A Share in Death

standing his by-election. In fact, they’re Patrick’s biggest financial supporters. I’d say it’s not the best time for them to find out he’s been cheating on their darling daughter. Wouldn’t you?”

 

“No.” The word was barely a whisper. Hannah seemed to gather herself, then spoke again. “No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Patrick would never—” Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “How could you say such things? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Hannah, listen to me.” Kincaid leaned forward, reached out a hand toward her. She jerked away from his touch as if she’d been stung. “Hannah, if you know something about Patrick Rennie, something you saw or heard, something he told you, you mustn’t keep it to yourself. It could be dangerous. I don’t want to see you end up like—”

“No! That’s absurd. I won’t even listen to it.” She stood up, her breath coming in short gasps. “Just get out.”

Kincaid stood and they faced one another. He could see her body trembling, feel her breath against his face. “Why, Hannah? What loyalty do you owe him? What has Patrick Rennie ever done for you?”

For a long moment he held her gaze, then the fury seemed to drain from her. She half turned from him, her head drooping as if her slender neck no longer had the strength to support it. “Patrick Rennie,” she said simply, “is my son.”

 

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the small entrance building of Rievaulx Abbey sold tickets and souvenirs as well as serving as a sort of mini-museum. A glass-covered scale model of the complete abbey invited scrutiny. The walls were covered with drawings and photographs detailing the abbey’s history, but Hannah passed them by with only a glance. She’d done her homework last night, after Patrick mentioned he intended coming here.

Then it had simply seemed an opportunity to talk with him alone, skirting the dangerous edge of revelation. She’d meant to wait until their relationship had progressed a bit from its first spontaneous warmth—she’d meant to build trust and confidence between them, lead into it gently, ask him, perhaps, how he felt about his real mother.

Now her mind shied away from all her rehearsed scenarios, unable to fasten on anything coherent. But tell him she must. Somehow hearing Kincaid’s suspicions had forced her hand, made it impossible for her to continue the relationship under false pretenses. How could she expect Patrick to be honest with her if she hadn’t been honest with him? And she must hear his own account, judge for herself the truth of it. Could her son be capable of murder? She couldn’t bear not knowing.

Hannah pushed through the building’s rear exit and stepped onto the grass. Her first glimpse across the long, green lawns quite literally took her breath away. She felt the sharp prickle of tears against her eyelids, blinked them back.

Before her Rievaulx Abbey lay cupped in a natural hollow at the foot of Rievaulx moor, held like a jewel between brilliant green grass in the foreground and the red-golds of the trees covering the slope of the moor. The morning’s

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sun had given way to a soft, low overcast, and the moisture in the air seemed to saturate the colors with an elemental vividness.

She crossed the lawn slowly, her eyes on the soaring arches of the choir. Six hundred monks had lived here, eating, sleeping, praying, tending their sheep and their gardens. She could almost hear them singing as they worked, such was the timeless, dreamlike quality of the place. She knew for a fleeting instant how close they must have felt to their god, and a shaft of envy stabbed through her.