All Shall Be Well (8 page)

How fittingly posh, Kincaid thought. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Margaret. “I’ll be off, then. Are you sure you’ll be all right, Meg?”

Margaret nodded uncertainly. Roger wrapped an arm around her waist, and with the other ran his fingernails slowly up her bare arm. Kincaid saw her nipples grow hard under her thin cotton shirt. She looked away from him, flushing.

“Meg will be just fine, won’t you, love?” said Roger.

Kincaid turned back to them as he opened the door. “By the way, Roger, where were you on Thursday night?”

Roger still held Margaret before him, part shield, part possession. “What’s it to you?”

“I’ve a bad habit of liking people to account for themselves. I’m a copper.” Kincaid smiled at them both and let himself out.

CHAPTER
6

The east side of Carlingford Road lay in deep shadow when Kincaid drew the Midget up to the curb. He rolled up the windows and snapped the soft top shut, then stood for a moment looking up at his building. It seemed unnaturally still and silent, the windows showing no light or signs of movement. Kincaid shrugged and put it down to his own skewed perception, but halfway up the stairs to his flat he realized he hadn’t seen the Major since yesterday evening.

His heart gave a little lurch of alarm and he told himself not to be an ass—there was no reason anything should have happened to the Major. Death hadn’t stayed lurking in the building like some gothic specter. Nevertheless, he found himself back downstairs, knocking on the Major’s door.

No answer. Kincaid turned back to the street, thinking to go through Jasmine’s flat to check the garden, when he saw the Major turn the corner into the road. He walked slowly, hampered by the two shrubs he carried, a plastic tub tucked under each arm.

Kincaid went quickly to meet him. “Thought you might need some help.”

“Much obliged.”

Kincaid, accepting one of the five-gallon tubs, heard the breath whistling through the Major’s nostrils.

“Long pull uphill from the bus.”

“What are they?” Kincaid asked, shortening his stride to match his step to the Major’s.

“Roses. Antiques. From a nursery in Bucks.”

“Today?” Kincaid asked in some surprise. “You’ve carried these from Buckinghamshire on the bus?”

They had reached the steps leading down to the Major’s door. Setting down his tub, the Major pulled off his cap and wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. “Only place to get ’em. Himalayan Musk, they’re called.”

As he set down his own tub, Kincaid looked doubtfully at the bare, thorny stems. “But couldn’t—”

The Major shook his head vigorously. “Wrong time of year, of course. But it had to be something special.” At Kincaid’s even more perplexed expression, he wiped his face and continued, “For Jasmine. It’s the scent, you see, not like those modern hybrid teas. She loved the scented flowers, said she didn’t care what they looked like. These bloom once, late in spring. Masses of pale pink blooms, smell like heaven.”

It took Kincaid a moment to respond, never having heard the Major make such a long speech, nor say anything remotely poetic. “Yes, you’re right. I think she would have liked them.”

The Major unlocked his door and stooped for the tubs. “Let me give you a hand,” Kincaid said, lifting one easily.

The Major opened his mouth to refuse, hesitated, then said, “Right. Thanks.”

Kincaid followed him through the door of the flat. His first impression was of unrelieved brown. The Major flipped on a light switch and the impression expanded into neat, clean and brown. A faded floral wallpaper in tints of rose and brown, brown carpet, brown covers on the inexpensive settee and armchair.
No paintings, no photographs, no books that Kincaid could see as he followed the Major through the sitting room. The only splash of bright color came from the gardening magazines and catalogs stacked tidily on the pine coffee table.

The Major led Kincaid through the kitchen and opened a door into the concreted area which ran beneath the steps descending from Jasmine’s flat. To the right, in the corner formed by the fence and the wall of the building, the Major had built a covered potting area. Kincaid stuck his head in the door and was rewarded with a rich, humic smell so strong it caught in his throat.

The Major climbed the steps to lawn level and put down his tub. Kincaid did the same and stood looking at the garden, struck by the contrast between the Major’s flat and this small oasis of color and perfection. He wondered what sustained the Major during the winter months when nothing grew except a few sturdy perennials.

After a moment in which the Major seemed lost in contemplation as well, Kincaid asked, “Where are you going to put them?”

