All Shall Be Well (2 page)

Jasmine wondered, as the night drew in, if she had made the
right decision after all, yet she knew somehow that once she had crossed that invisible line, there could be no going back.

Duncan Kincaid emerged from the bowels of Hampstead tube station and blinked in the brilliant light. He turned the corner into the High and the colors jostled before him with an almost physical force. All Hampstead seemed to have turned out in its shirt sleeves to greet the spring morning. Shoppers bumped and smiled instead of snarling, restaurants set up impromptu sidewalk cafes, and the smell of fresh coffee mingled with exhaust fumes.

Kincaid plunged down the hill, untempted by the effervescent atmosphere. Coffee didn’t appeal to him—his mouth tasted like dirty washing-up water from drinking endless, stale cups, his eyes stung from other people’s cigarette smoke, and having solved the case offered little solace for a long and dismal night’s work. The body of a child found in a nearby field, the crime traced to a neighbor who, when confronted, sobbingly confessed he couldn’t help himself, hadn’t meant to hurt her.

Kincaid wanted merely to wash his face and collapse head first into bed.

By the time he reached Rosslyn Hill a little of the seasonal mood had infected him, and the sight of the flower seller at the corner of Pilgrim’s Lane brought him up with a start. Jasmine. He’d meant to stop in and see her last night—he usually did if he could—but the relationship wasn’t intimate enough for calling with excuses, and she would never mention that he hadn’t come.

He bought freesias, because he remembered that Jasmine loved their heady perfume.

The silence in Carlingford Road seemed intense after the main thoroughfares, and the air in the shadow of his building still held the night’s chill. Kincaid passed the Major coming up
the steps from his basement entrance, and received the expected “Harummf. Mornin’” and a sharp nod of the head in response to his greeting. After several months of nodding acquaintance, Kincaid, intrigued by the brass nameplate on the Major’s door, ventured a query regarding the ‘H.’ before ‘Keith’. The Major had looked sideways, looked over Kincaid’s head, groomed his mustache, and finally grumbled “Harley”. The matter was never referred to again.

He heard the knocking as soon as he entered the stairwell. First a gentle tapping, then a more urgent tattoo. A woman—tall, with expensively bobbed, red-gold hair graying at the temples, and wearing a well-cut, dark suit—turned to him as he topped the landing before Jasmine’s flat. He would have taken her for a solicitor if it hadn’t been for the bag she carried.

“Is she not in?” Kincaid asked as he came up to her.

“She must be. She’s too weak to be out on her own.” The woman considered Kincaid and seemed to decide he looked useful. She stuck out her hand and pumped his crisply. “I’m Felicity Howarth, the home-help nurse. I come about this time every day. Are you a neighbor?”

Kincaid nodded. “Upstairs. Could she be having a bath?”

“No. I help her with it.”

They looked at one another for a moment, and a spark of fear jumped between them. Kincaid turned and pounded on the door, calling, “Jasmine! Open up!” He listened, ear to the door, then turned to Felicity. “Have you a key?”

“No. She still gets herself up in the morning and lets me in. Have you?”

Kincaid shook his head, thinking. The lock mechanism was simple enough, a cheap standard pushbutton, but he knew Jasmine had a chain and deadbolt. Were they fastened? “Have you a hairpin? A paperclip?”

Felicity dug in her bag, came up with a sheaf of papers clipped together. “This do?”

He thrust the bouquet into her hands in exchange for the clip, twisting the ends out as he turned to the door. The lock clicked after a few seconds probing, a burglar’s dream. Kincaid twisted the knob and the door swung easily open.

The only light in the room filtered through the white rice-paper shades drawn over the windows. The flat was silent, except for a faint humming sound coming from the vicinity of Jasmine’s bed. Kincaid and Felicity Howarth stepped forward to the foot of the bed in an almost synchronized movement, not speaking, some quality in the room’s silence sealing their tongues.

No movement came from the body lying swathed in the bed’s swirl of colors, no breath gave rhythmic rise and fall to the chest on which the black cat crouched, purring.

The freesias fell, forgotten, scattering like pick-up sticks across the counterpane.

CHAPTER
2

“Stupid bloody cow.” Roger’s voice rose, echoing ominously in the small room. Margaret imagined the heavy clump of her landlady’s feet mounting the stairs and reached toward him, as if her gesture might hush him. Mrs. Wilson had threatened more than once to evict Margaret if she caught Roger staying the night, and if she heard them quarrelling at half-past seven in the morning she wouldn’t have much doubt about the circumstances.

