Leave the Grave Green

The despair in her voice banished his anger as quickly as it had come. He went to her and drew her gently to him, stroking her hair as she laid her head against his shoulder. Her slender body fit into the curve of his arms as easily as if it had always been there, and her hair felt as silky as feathers against the palm of his hand. She smelled faintly, unexpectedly, of lilacs. Kincaid took a breath, steadying himself against the wave of dizziness that swept over him, forcing himself to concentrate on the matter at hand. “What has Matty to do with it, Julia?”

“Everything. I loved him, too, you see, but that never seemed to occur to anyone… except Plummy, I suppose. She knew. I was ill, you know… afterward. But it gave me time to think, and it was then I decided that nothing would ever hurt me like that again.” She pulled away from him just enough to look up into his face. “It’s not worth it. Nothing is.”

“But surely the alternative—a lifetime of emotional isolation—is worse?”

She came back into his arms, resting her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. “It’s bearable, at least,” she said, her voice muffled, and he felt her breath, warm through the fabric of his shirt. “I tried to explain it to Con that day—why I could never give him what he wanted… a family, children. I had nothing to go by, you see, no blueprint for an ordinary life. And a child—I could never take that risk. You do you see that, don’t you?”

He saw himself with uncomfortable clarity, curling up like a wounded hedgehog after Vic had shattered his safe and comfortable existence. He had protected himself from risk as surely as Julia. But she, at least, had been honest with herself, while he had used work, with the convenient demands of a cop’s life, as an excuse for not making emotional commitments. “I do see it,” he said softly, “but I don’t agree with it.”

He rubbed her back, gently kneading the knotted muscles, and her shoulder blades felt sharp under his hands. “Did Connor understand?”

“It only made him more angry. It was then I was beastly to him. I said—” She stopped, shaking her head, and her hair tickled Kincaid’s nose. “Horrid things, really horrid. I’m so ashamed.” Harshly, she added, “It’s my fault he’s dead. I don’t know what he did after he left Badger’s End that day, but if I hadn’t sent him away so cruelly—” She was crying now, her words coming in hiccuping gulps.

Kincaid took her face in his hands and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Julia, Julia. You don’t know that. You can’t know that. You were not responsible for Connor’s behavior, or for his death.” He looked down at her, and in her tousled hair and tear-streaked face he saw again the child of his vision, alone with her grief in the narrow white bed. After a moment he said, “Nor were you responsible for Matthew’s death. Look at me, Julia. Do you hear me?”

“How can you know that?” she asked fiercely. “Everyone thought… Mummy and Daddy never forgave—”

“Those who knew and loved you never held you responsible, Julia. I’ve spoken to Plummy. And the vicar. You’re the one who has never forgiven yourself. That’s too heavy a burden for anyone to carry for twenty years. Let it go.”

For a long moment she held his gaze, then he felt the tension drain from her body. She returned her head to his shoulder, slipped her arms around his waist and leaned against him, letting him support her weight.

Thus they stood, quietly, until Kincaid became aware of every point where their bodies made contact. For all her slenderness, her body seemed suddenly, undeniably solid against his, and her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears.

Julia gave a hiccuping sigh and raised her head a little. “I’ve gone and made your shirt all soggy,” she said, rubbing at the damp patch on his shoulder. Then she tilted her head so that she could look into his face and added, her voice husky with suppressed laughter, “Does Scotland Yard always render its services so… enthusiastically?”

He stepped back, flushing with embarrassment, wishing he had worn less-revealing jeans rather than slacks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” she said, drawing him to her again. “I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.”

CHAPTER

14

He woke to the sound of Tony’s voice. “Morning tea, Mr. Kincaid,” he said as he tapped on the door and entered. “And a message for you from Sergeant Makepeace at High Wycombe. Something about catching the bird you wanted?”

Kincaid sat up and ran a hand through his hair, then accepted the cup. “Thanks, Tony,” he said to Tony’s departing back. So they had found Kenneth Hicks and brought him in. They wouldn’t be able to hold him long without cause. He should have checked in last night—hot tea sloshed onto his hand as awareness came flooding into his still groggy brain.