Leave the Grave Green

Much to Kincaid’s satisfaction, Gemma ate her way steadily through a tuna sandwich without any of the reluctance she’d shown at breakfast. He finished his ham-and-cheese, then sipped his coffee and watched Gemma as she polished off a bag of crisps. “I can’t make sense of it,” he said when she had reached the finger-licking stage. “It can’t have been Gerald whom Con phoned from the flat. According to Sharon, Con made that call at a little after half-past ten, when Gerald was busy conducting a full orchestra.”

“He might have left a message,” said Gemma, wiping her fingertips with a paper napkin.

“With whom? Your porter would have remembered. Alison what’s-her-name would have remembered.”

“True.” Gemma tasted her coffee and made a face. “Cold. Ugh.” She pushed her cup away and folded her arms on the table-top. “It would make much more sense if Sir Gerald rang Con after Tommy had left.”

According to Tommy, Gerald had expressed neither shock nor outrage at his revelation. He gave Tommy a drink, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, then said as if to himself, “The worm ate Arthur’s empire from the inside, too, as he always knew it would.” Tommy had left him sitting slumped in his makeup chair, glass in hand.

“What if the call Sharon overheard had nothing to do with Connor’s murder? We have no proof that it did.” Kincaid drew speculative circles on the tabletop with the damp end of his spoon. “What if Con didn’t follow Sharon out of the flat? He didn’t tell her he meant to leave right away.”

“You mean that if Gerald had rung him after Tommy left, he might still have been there? And he might have agreed to meet him at the lock?” continued Gemma with a spark of interest.

“But we’ve no proof,” said Kincaid. “We’ve no proof of anything. This entire mess is like a pudding—as soon as you sink your teeth into it, it slides away.”

Gemma laughed, and Kincaid gave thanks for even a small sign of a thaw.

By the time they reached Badger’s End, the drizzle had evolved into a slow and steady rain. They sat for a moment in the car, listening to the rhythmic patter on roof and bonnet. Lamps were already lit in the house, and they saw a flick of the drape at the sitting room window.

“The light will be gone soon,” said Gemma. “The evenings draw in so early in this weather.” As Kincaid reached for the door handle, she touched his arm. “Guv, if Sir Gerald killed Connor, why did he want us in on it?”

Kincaid turned back to her. “Maybe Caroline insisted. Maybe his friend, the assistant commissioner, volunteered us, and he didn’t think he should protest.” Sensing her discomfort, he touched her fingers and added, “I don’t like this, either, Gemma, but we have to follow it through.”

They dashed for the house under the cover of one umbrella, and stood huddled together on the doorstep. They heard the short double ring as Kincaid pushed the bell, but before he could lift his finger, Sir Gerald opened the door himself. “Come in by the fire,” he said. “Here, take your wet things off. It’s beastly out, I’m afraid, and not likely to get any better.” He shepherded them into the sitting room, where a fire blazed in the grate, and Kincaid had a moment’s fancy that it was never allowed to go out.

“You’ll need something to warm you inside as well as out,” said Sir Gerald when they were established with their backs to the fire. “Plummy’s making us some tea.”

“Sir Gerald, we must talk to you,” said Kincaid, making a stand against the tide of social convention.

“I’m sorry Caroline’s out,” said Gerald, continuing in his hearty, friendly way as if there were nothing the least bit odd about their conversation. “She and Julia are making the final arrangements for Connor’s funeral.”

“Julia’s helping with the funeral?” asked Kincaid, surprised enough to be distracted from his agenda.

Sir Gerald ran a hand through his sparse hair, and sat down on the sofa. It was his spot, obviously, as the cushions had depressions that exactly matched his bulk, like a dog’s favorite old bed. Today he wore another variation of the moth-eaten sweater, this time in olive green, and what seemed to be the same baggy corduroys Kincaid had seen before. “Yes. She seems to have had a change of heart. I don’t know why, and I’m too thankful to question it,” he said, and gave them his engaging smile. “She came in like a whirlwind after lunch and said she’d made up her mind what should be done for Con, and she’s been putting us through our paces ever since.”

It would seem that Julia had made peace with Con’s ghost. Kincaid pushed the thought of her aside and concentrated on Gerald. “It’s you we wanted to see, sir.”

“Have you found something?” He sat forward a bit and scanned their faces anxiously. “Tell me, please. I don’t want Caroline and Julia upset.”