Water Like a Stone (8 page)

“Figured we couldn’t lose, with the property market going up, and we didn’t, oh no.” Foster allowed himself a satisfied smirk.
“Made as much on the sale of the barn and surrounding pasture as we spent on the whole place, including this house. Of course, the house was in a terrible state, and the owners left it full of moldy old bits. Had to call the junkman to haul them off.

“We’ve done the house up proper since. All the mod cons.” Foster looked round with the pride of a monarch surveying his kingdom.

Babcock realized he was beginning to grind his teeth, and that he was sweating inside his overcoat. He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw and unfastened the top button of his coat. “Mr. Foster, has the barn been in use since you bought the property?”

“What’s all this about the barn, Inspector?” Foster’s temporary joviality vanished. “Have those kids been getting into things? I won’t have them crossing my property—I’ve told them often enough—and if they’ve been trespassing down the building site, the Bonners have a right to know.”

“It’s not kids, Mr. Foster. The builder, Mrs. Newcombe, made a discovery. Someone mortared a baby into the barn wall.”

In the shocked silence that followed Babcock’s announcement, he heard a faint squeak, like the mew of a distressed kitten. He’d succeeded in removing Mrs. Foster’s attention from the television.

“What? What did you say?” Foster shook his head as if he had water in his ears.

“A baby,” whispered Mrs. Foster. “He said they found a baby. How horrible.”

Babcock relented a fraction. “It’s been there a good while, Mrs. Foster. Perhaps years.” On second thought, he wasn’t sure why the passage of time made the child’s fate any less terrible, but Mrs. Foster nodded, as if he’d said something profoundly comforting. Neither husband nor wife expressed any concern for Juliet Newcombe’s ordeal.

“Before our time, then.” Foster seemed to find some personal satisfaction in that.

“We won’t know for sure until the experts have examined the child’s remains,” said Babcock smoothly. He wasn’t about to reveal to the Fosters that the experts’ opinions might not give him a well-defined time frame, nor did he intend them to know how handicapped he was by the lack of that knowledge. “That’s why I need to know if there’s been any activity in the barn in the time you’ve owned it.”

“Never go down there, myself,” said Foster. “But we see if anyone goes up and down the lane. And we’d see lights if there was any funny business at night.”

Babcock had surveyed the prospect from their front garden himself, and felt quite sure that the bend in the lane would block any view of lights in the barn. “So you’re saying you haven’t seen anything?”

The struggle between the desire for importance and the wisdom of noninvolvement was clearly visible in Foster’s face. Caution won out. “No. No, I can’t say as we have.”

“When exactly did you sell the property to the Bonners?”

Foster screwed up his already round face in concentration, so that he looked like an overripe plum about to burst. “Must be just on a year, now. After Christmas. Old hulk of a place—we thought sure the Bonners would raze it and build new. And why on earth would they hire an inexperienced girl as a contractor? We said as much, but they paid no heed. Taken leave of their senses, if you ask me.”

Juliet Newcombe must be in her late thirties, Babcock calculated, and he doubted very much that she would think being referred to as a “girl” a compliment. “Why
did
they choose Mrs. Newcombe against your advice?” he asked.

“Referred by his high muckety-muck up the lane,” said Foster, jerking his head towards the Barbridge road. “Dutton. Piers Dutton. Though if you ask me, he’d like you to call him Lord Dutton.”

“We’ve asked him for drinks a half dozen times. He always has some sort of excuse,” added Mrs. Foster. Babcock felt a twinge of
sympathy for the neighbor, stalked by the social-climbing Fosters, who had undoubtedly been angling for a return invitation and a look at the Victorian manor house.

Piers Dutton…an unusual name, he thought. Then a gear meshed in his brain and he realized where he had heard it. Piers Dutton was Caspar Newcombe’s partner. Perhaps Dutton had felt more sociable towards the Bonners, and it was only natural that he should recommend his partner’s wife to his new neighbors—although considering that his relationship with the Bonners would be ongoing, he must have had confidence in Juliet’s ability to do the job.

