A Share in Death

Gemma recounted her interview with Helen North, then added, “I’d say that unless Mr. Lyle has an awfully good job, he might be a bit financially overextended—what with his mortgage and his wife not working and a daughter away at some posh boarding school. Sounds a right prig to me, besides,” she finished.

“Another model husband and father?”

“And devoted son.” Kincaid heard paper rustling as Gemma thumbed through her notebook.

“Where are you?”

“Call box in St. Albans. I haven’t been able to get on to Miles Sterrett at Hannah Alcock’s clinic. They say he’s ill …”

 

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“Hang on, Gemma. I thought I heard someone at the door.” A ghost of a knock, so faint he thought he’d imagined it. When he opened the door there was no one in the hall. He returned to the phone. “Gemma? Must be hearing things. Listen, finish up what you can today and get up here as soon as possible. I feel uneasy about this whole business, melodramatic as it sounds.”

 

They rang off and Kincaid stood for a moment, debating. He decided it was about time he had another little talk with Angela Frazer.

 

Kincaid was halfway down the first flight of stairs when he saw a foot, a woman’s foot in a peach-colored sock, outstretched on the flight below him. A flat leather shoe lay overturned nearby. He skidded to a stop, then rounded the landing as his body began to function again. Hannah Alcock lay crumpled beneath him.

 

ixtteen ^s

hannah lay sprawled head down, half on her back, her arms flung out as if she had tried to break her fall. While part of Kincaid’s mind reeled with shock, another part noted details—her sweater, the same soft peach as her socks, had ridden up and exposed a wide, pale slice of skin. Her ribs, so ungracefully bared, rose and fell rhythmically.

Relief rushed through Kincaid in a sickening wave. He closed his eyes and breathed a moment, steadying himself, then maneuvered into a kneeling position beside her. Although her head seemed twisted at an awkward angle, her color looked healthy and he didn’t think she was deeply unconscious. He touched her shoulder gently. “Hannah.” She made a soft sound and her eyelids fluttered. He tried again, more urgently. “Hannah.” Her eyes opened and she looked fuzzily at him, her expression blank. “Hannah. Hannah!”

A flicker of recognition moved in Hannah’s eyes. She turned her head a little and winced. “What…” She shifted again, feeling and cognizance returning together. “My head. Oh, my god. What hap—” She tried to lift herself and pain shot through her face.

“Careful, careful. Take it easy. What hurts?”

“My head… the back of it.”

“Not your neck?”

Tentatively, she rolled her head a little each way. “No. It seems okay.”

“Good. Can you move your legs?” She flexed each leg and nodded. “Okay. That’s good. No, wait,” Kincaid said as she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position. “Let’s do this a stage at a time.” He slid his arm beneath her head and supported it level with her shoulders. “Better?”

“Yes. I think I’m all right, really. I can feel everything, and move everything.” Hannah drew up her arms and legs

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again, demonstrating. “God, I feel like Humpty Dumpty.” She gave a ghost of a smile.

“I’m just glad you don’t look it,” Kincaid said with feeling. He hesitated to move her, but after a few more minutes of Hannah complaining about the blood running to her head, he temporized. Slipping his arm under her shoulders, he lifted and turned her so that she sat across the step with her back against the wall.

Hannah moved her head fretfully. “I’m all right. Let me get—”