All Shall Be Well (10 page)

“Difficulty swallowing. The tumor pressed against the esophagus as it grew. Jasmine was managing very little soft food as it was, and if she’d gone on much longer a feeding tube would have become necessary.” Felicity sighed and relaxed a little in her chair. “Her pain would have increased considerably,
too, perhaps beyond manageability with drugs. I’ve seen similar tumors crack the patient’s ribs.”

“Did Jasmine know this?” Gemma asked, horrified by the description.

“I imagine so. Jasmine was an informed patient, she kept up with things.” Felicity smiled and fell silent, and Gemma saw weariness beneath the crisp exterior.

“How can you bear to do what you do, to watch people suffer so?”

This time Felicity’s shrug was almost Gallic in its eloquence. “Somebody has to. And I’m good at it. I make them comfortable, and I reassure them.”

Kincaid finished his coffee, leaned forward and set his empty cup down deliberately on the table. “Felicity, how could Jasmine have accumulated enough morphine to kill herself? Didn’t you supply the prescription for her?”

“She requested a dosage increase weeks ago. We don’t make an effort to limit terminal patients’ opiate consumption, we simply try to keep them comfortable. It’s quite possible that she told me she needed more morphine and then maintained the same dosage.” Felicity studied Kincaid. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Felicity obviously intended this as a dismissal, but Kincaid crossed his ankle over his knee and smiled at her. “You say you met Margaret a few times. Did her boyfriend ever come around? His name’s Roger—I’m sure you’d remember him.”

“No, Margaret always came alone when I was there, and Jasmine never mentioned meeting any friend.”

“Did Jasmine say anything to you about making arrangements to see her brother?”

Felicity shook her head and began stacking their coffee cups on the tray. “We never talked about personal matters. Some patients like to tell you their life story, but not Jasmine.”

“Did anyone visit her at all? Or did you see anyone unfamiliar in the building recently?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Kincaid gave in gracefully. He stood up and shook Felicity’s hand. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Gemma quickly followed suit. “Thanks for your time.”

“It may be necessary for you to appear at the inquest,” Kincaid added as an afterthought as they moved toward the door.

“All right. You’ll notify me?”

Kincaid nodded and held the door open for Gemma. “Good-bye.”

Gemma, turning back as the door closed to echo his farewell, had a last glimpse of Felicity Howarth standing alone in her sitting room.

They had joined the A24 toward Surrey before either of them spoke. Gemma glanced at Kincaid. He drove easily, hand resting lightly on the gear shift, his expression obscured by the sunglasses he’d pulled from the door pocket. “You’re still not convinced, are you?” she asked.

He answered without taking his eyes from the road. “No. Perhaps I’m just being stubborn.”

“You think she would have left a note for Margaret or Theo,” said Gemma, and added “or you,” silently. She found herself increasingly curious about this woman who had occupied such a large portion of Kincaid’s life, and of whom she had known nothing. He’d made some passing references to visiting a neighbor, but she had somehow assumed the neighbor to be male—a going-down-the-pub sort of thing. Just what had been his relationship with Jasmine Dent? Were they lovers, with Jasmine so ill with cancer?

Stealing a glance at Kincaid’s abstracted face, Gemma was
shocked to realize how little she knew of his personal life. It had seemed to her that he moved through life with a graceful ease which she both admired and resented. But perhaps not everything came as easily to him as she’d supposed—he was obviously suffering both grief and guilt over Jasmine’s death.

Now that she thought about it, when had she ever given him much chance to talk about what he did away from work? She had nattered on about Toby, and Kincaid had listened as if the activities of a two-year-old were absolutely fascinating. That she would have to attribute to natural good manners, and resolved to be less obtuse in the future.

“Gemma?”

She focused on Kincaid and flushed, feeling transparent. “Sorry?”

“You looked a bit glazed. I thought maybe my driving terrified you.”

“No,” Gemma answered, smiling. “I was just thinking,” she scrambled for the first thing that popped into her head, “um, about Felicity. Wouldn’t you think that if you spent your life caring for the dying, trying to offer some comfort, that you would need a very strong faith?”

“Possibly. Go on.”

Gemma heard the frown she couldn’t see behind Kincaid’s sunglasses. “Eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning and Felicity was working in the garden—she hadn’t been to church.”

“Maybe she’s R.C. and goes to early mass,” Kincaid said, amused.

