A Share in Death

“My wife. She died from Creutz-Jakob disease almost thirty years ago. At the time, very little was known about it, and as I inherited my money, I thought it might as well be put to good use.” He smiled at her again. “Don’t look so unhappy, Ms. James. I’m not still grieving over my dead wife. It was a very long time ago. We had no children— which may have been just as well, considering the family genes. Her only sister was emotionally unstable and my nephew is a pipsqueak.” Sobering, he added, “But I would not want anything to happen to Hannah. Not only for my sake, but this clinic depends on her, and what we do here is worthwhile.”

Miles stared into the fire and finished his coffee, then said, with what seemed to Gemma an effort, “I’m surprised that Hannah hasn’t called me. I suppose she thought it would worry me. It wouldn’t have occurred to her I might be visited by the police, in however attractive a guise.” Both smile and gallantry seemed forced this time, and Gemma thought she had outstayed her welcome.

She drank the last of her coffee, eyeing the thermos a little wistfully, and rose. “I’ve tired you, I’m afraid. Your receptionist would eat me alive.”

Miles chuckled. “It’s her way of staying even with Mrs. Milton. They’ve had a rivalry going for years.” He stood, insisting on seeing her out. At the top of the stairs he took her hand again. “You won’t mind if I don’t come down? Mrs. Milton will unlock the door for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry to have troubled you.” It was a stock phrase, but Gemma found she meant it.

She’d booked a room in a small hotel on the edge of the

A share in death 167

city, and once she’d checked in and unpacked, she spent the rest of the evening dialing Kincaid’s empty suite.

Hannah slept curled on the sofa where Anne Percy had left her, head half buried beneath the cushion, blanket slipping haphazardly to the floor.

In her dream she walked the suburban streets of her childhood, under blossoming cherry trees. Familiar voices she couldn’t quite place called from the gardens, and she increased her pace. Her house seemed always round the next corner—she felt sure she could find it if only the soft, insistent tapping would stop.

The sound nibbled at the edges of her dream, finally rousing her to a sluggish wakefulness. Her first instinctive movement brought a groan—her muscles were already stiffening and her head ached. The panes in the French door reflected her image. It was now fully dark and she couldn’t tell whether she had been asleep hours or minutes. The knocking continued as she made her slow progress to the door, and she heard his imploring voice before she reached it. “Hannah, it’s Patrick. Please, let me talk to you.”

A moment’s hesitation gripped her and then she flushed with shame. She would not doubt him, would not let fear rule her life. Humiliation had caused her withdrawal on the stairs, but since then she had thought much about prejudging. With unsteady fingers she pulled back the bolt on the door.

Patrick looked her over carefully before he spoke. “How are you feeling?”

“I imagine about as well as can be expected.” Absently Hannah touched her taped wrist. “Dr. Percy said I’d feel about a hundred years old by tomorrow, and it’s already begun.”

He followed her into the sitting room and tucked her up under the blanket solicitously. After pulling up a chair so that he could sit facing her, he said with disarming frankness, “Duncan Kincaid thinks I might have pushed you down the stairs, although he very politely didn’t quite say so.” Patrick smiled. “Somehow I don’t think good manners were his motivation. Hannah”—all traces of the smile vanished—“do you think I pushed you?”

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She shook her head wearily. “No. Honestly. I would have told Duncan if I had.” She met his eyes for the first time since he had come in. Patrick might have aged ten years in the course of a day. Fine lines that she hadn’t noticed before crinkled around his eyes. It was as if he’d been stripped of a layer of veneer, thought Hannah, and he sat before her bare of his usual polish.

He sighed. “That’s all right, then. But I’m worried about you, you know. When you don’t understand why something’s happening it’s hard to put a stop to it.”