Leave the Grave Green (27 page)

“And?” Kincaid said when he didn’t continue.

“She was shocked. And hurt, as you can imagine,” Simons said quietly. “I think that the damage won’t be easy to repair. We’ve had a good marriage, probably better than most. I should never have been so careless of it.”

“You sound as though you don’t mean to continue things with Julia,” Kincaid said, knowing it was none of his business, and that his investigation hardly justified crossing the boundary of good manners.

Simons shook his head. “I can’t. Not if I mean to mend things with my wife. I’ve told Julia.”

“How did she take it?”

“Oh, she’ll be all right.” Simons smiled with the same gentle, self-deprecating humor Kincaid had seen before. “I was never more than a passing fancy to Julia, I’m afraid. I’ve probably saved her the bother of having to say, ‘Sorry, old dear, but it was only a bit of a lark.’”

It occurred to Kincaid that Simons, like Sharon Doyle, was probably glad of a nonpartisan ear, and he pushed his advantage. “Were you in love with her?”

“I’m not sure ‘love’ and ‘Julia’ exist in the same vocabulary, Mr. Kincaid. I’ve been married almost twenty years—to me love means darned socks and ‘whose turn is it to take out the rubbish, darling?’” Grinning, he drank a little more of his whiskey. “It may not be exciting, but you know where you are—” He sobered suddenly. “Or at least you should, unless one of you behaves like an ass.

“I was infatuated with Julia, fascinated, entranced; but I’m not sure one could ever get close enough to love her.”

As much as Kincaid disliked the necessity, he dug in, his voice suddenly harsh. “Were you infatuated enough to lie for her? Are you sure she didn’t leave the gallery when the party finished that night? Did she tell you that she had to see someone? That she’d be back in an hour or two?”

The pleasant humor vanished from Trevor Simons’s face. He finished his whiskey and set his glass down deliberately, carefully, in the exact center of its mat. “She did not.

“I may be an adulterer, Superintendent, but I’m not a liar. And if you think Julia had anything to do with Connor’s death, I can tell you you’re barking up the wrong tree. She was with me from the time we closed up the gallery until daybreak. And having burned my bridges, so to speak, by confessing to my wife, I’ll testify to that in court if I must.”

Kincaid rang the bell and waited. He rang again, shifting his weight a bit from foot to foot and whistling under his breath. No sound came from inside the flat, and he turned away, feeling an unexpected stab of disappointment.

The sound of the door opening stopped him. When he turned back he found Julia looking at him silently, registering neither pleasure nor dismay at his presence. She lifted the wineglass she held in a mock salute. “Superintendent. Is this a social call? You can’t join me if you’re going to play the heavy.”

“My, my,” he said, taking in the faded red jersey she wore over black leggings, “an outbreak of color. Is this significant?”

“Sometimes one has to abandon one’s principles when one hasn’t done laundry,” she answered rather owlishly. “Do come in—what will you think of my manners? Of course,” she added as she stepped back into the sitting room, “it might be my concession to mourning.”

“A reverse statement?” Kincaid asked, following her into the kitchen.

“Something like that. I’ll get you a glass. The wine’s upstairs.” She opened a cupboard and stood up on her toes, stretching to reach a shelf. Kincaid noticed that she wore thick socks but no shoes, and her feet looked small and unprotected. “Con arranged everything in the kitchen to suit himself,” she said, snagging a glass. “And it seems whenever I want anything it’s always just out of reach.”

Kincaid felt as if he’d barged in on a party in progress. “Were you expecting someone? There’s no need for me to interrupt—I
only wanted a quick word with you, and I thought I’d pick up Sharon Doyle’s things as well.”

Julia turned around and stood with her back against the counter, looking up at him, holding both glasses against her chest. “I wasn’t expecting a soul, Superintendent. There’s not a soul to expect.” She chuckled a little at her own humor. “Come on. We had graduated from ‘Superintendent,’ hadn’t we?” she added over her shoulder as she led him back through the sitting room. “I suppose I’m the one backsliding.”

