Leave the Grave Green

Frye gazed dreamily past Kincaid’s shoulder. “She’s quite striking, isn’t she? And her paintings… well, if I could paint like that, I wouldn’t spend my life doing print layouts for White’s Plumbing Supply and Carpetland.” He gave a self-deprecating grimace. “But I can’t.” Focusing again on Kincaid, he added, “I didn’t meet her, but not from lack of trying. I’d drunk my cheap champagne—not without a good bit of it knocked down my shirt-front by careless elbows—and had almost made my way through the mob to her when she slipped out the front door.”

“Did you follow her?”

“Eventually I elbowed my way to the door, thinking I’d at least pay my respects on my way out.”

“And?” Kincaid prompted impatiently.

“She was nowhere in sight.”

CHAPTER

9

The trees arched overhead, their branches interlocking like twined fingers, squeezing tighter and tighter—Gemma blew a wisp of hair from her face and said, “Silly goose.” The words seemed to bounce back at her, then it was quiet again inside the car except for an occasional squeaking as the twigs and rootlets protruding from the banks brushed against the windows. The sound reminded her of fingernails on chalkboard. London and Tommy Godwin’s urbane civility seemed a world away, and for a moment she wished she’d insisted on attending the autopsy with Kincaid. He had left a message for her at the Yard, summing up the rather inconclusive results.

She shifted down into second gear as the gradient grew steeper. Kincaid had been with her when she’d driven this way the first time, his presence forestalling any lurking claustrophobia. It was all quite silly, really, she chided herself. It was just a narrow road, after all, and some of her discomfort could surely be put down to her London-bred distrust of the country.

Nevertheless, she spied the turning for Badger’s End with some relief, and soon bumped to a stop in the clearing before the house. She got out of the car and stood for a moment. Even in the chill air, the damp scent of leaf mold reached her nose, rich as autumn distilled.

In the stillness she heard the same curious, high-pitched humming sound she and Kincaid had noticed before. She looked up, searching for power lines, but saw only more leaves and a patch of uniformly gray sky. Perhaps it was some sort of generator or transformer, or—she smiled, her temper improving by the moment—UFOs. She’d try that one on the guv.

Her lips still curved in the hint of a smile as she rang the bell. Vivian Plumley opened the door, as she had before, but this time she smiled as she recognized Gemma. “Sergeant. Please come in.”

“I’d like a word with Dame Caroline, Mrs. Plumley,” Gemma responded as she stepped into the flagged hall. “Is she in?”

“She is, but she’s teaching just now.”

Gemma heard the piano begin, then a soprano voice singing a quick, lilting line. Words she couldn’t distinguish interrupted the singing, then a second voice repeated the line. Darker and more complex than the first voice, it possessed an indefinable uniqueness. Even through the closed sitting room door, Gemma recognized it instantly. “That’s Dame Caroline.”

Vivian Plumley regarded her with interest. “You have a good ear, my dear. Where have you heard her?”

“On a tape,” Gemma said shortly, suddenly reluctant to confess her interest.

Vivian glanced at her watch. “Come and have a cuppa. She should be finished shortly.”

“What are they singing?” Gemma asked as she followed Vivian down the hall.

“Rossini. One of Rosina’s arias from The Barber of Seville. In Italian, thank goodness.” She smiled over her shoulder at Gemma as she pushed open the door into the kitchen. “Although in this household that’s not the most politically correct thing to say.”

“Because of the ENO’s policy?”

“Exactly. Sir Gerald is quite firm in agreeing with their position. I think Caro has always preferred singing an opera in its original language, but she doesn’t express her opinion too forcefully.” Vivian smiled again, affectionately. The disagreement was obviously a long-standing family tradition.

“Something smells heavenly,” Gemma said, taking a deep breath. After her previous visit, the kitchen seemed as comforting and familiar as home. The red Aga radiated heat like a cast-iron heart, and on its surface two brown loaves rested on a cooling rack.

“Bread’s just out of the oven,” Vivian said as she assembled mugs and a stoneware teapot on a tray. On the Aga a copper teakettle stood gently steaming.

“You don’t use an electric kettle?” Gemma asked curiously.

“I’m a dinosaur, I suppose. I’ve never cared for gadgets. Turning her attention fully on Gemma, Vivian added, “You will have some hot bread, won’t you? It’s getting on for teatime.”

“I had some lunch before I left London,” Gemma said, remembering the cold and greasy sausage roll hastily snatched from the Yard canteen after her interview at LB House. “But yes, I’d love some, thanks.” She went nearer as Vivian poured boiling water into the pot and began slicing the bread. “Whole meal?”