A Share in Death

“I was surprised to see such a crowd tonight. You’d have thought the circumstances would have been a bit dampening.” Kincaid’s weak conversational gambit elicited no response at all. This night wouldn’t make records for boosting his ego. Marta ground her cigarette out in the cheap tin ashtray and sipped her drink with a notquite-steady hand. It looked like pure gin, or vodka, and Kincaid realized Marta Rennie was well on her way to tying one on.

When she did speak it surprised him. “Fifteen years. Must have at least fifteen years on him.” Kincaid could hear the slight slur in her voice now, the exaggerated sibilants.

“Who does?”

“That scientist…” She lapsed into silence again. A pale yellow silk scarf had replaced the black velvet bow at the nape of her neck. The scarf’s soft bow had come half undone and hung, bedraggled, down her back.

“You mean Hannah?”

“He’s so bloody impressed. With her ‘accomplishments.’ ” Marta sneered the word. “But he didn’t want a professional wife. Oh, no, charity work… somebody to sit next to him at banquets and look nice. A wife to trot out on speaking platforms like a prize pony at a gymkhana. Bloody useless.” She held her drink up and squinted into its depths as if it, crystal ball-like, contained some redemption.

“I’m sure your husband appreciates what you do for him.”

“Like hell.” Marta lit another cigarette. “Though I dare say,” she continued through a cloud of smoke, “he does

 

A share in death 75

 

appreciate Mummy and Daddy pouring money into his campaign fund.”

 

Kincaid decided subtlety would be wasted on Marta in her present condition. “I hear,” he leaned toward her and lowered his voice conspiratorially, “that Inspector Nash isn’t happy with the suicide verdict on Sebastian. It’s a good thing you and Patrick were together that night. Now there’s a thing that could really cause him image problems with those conservative constituents.”

Marta focused on him, puzzled. “What could?”

“A murder investigation.” Kincaid dropped it gently, like a pebble in a pool.

Marta gave him a sly, sideways look. “I was asleep, wasn’t I? Very convenient. He was, too. Asleep, I mean. Aspiring politicians,” she stumbled a bit over the syllables, “shouldn’t run around at night when the wife’s asleep. Very stupid. Patrick,” she enunciated his name very clearly, “is never stupid.” Marta drained her glass and set it down with a thump. “Buy me a drink?”

“Sure. What are you having?”

“G and T. No T.”