“In my room or Toby’s room?” Holly demanded, always the one for details.
Kincaid stopped and made a show of thinking, the children still dangling from his arms. “If you promise to be little angels, I’ll read the story in Toby’s room. And I’ll carry you home, Holly. How about that?”
“A fireman’s carry?” Holly had recently discovered the joys of bouncing upside down over his shoulder.
“If you like.” He plopped them in front of Gemma and they darted away like minnows scattering in a pond.
His arms felt weightless now, and the impressions of the children’s bodies lingered like an afterimage on the retina. Suddenly, he felt a longing for Kit so intense that it took him by surprise. He sat down clumsily, as if his legs had turned to jelly.
“You should have scolded them,” Gemma said crossly.
“Gemma—”
“What is it?” She turned to look at him, as if alerted by something in his voice.
“I—” he began, but he couldn’t find the words to express the sense of loss he felt. Instead, he said, “I suppose it’s this business with Kit that has me out of sorts. If he won’t talk to me on the phone, I’m going to Cambridge to see him.” He realized he’d made the decision as he was speaking.
“I thought he didn’t want to see you.”
“Hazel said I needed to let him know my feelings hadn’t changed, no matter how he behaved. How can I do that if I can’t talk to him?” he asked, his frustration rising again.
Gemma sat up in the lawn chair, frowning. “That was before Ian complicated matters by waltzing back into Kit’s life. Maybe it would be less difficult for Kit now if you just let Ian get on with the job.”
“Just bow out? Just trust Ian’s judgment after everything we’ve been through? What’s to stop him from moving Kit back into the Grantchester cottage, then changing his mind again in a month or two?”
Shaking her head, Gemma said, “What option do you have?”
“I can still see him,” Kincaid said stubbornly, wondering why Gemma suddenly seemed to be at cross-purposes with him over everything.
“All right.” Gemma sighed and sank back into the curve of her chair. “Go tomorrow, then. I’ll cover for you. Just make sure you’ve placated the guv first, and if all hell
breaks loose while you’re gone”—she gave him a pinched smile—“it’ll be on your wicket.”
T
HEY ATE IN THE GARDEN, BY
the light of citronella candles lit to keep the flies away. Hazel’s tabouli combined the richness of feta cheese, Provençal olives, and ripe tomatoes with the freshness of lemon and mint, and Tim had opened a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio to accompany the dish. The children entertained themselves on the flagstones with a dog-eared deck of playing cards they’d discovered in the kitchen junk drawer, allowing the adults to eat in peace.
As Kincaid glanced across the table at Gemma, she turned and laughed at something Tim had said. In the candlelight, she looked relaxed and happy, and suddenly the thought of Annabelle Hammond intruded. Had Annabelle enjoyed her last dinner party as much as this?
She had been among friends, or at least so she thought—her sister, her fiancé, her sister’s friends, and her adored nephew and niece—and then her pleasant evening had disintegrated into nightmare. First Harry Lowell, then Reg, then Gordon Finch—all male, and all, it seemed, turned against her in some way. Had Annabelle gone to someone else for solace—a woman, perhaps?
He thought suddenly of Teresa Robbins. They’d taken her at face value, the loyal and distressed employee, a trifle plain, a bit colorless; and yet she seemed to have settled quite competently into Annabelle’s job. What if Annabelle had gone to her, confiding something that Teresa was unwilling to reveal? She might be protecting Annabelle’s memory—or she might be protecting Reg Mortimer.
Or perhaps such speculation was just his way of salving his guilt at the thought of taking a morning off in the midst of a murder investigation. But he made a mental note to ask Gemma to have another word with her in the morning.
After dinner, he offered to do the washing up while Gemma gave the children their baths. Hazel and Tim had
taken the opportunity to go for a walk in the cool of the evening, so he had the kitchen to himself. There was no dishwasher—refitting the kitchen was one of the luxuries Hazel and Tim had forgone when Hazel had quit her private practice to stay home with Holly—but Kincaid found the routine of soaping and rinsing relaxing.
