A Share in Death

Lyle’s manner was more ingratiating than usual, and Kincaid sighed. He had been expecting this from some quarter. “No, no. What can I do for you?”

“I realize this is all very distressing, Superintendent, but I feel Chief Inspector Nash is overstepping his rights. This holiday was to be a special treat for my wife, to rest her nerves, and she’s been upset enough by all this without the Chief Inspector’s bullying. And any rest I might have expected has been quite shattered. I certainly didn’t come here to be—”

“Mr. Lyle,” Kincaid said patiently, “I have no jurisdiction

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over Chief Inspector Nash, as I’ve explained before. I’m strictly on sufferance myself. I’m sure he’s just doing his job.” Kincaid heard himself uttering cliches and grimaced—

Lyle seemed to inspire them.

“My work, Superintendent, is quite taxing, and no one seems to take into account—”

“Just what is it you do, Mr. Lyle?” Kincaid attempted to stem the flow of grievances. “I don’t believe you’ve ever said.”

“Civil engineering. Firm’s doing quite well.” Lyle puffed up a bit. “Good opportunity for investment just now, if you’re in—”

Kincaid cut him off. “Thanks, but coppers don’t usually have enough to float a fiver. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better be off. I’m afraid I can’t help you with Inspector Nash—a word from me wouldn’t predispose him in your favor.” Pompous self-serving little bugger, he thought as he got in his car and waved at Lyle. He and Nash deserved one another.

The single-track road wound back toward the very base of the hills. Kincaid had left the Midget’s top down and turned the heater up full blast, hoping the crisp evening air would clear the cobwebs from his brain. The sky looked faintly luminous against the opaque shapes of the trees.

Presently he saw the lights of the bungalow through the trees on his left and pulled the car carefully into the leaf-covered drive. It was a low house of rose-colored brick, with light streaming from the large French-paned windows either side of an arched front door.

He rang the bell, and the door swung open, revealing two small girls with dark hair surrounding heart-shaped faces. They gazed at him solemnly, then before he could speak they burst into a fit of giggles and ran toward the back of the house, shouting, “Mummy, Mummy!” Kincaid thought he’d better have a look in a mirror before long, if the mere sight of him reduced children to hysteria.

The room stretched the width of the house, with dining furniture to his left and the sitting room to his right. What

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he could see of a worn rug was liberally covered with doll-hospital casualties. Books flowed off the tables, a fire burned steadily in the sitting-room grate, and the temptation to sit down and go to sleep became almost unbearable.

Anne Percy appeared, wiping her hands on her white cotton apron, and saved him from embarrassment. She smiled with pleasure when she saw who it was, then looked at him more critically. “You look exhausted. What can I do for you?” The little girls were peeking out from behind her like Chinese acrobats, only slightly subdued by their mother’s presence. “Molly, Caroline, this is Mr. Kincaid.”

“Hallo,” he said, gravely. They giggled again, and swung out of sight behind her back in unison.

“Come into the kitchen, if you don’t mind my cooking while we talk.” She led him through the swinging door in the back of the sitting room into a large, cheerful room full of the aroma of roasting chicken and garlic.

Anne shooed the children out with a reminder that supper wouldn’t be ready for a half hour yet, pulled up a tall stool for Kincaid, and went back to stirring something on the cooktop, all with a graceful economy of movement. “Drink? I’m having Vermouth, since it went in the chicken, but you look as though you could use a whiskey. Off-duty and all that, is it really true that policemen don’t drink on duty, or is it just a myth perpetrated by the telly?”

“Thanks.” Kincaid gratefully accepted the whiskey she splashed into a glass, and after the first sip warmth began to radiate from the pit of his stomach. “And no, it’s not true. I’ve known quite a few who do. Chronic alcoholism is just as likely to turn up on a police force as anywhere else, I guess. Maybe more so, considering the stress level. But I don’t, if that’s what you’re wondering. Don’t like to feel muddled.”

“I know your rank but not your given name. I can’t go on calling you Mister or Superintendent. Doesn’t seem appropriate in the kitchen.”

“It’s Duncan.” He grinned at her surprised expression. “Scots forebears. And my parents had an inordinate fondness for Macbeth. It could have been worse. They could

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have saddled me with Prospero or Oberon.”

“Lucky you. My family still calls me Annie Rose. It makes me feel three years old, not a grown woman with children of my own and a fairly respectable profession. My patients call me Dr. Anne. It makes them feel more comfortable.”