Mourn Not Your Dead Read online

  “I knew your husband, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid said. “I’m very sorry”

  “Did you?” she asked in a tone of bright interest. Then she added, “Would you like some tea?” The low table before her held a tray with a pot and some extra cups and saucers. When Kincaid and Gemma both murmured affirmatives, she leaned forwards and poured a little into her own cup, then sat back, looking around vaguely. “What time is it?” she asked, but the question didn’t seem to be directed to anyone in particular.

  “Let me do that for you,” said Gemma after a moment, when it became clear that tea was not forthcoming. She filled two cups with milk and strong tea, then glanced at Deveney, who shook his head.

  Accepting a cup from Gemma, Kincaid said, “It’s very late, Mrs. Gilbert, but I want to go over one or two things while they’re clear in your mind.”

  The carriage clock on the mantel began to chime midnight. Claire stared at it, frowning. “It is late, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized.”

  The daughter had been sitting so quietly that Kincaid had almost forgotten her presence, but now she shifted restlessly, drawing his attention. Her clothes made a rustling sound against the sofa’s cream-and-red-striped chintz as she repositioned herself, turning towards Claire and touching her knee. “Mummy, please, you must get some rest,” she said, and from the entreaty in her voice Kincaid guessed that it was not the first time she’d made the request. “You can’t keep on like this.” She looked at Kincaid and added, “Tell her, Superintendent, please. She’ll listen to you.”

  Kincaid examined her more closely. She wore a bulky jumper over a tight black miniskirt, but in spite of the sophistication of her clothes, there was an unfinished quality about her that made Kincaid revise his estimate of her age down to late teens, perhaps even younger. Her face looked pinched with stress, and as he watched she rubbed the back of her hand against her lips as if to stop them quivering. “You’re absolutely right-” He paused, realizing he didn’t know her name.

  Obligingly, she filled it in for him. “I’m Lucy. Lucy Penmaric. Can’t you-” A muffled yelping came from somewhere nearby and she paused, listening. Kincaid heard the frustration in the sound, as if the dog had given up hoping for a response. “That’s Lewis,” she said. “We had to shut him in Alastair’s study to keep him from… you know, getting into things.”

  “A very good idea,” Kincaid said absently as he added what he’d just heard to his assessment of the situation. Her name wasn’t Gilbert, and she referred to the commander as “Alastair.” A stepdaughter, rather than a daughter. He thought of the man he had known and realized what had struck him as odd. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite manage to imagine Gilbert relaxed before the fire, a large (from the sound of it) dog sprawled comfortably at his feet. Nor did this room, with its rich velvets and chintzes and the deep pile of a Persian carpet under their feet, seem a likely habitat for a dog. “I wouldn’t have thought of Commander Gilbert as a dog man,” he ventured. “I’m surprised he allowed a dog in the house.”

  “Alastair made us-”

  “Alastair preferred that we confine Lewis to his kennel,” interrupted Claire, and Lucy looked away, her face losing the brief spark of animation he’d seen when she spoke of the dog. “But under the circumstances…” Claire smiled at them, as if excusing a lapse in manners, then looked around vaguely. “Would you like some tea?”

  “We’re quite all right, Mrs. Gilbert,” he said. Lucy was right: her mother needed rest. Claire’s eyes had the glazed look of impending collapse, and her coherence seemed to fade in and out like a weak radio signal. But even though he knew he couldn’t press her much further, he wanted to ask a few more questions before letting her go. “Mrs. Gilbert, I realize how difficult this must be for you, but if you could just tell us exactly what happened this evening, we can get on with our inquiries.”

  “Lucy and I ran into Guildford for some shopping. She’s studying for her A levels, you see, and needed a book from Waterstones in the shopping center. We poked about a bit in the shops, then walked up the High to Sainsbury’s.” Claire stopped as Lucy stirred beside her, then she looked at Deveney and frowned. “Where’s Darling?”

  Gemma and Kincaid glanced at each other, Kincaid raising a questioning eyebrow. Deveney leaned over and whispered, “The constable who was with them. His name is Darling.” Turning to Claire, he said, “He’s still here, Mrs. Gilbert. He’s just gone to give the other lads a hand for a bit.”