“Roger, please, for heaven’s sake. Mrs. Wilson’ll hear you, and you know what she’s like—”

“Heaven hasn’t much to do with it, my dear Meg, except for the fact that your friend Jasmine’s no nearer to it today than she was yesterday, thanks to you.” The opportunity for sarcasm kept his volume down, but Margaret felt the coffee she’d gulped rise sourly in her throat.

“Roger, you can’t mean that—have you gone mad? I told you she changed her mind. I’m glad she changed her mind—”

“So you can spend every spare second of your time fussing and cooing over her like some dumpy Florence Nightingale? It makes me sick. Why should I hang around? Tell me that, Meg, dear—”

“Shut up, Roger. I’ve told you not—”

“—To call you that. It’s her pet name for you. How sweet.” He took a step closer and grabbed her elbow, squeezing it between his fingers. Margaret could smell her soap on his skin, and the herbal shampoo he used on his hair, and see the light glinting off the red-brown patch of stubble he’d missed on his jaw. “Tell me why I should stick around, Margaret,” he spoke softly now, almost whispering, “when you haven’t any time for me, and she could hang on for months?”

Margaret jerked her arm free. “Why don’t you go, then,” she hissed at him, and she felt a distant surprise, as if the words came from somewhere outside herself. “Just bloody well bugger off, all right?”

They faced each other in silence for a long moment, the sound of their breathing audible over the background noise of Radio Four, and then Roger laughed. He lifted his hand and cupped it under Margaret’s chin, tilting her head back. “Is that what you want, love?” Roger leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers. “Because you won’t get it. I’ll leave when I’m good and ready, not before, and don’t you even think about clearing out on me.”

The number eighty-nine bus bounced and rattled its way up the hill through Camden Town. Margaret Bellamy sat in the forward seat on the upper deck, her bulging shopping bag placed beside her as a bastion against intruders.

She needn’t have worried. The only other occupant to venture climbing the stairs was a toothless old man absorbed in a racing paper. The seat’s cracked upholstery stank of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes, but Margaret found the familiar odor comforting. She gnawed her knuckle, the latest in a series of displacement behaviors designed to prevent her from biting her nails. An infantile habit, Jasmine called it. Jasmine …

Margaret’s thoughts veered away, jumping to another track
like a needle skipping on an old phonograph. She’d had to get out of the office, even if Mrs. Washburn had given her that fishy-eyed stare and said “Dentist again?”

“Bitch,” Margaret said aloud, then looked around to see if the smelly old man had heard her. And what if he had, she asked herself? It seemed like she’d spent her whole life trying not to offend anybody, and it had landed her in an awful bloody mess.

She should have told Jasmine about Roger, that was her first mistake. But when he’d first started asking her out she hadn’t quite believed it herself, and didn’t want to risk the humiliation if he dropped her as quickly as he’d picked her up. Afterwards, the right moment never seemed to materialize, and the guilt she felt for keeping it secret compounded her embarrassment. She rehearsed all sorts of “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you” scenarios, and finally remained silent.

Actually, Roger hadn’t really taken her out. Looking back on it, she saw that he merely had provided his presence and attention while she paid for almost everything. A small price it seemed at the time, to bask in the glow of Roger’s looks, his connections, his air of knowing all the right people and the right places.

Still, it had been a small error of vanity, a forgivable mistake. The ones she had made since were not dismissed so easily. She never should have told Roger what Jasmine had asked her to do. And she never should have told him about the money.

The bus shuddered to a stop at South End Green. Balancing her bag against her hip, Margaret picked her way down the stairs and came blinking out into the sunshine. The huge, old plane trees and willows of the South Heath marched away to her right as she started up the hill. Sun sparkled on the waters of the ponds, and people flowed around her with that festive air that an unexpectedly warm spring day gives the English.

The unsettled feeling that had been nagging her since last night coiled more tightly in the pit of her stomach.

From Willow Road she turned away from the Heath and trudged up Pilgrim’s Lane. Just as she reached Carlingford Road she looked up and saw the rear of an ambulance disappear as it turned left into Rosslyn Hill. Margaret’s stomach spasmed and her knees threatened to give way beneath her.

