All Shall Be Well (4 page)

Theo shook his head. “No. No, I’m afraid not.”

Kincaid thought for a moment. “You’d better come in while I hunt something up.” He left Theo standing with his hands clasped in front of him, rocking on his heels, while he rooted around in the bedroom bureau drawer. When he’d worked Theft one of his regulars had given him a set of lockpicks which he had never had occasion to use.

He held up the ring of delicate wires as he returned to the sitting room, and Theo’s eyebrows rose questioningly above the rims of his spectacles. “I didn’t think to look for a key when I locked up again earlier,” Kincaid said in explanation. “These ought to do the trick.”

“But how … I mean, it was you that found …”

“Yes. I picked it a little less elegantly this morning, I’m afraid. With a paperclip.” If Theo Dent wondered how Kincaid came by a set of lockpicks, he didn’t ask.

They descended the stairs and Kincaid made short work of the cheap lock. As he opened the door and stepped aside, his arm brushed against Theo’s and he felt the tremor running through it. He paused and touched Theo’s shoulder. “Listen. It’s all right, you know. There’s nothing to see. You don’t even have to go in if you’d rather not. I just thought you might need to look through her papers.”

Theo looked up at him, his blue eyes blinking earnestly. “No, I want to go in. I must. Forgive my being silly.” He
stepped past Kincaid into Jasmine’s flat. His momentum carried him to the center of the sitting room, where he came to a halt, his arms hanging at his sides. He gazed at his sister’s things, the jade and brass, the brightly colored silk hangings, and the neatly tucked hospital bed taking up more than its share of space.

To Kincaid’s consternation tears began to slip beneath the gold spectacles and run unchecked down Theo’s face. Standing among his sister’s belongings he looked both pathetic and incongruous—the tweedy jacket over the pinstriped shirt and red braces seemed almost a parody of Englishness. He reminded Kincaid of the dressed-up teddy bears in shop windows.

“Here.” He took Theo’s arm and guided his unresisting body over to a dining chair. “Sit down.” Kincaid hunted for some tissues on the table by the bed, and the sight of Jasmine’s book and reading glasses sitting tidily next to the tissue box made him feel rather hollow himself. “Jasmine kept some whiskey in the cupboard,” he said as he handed Theo the tissues. “We could both use something to drink.”

Theo shook his head. “I’m not much of a drinker.” He sniffed, took off his spectacles and wiped his face, then blew his nose. “But I suppose just a small one won’t hurt.”

Kincaid splashed a half-inch of whiskey in two glasses and handed one to Theo. “Cheers.”

“Thanks. And please call me Theo. Under the circumstances anything else is rather absurd.” They drank in silence for a few minutes, some of Theo’s color returning. He buried his face in the tissues and blew, then pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and gently patted the tip of his nose.

“It’s just that I didn’t quite believe it,” Theo spoke suddenly, as if continuing a conversation Kincaid hadn’t begun, “until I came in and saw the flat empty, and the bed here in the sitting room. I didn’t know about the bed.”

Kincaid frowned. Jasmine had ordered the hospital bed several months ago. “How long since you’d seen your sister, Theo?”

Theo took another sip of the whiskey and contemplated the question. “Six months, I think. About that.” He saw Kincaid’s look of surprise. “Please don’t get the wrong impression—what did you say your name was? I wasn’t quite taking things in when you phoned.”

“Duncan.”

Theo nodded a little owlishly, and Kincaid thought he had not exaggerated his low tolerance for alcohol. “It’s not that I didn’t want to see my sister, Duncan, but that she didn’t want to see me. Or rather,” he leaned forward and waved his glass at Kincaid in emphasis, “she didn’t want me to see her. After she knew she was ill she didn’t encourage me to visit.” Theo leaned back in his chair and sighed. “God! She could be so stubborn. I rang up every week. Once, when I phoned and begged her to let me come she said, ‘Theo, I’m losing my hair. I don’t want you to see me.’ I can’t imagine her without it. Was she—”

“She did lose her hair, but it grew in again when they stopped the treatments. Quite thick and dark, like a boy’s.”

Theo considered this, nodded. “She always wore it long, since she was a girl. She was quite proud of it.” He fell silent and closed his eyes for so long that Kincaid began to think he had dozed off. Kincaid had reached over to take the tilting glass from Theo’s hand when he opened his eyes and continued as if he hadn’t paused.