  Tears filled Claire’s eyes and began to run down the sides of her nose, but she made no move to wipe them away.

  “After you’d finished your shopping, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid prompted after a moment, “what did you do then?”

  She seemed to focus on him with an effort. “After? We drove home.”

  Kincaid thought of the quiet lane where they had left their car. “Did anyone see you? A neighbor, perhaps?”

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t know.”.

  While they talked, Gemma had unobtrusively pulled her notebook and pen from her bag. Now she said softly, “What time was this, Mrs. Gilbert?”

  “Half past seven. Maybe later. I’m not quite sure.” She looked from Gemma to Kincaid, as if for reassurance, then spoke a little more forcefully. “We weren’t expecting Alastair. He had a meeting. Lucy and I had bought some pasta and ready-made sauce at Sainsbury’s. A bit of a treat, just for the two of us.”

  “That’s why we were surprised to find his car in the garage,” added Lucy, when her mother didn’t continue.

  “What did you do then?” Kincaid asked.

  After a quick glance at Claire, Lucy went on. “We put Mum’s car in the garage. When we came around the corner of the garage into the garden we could see the door standing-”

  “Where was the dog?” asked Kincaid. “What’s his name-Lewis?”

  Lucy stared at him as if she didn’t quite understand the question, then said, “He was in his run, in the back garden.”

  “What kind of dog is Lewis?”

  “A Lab. He’s brilliant, really lovely.” Lucy smiled for the first time, and again he heard that flash of proprietary pride in her voice.

  “Did he seem upset in any way? Disturbed?”

  Mother and daughter glanced at each other, then Lucy answered. “Not then. It was only later, when the police came. He got so frantic we had to bring him in the house.”

  Kincaid set his empty cup on the table, and Claire’s body jerked slightly as the china clinked. “Let’s go back to when you saw the open door.”

  The silence stretched. Lucy moved a bit nearer her mother.

  The fire settled and a shower of sparks rose, then flickered out. Kincaid waited another heartbeat, then spoke. “Please, Mrs. Gilbert, try to tell us exactly what happened next. I know that you’ve already been through this with Chief Inspector Deveney, but you might remember some tiny detail that could help us.”

  After a moment Claire took Lucy’s hand and cradled it between her own, but Kincaid couldn’t tell if she was extending support or receiving comfort. “You saw. There was blood… everywhere. I could smell it.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, then continued. “I tried to lift him. Then I realized… I had some first-aid training, years ago. When I couldn’t find a pulse, I dialed nine-nine-nine.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual as you came into the house?” asked Gemma. “Anything at all in the kitchen that wasn’t quite where it should be?”

  Claire shook her head, and the lines of exhaustion seemed to deepen around her mouth.

  “But I understand you’ve reported some things missing from the house,” said Kincaid, and Deveney gave him a quick nod of confirmation.

  “My pearls. And the earrings Alastair gave me on my birthday… he had them specially made.” Claire sank back against the sofa cushion and closed her eyes.

  “It sounds as if they must have been quite valuable,” said Gemma.

  When Claire didn’t stir, Lucy glanced at her, then answered, “I suppose they
were. I don’t know, really.” She pulled her hand free of her mother’s and held it out in a pleading gesture. “Please, Superintendent,” she said, and at the distress in her voice the dog began to bark, scrabbling against the door with his claws.

  “Do shut him up, Lucy,” said Claire, but her voice was listless, and she didn’t move or open her eyes.

  Lucy sprang up, but even as she did so the dog’s barking faded to a whimper, then subsided altogether. She sank back to the edge of the sofa, looking in mute appeal from her mother to Kincaid.

  “Only one more thing, Lucy, I promise,” he said softly, then he turned to Claire. “Mrs. Gilbert, do you have any idea why your husband came home early?”

  Claire pressed her fingers to her throat and said slowly, “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know who he was meet-”

  “Please.” Lucy stood up, shivering. She crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts and said through chattering teeth, “She’s said already. She doesn’t know.”

