A Share in Death

“And just as damned useless as the last time,” Kincaid said in disgust. “Five minutes, that’s all it would have taken. Any one of them could have nipped down to the tennis court and back up again. Except the Hunsingers, of course,” he corrected himself, “and I never considered them very seriously anyway.”

Raskin sat up in the swivel chair and studied Kincaid for a moment. “What about Miss Emma MacKenzie? And Hannah Alcock?”

“Oh, I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility. Emma could have followed her sister down to the tennis court—”

“A true domestic,” Raskin interrupted. “You know that sometimes it’s those years of togetherness that blow up—”

“Over what? The goats? And you know as well as I do that most domestic violence is precipitated by alcohol and occurs on the spur of the moment.” Kincaid’s words came more sharply than he intended. “Anyway, I don’t believe it. Emma was devoted to Penny. She’ll be lost without Penny to look after and worry over,” he raised his hand as Raskin started to speak, “and don’t give me that mercy-killing line, either. Not with a tennis racquet.”

“All right,” Raskin conceded. “I’ll admit it’s pretty unlikely. What about Miss Alcock?”

Kincaid shifted uncomfortably on the barstool. “I don’t like it, Peter. I doubt we’ll get a more exact time of death from the pathologist than the circumstances provide. According to Emma, Penny left the suite about half past eight. Miss Alcock came to see me about the same time, stayed for…” he trailed off, thinking, “maybe half an hour. My sergeant called very shortly after she’d left, and I looked at my watch then. It was five past nine. You bumped into Miss Alcock

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in the car park, coming to fetch us, at—”

“Nine-thirty. Half-hour news had just finished on the car radio.”

“So …”

“She would have had time,” Raskin said quietly. “Just. And I saw her coming across the lawn from the tennis court path. The sensible thing for her to do would be to tell me she’d just found Penny’s body.”

“But I don’t believe it.” Kincaid stood and began to pace restlessly around the cramped office. “It’s too pat. And what possible motive could she have?”

“What motive could any of them have? None of it makes any damned sense,” Raskin said in exasperation. “And Chief Inspector Nash is not going to leave the issue, you know,” he added.

“I know.” Despite his opinion of Nash, Kincaid had a hard time defending his certainties even to himself. He just couldn’t swallow the idea that Hannah had sat confiding in him over coffee and then had gone down and coldbloodedly murdered Penny. Was it his pride at stake, his judgement, or simply his belief in her basic human decency? Could he be depended upon to do his job thoroughly, if it were his show to run? He didn’t fancy explaining his reservations to Chief Inspector Nash. “Where’s your Super, anyway, Peter? A Chief Inspector in charge of a murder investigation isn’t normal procedure.”

“In hospital recovering from viral pneumonia.” He pulled a face.

“Poor you. That calls for some sort of commiseration.” Kincaid stepped into the bar and returned with two glasses and two bottles of beer.

“Thanks. I guess we’ve done about all we can here tonight,” Raskin looked at his watch, “and I’d best be off home.” But he sat watching the foam subside on his beer.

“I just realized I don’t know a thing about you, Peter. Married? Kids?”

“Yes. Two. A boy and a girl. And I’m missing my son’s football practice right now.” He glanced again at his watch. “Not that he’s not used to it.” Raskin sighed. “I’m sure

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it’s good for him—disappointment builds character, right?” Sardonic amusement flickered in his face again. “And I know all about you. The Chief Inspector ran a thorough check, hoping he’d dig up some skeletons to rattle. What he did find gave him terrible indigestion. One of the Met’s wonder boys, darling of the A.C.”

They laughed, then sat drinking in companionable silence. It came to Kincaid that he dreaded spending the evening alone, and any contact with those in this house remained charged with doubts he couldn’t resolve. “Peter, you don’t by any chance have Dr. Percy’s address?”

Raskin choked a little on his beer. “She’s married, you know.”

“I’d rather assumed she was,” Kincaid said, but his heart sank a little, and he hastened to assure himself that his interest was strictly professional. “There are some questions I wanted to ask her, not being invited to attend the postmortem…” He kept his expression bland, standing on his dignity.

“Okay, I’ll buy that. And the Great Wall of China,” Raskin said, and Kincaid grinned in spite of himself.

“Mr. Kincaid.” The voice came softly from the darkened garden. “Or is Superintendent the correct address?” Kincaid recognized the speaker now. Edward Lyle moved from the shadow of a decorative urn, gesturing toward Kincaid’s car. “I’m sorry to disturb you if you’ve an appointment to keep, but I wondered if I might have a word.”