Leave the Grave Green

“All right.” She smiled, appeased. “That’s easy enough. Caro and I had an early supper in front of the fire in the sitting room. We often do when Gerald’s away.”

“And after that?”

“We sat before the fire, reading, watching the telly, talking a little. I made some cocoa around ten o’clock, and when we’d finished it I went up to bed.” She added with a touch of irony, “I remember thinking it had been a particularly peaceful and pleasant evening.”

“Nothing else?” Kincaid asked, straightening up in his chair and pushing away his empty mug.

“No,” Vivian said, but then paused and stared into space for a moment. “I do remember something, but it’s quite silly.” When Kincaid nodded encouragement, she continued. “Just after I’d fallen asleep I thought I heard the doorbell, but when I sat up and listened, the house was perfectly quiet. I must have been dreaming. Gerald and Julia both have their own keys, of course, so there was no need to wait up for them.”

“Did you hear either of them come in?”

“I thought I heard Gerald around midnight, but I wasn’t properly awake, and the next thing I knew it was daybreak and the rooks were making a god-awful racket in the beeches outside my window.”

“Couldn’t it have been Julia?” Kincaid asked.

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. “I suppose it could, but if it’s not terribly late, Julia usually looks in on me before she goes up.”

“And she didn’t that evening?”

When Vivian shook her head, Kincaid smiled at her and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Plumley. You’ve been very helpful.”

This time, before rising, Vivian Plumley looked at him and said, “Shall I tell them you’re here?”

Sir Gerald Asherton stood with his back to the sitting room fire, hands clasped behind him. He made a perfect picture of a nineteenth-century country squire, thought Gemma, with his feet spread apart in a relaxed posture and his bulk encased in rather hairy tweeds. He even sported suede elbow patches on his jacket. The only things needed to complete the tableau were a pipe and a pair of hunting hounds sprawled at his feet.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting.” He came toward them, pumped their hands and gestured them toward the sofa.

Gemma found the courtesy rather disarming, and suspected it was meant to be.

“Thank you, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid said, returning it in kind. “And Dame Caroline?”

“Gone for a bit of a lie-down. Found the business at the undertakers rather upsetting, I’m afraid.” Sir Gerald sat in the armchair opposite them, crossed one foot over his knee and adjusted his trouser leg. An expanse of Argyle sock in autumnal orange and brown appeared between shoe and trouser cuff.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid smiled as he spoke, “it seems a little odd that your daughter didn’t take care of the arrangements herself. Connor was, after all, her husband.”

“Just so,” answered Sir Gerald with a touch of asperity. “Sometimes these things are best left to those not quite so close to the matter. And funeral directors are notorious for preying on the emotions of the newly bereaved.” Gemma felt a stab of pity at the reminder that this burly, confident man spoke from the worst possible personal experience.

Kincaid shrugged and let the matter drop. “I need to ask you about your movements on Thursday night, sir.” At Sir Gerald’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Just a formality, you understand.”

“No reason why I shouldn’t oblige you, Mr. Kincaid. It’s a matter of public record. I was at the Coliseum, conducting a performance of Pelleas and Melisande.” He favored them with his large smile, showing healthily pink gums. “Extremely visible. No one could have impersonated me, I assure you.”

Gemma imagined him facing an orchestra, and felt sure he dominated the hall as easily as he dominated this small room. From where she sat she could see a photograph of him atop the piano, along with several others in similar silver frames. She stood up unobtrusively and went to examine them. The nearest showed Sir Gerald in a tuxedo, baton in hand, looking as comfortable as he did in his country tweeds. In another he had his arm around a small dark-haired woman who laughed up at the camera with a voluptuous prettiness.

The photograph of the children had been pushed to the back, as if no one cared to look at it often. The boy stood slightly in the foreground, solid and fair, with an impish gap-toothed grin. The girl was a few inches taller, dark-haired like her mother, her thin face gravely set. This was Julia, of course. Julia and Matthew.

“And after?” she heard Kincaid say, and she turned back to the conversation, rather embarrassed by her lapse of attention.

Sir Gerald shrugged. “It takes a while to wind down after a performance. I stayed in my dressing room for a bit, but I’m afraid I didn’t take notice of the time. Then I drove straight home, which must have put me here sometime after midnight.”

“Must have?” Kincaid asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.