  “It’s all right, darling,” said Claire, rousing herself. With an apparent effort, she pushed herself to the edge of her seat. “Lucy’s right, Superintendent. It’s not-it wasn’t Alastair’s habit to share details about his work. He didn’t tell me whom he intended seeing.” She stood up, then swayed. Lucy reached out to support her, and as she was the taller of the two, her arm fit easily around her mother’s shoulders.

  “Please, Mummy, do stop,” she said, then she looked at Kincaid. “Let me take her upstairs now.” Her voice held more question than command, and she seemed to Kincaid very much a child playing an adult’s part.

  “There must be someone you can call,” said Gemma, standing and touching Lucy’s arm. “A neighbor? A relative?”

  “We don’t need anyone else. We can manage,” Lucy said a little abruptly. Then her brief bravado seemed to dissolve as she added, “What should I do about the house… and things? What if…”

  Deveney answered her gently, but without patronizing her. “Please don’t worry, Miss Penmaric. I’m sure that whoever did this won’t come back. And we’ll have someone here all night, either outside or in the kitchen.” He paused for a moment, and they heard a faint whimpering. “Why don’t you take the dog upstairs with you, if it makes you feel more comfortable?” he suggested, smiling.

  Lucy gave it grave consideration. “He’d like that.”

  “If there’s nothing else…” Claire’s speech had begun to slur, yet in spite of her exhaustion she still maintained a semblance of graciousness.

  “That’s all for tonight, Mrs. Gilbert. And Lucy. Thank you for your patience,” said Kincaid as he stood beside Deveney and Gemma, and they all watched silently as mother and daughter left the room.

  When the door had swung shut, Nick Deveney shook his head and ran his fingers through the early gray streaking his hair at the temple. “I’m not sure I’d have held up as well, under the circumstances. Lucky for them, isn’t it, that they have each other?”

  The scene-of-crime team was still busily at work in the kitchen, but Alastair Gilbert’s body had been removed. The drying blood had smeared in streaks and swirls, like a child’s exercise in finger paints. Excusing himself to speak to one of the SOCOs, Deveney left Kincaid and Gemma standing in the doorway.

  Kincaid felt the adrenaline that had sustained him for the last few hours ebbing. Glancing at Gemma, he found her studying him. Her freckles, usually an almost imperceptible dusting against her fair skin, stood out in sharp contrast to her pallor. He suddenly felt her exhaustion as if it were his own, and the familiar, intimate awareness of her ran through him like a shock. As he lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, she started to speak, and they both froze. They had lost the ease of it, all their carefully established camaraderie had gone, and it seemed to him as if she might misconstrue even his small gesture of comfort. Awkwardly, he dropped his hand and shoved it in his pocket, as if removing it from temptation.

  As Deveney came back to them, Gemma abruptly excused herself and left the kitchen by the mudroom door without meeting Kincaid’s eyes again.

  “Dr. Ling said she’d schedule the postmortem first thing tomorrow at Guildford Mortuary.” As he spoke, Deveney slumped against the doorframe and watched with an abstracted expression as one of the civilian techs scraped up a blood sample from the floor. “Can’t be soon enough, as far as the brass are concerned. I’ll have the plods out door-to-door at first light-” He paused, and for the first time his expression was wary as he glanced at Kincaid. “That is, if it meets with your approval.”

  The chain of command when the Yard was called in to work with a regional force could be a bit tricky. Although technically Kincaid outranked Deveney, he had no wish to antagonize the local man at the outset. Nick Deveney seemed an intelligent and capable copper, Kincaid thought as he nodded assent, and he’d be more than happy to let him run his end of things without interference. “You’ll be following up on this intruder business?”

  “Maybe at daylight we’ll find he’s left half-inch-deep footprints all over the garden,” Deveney said, grinning.

  Kincaid snorted. “Along with a set of perfect prints on the doorknob and a previous a mile long. We should be so lucky. How early is first thing, by the way?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin.

