A Share in Death

The air of the sitting room was pungent with smoke, the throat-catching stuffiness exacerbated by the electric bars glowing red in the fireplace. The guests stood huddled in self-protective groups on the red-and-green patterned carpet, their voices rising in an indistinguishable chorus.

Sebastian led him to the bar and poured him a lager. While he waited, Kincaid noticed a room behind the bar that Sebastian hadn’t mentioned. Unlike the polished and uncluttered reception room where Cassie had received him, this was a working office. A gray metal desk and filing cabinet, a sturdy secretarial chair, and a scarred wooden coatrack replaced Queen Anne elegance. Papers partially covered the adding machine and spilled from the desk on to the typewriter. This must be Cassie’s domain, the nerve center of the house. No wonder Sebastian had seen fit to ignore it.

Carrying their drinks, they threaded their way back across the sitting room to a vantage point near the door. Sebastian leaned back against the wall with one foot propped behind him and surveyed the room with lively interest. “Now,” he

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said, “Guessing game time. Let’s see if you can place the rest of the group.” Four people stood bunched in front of the mantel, drinks in hand, attention half on the conversation and half on the room, in the manner of those accustomed to cocktail gatherings. “Scoping things out, aren’t they? Making sure they’re not missing something more interesting.” Sebastian took a sip of his drink, and waited for Kincaid to pin the face to the description.

“Um,” said Kincaid, rising to the challenge, “the tall, fair man with the Savile Row tailoring. The M.P.?” Slender, with sleek hair cut to perfection, he had prominent cheekbones that lent distinction to the planes of his face. Even the nails on the hand holding the glass gleamed with careful buffing. When Sebastian nodded, Kincaid continued. “It’s not just the looks. He has that air of being on public display, of expecting to be watched. Now, the woman with the frizzy hair and the drooping denim dress. Not his wife, surely? The health store owner. Maureen, wasn’t it.” Sebastian grinned in approval.

A weedy-looking middle-aged man with thinning hair and spectacles seemed to be monopolizing the conversation. The others’ faces expressed varying degrees of disinterest and outright boredom. “Mr. Lyle, from Hertfordshire. Right? And the dark-haired woman with the long-suffering expression must be his wife.” “Bravo. Right so far. Can you polish them off?”

“You make them sound like hors d’oeuvres.” Kincaid scanned the room obediently, enjoying the test of his memory for names and descriptions.

At a table near the window sat a bulky man, his thinning hair perhaps compensated for by the great ruff of soft, brown beard covering his chin. He played a game with two small children, and though their faces were intent on a board, he seemed uncomfortable in his jacket and tie. His fingers pulled at his collar and his shoulders moved restively inside the coat. “The rest of the Hunsingers, without a doubt.”

Sebastian hadn’t heard him. His attention was focused on a girl, standing alone against the wall. She still carried an extra layer of padding, baby fat that softened and

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blurred her features and made Kincaid think of an unset pudding. The ring of dark shadow surrounding her eyes gave her a nocturnal look, and her spiky, violet-streaked hair seemed a natural extension of her sullen pout. Kincaid nudged Sebastian and spoke softly. “Angela? Maybe you’d better go and see if you can cheer her up. I’m sure I can look after myself.”

“Right,” said Sebastian. “See you.”

Kincaid regretted it almost immediately. Bearing down on him from around the sofa came the woman in the denim dress, armed with a resolute smile. She must have been waiting her chance, he thought, looking around for an escape. A woman standing hesitantly in the doorway caught his eye. She wore a jumpsuit of a silky fabric, cream-colored, splashed with roses, a perfect foil for her striking, angular looks. The missing scientist, he thought, but before he could take a step toward her, Maureen Hunsinger was upon him in a tidal wave of good intention.

Hannah found the party well in progress, and as she entered the lounge, arranged her face in what she hoped was an expression of pleasant anticipation. She made for the bar and fixed herself a whiskey, not able to remember when she had felt the need for Dutch courage.