Felicity stripped the bed, then straightened the spread over the bare mattress, tucking the corners with precision. Kincaid, having raised the blinds, stood staring down into the patch of garden. After a moment he shook himself and ran his fingers through his hair, then turned to face her. “Who’s next of kin, do you know?”

“A brother, I think, called Theo,” Felicity answered, giving the spread a final smoothing across the pillow. She surveyed the bed for a moment, gave a satisfied nod and turned to the sink. “Although I’m not sure they got on well,” she continued over her shoulder as she washed her hands before filling the copper kettle from the tap. “She mentioned him several times. He lives in Surrey, or Sussex, but I never met him.” Felicity nodded toward the small, inlaid secretary Jasmine had used for her papers. “I imagine you’ll find his number and address in that lot.”

Kincaid was a bit taken aback by her assumption that he would be responsible for notifying Jasmine’s relatives, but he had no idea who else might perform the unpleasant task. He didn’t relish the prospect.

“It does take them like that sometimes—suddenly, you know.” Felicity turned and examined him with concern, and Kincaid marveled at the speed with which she had regained her equilibrium. A few seconds shock—eyes closed, face wiped blank—then she had taken over with brisk professional competency.
A common enough occurrence for her, he supposed, the loss of a patient.

“But she didn’t seem—”

“No. I’d have given her another month or two, at the least, but we’re not God … our predictions aren’t infallible.” The kettle whistled and Felicity turned away, scooping mugs off a rack and pouring boiling water over tea bags in one smooth motion. The dark, business-like suit seemed at odds with such household proficiency, and Felicity herself, soberly neat against the welter of Jasmine’s exotic belongings, reminded Kincaid of a hawk among peacocks.

“She never spoke about it … her illness, I mean,” Kincaid said. “I didn’t realize it was so far—”

The front door swung open and bounced against the wall. Kincaid and Felicity Howarth spun around, startled. A woman stood framed in the doorway, clutching a shopping bag to her breast.

“Where is she? Where have they taken her?” She took in the neatly made bed and their arrested postures, and the bag slipped as she swayed.

Felicity was quicker off the mark than Kincaid. She had the bag safely on the floor and her hand under the woman’s elbow before Kincaid reached them.

They guided her toward a chair and she slumped into it, unresisting. Not yet thirty, Kincaid judged her, a trifle plump, with wayward brown hair and painfully fair skin, and a round face now crumpled with distress.

“Margaret? It is Margaret, isn’t it?” Felicity asked gently. She glanced at Kincaid and explained, “She’s a friend of Jasmine’s.”

“Tell me where they’ve taken her. She won’t want to be alone. Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have left her last night—” The sentence disintegrated into a wail and she turned her head
from side to side as if searching for Jasmine in the flat, her hands twisting in her lap. Kincaid and Felicity looked at one another over Margaret’s head.

Felicity knelt and took Margaret’s hands in hers. “Margaret, look at me. Jasmine’s dead. She died in her sleep last night. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Margaret looked at Felicity in appeal. “She can’t be. She promised.”

The words struck an odd note and Kincaid felt a prickle of alarm. He dropped down on one knee beside Felicity. “Promised? What did Jasmine promise, Margaret?”

Margaret focused on Kincaid for the first time. “She changed her mind. I was so relieved. I didn’t think I could go through—” a hiccupping sob interrupted her and she shivered. “Jasmine wouldn’t go back on a promise. She always kept her word.”

Felicity had let go Margaret’s hands and they moved restlessly again in her lap. Kincaid captured one and held it between his own. “Margaret. What exactly did Jasmine want you to do?”

She went still and blinked at him, puzzled. “She wanted me to help her kill herself, of course.” She blinked again and the tears spilled over, and the words came so softly Kincaid had to strain to hear them. “Whatever will I do now?”

Felicity rose, fetched a mug of luke-warm tea from the kitchen, stirred in some sugar, and carefully wrapped both Margaret’s hands around the cup. “Drink up, love. You’ll feel more yourself.” Margaret drank greedily until the cup was empty, unmindful of the tears slipping down her face.

Kincaid pulled up a dining chair and sat facing her, waiting as she fished a wad of tissue from her skirt pocket and mopped at her eyes. Her pale eyelashes gave her a defenseless look, like
a rabbit caught in a lamp. “Tell me exactly what happened, please, Margaret. I’d like to know.”