he turned to April, the flowering of the pears and plums, and the first tulip in the garden. All were things visible from the windows of the flat, and Kincaid felt that this had not been Jasmine's yearly ritual, but rather a cataloguing of a last spring. In yesterday's space, opposite Constable's "View from Hampstead Heath," she had written "Theo-Sunday?" and then, in very careful script "my fiftieth birthday."

He hadn't known.

Kincaid woke slowly on Saturday morning, feeling drowsy and content until memory returned. The sense of loss descended heavily, weighing on his chest He pulled himself up, shaking his head like a swimmer emerging from deep water.

If he had dreamed he had no recollection of it, but his mind was clear and he found he had come to a decision in his sleep. If the pathologist reported that Jasmine had indeed died of natural causes, then he would gladly lay aside his suspicions. But if not, he felt a need to be better prepared. Suicide was the obvious assumption-he had no concrete reason for feeling uncomfortable with it, yet he did. Perhaps he was guilty of bringing his job home, of attributing violence to the natural and peaceful death of a friend. Or perhaps he was resisting the idea of suicide because it made him feel culpable, as if he had failed her. But whatever the source of his unease, Kincaid had learned from experience to trust his instincts, and something about Jasmine's death didn't feel right.

The weekend would give him a grace period. He was off duty, and Jasmine's flat would be the logical place to start He found, however, that the idea of going through Jasmine's personal effects alone depressed him. Even though Theo had pretty well given him carte blanche, he felt an uncomfortable sense of invading her privacy.

His sergeant's open, freckled face sprang easily to his mind. She was also off duty this weekend. He'd give her a ring and ask for her help. His snooping would seem less personal, and Gemma's brisk good sense would keep him from thinking too much. He rolled over in bed and reached for the phone.