A Share in Death

He drove slowly, elbow out the Midget’s open window, breathing in the spicy scent of the hedgerows and watching for some indication that he was on the right track. The lane wound past occasional farms, squarely and sturdily built in gray, Yorkshire slate, and above them the moor stretched ringers of woodland enticingly down into the pastures. Crisp nights must have preceded this blaze of Indian summer, as the trees were already turning, the copper and gold interspersed with an occasional splash of green. In the distance, above the patchwork of field and pasture and low moorland, the ground rose steeply away to a high bank.

Rounding a curve, Kincaid found himself at the head of a picture-book village. Stone cottages hugged the lane, and pots and planters filled with geraniums and petunias trailed cascades of color into the road. On his right, a massive stone half-circle bore the legend “Woolseyunder-Bank.” The high rise of land, now seeming to hang over the village, must be Sutton Bank.

A few yards further on his left, a gap in the high hedge revealed a stone gate-post inset with a brass plaque. The inscription read “Followdale,” and beneath it was engraved a curving, full-blown rose. Kincaid whistled under his breath. Very posh indeed, he thought as he turned the car into the narrow gateway and stopped on the gravel forecourt. He surveyed the house and grounds spread before him with surprise and pleasure. He didn’t quite know what he had expected of an English timeshare. Transplanted Costa del Sol, perhaps, or tacky Victorian. Not this Georgian house, certainly—elegant and imposing in its simplicity, honey-gilded in the late-afternoon light. A tangle of ivy softened portions of the ground-floor walls, and bright Virginia creeper splashed the upper part of the house like a scarlet stain.

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Closer inspection revealed his initial impression of the house to be deceptive—it was not truly symmetrical. Although a wing extended either side of the pediment-crowned entry, the left side of the house was larger and jutted out into the forecourt. He found the illusion of balance more pleasing, not as severe and demanding as the real thing.

Kincaid stretched and unfolded himself from his battered MG Midget. Only the fact that the springs in the driver’s seat had collapsed years ago kept his head from brushing the soft top when he drove. He stood for a moment, looking about him. To the west, a low row of cottages, built of the same golden stone as the house—to the east, the manicured grounds stretched away toward the bulk of Sutton Bank.

Ease seemed to seep into the very pores of his skin, and not until he felt himself taking slow, deep breaths did he realize just how tense he’d been. Pushing the last, niggling thoughts of work to the edge of his mind, he took his grip from the boot and walked toward the house.

The heavy oak-paneled front door was off the latch. It swung open at Kincaid’s touch, and he found himself in a typical country-house entry, complete with Wellingtons and umbrella stand. In the hall beyond, a Chinese bowl of bronze chrysanthemums on a side table clashed with the patterned crimson carpeting. The still air smelled of furniture polish.

A woman’s voice could be heard clearly through the partly open door on his left, the words bitten off with furious precision. “Listen, you little leech. I’m telling you for the last time to lay off my private affairs. I’m sick of your snooping and prying when you think nobody’s watching.” Kincaid heard the sharp intake of the woman’s breath. “What I do in my off-hours is nobody else’s business, least of all yours. You’ve done well to get as far as you have, considering your background and your attributes.” The emphasis on the last word was scathing. “But, by god, I’ll see you stopped.

A share in death 5

You made a mistake when you thought you’d climb over me.”

“As if I’d want to!” Kincaid grinned in spite of himself at the intimation, as the second voice continued. “Get off it, Cassie. You’re a right cow. Just because you’ve wormed your way into the manager’s job doesn’t make you Lord High Executioner. Besides,” the speaker added, with what seemed to be a touch of malice, “you wouldn’t dare complain about me. I may not give a damn about your doings with the paying guests, but I don’t think they would quite fit with the corporate idea of country gentility, unless they’re thinking of re-creating an Edwardian house party. I wonder how you’re going to manage this week. Musical beds?” The voice was male, Kincaid thought, but light and slightly nasal, with a trace of Yorkshire vowels.

Kincaid stepped softly backwards to the front door, opened it and slammed it forcefully, then strode briskly across the hall and tapped on the partially open door before peering around it.