“And the people who owned the property before you? The Smiths, wasn’t it? If you could give me a contact address for them—”

“But we haven’t heard from them in years,” said Mrs. Foster. “Have we, Tom?” Babcock pegged her as one of those women who wouldn’t like to say the sun was shining without confirmation from her husband. When Foster nodded in agreement, she went on. “You see, we came along just as they’d put the place on the market. They’d expected to take their time looking for something else, but as it was, they went into rented accommodation—a flat here in Nantwich, I remember. We sent them a Christmas card that first year, but we never heard from them after.”

“Have you any idea where they meant to go?” asked Babcock. It seemed the simplest things always turned out to be the most difficult.

“I know they had a grown daughter in Shropshire, but they hadn’t decided what they wanted to do. Only that they’d had their fill of farming, and they’d made enough on the sale of the property to give them a quiet retirement.”

“If you have the address of the rented flat, perhaps they left forwarding instructions.”

Mrs. Foster looked stricken. “But I’d not have saved it, not when we didn’t hear from them the next Christmas.”

“Of course not.” Babcock had the disheartening vision of names
of unresponsive recipients crossed off the Christmas card list, year after year. “What about the estate agent who handled the sale?”

“Craddock and Burbage, on the High Street,” said Tom.

Babcock made a note in his notebook, although he doubted he’d forget. Jim Craddock, like Kincaid, was an old schoolmate—one who, unlike Kincaid, had stayed in Nantwich and taken on the family business.

He’d have to hope the Smiths had left forwarding information with the estate agent, or that they’d remained on friendlier terms with some of their other neighbors. And that was assuming, of course, that they were both still living. “They were an older couple, then, I take it?” he asked. “No children left at home?”

“I only heard of the one daughter. But they did say something about being nearer the grandchildren,” answered Mrs. Foster. Then she gaped as the realization struck her. “You surely don’t think the Smiths had anything to do with the child you found? But that’s—that’s—”

“We have to examine all the possibilities.” Babcock thought it likely he could rule out the Fosters themselves. Still, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to put the wind up these two, if only for the momentary satisfaction of wiping the smug expression off Tom Foster’s face. “And you, Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” he said. “Do you have any children?”

The snow had stopped but for the occasional flake drifting erratically through the air, like a sheep straying from its flock. Hugh Kincaid led Gemma through the shrouded garden, his jacket brushing miniature flurries from the shrubs as he passed. When they reached the street, he paused and gazed up at the star sparkling clearly in the eastern sky.

“I think that’s it for tonight,” he said. “The storm seems to have blown itself out—just in time, too. I hate to think of the roads
blocked on Christmas.”

Gemma took a deep breath, shaking off the atmosphere of the house, and the frigid air rushing into her nasal passages seemed to sear straight into her brain—a result, she suspected, of drinking too much of Rosemary’s lethal punch. Making an effort not to wobble on her feet, she glanced back towards the house and said hesitantly, “Are you sure we should go? I feel we should be helping tidy—”

“Not to worry. I promised you a tour of the town, and it’s the least I can do to make up for the first impression you must have of us,” answered Hugh, sounding pained. The subject of Juliet and Caspar’s behavior, and the fiasco that had been dinner, hung awkwardly in the silence that followed his comment.

Gemma hated to embarrass him further by agreeing, yet to pretend the evening had gone smoothly would be akin to ignoring an accident in the middle of the road—and a bloody accident, at that. “It must be difficult,” she ventured after a moment. “For you. And for the children.”

Earlier, Rosemary had put a stop to the shouting match in the hall, coming in from the kitchen with the fury of the Valkyries blazing in her face. “Whatever this is about, you will stop it this moment, and behave in a civilized manner,” she commanded. “The children will hear you, and you have guests, in case you’d forgotten.”

Juliet flushed as scarlet as her dress and looked round, belatedly, towards the top of the stairs. Caspar glared at his mother-in-law, as if he might rebel, but after a charged moment, he stomped off to his study and slammed the door.

“Thank you for reminding me, Mother,” Juliet had said stiffly, but without apparent sarcasm, and she then led the way back into the kitchen. There she’d organized the food and passed it to Duncan to carry to the table, all without speaking an unnecessary word. With her head up and her back held ramrod straight, she’d seemed almost to vibrate with repressed tension and anger.

Gemma had found herself wanting to offer a touch or a word of comfort, but had no idea how she might approach this woman she barely knew—or whether her sympathy would be welcome.

