Leave the Grave Green

But even as he set out these facts, he knew that they had little to do with what he felt. He studied her face. Could one see guilt, if one had the right skills, the right information? He had sensed it often enough, and his rational mind told him the assessment must be based on a combination of subliminal cues—body language, smell, shadings in the voice. But he also knew that there was an element to it that transcended the rational—call it a hunch, or a feeling, it didn’t matter. It was based on an innate and inexplicable knowledge of another human being, and his knowledge of Julia went bone-deep. He was as certain of her innocence as his own.

Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I don’t think you killed Connor. But someone did, and I’m not sure we’re getting any closer to it.” His back had begun to ache and he stretched, recrossing his legs. “Do you know why Connor would have had dinner with Tommy Godwin the night he died?”

Julia sat up straight, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Tommy? Our Tommy? I’ve known Tommy since I was this high.” She held out a hand, toddler height. “I can’t imagine anything less likely than the two of them having a social get-together. Tommy never quite approved of Con, and I’m sure he made it clear. Very politely, of course,” she added fondly. “If Con had meant to see Tommy, surely he would have said?”

“According to Godwin, Con wanted his old job back, and thought he might help.”

Julia shook her head. “That’s piffle. Con had a screaming nervous breakdown. The firm wouldn’t have considered it.” Her eyes were peat-dark, and guileless.

Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, in hopes that removing her face from his sight would allow him to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again he found her watching him. “What did Connor say that day, Julia? It seems to me that his behavior only became out of the ordinary after he left you at lunchtime. I think you’ve not quite told me the whole truth.”

She looked away from him, fumbling for her cigarettes, then pushed the packet away and stood up, as graceful as a dancer. Moving to the table, she unscrewed the top of a paint tube and squeezed a drop of deep blue color onto her palette. Choosing a fine brush, she dabbed a little of the color onto the painting. “Can’t seem to get the bloody thing quite right, and I’m tired of looking at it. Maybe if I—”

“Julia.”

She stopped, paintbrush frozen in midair. After a long moment, she rinsed the brush and placed it carefully beside the drawing, then turned to him. “It began ordinarily enough, just the way I told you. A little row about money, about the flat.” She came back to the arm of the chair.

“Then what happened?” He moved closer to her and touched her hand, urging her on.

Julia captured his hand between her palms and held it tightly. She looked down, rubbing the back of his hand with her fingertips. “He begged me,” she said so softly Kincaid had to strain to hear. “He literally got down on his knees and begged me. Begged me to take him back, begged me to love him. I don’t know what set him off that day. I’d thought he had pretty well accepted things.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it was no use. That I meant to divorce him as soon as the two-year limit had passed, if he still refused to cooperate.” She met Kincaid’s eyes. “I was perfectly beastly to him, and it wasn’t his fault. None of it was.”

“What are you talking about?” Kincaid said, startled enough to forget for a moment the sensation of her fingers against his skin.

“It was all my fault, from the very beginning. I should never have married Con. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I was in love with the idea of getting married, and I suppose I thought we’d muddle through somehow.” She laughed, letting go his hand. “But the more he loved me, the more he needed, the less I had to give. In the end there was nothing at all.” Softly, she added, “Except pity.”

“Julia,” Kincaid said sharply, “you were not responsible for Connor’s needs. There are people who will suck you dry, no matter how much you give. You couldn’t—”

“You don’t understand.” She slipped from the arm of the chair, moving restlessly away from him, then turned back as she reached the worktable. “I knew when I married Con I couldn’t love him. Not him, not anyone, not even Trev, who hasn’t asked for much except honesty and affection. I can’t, do you see? I’m not capable.”

“Don’t be absurd, Julia,” Kincaid said, pushing to his feet. “Of course you—”

“No.” She stopped him with the one flat word. “I can’t. Because of Matty.”