A Share in Death

The woman stood behind a graceful Queen Anne table which apparently served as a reception desk, her back to the window, hands arrested in the gesture of straightening a stack of papers. Her companion leaned against the frame of the opposite door, hands in his pockets, with a slightly amused expression on his face. “Hello. Can I help you?” the woman said, smiling at Kincaid with utter composure, showing no sign of the fury he had so recently overheard.

“Have I got the right place?” Kincaid asked tentatively.

“If you’re looking for Followdale House. I’m Cassie Whitlake, the sales manager. And you must be Mr. Kincaid.” He smiled at her as he stepped forward into the room and set down his bag. “How did you guess?”

“Simple elimination, really. Sunday afternoon is our usual checkin time, and all the other guests have either already arrived or don’t fit the particulars your cousin gave us.”

“There’s nothing worse than being preceded by one’s reputation. I hope it wasn’t too damaging.” Kincaid felt surprisingly relieved. She hadn’t addressed him by his rank.

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Maybe his cousin Jack had managed to be discreet for once, and he could enjoy his holiday as an ordinary and anonymous member of the British public.

“On the contrary.” Her brows arched as she spoke, lending a flirtatious air to the polite reply, and leaving Kincaid wondering uneasily just what Jack might, after all, have said.

He studied Cassie Whitlake with interest. Hard-pressed, he’d judge her around thirty, but she had the sort of looks that make age difficult to assess. She was tall, as elegant as the curved lines of her desk, and striking in a monochromatic way. Her hair and eyes were the color of fallen oak leaves, her skin a pale cream, her simple wool dress a slightly more intense shade than her hair. It occurred to him that she must have chosen the mums in the hallway— they would complement her perfectly.

Throughout the exchange her companion had kept his casual stance, following the conversation with quick birdlike motions of his head. Now he removed his right hand from his pocket and came toward Kincaid.

“I’m Sebastian Wade, assistant manager, or lackey to Lady Di here, depending on your point of view,” he said, offering his hand. He glanced quickly at Cassie, gauging the effect of his barb, then grinned at Kincaid as he shook his hand. There seemed to be genuine warmth in his greeting, and Kincaid found himself more drawn to Wade’s engaging maliciousness than to Cassie Whitlake’s polished cordiality. A slightly built man in his late twenties, Wade had butter-yellow hair, fashionably cut, and pockmarked skin over thin and rather delicate features. His eyes were unexpectedly dark.

Cassie moved quickly around her desk and disengaged Kincaid with a touch of cool fingers on his arm. “I’ll show you to your suite. Then when you’ /e had a chance to settle in, I’ll give you a tour and answer any questions you might have.” Sebastian Wade lifted a hand to him in mock salute as Cassie led him from the room.

As Kincaid followed her into the hall he admired the way the soft fabric of her dress clung to the outline of her

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body. A hint of some sharp, musky perfume drifted back to him, not the sort of scent he would have expected from one so elegantly groomed. But he had been right about her height—her head was almost level with his own.

She turned back to him as she started up the stairs. “I think your suite is the best in the house. Such a shame for your cousin and his wife to have to cancel their holiday at the last minute. Fortunate for you, though,” she added, and again he heard the hint of archness.

“Yes,” Kincaid answered, and wondered for a moment how his kindly, guileless cousin had fared under Cassie Whitlake’s sophisticated onslaught.

At the top of the stairs he followed Cassie down a hall that ran toward the rear of the house, ending at a door adorned with a discreet, brass number four. Cassie unlocked the door with her own key and preceded him into the tiny entry. Kincaid couldn’t maneuver his bag through the small space without brushing up against her, and the smile she gave him was suggestive.

The entry opened into a sitting room in which Cassie’s hand was again evident in the decorating, at least in the choice of colors. The plush sofas and armchairs were a dull gold with rolled arms, buttons and fringes, the curtains were olive green, and the figured carpet combined the two in a fussy, geometric marriage. The whole room, which could have been lifted en masse from any middle-class department store showroom, gave an impression of solid, anonymous respectability.

The room’s saving grace was the French door at its far end. Cassie followed Kincaid as he crossed the room, set down his bag, and pulled open the door. They stepped out onto the narrow balcony together. Below them stretched the grounds and gardens of Followdale, leading his eyes up to the bulk of Sutton Bank rising in the distance.