A Share in Death

“He’s had a slight stroke, but he’s still sharper than a lot I could name who’ve supposed to be in full possession.” Gemma paused, considering. “Younger than I expected, too—sixty, maybe—and still very attractive, in a gaunt and sober sort of way.” Something in the angle of Kincaid’s brows hurried her on. “He didn’t know anything about what’s happened here, and he was quite concerned about Hannah. I had the impression he thought this whole timeshare scheme a bit out of character for her, and it made him uneasy. Seems she runs that clinic practically singlehanded and he hasn’t got a bit of use for the rest of the staff. Without Hannah, he says, the relatives and the Inland Revenue would have to fight over the place, or maybe he’d just give it to the National Trust.” Gemma smiled. “He’s kept his sense of humor, considering his circumstances.”

“Well, I’ve lost mine,” Kincaid said. “Something has happened to Hannah—someone pushed her down the stairs yesterday.”

“Is she—”

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“She’s all right. Or at least she was—she’s disappeared this morning.”

Gemma glanced at the map still spread on the bonnet. No wonder he’d been so uncommunicative. “You’re going to look for her,” she said, making it a statement. “Any idea where?”

“Hmm?” His gaze seemed fixed on a large garden urn. “A possibility,” he answered vaguely. “Place called Aysgarth Falls.”

“I’m coming with you. Don’t argue,” she added, although he gave no sign of having heard her. “Let me get my things from the car. You can fill me in on the way.”

Gemma’s case file had slid under the passenger seat and she was stretched half across the driver’s seat digging it out when Kincaid said, “Oh, dear god.”

The flat, utterly expressionless quality of his voice pulled her out of the car so fast that she banged her head on the roof and didn’t feel it.

His mobile face was as blank and still as marble. Gemma’s stomach contracted. “What is it?”

He focused on her with an effort and she saw his chest move as he drew a breath. “Hannah.” His voice gained force. “Sebastian had nothing to do with it. He just got in the way, like Penny.”

“Wh—”

“It wasn’t what Hannah knew, or heard, about Sebastian’s murder.” Kincaid’s hands came up to grip Gemma’s shoulders. “Hannah was the target all along.”

No nineteen

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it came TO Hannah, as she stood shivering in the cold seeping from the great stone slabs beneath her feet, that she had deceived herself. The feverish energy that had gripped her on waking had drained away and left her as light and hollow as an empty husk, and what seemed sensible enough then failed the test of logic now.

Bravado, that’s what had sent her slamming out of the house this morning. She wouldn’t let fear dictate her life, wouldn’t be coddled and cosseted like some feeble old woman.

It had sounded convincing enough. But she might as well face it—she’d been running away as if all the hounds of hell were on her tail, away from the house and its faceless, hovering malice.

She pushed the thought away and looked downriver at the gentle valley of the Ure spread beneath her. A cloud blotted out the sun and Hannah hugged her cardigan closer. She might be alone in the world for all the signs of human habitation visible—not even sheep or drystone walls, only the falling slope of trees and a blue horizon, and on the opposite bank a shining carpet of russet leaves.

The sound of the water gurgling and murmuring across its stone bed should have been soothing, but it only increased her sense of isolation. Up toward the Middle Falls a family jumped about between the half-submerged stones, but she could only see their mouths moving, as if they were laughing and snouting in a silent film.

Hannah sighed, absently cradling her sore wrist against her chest. There was no comfort here. She might as well go back and face the music. Duncan would be furious, and Patrick—if Patrick saw her as a burden to be looked after, there was no help for it.

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Hannah turned to the slope behind her, her tenuous resolve flagging at the thought of the steep climb back to the path. A figure appeared at the trail’s head and slipped and slid down the incline toward her, tweed-jacketed, a Tyrolean hat set at a jaunty angle, walking stick swinging, round spectacles reflecting the light. With a start she recognized Eddie Lyle.

How odd, thought Hannah. He didn’t strike her as the outdoors type. And how irritating—he was an irritating little man at the best of times, and just now she hadn’t the energy to cope with him. She couldn’t escape—he’d seen her and picked up his pace, waving cheerfully at her.