She wasn’t more than a bit tipsy, Kincaid decided as he climbed the stairs after her. Her balance and coordination were still good, although she moved a little more carefully than usual. As they passed the first landing he glimpsed the tumbled, unmade bed through the bedroom’s open doorway, but the study door still stood tightly shut.

When they reached the studio he saw that the lamps were lit and the blinds drawn, and it seemed to him that the room had acquired another layer of Julia’s personality in the twenty-four hours since he’d seen it last. She had been working and a partially finished painting was pinned to the board on her worktable. Kincaid recognized the plant from the rambles of his Cheshire boyhood—speedwell, the gentian-blue flowers along the pathside that were said to “speed you well” upon your journey. He also remembered his dismay in discovering that its beauty could not be held captive—the delicate blooms wilted and died within minutes of picking.

The rest of the table’s surface held open botanical texts, crumpled papers and several used glasses. The room smelled of cigarette smoke, and very faintly of Julia’s perfume.

She padded across the Persian carpet and sank to the floor in front of the armchair, which she used as a backrest. Beside the chair were Julia’s ashtray, close to overflowing, and an ice bucket holding a bottle of white wine. She filled Kincaid’s glass. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake, Duncan. You can’t hold a funeral celebration standing up.”

Kincaid lowered himself to the floor and accepted his drink. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“With a bloody good Cap d’Antibes, too. Con would have liked a
wake, don’t you think? He was all for Irish tradition.” Tasting what remained of her wine, she made a face. “Warm.” She refilled her glass, then lit a cigarette. “I’m going to cut down, I promise,” she said in anticipation of Kincaid’s protest, smiling.

“What are you doing, barricading yourself up here like this, Julia? The rest of the house doesn’t look like anyone’s been in it.” He examined her face, deciding that the shadows under her eyes were more pronounced than they had been the day before. “Have you eaten anything?”

Shrugging, she said, “There were still some bits and pieces in the fridge. Con’s sort of bits, of course. I would have settled for bread and jam. I suppose I hadn’t realized,” she paused to draw on her cigarette, “that it would have become Con’s house. Not mine. Yesterday I spent most of the day cleaning, but it didn’t seem to make any difference—he’s everywhere.” She made a circular gesture with her head, indicating the studio. “Except here. If he ever came up here, he left no traces.”

“What makes you want to eradicate him so thoroughly?”

“I told you before, didn’t I?” She knitted her brow and gazed at him over the rim of her glass, as if she couldn’t quite remember. “Con was a first-class shit,” she said without heat. “A drinker, a gambler, a womanizer, a lout with a load of Irish blarney that he thought would get him anything he wanted—why would I want to be reminded of him?”

Kincaid raised a skeptical eyebrow and sipped his wine. “Can we attribute this to Con, too?” he asked, tasting its crisp delicacy against the roof of his mouth.

“He had good taste, and he was surprisingly adept at finding a bargain,” Julia admitted. “A legacy of his upbringing, I would imagine.”

Kincaid wondered if Connor’s attraction to Sharon Doyle stemmed from his upbringing as well—a spoiled only son of a doting mum might have considered devotion his due. He hoped that Con had also seen her value.

Uncannily echoing his thoughts, Julia said, “The mistress—what did you say she’s called?”

“Sharon. Sharon Doyle.”

Julia nodded, as if it fit an image in her mind. “Blond and a little plump, young, not very sophisticated?”

“Have you seen her?” Kincaid asked, surprised.

“Didn’t need to.” Julia’s smile was rueful. “I only imagined my antithesis,” she said, having a little difficulty with the consonants. “Look at me.”

Kincaid found it all too easy to oblige. Framed in the dark bell of her hair, her face revealed humor and intelligence in equal measure. He said, teasing her, “I’ll only follow your hypothesis so far. Are you suggesting I should regard you as ancient and world-weary?”

“Well, not quite.” This time she gave him the full benefit of her grin, and Kincaid thought again how odd it seemed to see Sir Gerald’s smile translated so directly onto her thin face. “But you do see what I mean?”

