A Share in Death

The lovely perpendicular church, with its eighty-foothigh battlemented tower, had been a sight worth seeing. The ground around it rose gently from east to west, while the church itself remained level. As a result, the whole tower end of the church seemed to be sinking gradually into the ground. It made him think of a huge battleship plowing into heavy seas and he felt momentarily unsteady on his feet.

His last stop was the local book shop on the square. He emerged with a paperback copy of James Herriot’s Yorkshire tucked under his arm, assured by the proprietor that it made a wonderful tour guide to the area, much more entertaining than those dry tomes intended for the purpose. Recent years hadn’t provided him many opportunities for browsing in small-town book shops, an indulgence that always transported him back to his childhood in rural Cheshire and his parents’ small book shop on the town square. One more childhood indulgence would put a fitting period to the afternoon—across the square he saw a tea shop advertising cream teas.

The Blue Plate lived up to its name, with blue plates of various patterns displayed around the room on a plate rail, and cheerful yellow-and-white-checked cloths on the tables. It was not until Kincaid was seated at a small table in the back of the room and had placed his order that he noticed the two women in animated conversation at a window table. Maureen Hunsinger, with her round, cheerful face and frizzy hair, wore a dusty blue garment that looked as if it might have had a previous life as a chenille bedspread.

It took him a moment to place Maureen’s companion as Janet Lyle, the ex-army man’s wife. Last night she had hardly spoken or smiled and had kept an anxious eye on

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her husband, glancing at him before she spoke, whether for reassurance or approval Kincaid hadn’t been able to tell. Possibly she was shy, or uncomfortable in social gatherings. Now, she was certainly at ease, talking and laughing, leaning forward and gesturing emphatically with her hands, her dark hair swinging against her shoulders every time she moved her head.

Curious, Kincaid thought, after the events of the morning. Was it Sebastian’s death they were discussing with such energy? Excitement would be a typical reaction, charged by the relief most people felt at remaining unscathed when death struck so near. But not the good humor they displayed, evident even from a distance.

He listened intently, their voices coming to him in snatches. “Oh god, I remember when mine was that age. It’s awful, you don’t know how you’ll get through it. But you do … gets worse.” Janet laughed again. She must have an older child, Kincaid thought, not with them on holiday. At boarding school, perhaps? Her voice drifted toward him again. “… the best school, Eddie says, then University. I don’t see how we can…” They leaned closer together, their faces more sober, and he lost the thread of sound. He had no business eavesdropping anyway; their conversation was none of his concern. It was only his cursed cop’s habit that made him listen.

The two women had not noticed him, and when his tea and scones arrived he opened his book and buried himself in the pleasures of Yorkshire,

There was no more delaying it. He’d dawdled long enough over scones and strawberry jam, drunk enough weak tea to swamp a horse, and had incited the cheerful waitress to concerned looks in his direction. He paid his bill and retrieved the Midget from the public car park across the square. With the car’s soft top folded down to take advantage of the sun, he drove slowly back to Followdale House.

The house seemed hushed and shuttered. Not until he had parked the car and started toward the front door did he notice the small figure huddled at the side of the front step.

42 deborah grombie

Angela Frazer’ s dark eyes were bare of make-up, the skin around them red and puffy. Even the spiky, violet-streaked hair seemed subdued. She looked at Kincaid without speaking. When he reached the steps, he sat down a few feet away, said “Hullo,” and gazed out at the empty drive in what he hoped was a neutral silence. From the corner of . his eye he saw her fingers fiddling with the threads hanging from the torn knees of her jeans, and her feet, in dirty, white canvas sneakers, seemed ridiculously small.

After a few moments she spoke, her voice barely a whisper. “You liked him, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.” He waited, careful not to look at her.

“He said you were okay.” Her words were clearer now, gaining strength. “Really okay. Not like most of the others.”

“Did he? I’m glad.”