All Shall Be Well (7 page)

“Her mother’s youngest brother, not much older than Margaret, in fact,” Kincaid said glibly. “They were very close.”

Mrs. Wilson spoke with her back to Kincaid, slicing something he couldn’t see. “No family’s ever had anything to do with her since she came here. Might as well be an orphan.”

“Well, at least she’s had her boyfriend to look after her,” Kincaid threw out.

“Him!” Mrs. Wilson turned around and fixed Kincaid with a beady stare. “That one never looked after anything but himself, I can tell you. Sponging, more like it.” She turned back to her slicing. “Too pretty for his own good, and oily with it. What he sees in her,” she lifted her head toward the ceiling, “I don’t know.” She wiped her hands on her apron and presented Kincaid with a plate of squashy, if edible looking, ham and tomato sandwiches. “That do?”

“Admirably, thanks.”

Having finished her task, Mrs. Wilson seemed disinclined to let him go. She lit another cigarette and propped her hip up on the edge of the table. Kincaid looked away from the sight of her spreading thigh and settled his weight back into the chair.

Mrs. Wilson took up her train of thought again. “I’ve told
her I don’t want him hanging around here, nor spending the night. Gives my house a bad name, don’t it?”

Kincaid assumed the question was rhetorical, but answered it placatingly anyway. “I’m sure no one would think such a thing, Mrs. Wilson.”

Mrs. Wilson preened a bit at this, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “She thinks I don’t know what’s going on, but I do. I hear him come padding down the stairs at all hours of the night, like a thief. And I hear the rows, too,” a pause while she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of Kincaid’s face, “mostly him shouting and her wailing like a lamb led to slaughter. Silly cow,” Mrs. Wilson finished with a snort. “I imagine she puts up with it ’cause she thinks she won’t do any better.”

Charitable old bitch, Kincaid thought, and smiled at her. “Then I don’t suppose he’s much comfort to her, at a time like this?”

“Not been here to comfort, or for anything else. Not since …” Mrs. Wilson squinted and drew on the last of her cigarette, then ground it out in the cheap tin ashtray. “Oh, must have been Thursday tea-time. He stormed out of here in a terrible temper. Near ripped the door off its hinges. But then,” she shifted her weight as she thought and the table creaked in protest, “Thursday night is Ladies’ Night down the pub and I was out till closing. If he came back later they were quiet enough making it up.”

Kincaid decided he’d exhausted Mrs. Wilson’s information for the time being, as well as his patience. He stood up and retrieved the sandwiches. “I don’t want these to go stale, and I’d better be seeing about Margaret. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your help, Mrs. Wilson. You’ve been very kind.”

“Ta,” she said, and wiggled her fingers at him coquettishly.

*   *   *

“Success,” Kincaid said when Margaret let him in again. In his absence she had tidied the bed and the scattered clothing, brushed her hair, and put on some pale pink lipstick. Her smile was less tentative, and he thought the time spent alone had brought her some composure.

Margaret’s eyes widened as she saw the plate of sandwiches. “I can’t believe it! She’s never so much as loaned me a tea bag.”

“I appealed to her better instincts.”

“Didn’t know she had any,” Margaret snorted, taking the plate from Kincaid. Then she froze, her face crumpling with distress. “You didn’t tell her—”

“No.” Kincaid rescued the tilting plate and set it on the table. “I told a pack of lies. You’ve just lost your favorite uncle, your mother’s youngest brother, in case Mrs. W. asks.”

“But she doesn’t have—” Margaret’s face cleared. “Oh. Sorry.” She smiled at Kincaid. “I guess I’m a little dense today. Thanks.”

“Partly hunger, I imagine. Let’s get you fed.” The electric kettle whistled. Two mugs with tea bags sat ready beside it. Kincaid poured the tea and settled Margaret in the armchair, then pulled up the sash of the single window and leaned against the sill. As Margaret started on a sandwich, he said, “You’d better tell me about your family, after all the terrible things I made up.”

“Woking,” said Margaret, through a mouthful of ham and tomato. She swallowed and tried again. “Dorking. Sorry. I didn’t realize I was so hungry.” She took a smaller bite and chewed a moment before continuing. “I’m from Dorking. My dad owns a garage. I kept his books for him, looked after things.”

Kincaid could easily imagine her managing a smaller, more familiar world, where here in London she seemed so vulnerable. “What happened?”

