A Share in Death

“He wasn’t drowned,” said Kincaid. He motioned to Emma, who had followed on the constable’s heels, to stay with the children, and opened the pool-area door for the constable. When it had closed behind them, he continued. “He was electrocuted. With some sort of small appliance, I would imagine. I unplugged it from above, before I pulled him out of the water, but I didn’t check to see what it was.”

“You disturbed the body, sir?” He took the sight of Sebastian, lying like a beached whale on the pool’s edge, in his stride, although Kincaid fancied that his face lost some of its rosy color.

“Of course I moved the body, man. I had to make sure he was dead.”

Kincaid’s exasperation moved the constable to assert his official dignity. He drew himself up to his full, and not inconsiderable, height, pulled out his notebook and pencil, and rocked a little on his heels. He cleared his throat, testing his voice for the proper resonance. “And who might you be,

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sir?” Unfortunately, he had licked his pencil before putting it to the pad, and that rather detracted from the impression of competence and authority he intended to create.

“My name’s Kincaid. I’m a policeman, Detective Superintendent, Scotland Yard. I’m here on holiday and I just happened to be the first one down this morning, except for the children. And, thank god, they didn’t touch anything.” He had discovered that the children were named Bethany and Brian, and that they had let themselves out of their suite while their parents still slept. “To go exploring,” Brian had explained, a tendency to lisp exaggerated by the gap in his front teeth. “We thought the man was swimming, and he could hold his breath for the longest time. But he didn’t come up, and he didn’t come up …”

“And he looked all wrong, somehow,” added Bethany. “We didn’t know it was Sebastian—we couldn’t see his … and then Brian started to cry.” She had given her brother a disgusted look, all elder sister superiority now that the horror was away in the next room. “Are we going to be in trouble?”

Brian’s small face crumpled, tears imminent again, and Kincaid hastened to reassure them. “I think you both were very brave and very responsible. I’m sure your mum and dad will be proud of you, and as soon as the policemen get here someone will take you upstairs to them.”

The constable seemed to have decided that Kincaid could do no more harm. After all, he had already been alone with the body for a considerable time. “Police Constable Rob Trumble, sir. I’ll have to telephone Mid-Yorks. If you wouldn’t mind—”

“No. Go ahead.” Kincaid waved him off and stood irresolutely by Sebastian’s body. Just what the hell had been used, he wondered. Taking his dressing gown, he slipped into the warm water. Covering his hand with a fold of fabric, he reached down into the water and carefully pushed the object up from underneath. It was a portable electric heater, about the size of a ladies’ handbag, and unless he was very much mistaken, he’d

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seen it, or one very much like it, under Cassie’s gray metal desk.

P.C. Trumble, flushed with excitement and authority, gave Kincaid permission to get dried and dressed, and Emma leave to return the children to their suite. Kincaid had no wish to face the officers of Mid-Yorkshire C.I.D. wet and half-naked, without identification. There was no sense in putting oneself at a definite psychological disadvantage. He had toweled his hair, pulled on jeans and a faded blue cotton sweater. Sneakers on, wallet and keys tucked safely in his pocket, he felt armored enough. Only when he was halfway down the pool stairs again did the hollowness in his stomach remind him that he had not eaten breakfast.

He had been surprised on returning to his room to find it just on eight o’clock, the morning passing at its own measured pace. The calm promise of an hour ago seemed a universe removed. The house was beginning to stir. He heard the soft sounds of doors, sensed movement in the rooms around him. The local lads would have to be quick to contain the guests before they began their daily exodus.

Kincaid joined Trumble in a silent vigil by the pool, and when Detective Chief Inspector Bill Nash arrived, accompanied by Detective Inspector Peter Raskin, Kincaid felt glad enough of his clothes. Nash was balding, rumpled and portly, a jolly elf of a man with a hearty Yorkshire voice and little black eyes as cold and opaque as tar pits. Nash flicked the proffered warrant card with a finger, and Kincaid had the feeling he’d been assessed and dismissed within the first five seconds.

“Well now,” drawled Nash, “one of Scotland Yard’s fancy men, with nowt better to do than mess about in other folk’s affairs. How convenient for us. Just how did you happen to be so prompt on the scene, laddie?”