Mourn Not Your Dead (14 page)

She looked at him for a moment, as if she were making a determination, then sighed. Her flare of anger seemed to have burnt away the amusement he’d sensed in her manner, and now she spoke with quiet gravity. “I was born with a gift, Superintendent. Not that it’s so very unusual—I believe that many people have psychic talents, which they either use or suppress according to their degree of discomfort with the phenomenon. I also decided long ago that the vehicle used for expressing these talents is irrelevant. It doesn’t matter whether one reads palms or predicts race results, any more than it matters whether one writes a novel using a legal pad and pencil or the latest word-processing software. It comes from the same source.”

Although Kincaid had shown no sign of impatience, she glanced at him as if gauging his response and said, “Bear with me, please. You must understand that I am not condemning those who suppress their abilities.” Her eyes, green and direct, met his again. “I was one of them. By the time I started school I’d learned that it wasn’t acceptable to talk about what I could see and feel, at least not to adults. It didn’t seem to bother other children, but if they should happen to mention it to their
parents, I was no longer welcomed. Children usually have a very well-developed sense of self-preservation, and I was no exception. I buried my difference as deeply as I could.”

Kincaid could all too easily imagine Madeleine as an awkward and remarkably plain child. Having no control over the features that would already have made her an easy target for ridicule, she would have controlled whatever else was within her power. And, he thought, no matter the cost. “You spoke in the past tense, Miss Wade. Are we to assume that things changed?”

“Things always change, Superintendent,” she said, and he heard the flicker of amusement return to her voice. “But you’re right, of course. I kept things buried for many years, toeing the more conservative end of the established line. I became an investment banker, if you can believe it.” Chuckling, she added, “Sometimes it seems like a past life, and I’m not at all sure that I believe in reincarnation.” Then, growing serious once more, she said, “But as the years went by I seemed to shrivel, wither away inside. Even though I often used my … talents … in my work, I refused to acknowledge what I was doing. Eventually I had a moment of epiphany, the cause of which need not concern you, and I packed it all in. Quit my job, gave up my flat on the river, donated my power suits to Oxfam, and came here.”

“Miss Wade,” Kincaid said carefully, “you haven’t told us exactly what these special abilities are. Can you see the past or the future? Do you know what happened to Alastair Gilbert?”

Shaking her head, she said fervently, “I thank God every day that I don’t have the power to see into the future. That would be an unbearable burden. Nor can I unravel the past. My small gift, Superintendent, is the ability to see emotions. I know instantly if someone is unhappy, hurt, afraid, joyous, contented. I’ve always disliked the term
aura
. I suppose it does as well as any to describe what I see, but it’s also a bit like describing color to a blind man.”

Kincaid suddenly felt as vulnerable as if he’d been stripped
of his clothes. Did she sense his hurt and anger, even his skepticism? He saw Deveney shift uncomfortably in his chair and knew he must be experiencing the same feelings. “Miss Wade,” he said, attempting to focus his attention on something safer than himself, “you didn’t answer my question about Alastair Gilbert.”

“All I can tell you about Gilbert is that he was a very unhappy man. Anger seeped from him all the time, like water welling from an underground spring.” She folded her arms across her chest protectively. “I find that sort of energy difficult to tolerate for any length of time.”

“Was he your client?”

She gave a peal of laughter. “Oh, my, no. People like Alastair Gilbert don’t come to the likes of me. Their anger won’t let them reach out, search for help. They wear it like a shield.”

“And Claire Gilbert?”

“Yes, Claire is my client.” Madeleine leaned forwards, arranging their mugs carefully in the center of the tray, then looked up at Kincaid. “I can see where you’re going with this, Superintendent, and I’m afraid I can’t cooperate. I don’t know what my legal rights are—I’ve never been confronted with this situation before. But I do know that on moral grounds I must keep sacrosanct anything that my clients reveal during the course of their treatment.” She gestured towards the massage table. “Aromatherapy in particular is very powerful. It stimulates the brain and memory directly, bypassing the intellectual armor we build around our experiences. Often it enables clients to work out fears, past traumas, and it can be a very emotional catharsis. Any revelations made at these times could be misleading.”