  “Sevenish, I would imagine. Kate Ling doesn’t seem to need sleep. Exists on a combination of coffee and formaldehyde fumes,” said Deveney. “But she’s good, and we were lucky to get her on the scene tonight.” As Gemma rejoined them, Deveney included her with a quick smile. “Listen, why don’t you send your driver back to London with your car. I’ve made arrangements to put you up at the local-you did come prepared to stay?” When they nodded, he continued. “Good. We’ll send someone to take you to the mortuary in the morning. And then-” He broke off as a plainclothes officer beckoned him from the mudroom door. With a sigh he pushed off from the wall. “Back in a tick.”

  “I’ll see to Williams,” said Gemma a little too quickly, and left Kincaid standing alone. For a few moments he watched the technicians and the photographer, then he edged around their work area until he reached the refrigerator. Opening it, he bent over and examined the contents. Milk, juice, eggs, butter, and, tucked haphazardly onto the bottom shelf, a package of fresh pasta and a plastic container of Alfredo sauce, bearing the Sainsbury deli’s seal. Neither container had been opened.

  “I found some bread and cheese. Made the ladies some sandwiches,” said a voice above his head.

  Kincaid stood and turned, and still found himself looking up at the rosy-cheeked visage of Police Constable Darling. “Ah, the minder,” he murmured, then at the constable’s blank look he added more loudly, “Very thoughtful of you…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to add the surname.

  “Add hunger to shock and exhaustion and they’d have been in a right state,” Darling said seriously, “and there didn’t seem to be anyone else to look after them.”

  “No, you’re quite right. Usually, helpful and nosy neighbors materialize out of the woodwork in this sort of situation. Relatives too, as often as not.”

  “Mrs. Gilbert said both her parents were dead,” volunteered Darling.

  “Did she now?” Kincaid studied the constable for a moment, then gestured towards the hall door. “Here, let’s have a word where it’s a bit quieter.” When they reached the relative calm of the passageway, he continued. “You sat with Mrs. Gilbert and her daughter for quite some time, didn’t you?”

  “Several hours, I’d say, in between the chief inspector’s comings and goings.”

  A lamp on the telephone table lit Darling’s face from below, revealing a few lines on his brow and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. Perhaps he was not as young as Kincaid had first thought. “You seem to have taken this in your stride,” Kincaid said, his curiosity piqued by the man’s self-possession.

  “I grew up on a farm, sir. I’ve seen death often enough.” He regarded Kincaid for a mome
nt, then blinked and sighed. “But there is something about this one. It’s not just Commander Gilbert being a senior officer and all. Or the mess, exactly.” Kincaid raised an eyebrow and Darling went on, hesitantly. “It’s just that it all seems so… inappropriate.” He shook his head. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

  “No, I know what you mean,” Kincaid answered. Not that appropriate was a word he’d be likely to apply to any murder, but something about this one struck a distinctly jarring note. Violence had no place in such an ordered and well-kept life. “Did Mrs. Gilbert and Lucy talk to each other while you were with them?” he asked.

  Darling settled his broad shoulders against the wall and focused on a point beyond Kincaid’s head for a moment before replying. “Now that you mention it, I can’t say that they did. Or only a word or two. But they both talked to me. I offered to ring someone for them, but Mrs. Gilbert said no, they’d be all right on their own. She did say something about having to tell the commander’s mother, but it seems she’s in a nursing home and Mrs. Gilbert thought it best to wait until tomorrow. Today, that is,” he added, glancing at his watch, and Kincaid heard the beginnings of fatigue in his voice.

  “I won’t keep you, Constable.” Kincaid smiled. “And I can’t speak for your guv’nor, but I’m about ready to salvage what little sleep I can from this night.”

  Late as the hour was, a few lights still burned in the pub. Deveney rapped sharply on the glass pane of the door, and in a moment a shadowy form slid back the bolts.

  “Come in, come in,” the man said as he opened the door. “Take the chill off. I’m Brian Genovase, by the way,” he added, holding out a hand to Kincaid and Gemma in turn as they crowded in behind Deveney.

  The pub was surprisingly small. They had entered directly into the right-hand alcove, where a handful of tables surrounded a stone hearth. To their left the length of the bar occupied the pub’s center, and beyond that a few more tables were grouped to make up the dining area.