Leave the Grave Green

Tony stared at her, taking in, she felt sure, the curling ginger hair drawn back with a clip, the casual barley-colored pullover and navy slacks. “You’re a copper? Well, I’ll be.” He shook his head, his wavy hair not disturbed a whit by his incredulity. “Best-looking one I’ve seen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Gemma smiled, accepting the compliment in the same good humor as it was given. “Did you know him, the man that drowned?”

This time Tony tut-tutted as he shook his head. “What a shame. Oh, everyone around here knew Connor. Doubt there’s a pub between here and London where he hadn’t put his head in once or twice. Or a racetrack. A real Jack the Lad, that one.”

“Well liked, was he?” asked Gemma, fighting her prejudice toward a man on such good terms with pints and horses. Only after she’d married Rob had she discovered that he considered flirting and gambling as inalienable rights.

“Connor was a friendly sort of bloke, always had a word and a pat on the back for you. Good for business, too. After he’d had a couple of pints he’d buy rounds for everybody in the place.” Tony leaned forward against the bar, his face animated. “And what a tragedy for the family, after the other.”

“What other? Whose family?” Gemma asked, wondering if she’d missed a reference to another drowning in the reports she’d read.

“Sorry.” Tony smiled. “It is a bit confusing, I’m sure. Connor’s wife Julia’s family, the Ashertons. Been here for donkey’s years. Connor was upstart Irish, second generation, I think, but all the same…”

“What happened to the Ashertons?” Gemma encouraged him, interested.

“I was just a couple of years out of school, back from trying it out in London.” His white teeth flashed as he smiled. “Decided the big city wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I’d thought. It was just about this time of year, as a matter of fact, and wet. Seemed like it had rained for months on end.” Tony paused and pulled a half-pint mug from the rack, lifting it toward Gemma. “Mind if I join you?”

She shook her head, smiling. “Of course not.” He was enjoying himself thoroughly now, and the longer she let him string out the story, the more detail she’d get.

He pulled a half-pint of Guinness from the tap and sipped it, then wiped the creamy foam from his upper lip before continuing. “What was his name, now? Julia’s little brother. It’s been twenty years, or close to it.” He ran his fingers lightly over his hair, as if the admission of time passing made him conscious of his age. “Matthew, that was it. Matthew Asherton. All of twelve years old and some sort of musical prodigy, walking home from school one day with his sister, and drowned. Just like that.”

The image of her own son clutched unbidden at Gemma’s heart—Toby half-grown, his blond hair darkened, his face and body maturing from little-boy chubbiness, snatched away. She swallowed and said, “How terrible. For all of them, but especially Julia. First her brother and now her husband. How did the little boy drown?”

“I’m not sure anyone ever really knew. One of those freak things that happen sometimes.” He shrugged and drank down half his Guinness. “Quite a hush-hush at the time. Nobody talked about it except in whispers, and it’s still not mentioned to the family, I suppose.”

A draft of cold air stirred Gemma’s hair and swirled around her ankles as the outer door opened. She turned and watched a foursome come in and settle at a corner table, waving a familiar greeting to Tony. “Reservations in half an hour, Tony,” one of the men called. “Same as usual, okay?”

“It’ll be picking up a bit now,” Tony remarked to Gemma as he began mixing their drinks. “Restaurant usually fills up on a Friday night—all the locals out for their weekly bit of fun, minus the kiddies.” Gemma laughed, and when the air blew cool again against her back she didn’t turn in anticipation.

Light fingers brushed her shoulder as Kincaid slid onto the barstool beside her. “Gemma. Propping up the bar without me, I see.”

“Oh, hullo, guv.” She felt the pulse jump in her throat, even though she’d been expecting him.

“And chatting up the locals, I see. Lucky bloke.” He grinned at Tony. “I’ll have a pint of… Brakspear, isn’t it, that’s brewed at Henley?”

“My boss,” Gemma said in explanation to Tony. “Tony, this is Superintendent Duncan Kincaid.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m sure.” Tony gave Gemma a surprised glance as he put a hand out to Kincaid.

Gemma studied Kincaid critically. Tall and slender, brown hair slightly untidy, tie askew and tweed jacket beaded with rain—she supposed he didn’t look like most people’s idea of a proper Scotland Yard superintendent. And he was too young, of course. Superintendents should definitely be older and weightier.

“Tell all,” Kincaid said, when he’d got his pint and Tony had busied himself serving drinks to the customers in the corner.