“Jasmine always looked after me, you see. Our mother died when I was born, our father when I was ten and Jasmine fifteen. But Father wasn’t much use. It was always just the two of us, really.” Theo took another sip of his drink and patted his nose again with the handkerchief. “She told me that the treatments
had helped, that she was doing all right. I should have known better.” He leaned back and closed his eyes again for a moment. When he opened them and spoke, his words were surprisingly bitter. “I think she couldn’t bear to be at a disadvantage, couldn’t bear not to be in charge. She robbed me of my only chance to repay her, to look after her the way she looked after me.”

“Surely she didn’t want to distress you,” Kincaid suggested gently.

Theo sniffed. “Perhaps. But it would have been easier than this … this leaving things unfinished.”

Deciding it unwise to offer a refill, Kincaid gathered up Theo’s empty glass along with his own and washed them out in the sink. He felt unexpectedly light-headed himself, and remembered that the last thing he’d eaten had been stale sandwiches at his desk in the early morning hours. Theo’s voice interrupted his thoughts before they wandered too far in the direction of food.

“The really odd thing is that she phoned me yesterday—that was odd in itself as she almost always waited for me to ring her—and said she wanted to see me this weekend. I thought she must be improving. She really sounded quite well. We made arrangements for Sunday, as I couldn’t close the shop on Saturday.”

A cruel trick to play on her brother, Kincaid thought, if Jasmine had intended to kill herself. He hadn’t thought her capable of malice. Still, what did he know of the relationship between them, or about Theo, for that matter? He turned around and leaned against the sink, folding his arms across his chest. “What do you sell, Theo? Jasmine never said.”

Theo smiled. “Junk, really. As in j-u-n-q-u-e. Things not quite old enough to be considered antiques and not expensive
enough to be considered much else. Anything from buttons to butter dishes.” His face fell. “Jasmine helped set me up.” He stood and began walking restlessly about the room, touching things. “I don’t know what I shall do now.” He shook his head, then turned and faced Kincaid again, holding a small porcelain elephant from Jasmine’s writing desk. “What’s to be done, about Jasmine, I mean? There will have to be arrangements made … I’m afraid I don’t know where to start. Do you know what she wanted?” Theo’s brow creased and he continued before Kincaid could speak. “Were you a close friend of my sister? I’m sorry—I’ve been so caught up in myself—I ought to have realized. It must have been very difficult for you.”

Kincaid hadn’t been prepared for sympathy. “Yes,” he said, answering both question and statement, then took a breath and straightened up. It couldn’t be put off indefinitely. “I was a friend of Jasmine’s, but I’m also a policeman. When Jasmine’s nurse and I found her this morning we assumed she had died of natural causes. Then Jasmine’s friend Margaret arrived and told us that she had agreed to help Jasmine commit suicide.”

Theo’s pacing had taken him back to the dining chair. He collapsed in it as suddenly as if his legs had been cut from under him. “Suicide?”

“Margaret said that yesterday Jasmine told her she’d changed her mind, but now she thinks Jasmine just intended releasing her from her obligation.”

“But why? Why would she kill herself?”

“Perhaps she didn’t want to become too dependent on anyone, or suffer any more than necessary.”

“Of course. Stupid of me.” Theo’s eyes had lost their focus, and he absently stroked the porcelain elephant he still held. “That would be like her.”

“Theo, I had the coroner’s office request a post mortem.”
Seeing Theo’s look of incomprehension, Kincaid continued. “In a situation like this it’s necessary to find out exactly what did happen.”

“Is it?” Theo asked, still sounding puzzled.

“Well, it’s the usual procedure if there’s any uncertainty as to cause of death.” It seemed to Kincaid that the second shock had rendered Theo unable to cope, and the whiskey probably hadn’t improved matters. “I’m afraid the funeral arrangements will have to wait until afterwards. Perhaps you could get in touch with her solicitor?” Theo looked at him blankly. “Do you know her solicitor’s name?” Kincaid asked.

Theo made an effort to collect himself. “Thomas … Thompson … I’m not sure.” He stood up, still clutching the elephant. “Look. You’ve been very kind. Would you mind looking after things here a bit longer? I think I’d like to go home.”

Kincaid wondered if he would make it. “Shall I walk with you to the tube station?”

