Leave the Grave Green

As they reached the lane’s high point, Makepeace turned left into the darkness of the beech woods. The track ran gently downhill, its thick padding of leaves silencing the car wheels. A few hundred yards on they rounded a curve and Kincaid saw the house. Its white stone shone beneath the darkness of the trees, and lamplight beamed welcomingly from its uncurtained windows. He knew immediately what Makepeace had meant about the name—Badger’s End implied a certain rustic, earthy simplicity, and this house, with its smooth white walls and arched windows and doors, had an elegant, almost ecclesiastic presence.

Makepeace pulled the car up on the soft carpet of leaves, but left the engine running as he fished in his pocket. He handed Kincaid a card. “I’ll be off, then. Here’s the number at the local nick. I’ve some business to attend to, but if you’ll ring up when you’ve finished, someone will come and collect you.”

Kincaid waved as Makepeace pulled away, then stood staring at the house as the still silence of the woods settled over him. Grieving widow, distraught in-laws, an imperative for social discretion… not a recipe for an easy evening, or an easy case. He squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

The front door swung open and light poured out to meet him.

“I’m Caroline Stowe. It’s so good of you to come.”

This time the hand that took his was small and soft, and he found himself looking down into the woman’s upturned face. “Duncan Kincaid. Scotland Yard.” With his free hand he pulled his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket, but she ignored it, still grasping his other hand between her own.

His mind having summed up the words Dame and opera as large, he was momentarily taken aback. Caroline Stowe stood a fraction over five feet tall, and while her small body was softly rounded, she could by no stretch of the imagination be described as heavy.

His surprise must have been apparent, because she laughed and said, “I don’t sing Wagner, Mr. Kincaid. My specialty is bel canto. And besides, size is not relevant to strength of voice. It has to do with breath control, among other things.” She released his hand. “Do come in. How rude of me to keep you standing on the threshold like some plumber’s apprentice.”

As she closed the front door, he looked around with interest. A lamp on a side table illuminated the hall, casting shadows on the smooth gray flagstone floor. The walls were a pale gray-green, bare except for a few large gilt-framed watercolors depicting voluptuous, bare-breasted women lounging about Romanesque ruins.

Caroline opened a door on the right and stood aside, gesturing him in with an open palm.

Directly opposite the door a coal fire burned in a grate, and above the mantel he saw himself, framed in an ornate mirror—chestnut hair unruly from the damp, eyes shadowed, their color indistinguishable from across the room. Only the top of Caroline’s dark head showed beneath the level of his shoulder.

He had only an instant to gather an impression of the room. The same gray slate floor, here softened by scattered rugs; comfortable, slightly worn chintz furniture; a jumble of used tea things on a tray—all dwarfed by the baby grand piano. Its dark surface reflected the light from a small lamp, and sheet music stood open behind the keyboard. The bench was pushed back at an angle, as though someone had just stopped playing.

“Gerald, this is Superintendent Kincaid, from Scotland Yard.” Caroline moved to stand beside the large rumpled-looking man rising from the sofa. “Mr. Kincaid, my husband, Sir Gerald Asherton.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kincaid said, feeling the response inappropriate even as he made it. But if Caroline insisted on treating his visit as a social occasion, he would play along for a bit.

“Sit down.” Sir Gerald gathered a copy of the day’s Times from the seat of an armchair and moved it to a nearby end table.

“Would you like some tea?” asked Caroline. “We’ve just finished, and it’s no trouble to heat up the kettle again.”

Kincaid sniffed the lingering odor of toast in the air and his stomach growled. From where he sat he could see the paintings he’d missed when entering the room—watercolors again, by the same artist’s hand, but this time the women reclined in elegant rooms and their dresses had the sheen of watered silk. A house to tempt the appetites, he thought, and said, “No, thank you.”

“Have a drink, then,” Sir Gerald said. “The sun’s certainly over the yardarm.”

“No, I’m fine. Really.” What an incongruous couple they made, still standing side by side, hovering over him as if he were a royal guest. Caroline, dressed in a peacock-blue silk blouse and dark tailored trousers, looked neat and almost childlike beside her husband’s bulk.

Sir Gerald smiled at Kincaid, a great, infectious grin that showed pink gums. “Geoffrey recommended you very highly, Mr. Kincaid.”