A Share in Death

“It’s possible they heard me coming out of my suite. But then again, it’s not that different from what happened to Penny or Sebastian. Opportunity seen—action taken, with little to lose. Bending over Hannah on the stairs would have been a much riskier proposition.”

Anne shuddered. “What an awful thought.”

“I know. I’ve told her to keep herself locked in and not to go anywhere without telling me. She says she doesn’t want babysitting,” he added in exasperation. “She was quite docile and agreeable until she began to recover a little.”

“I’ve left her with Chief Inspector Nash. That’s not exactly what I would call a tranquilizing experience.”

“No. Best to get it over with so he’ll leave her in peace.” Kincaid studied Anne appreciatively. Under a bright yellow plastic slicker, she wore fuchsia leggings and a matching rugby-striped top, and looked to Kincaid as unlikely a doctor as he could imagine.

“What’s so funny?” asked Anne, as the grin spread across his face.

“I was thinking of the crusty old country practitioner who looked after us when I was growing up.”

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She glanced down at herself, then met his smile. “Well, times change, don’t they? Thank goodness.” Her eyes strayed to her watch. “But some things never seem to. I’m late getting supper for my girls. I’m afraid I’ll have to run.”

He felt suddenly embarrassed, as if he’d been guilty of forgetting her obligations, but said equably enough, “Yes. I’ll walk you out.”

Her yellow slicker squeaked and rustled as she walked, and once her arm brushed lightly against his. When they reached her car she opened the door and swung her bag in, then turned to face him. Kincaid stood close enough to notice that she smelled of lavender—a clean, comforting scent—and he searched for something to say that might detain her a moment longer. “Thank you. This has all been pretty beastly for you, I imagine.”

Anne smiled. “Death’s familiar enough. It’s the circumstances that differ. Anyway, the police surgeon’s back from holiday tomorrow, so I won’t be officially on call anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said into the silence that stretched between them.

“I’m sorry, too,” Anne Percy answered as she got into the car, and as Kincaid watched her drive away he wasn’t sure what either of them had meant.

The evening drew in as Gemma drove north along the Banbury Road. Large, comfortable houses flanked the street on either side, their interiors looking warm and welcoming as only lamplit rooms seen in the dusk can. Trees filled the gardens, the fading light leaching the autumn colors from their leaves.

She’d never been in Oxford before—never had a case take her there, and it wasn’t the sort of place her family would have chosen to go on holiday. Her mum and dad had gone to the same Cornish village for the same two weeks every year as far back as she could remember—an agreeable, dependable place, and not the least bit adventuresome.

Much to her surprise, Gemma found herself enchanted with the city. Once she’d arranged an evening appointment

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with Miles Sterrett through his housekeeper, she’d had several hours to kill, and had spent them exploring the city center. From Cornmarket down The High as far as Magdalen College and the river, the tranquil, green quads of the colleges beckoned.

She walked slowly, the collar of her navy cardigan turned up against the wind, and when she reached the bridge over the Cherwell she leaned her elbows on the parapet and watched the boat crews skimming the water as lightly as water-bugs.

A university education had been so far out of her reach that she’d never really envied others the privilege, but now she felt a fleeting longing for an opportunity missed. Kincaid had told her once, over an after-work pint, that he’d been eligible for a police scholarship to university, but hadn’t applied. “A little late rebelliousness, I suppose,” he’d said, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. “Too much what my parents expected of me. It seems a bit silly now, to have passed it up.”

Gemma thought, as she slowed for the turning she had missed in the afternoon, that Oxford would have suited Kincaid very well.

The Julia Sterrett Clinic looked simply what it was, a large private house, set back on a side street near the Banbury Road. The only indication of its true function was a discreet plaque set into the brick near the front door. Gemma rang the bell and waited, and after a moment she heard the heavy shuffle of feet and the click of the bolts being drawn back.

“You’re right on time, dear,” the housekeeper said as she opened the door.

Gemma found the stout, little housekeeper a great improvement over the dragon of a secretary that had manned the clinic’s desk that afternoon. “Hello, Mrs. Milton. Is he ready to see me?”

“I’ll take you up straightaway.”

Mrs. Milton toiled up the curving staircase, breath puffing, cheeks pink with exertion, while Gemma followed a little guiltily in her wake. Looking back, Gemma could see the