Leave the Grave Green

“Connor was Catholic, yes, but he didn’t practice, and Julia preferred to be married here at St. Barts.” He nodded at the church, its distinctive double tower just visible across the lane. “I counseled Connor as well as Julia before the wedding, and I must say I had my doubts, even then.”

“Why was that?” Kincaid had developed a considerable regard for the vicar’s perceptions.

“In some odd way he reminded me of Matthew, or of Matthew as he might have been had he grown up. I don’t know if I can explain it… he was perhaps a bit too glib for my liking—with such outward charm it’s sometimes difficult to tell what runs beneath the surface. An ill-fated match, in any event.”

“Apparently,” Kincaid agreed wryly. “Although I’m a bit confused as to who wouldn’t divorce whom. Julia certainly seems to have grown to dislike Connor.” He paused, weighing his words. “Do you think she could have killed him, Vicar? Is she capable of it?”

“We all carry the seeds of violence, Mr. Kincaid. What has always fascinated me is the balance of the equation—what factor is it that allows one person to tip over the edge, and another not?” Mead’s eyes held knowledge accumulated over a lifetime of observing the best and worst of human character, and it occurred to Kincaid once again that their callings were not dissimilar. The vicar blinked and continued, “But to answer your question, no, I do not think Julia capable of killing anyone, no matter what the circumstances.”

“Why do you say ‘anyone,’ Vicar?” Kincaid asked, puzzled.

“Only because there were rumors at the time of Matthew’s death, and you are bound to hear them if you poke long enough under rocks. Open accusations might have been refutable, but not the faceless whispers in the dark.”

“What did they say, the whisperers?” Kincaid said, knowing the answer even as he spoke.

Mead sighed. “Only what you might expect, human nature being what it is, as well as being fueled by her sometimes obvious jealousy of her brother. They insinuated that she didn’t try to save him… that she might even have pushed him.”

“She was jealous of him, then?”

The vicar sat up a bit in his chair and for the first time sounded a bit irascible. “Of course she was jealous! As any normal child would have been, given the circumstances.” His gray eyes held Kincaid’s. “But she also loved him, and would never willingly have allowed harm to come to him. Julia did as much to save her brother as anyone could expect of a frightened thirteen-year-old, probably more.” He stood up and began collecting the tea things on the tray. “I don’t possess the temerity to call a tragedy like that an act of God. And accidents, Mr. Kincaid, are often unanswerable.”

Placing his mug carefully on the tray, Kincaid said, “Thank you, Vicar. You’ve been very kind.”

Mead stood, tray balanced in his hands, gazing out the window at the churchyard. “I don’t profess to understand the workings of fate. Sometimes it’s best not to, in my business,” he added, the twinkle surfacing again, “but I’ve always wondered. The children usually took the bus home from school, but they were late that day and had to walk instead. What kept them?”

CHAPTER

7

Kincaid reshuffled the files on his desk and ran a hand through his hair until it stood up like a cockscomb. The late Sunday afternoon lull at the Yard usually provided the perfect time to catch up on paperwork, but today concentration eluded him. He stretched and glanced at his watch—past teatime, and the sudden hollow sensation in his stomach reminded him he’d missed lunch altogether. Tossing the reports he’d managed to finish into the out tray, he stood up and grabbed his jacket from the peg.

He’d go home, look after Sid, repack his bag, perhaps grab a Chinese take-away. Ordinarily the prospect would have contented him, but today it didn’t ease the restlessness that had dogged him since he left the vicarage and caught the train back to London. The image of Julia rose again in his mind. Her face was younger, softer, but pale against the darkness of her fever-matted hair, and she tossed in her white-sheeted bed, uncomforted.

He wondered just how much political clout the Ashertons wielded, and how carefully he need tread.

It was not until he’d exited the Yard garage into Caxton Street that he thought of phoning Gemma again. He’d rung periodically during the afternoon without reaching her, although she must have been finished with her interview at the ENO hours ago. He eyed the cellular phone but didn’t pick it up, and as he rounded St. James Park he found himself heading toward Islington rather than Hampstead. It had been weeks since Gemma moved into the new flat, and her rather embarrassed delight when she spoke of it intrigued him. He’d just pop by on the off-chance he’d catch her at home.

When he remembered how carefully she had avoided inviting him to her house in Leyton, he pushed it to the back of his mind.