“No makeup,” Gemma countered, “not even a trace of lipstick. Don’t tell me a good-looking woman like Felicity gets up and goes to church on Sunday morning without a stitch of make-up.”

“Very observant.” Kincaid grinned at that, then sobered. “Maybe whatever faith sustains Felicity isn’t the visible sort.”

They were entering the outskirts of Dorking. Kincaid pulled a map from his door pocket and handed it to Gemma. “Make sure it’s the A25 we want to Abinger Hammer, would you?” As Gemma rustled the map, he continued, “Meg comes from here. Says her father owns a garage. It’s not far from London for her family to have cut her off so completely. You’d think—”

“Junction coming up,” Gemma interrupted. “A25 west toward Guildford.” After Kincaid navigated the roundabout she said, “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Never mind. Let’s think about lunch.”

Abinger Hammer was more hamlet than village, a few shops, and a park with a stream running through it. Theo Dent’s shop, Trifles, stood at the crook in the road, across from the tea room and the village clock with its distinctive wooden bell-ringer.

Gemma and Kincaid ate tomato and cheese sandwiches, sitting in the sun in the tea shop’s tiny walled garden. The sandwiches came garnished with watercress, and were cheerfully delivered by a teenage waitress sporting pink hair and multiple earrings.

“Village punk,” Kincaid said, tucking stray sprigs of cress into his mouth with a finger.

“Can’t be much in the way of night life around here, surely?” Gemma hadn’t conquered her Londoner’s disdain for village life.

“Disco in the village hall, I imagine. Or video games in the pub for those old enough.”

Gemma pulled a face. “Ugh!”

Kincaid laughed. “Think about it, Gemma. Isn’t that just what you’d want for Toby when he’s older? No trouble to get into?”

She shook her head. “I’m not willing to contemplate that
yet.” Gemma finished her sandwich and swatted at a fat bumblebee which was making bombing runs at their table. “Did you grow up in a place this small?”

“Not this small, no. Relatively civilized, by your standards. We had a coffee bar. No video games in those days, though, just darts.” A flash of his grin told Gemma he was pulling her leg a bit. The persistent bee blundered into Kincaid’s teacup. Kincaid dumped him out and stretched. “Let’s go see what Theo Dent found to occupy himself last Thursday night.”

Chimes rang somewhere in the back of the shop as Gemma and Kincaid stepped inside Trifles and closed the door behind them. The “Closed” sign hanging on the inside of the door bounced and swung rhythmically, a counterpoint to the fading bells.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after the brilliant sunlight outside. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves,” Kincaid said softly as he looked around. “Not much trade for a Sunday afternoon.”

“Too pretty outside,” Gemma offered. The shop seemed unbearably warm and stuffy. Sheets of light slanted in through the uncurtained front windows, illuminating dusty objects. Gemma turned, surveying shelves and cluttered tables which held, among other things, mismatched china tea sets, brass knickknacks, faded hunting prints, and a glass case filled with antique buttons. “This stuff needs a rainy day for poking about in,” she said, holding a willow-pattern butter dish up to the light and squinting at it. “Oh, it’s cracked. Too bad.”

They heard the thump of quick footsteps on stair treads and a door in the back of the shop flew open. “Sorry. I was just finishing my—” Theo Dent stopped in the act of pushing his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, staring in bewilderment at Kincaid. “Mr. Kincaid? I didn’t recognize … I wasn’t expecting…”

“Hello, Theo. Didn’t mean to startle you. Should have called first, I expect, but it was a nice day for a run.”

Hogwash, thought Gemma, listening to Kincaid’s disarming patter. She knew him well enough to be sure he’d had every intention of catching Theo off-guard. This might as yet be unofficial nosiness, but Kincaid’s working techniques were in full play.

Kincaid introduced Gemma, again leaving their relationship open to the most likely assumption, and Theo shook her hand. Gemma studied him, seeing a small man with an oval face and a cap of brown, curly hair shot with gray, wearing gold-rimmed, round spectacles that gave him a dated look. His hand was small and softer than her own. “Nice to meet you. You’ve some lovely things here.” Gemma gestured around the room, then picked up the first thing that came to hand, a small porcelain pot in the shape of a beehive.