When the meal was ready, Rosemary had called the children, while Hugh had tactfully volunteered to fetch Caspar. Caspar had not appeared until everyone else was seated, then had taken his place at the head of the table with all the grace of a petulant child. He toyed with his food and downed liberal glasses of punch, the combined actions being unlikely, in Gemma’s opinion, to improve the situation.

The dinner—cold ham, a stuffed, sliced breast of turkey, and beautifully composed salads—had been delicious, but might have been sawdust for all the enthusiasm displayed by those gathered round the table. Even the children had seemed subdued, and Gemma wondered if Lally had shared what she’d overheard.

Duncan and his parents had made a valiant attempt to carry the conversation, but when every effort to include Caspar and Juliet had fallen flat, Hugh resorted to telling them in great and excruciating detail about his acquisition of the rare Dickens Christmas story.

As soon as the meal could decently be declared over, Caspar had retreated to his lair again, and Lally had asked if she and Kit could go early to church to save seats for the rest of the party. Juliet had agreed, and Sam, rather to Gemma’s surprise, had seemed quite happy to stay behind with Toby. Duncan had offered to help his mother and sister with the washing up and had rolled up his sleeves with aplomb.

Now Hugh hooked his gloved hand through Gemma’s arm and steered her, not towards the car, but towards the dark path that led away from the gate.

Gemma yielded reluctantly to the pressure. “Is this—um, are you sure it’s safe?” she asked.

“Safe?” Hugh glanced down at her in surprise. “Well, we might get a bit of the white stuff down our necks, but I doubt we’ll be
mugged, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He smiled. “This
is
Nantwich, not London, and North Crofts is a very respectable avenue.”

“Avenue?” Gemma repeated curiously, now that she had a chance to look about her. What she saw resembled nothing she would call an avenue. The little lane, accessible only to pedestrians, was fenced on the right, and on the left had houses set back behind long, narrow walled gardens. A light showed here and there in a window; otherwise the lane seemed as deserted as the moon. “Difficult to get the shopping in, I should think,” she said, and even her voice seemed muffled by the snow and silence.

Hugh chuckled. “Spoken like a true Londoner. But there’s an alleyway behind the houses that serves both North and South Crofts. The houses on South Crofts have some lovely Victorian decorations—stained glass, mosaic tiles.”

Soon the lane curved to the left—the bottom of the horseshoe formed by the two streets, Hugh explained—and they passed the alleyway he had mentioned. Hugh steered her gently again, this time towards the dark mouth of a tunnel formed by overarching greenery. The snow was lighter, but footprints were still visible in the dusting of powder.

“Public footpath,” he explained. “It connects the Crofts with the center of town. The children will have come this way before us.”

Gemma ducked and pulled up her collar as a clump of snow fell from one of the overhanging branches. “I thought public footpaths crossed farmers’ fields.”

“This one probably did, at one time. Now, however,” he added as they emerged from the tunnel, “it brings us to Monk’s Lane. There are very fine Georgian buildings here.” Gemma looked where Hugh pointed, but again her view was blocked by a wall. Walls, tunnels, secrets, and enveloping deathly quiet—Gemma wasn’t sure she liked this place at all.

“Caspar’s office is just there,” Hugh said as they reached the end of the row, his tone indicating that Caspar didn’t deserve to have an
office in a hovel, much less a fine Georgian building. “And off to the left is the Bowling Green pub, where Caspar stopped off on his way home.”

“Does he make a habit of it?” asked Gemma.

“I don’t know. I’m not usually privy to Caspar’s habits. Although we work such a short distance apart, I seldom see him except for family occasions.” He paused, then said more slowly, “I hadn’t realized how bad things had got. Juliet doesn’t talk to us about it—or at least not to me.”

Gemma recalled that she’d said nothing to her parents about the problems she and Rob were having until she’d filed for divorce—she’d been too humiliated to admit to her parents that her marriage was a failure. She considered sharing this with Hugh, but doubted he would find it comforting.

Hugh stopped, hands in his pockets, staring up at the dark mass of the church now rising like a fortress above them. Even in the dim light Gemma could see that his face looked drawn. “I should have stopped it tonight. She’s my daughter, for God’s sake. He practically called her a whore.”