As he filled the sink with lemon-scented suds and took a clean tea towel from the drawer, it abruptly occurred to him that this sort of life was what he wanted with Gemma, and that he had begun to take its eventuality for granted. But Gemma seemed to be pushing him away lately, and he didn’t know how to close the distance starting to yawn between them.
The kitchen door swung open with a thump and the children burst in, dressed in their pajamas, shouting, “Story, story!” Behind them came Gemma, tendrils of damp hair that had escaped from her ponytail curling round her face.
When he’d finished his task and read to the children, Gemma poured them both a glass of wine and they took their drinks outside and sat together for a few moments on the steps that led from her flat up into the Cavendishes’ garden.
He massaged her back where he knew she liked it best, between her shoulder blades, and when she leaned against him he wrapped an arm round her and brushed his lips against the nape of her neck. For a moment he felt her respond, pressing against him; then she pulled away.
“Toby’s been restless the last couple of nights,” she said, rising and finishing her wine. “Must be the remnants of his cold. And I didn’t sleep all that well myself last night.”
“I can take a hint,” he said lightly, standing and kissing her chastely on the cheek. “I’ll see you at Limehouse in the morning.”
But once at home in his own bed he tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable, especially when Sid settled himself heavily across his feet. At last he gave the cat a gentle
boot and made a concentrated attempt to clear his mind of all its circular, nagging thoughts. As he drifted off to sleep, an image came to him with the bright lucidity of a dream.
Gemma stood in a sunlit field of barley, the light sparking from her hair as she laughed. Then as he watched, he realized it wasn’t Gemma he saw at all, but Annabelle Hammond.
A
T A TINY TABLE WEDGED IN
the pub’s back corner, Teresa sat across from Reg Mortimer.
When she’d finally got home after shutting things down at the warehouse for the day, she’d found a message from him on her answer phone, asking her to meet him at The Grapes in Limehouse, on Narrow Street. It was the first she’d heard from him since he’d left the solicitor’s office after lunch, and his voice held an odd note, pleading, almost. As the machine clicked off, she automatically ran a hand through her hair and straightened her blouse, then chided herself for thinking he’d asked to see her for any reason other than business.
But she’d not been able to stop herself from brushing her hair and putting on a bit of makeup before she ran out of the flat to catch the DLR at Crossharbour.
At Westferry Station she left the train and, jostled by homeward bound commuters, made her way down the concrete steps from the platform. Squinting against the low evening sun, she turned right into Limehouse Causeway, then walked along Narrow Street until she came to the pub. The establishment was one of the historic fixtures of Limehouse, catering now to the upwardly mobile, and she knew it only by reputation, as it was not the sort of place one went on one’s own for a bite of shepherd’s pie or fish and chips.
She entered tentatively, squeezing her way among the suit-and-tied clientele packed sardinelike in the long, narrow space, until she spotted Reg in the far corner. He waved to her, and when she reached the table he stood and
gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek. He looked slightly flushed; his hair fell untidily on his brow and he looked even more handsome than usual.
“Thanks awfully for coming,” he said as he seated her. “Have you been here before? The crowds will thin out in a bit, and the food’s brilliant. I thought you could use a good meal. But first I’ll get you something from the bar, shall I? There’s a nice summer ale, a bit citrusy.”
“Lovely,” Teresa managed, and as he turned away towards the bar she leaned forwards and sniffed surreptitiously at his drink. Unadulterated lemonade, as far as she could tell, and not surprising, as he didn’t ordinarily drink—yet she could have sworn he was tiddly. Frowning, she watched him chatting to the barman with the same feverish jollity.
He came back with her drink and a menu, and when he sat their knees touched unavoidably in the small space under the table. “I’d recommend the fish cakes,” he said, opening her menu for her. “I know they sound boringly pedestrian, but they’re divine. And I’m sure there’s some sort of historical precedent—Dickens ate them, or something. Did you know this is supposed to be the pub Dickens called the Six Jolly Fellowship Porters in
Our Mutual Friend?
He described the bar as ‘not much bigger than a hackney coach,’ and that’s still true enough. It had the veranda overlooking the river in those days, too, though I daresay it’s a bit sturdier now, and the wooden ladder that descended to the ships so the watermen could climb up to the bar is long gone. We’ll go outside afterwards and have a drink, if you like, and in the meantime you can just imagine the bowsprit of an anchored square-rigger poking through the window and the hearty fellows drinking their pints.” He nodded at the window above her head and raised his glass. “To bygone spirits.”