“Do you really think so?” Theo sounded inordinately pleased. He beamed at Gemma, showing small, even, white teeth. “Do you like honey pots? Here, look at this one,” he scooped a thatched porcelain cottage from a shelf, “and this,” white porcelain this time, decorated with mice peeping from a tangle of brambles. “Did you know that the Egyptians believed honey came from the tears of the sun god Ra? No pharaoh was buried without a sealed honey—”

“Theo,” Kincaid interrupted the enthusiastic monologue, “is there someplace we could talk?”

“Talk?” Theo sounded baffled. He looked hopefully around the shop, and when no chairs appeared, said, “Uh, sure. We could go upstairs, I guess.” He turned and led the way, glancing back over his shoulder anxiously. “It’s not much, you know … I hope you won’t mind …”

The upstairs flat obviously served as both living quarters and office—the office consisting of a scarred wooden desk covered
with scraps of paper and an old, black Bakelite telephone. Living quarters fared not much better, in Gemma’s opinion. A day bed, hastily made, and a cracked leather easy-chair dominated the furnishings, both positioned with a good view of a new color television and VCR. A curtained alcove hid what Gemma assumed to be cooking and bathing facilities.

“Lunch,” Theo said apologetically, scooping up a plate which held bread crusts and a paper instant-soup container, and placing it behind the curtain. He gestured Kincaid into the leather chair and pulled up the desk chair for Gemma. That left him standing awkwardly, until he spied an empty packing crate, turned it over and used it as an impromptu stool. Some of his anxious manner seemed to leave him and he smiled self-deprecatingly. “I don’t do much entertaining, as you might have gathered. I would have tidied the place up a bit for Jasmine, if she had come.” Theo took a deep breath. “Now, Mr. Kincaid, what did you want to see me about? You obviously didn’t bring this pretty young lady to admire my stock.” He nodded toward Gemma as he spoke, and, again, she had the impression of a slightly old-fashioned quality.

“I’ve heard your sister’s post mortem results, Theo. She died from an overdose of morphine.” Kincaid spoke softly, unemphatically.

Theo’s eyes lost their focus and he sat so quietly that Gemma looked questioningly at Kincaid, but after a moment he sighed and spoke. “Thank you. It’s what I’ve been expecting since you spoke to me about it on Friday night. It was kind of you to come all this way to tell me.”

Gemma, knowing that kindness had not been his intention, saw Kincaid color faintly.

“Theo—”

“It was the shock that upset me so, you know. I’ve had a bit of time to get used to the idea now, and I see that it was just the
sort of thing Jasmine would do. But what I still don’t understand,” Theo looked from Kincaid to Gemma, including her in the question, “is why she phoned and told me to visit her today.”

“Theo,” Kincaid tried again, “there is another possibility. The coroner will most likely return a verdict of suicide, unless we find evidence to the contrary.”

“Contrary? What do you mean, contrary?” Theo’s brows drew together over the gold rims of his spectacles.

Kincaid sat up and leaned toward Theo, speaking more urgently now. “Someone else could have given her the morphine, Theo. Maybe Jasmine told Margaret the truth—maybe she had changed her mind about suicide, and maybe someone didn’t like that decision at all.”

“You’re not serious?” Theo searched Kincaid’s expression for some hint of a joke, and finding none, turned to Gemma for confirmation.

She nodded. “I’m afraid he is.”

“But why?” Theo’s voice rose to a squeak. “Why would anybody want to kill Jasmine? She was dying, for Christ’s sake! You said yourself she’d only a few months left.” He took a breath and shoved his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, then shook his finger accusingly at Kincaid. “And how could somebody give her that much morphine without her knowing?”

A good point, thought Gemma, and one that Kincaid hadn’t tackled.

“I don’t know, Theo. I’d assume it would have been someone she trusted. As to why,” Kincaid’s tone became less conciliatory, “someone could have been in a hurry for something. What do you know about Jasmine’s estate, Theo?”

“Estate?” Theo’s face was blank with incomprehension.

“Come on, man. Don’t look so bloody baffled.” Kincaid rose and paced the small room. “Surely you must have some idea
how Jasmine intended to dispose of her property. She told me she’d made some good investments over the years, and she had a good bit of equity in the flat. Will it all come to you?”

“I don’t know.” Theo looked up at Kincaid, and it seemed to Gemma as if he had shrunk before her eyes. “She made the down payment on the mortgage here. I was broke, really down on my luck.” He turned and spoke to Gemma, seeking understanding. “Some things hadn’t worked out, you know? I never really thought about what would happen if she died.”