Margaret shrugged and wiped the corner of her mouth with a finger. “Nothing ever changed. I could see myself doing the same thing in twenty years, living bits and pieces of other people’s lives. My dad’s business, my sister’s kids—”

“How did they take it?”

Margaret smiled, mocking herself. “I’m the plain one, so they never expected me to want anything different. I should have been content to have Dad’s customers pat me and pay me stupid compliments, to be Aunt Meg and look after Kath’s kids whenever she had something better to do.”

“They were furious.” Kincaid grinned and Margaret smiled back a little unwillingly.

“Yes.”

“How long has it been?”

Margaret finished the last sandwich and licked the tips of her fingers, then rubbed them dry on her sweatpants. “Eighteen months now.”

“And no one’s been to see you in all that time?”

She flushed and said hotly, “That malicious old biddy. I’d swear she keeps a list of anyone who—” Margaret dropped her head into her hands and leaned forward. “Oh Christ, what difference does it make? I feel sick.”

Too much food, thought Kincaid, eaten too quickly on an empty stomach. “Keep your head down. It’ll pass.” He spied a worn face flannel and towel, folded on a shelf above the bed. “Where’s the loo?” he asked Margaret.

“Next landing,” she said indistinctly, her face now pressed against her knees.

Kincaid took the flannel downstairs and soaked it in cold water, and when he returned Margaret raised her head just long enough to press the cloth against her face. He moved restlessly to the window, wishing he had Gemma’s skill at offering practical comfort.

The view—a small, weedy garden with an enormous pair of overalls swinging on the line—didn’t hold his attention for long. Turning back to the room, Kincaid took note of Margaret’s few possessions. The table held a handful of cheap jewelry in a dish, and a few cosmetic and lotion bottles. Next to the gas ring were a chipped plate and bowl, a saucepan and some cutlery. All the utensils were jumble sale quality, the cheapest necessities for a first move from home. The shelf above the bed held a radio, some dog-eared paperbacks and a framed photograph.

Kincaid stepped closer to study it. An older man, balding and hearty-looking in a tweed jacket, arm around his wife’s slender shoulders, the three grown children grouped before them. A brother and sister, blond, good-looking, both radiating assurance, and between them Margaret, hair askew, smile lopsided.

“Mum and Dad, Kathleen, and my brother, Tommy.”

Kincaid made an effort to wipe any sympathy from his face before he turned. Margaret watched him, waiting, he sensed, for some expected comment. Instead, he sat down on the bed and said, “It must have been tough, those first few months on your own.”

“It was.” Margaret looked down at the damp flannel in her hands and began folding it into smaller and smaller squares. “There wasn’t anyone until I met Jasmine. I got a job in the typing pool in the Planning Office. When I did work for her she was always kind to me, but not”—a pause while she thought—“familiar, if you know what I mean.” She looked up at Kincaid for assent, and he nodded. “A little distant. But then she got ill. She took leave for treatment, and when she came back you could tell she’d gone down, but no one spoke to her about it. They all acted like her illness didn’t exist.” Margaret looked up at him through her pale lashes and smiled a little at
her own nerve. “So I asked her. Every day I’d say ‘How are you?’ or ‘What are they giving you now?’, and after a while she began to tell me.”

“And when she left work?” Kincaid prompted.

“I went to see her. Every day if I could. No one else did.” Margaret sounded indignant even now. “Oh, they’d club together on cards or a basket, but no one ever put themselves out to visit her.”

“Did Jasmine mind?”

Margaret’s wide brow creased as she thought about it. “I don’t think so. She didn’t seem to have any really close friends at work. No one disliked her, but they weren’t chummy either.” Margaret smiled at Kincaid a bit ironically. “She talked about you most often.”

Kincaid stood up and took the few steps to the window. He had put off telling her the p.m. results long enough, and he tried to frame a gentle way to tell her that Jasmine had not died quietly in her sleep.

“Look,” Margaret’s voice came from behind him, “I know you didn’t come here just to look after me. Jasmine didn’t keep her promise, did she?”

Kincaid thought Margaret might have read his mind. He sat down opposite her again and searched her face. “I don’t know. Her system contained a massive amount of morphine.”

Margaret slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes. Tears welled from beneath her eyelids and ran down the sides of her nose. After a moment she leaned forward and rubbed her face with the crumpled flannel. “I should never have believed her.” She barely whispered the words as she rocked her body backwards and forwards.