Their eyes met as he seemed to realize what he’d said, and in the uncomfortable silence that followed neither of them spoke the name that hovered between them. Normally adept at filling silences and putting others at their
ease, Reg was the least likely person she knew to make such an awkward remark. And yet tonight he seemed to be possessed by a sort of reckless desperation.
Searching for a way to rescue them both, she closed the menu without looking at it and said, “What about you, Reg? Aren’t you having anything?”
“Just some soup, I think, to keep you company. Is it the fish cakes, then?”
When she nodded, he got up again and gave their order at the bar. “There’s a proper restaurant upstairs,” he told her as he returned. “But I’m glad they’ve left the pub a pub. There ought to be some immutable things in the world, don’t you think?”
“Reg, I—”
“I’m sorry I buggered off this afternoon after the solicitor. I shouldn’t have, leaving you on your own like that.”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “It was quite all right, really. It’s just that I was a bit worried about you, when you didn’t come back to the office.”
“As if you hadn’t enough to deal with.” He looked at her, his face still for the first time, and after a moment added, “I have been a washout these last few days, haven’t I? I just can’t seem to stick it.”
Teresa blinked, surprised by such a personal admission. He
had
been quite useless at the office, if she were to be brutal about it, seemingly unable to manage tasks that he could ordinarily do without batting an eye. But she’d no idea how she would cope if she were in his position, and she knew people reacted differently to grief. Her own response had been to buckle down to the job, because it was the concentration that kept her going.
In the end, she didn’t deny his failures, but said, “Reg, if there’s anything I can do to help—”
“You’ve been a peach as it is.” He reached out and touched his fingers to her cheek. Suddenly very aware of his legs against hers, and of her response, she flushed with embarrassment, but didn’t withdraw her knees. It was wicked of her to hope, even, that he found her attractive,
but she’d discovered that knowing the wrongness of it didn’t make the feelings go away.
The waitress arrived with their order, relieving Teresa of the necessity of responding to his comment. Rather to her surprise, she discovered that, in spite of everything, she was ravenous. The fish cakes were as good as Reg had promised and she tucked into them with enthusiasm.
He watched her, smiling, while he toyed with his soup, and when she’d finished he said, “Good girl. Couldn’t have you wasting away to nothing—where would Hammond’s be without you?”
The fears she’d managed to hold at bay the past few days clutched at her. “Reg, what are we going to do? Already, I’m finding things I don’t know how to handle—I can’t guess what Annabelle would have done—”
“Use your own judgment. Annabelle trusted you—it’s time you trusted yourself.”
“But I haven’t the authority,” she protested. “And the business was precarious enough even with Annabelle in charge.”
“You know what we have to do—”
“We can’t. Not now—”
“Then we had bloody well better find a way!”
Shocked at the savagery of his tone, she stared at him, until he raised his hand and touched her cheek again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Let’s not talk about it tonight. I meant you to have a break from it all.”
“Reg … There’s more wrong, isn’t there? It’s not just Annabelle dying—Though there couldn’t be anything worse … could there?”
“How could there possibly be anything worse?” He stood up abruptly. “Let’s go outside. I’ll get us another round.”
She stood and followed him out onto the veranda. The sky was mottled a soft rose with the remnants of the sunset, and on the south side of the river lights twinkled in the renovated warehouses of Rotherhithe.
They stepped to the railing, and when she looked to the
east she saw the revolving beacon atop Canada Tower. She turned away, her back to the river. She desperately wanted to forget the Island, even for just a short time, imagine another life altogether. On a bench at the side of the veranda a couple sat intertwined, the woman half in the man’s lap, their faces inches apart, and Teresa felt a stab of envy. Why shouldn’t she, for once, be the object of someone’s desire? Why should she always be the one on the sidelines?
Beside her, Reg said, “I am sorry. It’s just that I don’t want to think tonight. Does that sound horribly callous of me, to wish I could be someone else for an hour or two?”