“Are you telling us that Claire Gilbert made such revelations?” Deveney asked. It sounded to Kincaid as if he’d chosen aggression as the method of dealing with
his
discomfort.

“No, no, of course not. I’m merely illustrating why I find such self-imposed restrictions necessary when talking about
any
client—and Claire is no exception, despite the tragic circumstances.” She stood and lifted the loaded tray. “I have a client due in just a few minutes, Superintendent. Finding policemen on the doorstep might be a bit off-putting.”

“Just one more thing, Miss Wade. How did Alastair Gilbert feel about his wife consulting you?”

For the first time, Kincaid sensed hesitation. She shifted her weight, balancing the tray on her right hip, then said slowly, “I’m not sure that Claire discussed it with him. Many people prefer their visits to be entirely discreet, and I honor that. Now if you don’t mind …”

“Thank you for your time, Miss Wade,” Kincaid said as he rose and Deveney followed suit. She went ahead of them, depositing the tray in the kitchen, then came to see them out. Kincaid took the hand she offered. He found that women’s handshakes often fell into two categories—either a limp, dead-fish touching of fingers or an overcompensating, knuckle-breaking grasp—but Madeleine Wade’s strong, quick clasp was that of a woman comfortable with her place in the world.

He turned back to her as she opened the door. “Did you ever think of going into police work?”

The curve of her lips as she smiled made her jutting nose seem more pronounced, and her husky voice held amusement once more. “I did consider it, actually. The thought of having that secret edge was tempting, but I was afraid it would corrupt me in the end. I felt I could only find balance in offering healing and comfort to others, and I don’t think that’s in your job description, Superintendent.”

“Can you see guilt?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Guilt is a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, remorse, pity—much too complicated to separate into individual components. Nor would I implicate someone, even if I could. I don’t want that power, that responsibility, on my hands.”

Deveney waited until they’d shut themselves in the privacy
of his car before he exploded. “She’s just as batty as she looks,” he said vehemently, cranking the starter a bit too hard.
“Auras
, my grandmother’s arse. What a load of bullshit.”

While Deveney groused, Kincaid thought about hunches. He suspected that all good coppers had them, even depended on them to some extent, but it was something no one discussed comfortably. They had all taken courses instructing them in the science of reading body language, but was that methodology just a means of fitting intuition into a more acceptable framework?

All in all, he thought it prudent to regard Madeleine Wade with an open mind.

The vicarage faced directly on the village green, nestled between the pub and the little lane that led up to the church. Deveney, still muttering to himself, parked the car alongside the green. Kincaid stretched as he got out of the car, for the sun had warmed the afternoon air until it felt almost balmy for November. A light breeze had come up, and in it the green’s emerald grass rippled in velvet waves.

Crossing the tarmac, they let themselves into the vicarage garden through the gate. The house drowsed in the high-hedged enclosure, its square and solid red-brick façade looking respectably suited to its role. The garden, on the other hand, flaunted itself, as if rebelling against such stuffiness. A riot of color washed bravely against the subdued autumn background of hedge and trees. Everything that could still bloom did—impatiens, begonias, pansies, fuchsias, dahlias, primroses, verbenas, and the last of the roses, their heads full-blown on skeletal stems. Kincaid whistled in admiration. “I’d say the vicar has a different gift.” Then unable to resist the urge to tease Deveney just a bit, he added, “I wonder how he gets on with Madeleine Wade.”

Deveney gave him an irritated look, and they waited in silence for a few moments on the porch. When it seemed certain
that Deveney’s assault on the bell was not going to produce a response, Kincaid turned away “Let’s try the church.”

Letting Deveney precede him out the gate, Kincaid gave the garden a last glance. The air shimmered slightly, as if it had been disturbed by their presence, then stilled. He shut the gate reluctantly and followed Deveney around the corner, then detoured a bit to read the notice board at the bottom of the lane. It proclaimed the activities of the Parish Church of St. Mary and reminded Kincaid that the seasonal rhythms of his boyhood had been marked by the church calendar.