“Look, Meg. If Jasmine were determined to kill herself, there’s no way you could have prevented her. Oh, for one night, maybe, but not indefinitely.” When Margaret continued
rocking, eyes closed, he leaned closer. “Listen, Meg. There are some things I need to know, and you’re the only one who can help me.”

The rocking slowed, then stopped. Margaret opened her eyes but stayed hunched over, arms crossed protectively over her stomach.

“Tell me why Jasmine needed your help.”

“She didn’t—” Margaret’s voice caught. She reached for the cold dregs of her tea and swallowed convulsively, then tried again. “She didn’t. Not really. I helped her figure the dosage—she was morphine dependent so we knew it would take a lot—but she could have done it herself. There was enough morphine, because she’d been maintaining the level she actually used while telling the nurse she needed her dosage increased. And the catheter would have held traces anyway.”

“Then why?” Kincaid asked again, holding her gaze with his.

“I don’t know. I suppose she just didn’t want to be alone at the last.”

Had Jasmine given in to weakness by asking Margaret’s help, wondered Kincaid, and then found unexpected strength? He shook his head. It was possible, probable, logical, and yet he still couldn’t believe it.

“What is it?” asked Margaret, sitting up a bit.

“Did Jasmine have—” Kincaid stopped as the door opened soundlessly. A man stepped into the room, regarding Kincaid and Margaret with an expression of amused contempt. Margaret, sitting with her back to the door, frowned at Kincaid in bewilderment and said, “What’s the—”

“Well.” The man spoke, the single syllable dripping with unsavory implications.

Margaret jerked at the sound of his voice and leapt to her feet, her face flushing an unbecoming, splotchy scarlet. “Rog—”

“Don’t get up, Meg. I didn’t expect you to be entertaining.”
Apart from a brief glance in Margaret’s direction, all his attention was fixed on Kincaid.

Returning the scrutiny with interest and an immediate dislike, Kincaid saw a slender man of middle height, in perhaps his late twenties, wearing designer jeans and an expensive white cotton shirt open part way down the chest, cuffs turned back. He wore his light red-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and his features were clearly cut. He was, Kincaid thought wryly, smashingly good-looking.

Margaret stood rigidly, gripping the back of her chair, and when she spoke her voice was high and uncontrolled. “Roger, where have you been? I’ve been wait—”

“Why the panic, Meg?” Roger didn’t move from his slouching stance in the middle of the room, and made no effort to touch or comfort Margaret. “Don’t you think introductions are in order?”

Kincaid took the initiative before Margaret could blurt anything out. “My name’s Kincaid.” He stood and held his hand out to Roger, who shook it with no great enthusiasm. “I’m a neighbor of Margaret’s friend Jasmine Dent.”

“Jasmine’s dead, Rog. She died on Thursday night. I couldn’t reach you anywhere.” Margaret trembled visibly.

Roger’s eyebrows lifted. “Is that so? And you came to tell Margaret?”

“I came to see how she was getting on,” Kincaid said mildly, leaning back against the edge of the table and folding his arms.

“How kind of you.” Roger’s public-school accent expressed sarcasm well. “Poor Meg.” For the first time he took a step toward her, reaching out and pulling her stiff body to him in a brief embrace. He swiveled her around toward Kincaid again and rested a hand lightly on the back of her neck. “It must have been a shock, her going sooner than anyone expected.”

“It wasn’t like that. Jasmine died from an overdose of morphine,” Margaret said, watching Kincaid’s face as she spoke, seeking support. Roger let her go abruptly and she moved away from him.

“That’s too bad, Meg. I’m sorry she—”

“Duncan knows about the suicide,” she jerked her head toward Kincaid, “so don’t bother to say you’re sorry, Rog. I know you’re not. No need for you to worry now.”

“Worry? Don’t be absurd, Meg.”

Roger’s voice was light, almost playful, but Kincaid sensed wariness replacing the nonchalance. “There is another possibility, you know,” Kincaid said into the tension that vibrated in the room. Both faces turned toward him, Meg’s bewildered, Roger’s alert. “Someone might have given Jasmine help she didn’t want.”

“I don’t …” Margaret began, then looked at Roger who, Kincaid thought, understood all too well.

The silence lengthened, until Kincaid straightened up and stretched. “I’m afraid I never caught your last name,” he said to Roger.

Roger hesitated, then volunteered grudgingly, “It’s Leveson-Gower.” He pronounced it “Loos-n-gor”.