Theo shook his head. “No. I’m fine, really.” He stood up, and only as he held out his hand to Kincaid did he seem to realize he still held the small elephant. “It was mine as a child,” he said in answer to Kincaid’s questioning look. “I gave it to Jasmine when I moved into my first digs. Didn’t think it fashionable, or grown-up, I suppose.” He gave a self-deprecating snort and placed the elephant very carefully back in its position on Jasmine’s desk. “You’ll let me know?” he asked, turning to Kincaid and shaking his hand.

“Yes. As soon as I hear.”

Theo turned and let himself out, leaving Kincaid in doubtful possession of Jasmine’s flat.

Kincaid stood for a moment organizing his thoughts, determined to ignore the rumblings of his stomach a bit longer. Theo Dent’s revelation that Jasmine had arranged to see him
this weekend, after a six month hiatus, made Kincaid feel even more uneasy about the whole business. Had Jasmine lied to both Margaret and Theo? In Margaret’s case it might have been motivated by kindness, but surely not in Theo’s.

Kincaid stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed as he looked around the familiar room. It seemed to him that Jasmine’s quiet presence had provided an anchor in more than one life—both Margaret and Theo had wailed “What shall I do now?”, as bereft as abandoned children, yet he had no idea what Jasmine had felt for them, or anyone else, for that matter. Her presence was already as elusive as smoke, and he thought he had known her quite well.

He went to the kitchen sink, intending to dry and put away the whiskey tumblers. His foot nudged something and he looked down curiously. It was the bowl of food he had put out that morning for the cat—untouched, dried and crusted over. “Damn and blast,” Kincaid swore. He had forgotten about the cat. He’d meant to speak to Theo about it, hoping Theo would take the beast home, or make arrangements for it.

He knelt and peered under Jasmine’s bed. The dark, hunched shape of the cat remained exactly where he had seen it last, and he wondered if it had moved at all. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” he coaxed, which elicited as little response as before. Returning to the sink, Kincaid scraped the dried food into the bin and refilled the bowl. He shoved this offering as far under the bed as he could reach, then stayed down on knees and elbows, contemplating the cat. He felt guilty as well as helpless in the face of the animal’s grief, and he had no experience with cats.

“Look,” he addressed the cat, “that’s all I can do for now. Whether or not you eat is up to you. I can’t go on calling you ‘kitty’, and I’m not going to call you ‘Sidhi’ or anything equally absurd.” The cat closed its eyes, whether from relaxation or boredom Kincaid couldn’t guess. “Sid. From now on you’re
just plain Sid, okay?” He took silence as assent and got up, dusting off his knees.

He must find a key if he were to continue looking after the cat—he couldn’t go on playing the amateur burglar. Where had Jasmine kept her keys? He thought she hadn’t often used them since she became ill, but they must have been easily accessible. The small secretary seemed the obvious choice, and his search did not take more than a few minutes. He found a single key on a monogrammed brass key ring, tucked away in a wooden catch-all box on the desk’s surface.

As he turned away a flash of color in one of the secretary’s slots caught his attention. It was a weekly engagement calendar of the type sold by museum shops—each week’s page accompanied by a Constable painting. He flipped through the last few months, finding visits to the clinic, birthdays, and his own name entered with increasing regularity. In the weeks of March he began to see botanical notations; the blooming of the japonica and forsythia, the daffodils, and as he turned to April, the flowering of the pears and plums, and the first tulip in the garden. All were things visible from the windows of the flat, and Kincaid felt that this had not been Jasmine’s yearly ritual, but rather a cataloguing of a last spring. In yesterday’s space, opposite Constable’s “View from Hampstead Heath”, she had written ‘Theo—Sunday?’, and then, in very careful script ‘my fiftieth birthday’.

He hadn’t known.

CHAPTER
4

Kincaid woke slowly on Saturday morning, feeling drowsy and content until memory returned. The sense of loss descended heavily, weighing on his chest. He pulled himself up, shaking his head like a swimmer emerging from deep water.

If he had dreamed he had no recollection of it, but his mind was clear and he found he had come to a decision in his sleep. If the pathologist reported that Jasmine had indeed died of natural causes, then he would gladly lay aside his suspicions. But if not, he felt a need to be better prepared. Suicide was the obvious assumption—he had no concrete reason for feeling uncomfortable with it, yet he did. Perhaps he was guilty of bringing his job home, of attributing violence to the natural and peaceful death of a friend. Or perhaps he was resisting the idea of suicide because it made him feel culpable, as if he had failed her. But whatever the source of his unease, Kincaid had learned from experience to trust his instincts, and something about Jasmine’s death didn’t feel right.