The churchyard lay on their left as they climbed, the muted gray headstones decorated with a confetti of fallen leaves. Beyond it, the church sat astride the hill at an angle that might almost have been construed as playful. Kincaid smiled—he had to credit the architect with good showmanship as well as a sense of humor, for the position commanded the best possible view of the village.

As they neared the church, Deveney pulled out his notebook and rifled through it.

“What’s the vicar’s name?” asked Kincaid.

“Fielding,” Deveney replied after flipping through another few pages. “R. Fielding. Oh, hell.”

“R. Fielding O. Hell? Odd name for a vicar,” Kincaid said, grinning.

“Sorry, I’ve a stone in my shoe. I’ll catch you up.” Deveney bent and began unlacing.

Kincaid found the porch door unlocked. Entering, he stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. Even blindfolded, he would recognize that smell anywhere—damp and polish, overlain with a hint of flowers—ecclesiastical, institutional, and comforting as childhood memories.

When he opened his eyes he found the usual stacks of leaflets in the narthex and a collection box. When a soft, “Hullo, anybody about?” received no response, he wandered past the carved screens and into the dimness of the nave itself. Here the silence
was almost palpable, and the only motion came from the dust motes stirring lazily in the rainbow-hued light that fell from the high windows.

The door creaked and Deveney’s voice called, “Any joy?”

Joining him a little regretfully, Kincaid said, “No, but I don’t think we’ve exhausted the possibilities.” He tried the door opposite the porch, and they entered a scuffed linoleum-floored hallway. To their left lay washrooms and a small kitchen, to the right a meeting room with stacks of plastic chairs. “A new building,” Kincaid mused, “but it’s a clever extension—I didn’t notice it from the outside. There’s no one here, though. I suppose we’ll have to try the good vicar again—”

The door to the ladies’ toilet opened and a woman came out. Thirtyish, Kincaid guessed, with a friendly face and a mop of dark curls, she wore jeans and an old sweater, and in her rubber glove-clad hands she held a utilitarian-looking brush and a jug of industrial-strength cleaner.

“Oh, hullo,” she said cheerfully. “Can I help you with something?”

“We were hoping to have a word with the vicar,” Kincaid ventured.

She looked rather helplessly at the objects in her arms. “Just let me do something with this stuff, then. Won’t be a tick.” Glancing up again, she must have seen their uncertainty, for she paused and smiled. “I’m Rebecca Fielding, by the way.”

“Ah, yes,” Kincaid answered, returning the smile and wondering what other surprises the day might have in store. He supposed he shouldn’t have been startled—ordained women were common enough in the Anglican Church these days, and in fact were rather tame news. He introduced himself and Deveney, and when Rebecca Fielding had disposed of her cleaning supplies in a small cupboard, they followed her into the meeting room.

An ancient-looking tea urn squatted malevolently on a
trolley, taking pride of place over the scarred table and plastic chairs. “A necessity of parish meetings, I’m afraid,” said Rebecca, eyeing it with distaste. “I can’t imagine why I went into this line of work—I never could stand the taste of stewed tea.” She separated two chairs for the men and one for herself, and when they were seated she became suddenly brisk. “If this is about Alastair Gilbert, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a dreadful thing.”

“That’s not exactly why we wanted to see you,” said Kincaid, liking the woman’s easy, direct manner, “although any light you could shed on the matter would be helpful. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the items you reported stolen.”

“That?” Her dark, straight brows rose in surprise. “But that was ages ago! August, it must have been, and what on earth has it to do with anything?”

So the vicar had not been privy to the pub gossip, thought Kincaid, or else she was a very good dissembler. “You know, I’m sure, that other people have reported items missing. There is some speculation that a vagrant was responsible for those thefts and that Commander Gilbert might have surprised him in the act.”

“But that’s absurd, Superintendent. None of these incidents occurred at the same time, and besides, if there were anyone like that hanging about the village, I’d know it. The church porch is usually first choice of sleeping accommodations.” Smiling at them, she relaxed back into her chair and folded her arms loosely across her plum-colored sweater. She had hooked her trainer-clad feet around the front legs of the chair, and her balanced posture made Kincaid think suddenly of a bareback rider he’d seen once in the circus.