“There, I think.” He pointed at the brick wall at the rear of the garden, the only unoccupied territory that Kincaid could see. “They’re climbers. They’ll take it over.”

“Let me help.” Kincaid was suddenly moved by a desire to participate in this memorial, more fitting than any service spoken by a stranger.

The Major hesitated before replying, a habit, Kincaid began to think, when anyone threatened to disrupt his solitary routine. “Oh, aye. There’s another old spade in the shed.”

Kincaid moved the tubs to the back of the garden, and when the Major returned with the spades and pointed out a spot among the pansies and snapdragons, he started to dig. They worked in silence as the shadows moved along the garden.

When the Major judged the holes deep enough, they placed the roses carefully, filling in around them and tamping down the earth with their hands. After years of living in city flats, Kincaid felt a grubby satisfaction he hadn’t experienced since making mud forts in his Cheshire childhood.

The Major stood leaning on his spade, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction. “That’s done, and done well. She’d be pleased, I’ll wager.”

Kincaid nodded, looking up at the darkened windows of Jasmine’s flat. A level above, the sun flashed off his own. “I’m famished. Come out with me and have something to eat,” he said impulsively, telling himself he was taking advantage of an opportunity to question the Major, and not influenced by the thought of his empty flat. He waited patiently now for the Major’s reply, counting the seconds to himself.

The Major looked all around the garden, consulting the tulips and forsythia. “Aye. We’d best wash up, then.”

They chose the coffee bar around the corner on Rosslyn Hill, settling in to the vinyl booth and ordering omelets with chips and salad. The Major had brushed his sparse hair until his scalp shone as pink as his face, and Kincaid marveled at the generation which still put on a tie for a casual Saturday night meal. He himself had swapped his cotton shirt for a long-sleeved rugby shirt, his concession to the cooling temperature.

When their beer arrived and they had drunk the top off, the Major wiped the foam from his mustache and asked, “Did the brother come and take charge of the arrangements, for the funeral and such?”

“The brother came, all right, but he didn’t feel up to taking over much of anything. And there won’t be a funeral just yet.”

The Major’s pale blue eyes widened in surprise. “No funeral? Why ever not?”

“Because I ordered a post mortem, Major. There were indications that Jasmine might have committed suicide.”

The Major stared at him for a heartbeat of shocked silence, then thumped his glass down so hard beer sloshed over the lip. “Why couldn’t you just let her go in peace, man? What difference did it make to anybody if the poor wee soul made things a bit easier for herself?”

Kincaid shrugged. “None, Major, and I would have let it go, if that were all there was to it. But some things weren’t consistent with suicide, and I’m sure now that her death wasn’t natural. I’ve had the p.m. report.”

“What things?” asked the Major, fastening on the pertinent statement.

“Jasmine did intend suicide, we know that. She asked her friend Margaret to help her, but then she told Margaret she felt differently and had changed her mind. She left no note, no explanation. Surely she would have done that for Margaret. And,” Kincaid paused long enough to sip from his pint, “she made arrangements to see her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in six months, tomorrow.”

The Major nodded along with every point, but when Kincaid finished said, “I canna believe someone would’ve harmed the poor lassie. She wouldn’t have hung on much longer anyway.” His blue eyes were surprisingly sharp in his round face.

The waitress arrived bearing their plates, giving Kincaid a reprieve. The Major doused his chips in vinegar, then poured HP sauce on his omelet. Kincaid wrinkled his nose as the vinegar fumes reached him. Bachelor habits, he thought. He’d be doing that himself in a few years.

“What do you think, Major? You knew her, maybe better than I did.”

The Major speared a bite of egg with his fork and swabbed it
through the pool of brown sauce on his plate. “Canna say I knew her well, not really. We only talked about,” he forked egg and chips into his mouth and continued, “everyday things. The garden, the telly. Now Margaret I never met, but I’d see her coming and going, and sometimes she’d come out to the steps and wave at me when I was in the garden. A friendly lass. Not like Jasmine. I don’t mean,” he corrected himself, “to say that Jasmine was unfriendly, just that she kept herself to herself, if you know what I mean.” As if surprised by his own garrulity, the Major looked away from Kincaid and concentrated on his dinner.

