A Share in Death

“Admirably,” answered Kincaid, and settled in a corner of the small office. “Suits my precarious position.” He watched as Raskin tested the swivel of Cassie’s chair and gave it an approving pat. Raskin’s deft fingers shoved and patted the tumbling pyramid of Cassie’s papers until he’d made a neat stack in one corner of her desk. “She won’t be too pleased.” Kincaid nodded toward the desk’s now clear and orderly surface.

“She won’t be the only one. All the guests are present and accounted for now, and I’ve had the P.C. round them up in the sitting room. They’re going to be tired and fretful and wanting their tea, so the sooner we get this over with, the better.

“Let’s have the Hunsingers first and get them out of the way. I understand from Emma Mackenzie that they were in the pool with the children all morning.” Raskin slid around Cassie’s desk and went into the bar, returning a moment later with a very subdued Maureen Hunsinger.

Maureen gave Kincaid a tremulous smile as Raskin offered her the chair. She perched stiff-backed on its edge, her white, crinkled-cotton dress ballooning about her. Kincaid thought she should have looked ridiculous— her hair even more frizzy than usual from her hours in the pool, her face red and puffy from weeping, but he found

A share in death 107

a certain dignity in her posture and in her obvious grief. A voluptuous and rather erratic madonna, he thought, and suppressed a smile.

“John’s with the children. Will you be wanting him. too?”

“Probably just to sign your statement,” Raskin answered diplomatically. “It’s been terrible for the children. First Sebastian, now this. What are we to tell them that makes any sense? We thought this morning that if they had tun in the pool they would forget what had happened there, but now—” Maureen sounded near to tears again. “I wish we’d never come here.”

“I understand how you must feel, but I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to stay on a bit longer, at least until we complete the formalities.” Raskin’s voice was gentle and sympathetic, and Kincaid saw Maureen relax a little in her chair. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind telling me what you did this morning?”

“The children woke us. We had breakfast, then after a bit we all went down to the pool. Emma joined us—”

“For how long?”

“Oh, about an hour, I suppose. She said she’d had enough, then not too long afterwards the children began to get hungry again, so we came up ourselves. We were just changing when Janet Lyle came and said something was happening —she didn’t know what.” Maureen leaned forward in entreaty. “Please tell me exactly what’s happened. I know Penny’s… dead, the constable told us. But what happened to her? Is it like … Sebastian?”

Raskin spoke formally, the policeman’s best emotional defense, Kincaid thought wryly. “Miss MacKenzie suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. I’m afraid that’s all we can tell you just now.”

Maureen sank back in her chair, and it seemed to Kincaid that with the confirmation of her worst fears, all the emotional tension drained from her. She took her leave quietly, but when she reached the door she turned and spoke. “I’m going to see about Emma. Someone must. She shouldn’t

108 deborah crombie

just be left on her own like this.” The set of her mouth brooked no argument.

They came and went in quick succession, with varying degrees of cooperativeness.

Cassie slid into the visitor’s chair, slipped off her pumps and tucked her feet up under her. It was as deliberate a demonstration of ownership, thought Kincaid, as he’d ever seen. She glared balefully at the neat stack of papers on her desk. “You do realize how long it will take me to put that right again?”

Peter Raskin allowed himself a hint of a smile. “And I thought I’d done you a favor.”

“Where’s Chief Inspector Nash?” Cassie’s eyes went quickly to Kincaid.

“Attending the autopsy,” Raskin said. “Rank hath its privileges. Now, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“I was here all morning. Working.”

“Did—”

“Oh, I used the downstairs loo once or twice, if that’s the sort of thing you want to know. I straightened the sitting room and the bar. Patrick Rennie was working at the sitting room desk. And Eddie Lyle came through for something or other. I saw no one else.”

“Admirably succinct, Miss Whitlake,” said Raskin, unruffled by her assumption of the interview.

“Call me Cassie. Please.” Cassie switched the seductiveness on full power, and Kincaid watched with interest to see how Raskin would respond. She stood suddenly and leaned over her desk, forcing Raskin to move back as she opened the center drawer. “Sorry.” After rummaging for a moment, she produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “Secret vice. Doesn’t impress the customers.” Her hand trembled as she struck the match, and Kincaid thought that for all her aplomb, her nerves betrayed her.