The espresso machine hissed and gurgled like some subterranean monster as Kincaid took a bite of his own omelet. “Did you ever see anyone come with Margaret? A boyfriend?”

The Major frowned and shook his head. “Canna say as I did.”

Kincaid felt sure he would have remembered Roger. “Did you ever meet Theo, her brother?”

“Not that I recall. She didn’t have much in the way of visitors, except that nurse the last few months. Now that,” he leaned forward confidentially as he scooped up the last of his egg and chips, “is one fine-looking woman.”

Kincaid noted with amusement that the Major’s passion for things vegetable didn’t extend to the edible—most of his watercress and cucumber garnish lay limply abandoned on the side of his plate. “What about Thursday night? Did you see anyone visit then?”

“Not in. Never in on a Thursday. Choir.”

“You sing?” Kincaid asked. He pushed his empty plate away and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Since I was a boy. Won prizes as a tenor, before my voice changed.”

Kincaid thought the Major’s complexion looked even more
florid than usual. So that was the other sustaining passion. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Where do you sing?”

The Major finished his beer and patted his mustache with his napkin. “St. John’s. Sunday services. Wednesday Evensong. Practice on Thursdays.”

“Were you back late on Thursday?”

“No. Tenish, if I remember.”

“And you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”

Kincaid didn’t hold his breath in expectation. It was the kind of question he had to ask, but fate was not usually generous in replying. If people saw something really unusual they spoke up right away, minor discrepancies would come back to them only when something jogged their memories.

The Major shook his head. “Fraid not.”

The waitress whisked away Kincaid’s empty plate and returned a moment later with their checks. The noise level in the cafe had risen steadily. Kincaid looked around and saw every table full and prospective customers standing in the doorway—fine weather combining with Saturday night to bring out the crowds. He drained the last of his pint reluctantly. “I guess we’d better make way for the mob.”

As they reached the turning into Pilgrims Lane, the shadow of Hampstead Police Station loomed over them. Kincaid found it rather ironic that he had chosen to live a few short blocks from that most evocative of buildings, designed by J. Dixon Butler, the architect who collaborated with Norman Shaw on New Scotland Yard. In Kincaid’s imagination fog always swirled around its Queen Anne gables, and Victorian bobbies marched briskly to the rescue.

When they reached Carlingford Road the Major spoke, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. “And what about the wee moggie? Have you made provision for it?”

“Moggie?” Kincaid said blankly. “Oh, the cat. No. No, I haven’t. I don’t suppose you’d—”

The Major was already shaking his head. “Canna abide the beasts in the house. Make me sneeze. And wouldn’t have it digging in my flower beds.” His mustache bristled in distaste. “But somethin’ should be done.”

Kincaid sighed. “I know. I’ll see to it. Goodnight, Major.”

“Mr. Kincaid.” The words stopped Kincaid as he mounted the steps to the front door. “I think you’ll do more harm than good digging into this business. Some things are best left alone.”

Kincaid paced restlessly around the sitting room of his flat. It was still early, not yet nine o’clock, and he felt tired but edgy, unable to settle to anything. He flipped through the channels on the telly, then switched it off in disgust. None of his usual tapes or CD’s appealed to him, nor any of the books he hadn’t found time to read.

When he found himself studying the photographs on his walls, he turned and faced the brown cardboard box on his coffee table squarely. Classic avoidance, refusal to face a disagreeable task. Or to be more honest, he thought, he was afraid that Jasmine would jump out of the pages of her journals, fresh and painfully real.

Kincaid allowed himself one more small delay—time enough to make a cup of coffee. Carrying the mug back to the sitting room, he settled himself on the sofa in the pool of light cast by the reading lamp. He pulled the cardboard box a little nearer and ran his fingers across the neat blue spines of the composition books. They came away streaked with a fine, dry dust.

If he must do it, then he would start chronologically—in the earlier books the Jasmine he knew would be less immediate,
and he’d already glanced briefly through the last book and found nothing immediately useful. He pulled the most faded book from the back of the box and opened it. The pages were yellow and crackly and smelled a bit musty. Kincaid stifled a sneeze.