“Why should Connor have wanted someone as unlike you as he could find?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head, shying away from it. “This girl—Sharon—how is she taking it?”

“I’d say she’s coping, just.”

“Do you think it would help if I spoke to her?” She ground out her cigarette and added more lightly, “I’ve never quite been sure of the proper protocol in these situations.”

Kincaid sensed how vulnerable Sharon would feel in Julia’s presence, and yet she had no one with whom she could share her grief. He had seen stranger alliances formed. “I don’t know, Julia. I think she’d like to attend Connor’s funeral. I’ll tell her she’s welcome, if you like. But I wouldn’t expect too much.”

“Con will have told her horror tales about me, I’m sure,” Julia said, nodding. “It’s only natural.”

Regarding her quizzically, Kincaid said, “You’re certainly feeling magnanimous tonight. Is it something in the air? I just had a word with Trevor Simons and he was in the same frame of mind.” He paused, swallowing a little more of his wine, and when Julia didn’t respond, he went on, “He’s says he’s willing to swear under oath that you were together the entire night, regardless of the damage to his marriage.”

She sighed. “Trev’s a decent sort. Surely it won’t come to that?” Wrapping her arms around her calves, she rested her chin on her knees and looked at Kincaid steadily. “You can’t really think I killed poor Con, can you?” When Kincaid didn’t answer she lifted her head and said, “
You
don’t think that, do you, Duncan?”

Kincaid ran the evidence through his mind. Connor had died between the closing of the gallery show and the very early hours of the morning, the time for which Trevor Simons had given Julia a cast-iron alibi. Simons was a decent sort, as Julia had so aptly put it, and Kincaid had disliked goading him, but he felt more certain now than ever that he would not have compromised himself by lying for Julia.

But even as he set out these facts, he knew that they had little to do with what he felt. He studied her face. Could one see guilt, if one had the right skills, the right information? He had sensed it often enough, and his rational mind told him the assessment must be based on a combination of subliminal cues—body language, smell, shadings in the voice. But he also knew that there was an element to it that transcended the rational—call it a hunch, or a feeling, it didn’t matter. It was based on an innate and inexplicable knowledge of another human being, and his knowledge of Julia went bone-deep. He was as certain of her innocence as his own.

Slowly, he shook his head. “No. I don’t think you killed Connor. But someone did, and I’m not sure we’re getting any closer to it.” His back had begun to ache and he stretched, recrossing his legs. “Do you know why Connor would have had dinner with Tommy Godwin the night he died?”

Julia sat up straight, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Tommy? Our Tommy? I’ve known Tommy since I was this high.” She held out a hand, toddler height. “I can’t imagine anything less likely than the two of them having a social get-together. Tommy never quite approved of Con, and I’m sure he made it clear. Very politely, of course,” she added fondly. “If Con had meant to see Tommy, surely he would have said?”

“According to Godwin, Con wanted his old job back, and thought he might help.”

Julia shook her head. “That’s piffle. Con had a screaming nervous breakdown. The firm wouldn’t have considered it.” Her eyes were peat-dark, and guileless.

Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, in hopes that removing her face from his sight would allow him to gather his thoughts. When he opened them again he found her watching him. “What did Connor say that day, Julia? It seems to me that his behavior only became out of the ordinary after he left you at lunchtime. I think you’ve not quite told me the whole truth.”

She looked away from him, fumbling for her cigarettes, then pushed the packet away and stood up, as graceful as a dancer. Moving to the table, she unscrewed the top of a paint tube and squeezed a drop of deep blue color onto her palette. Choosing a fine brush, she dabbed a little of the color onto the painting. “Can’t seem to get the bloody thing quite right, and I’m tired of looking at it. Maybe if I—”

“Julia.”

She stopped, paintbrush frozen in midair. After a long moment, she rinsed the brush and placed it carefully beside the drawing, then turned to him. “It began ordinarily enough, just the way I told you. A little row about money, about the flat.” She came back to the arm of the chair.

“Then what happened?” He moved closer to her and touched her hand, urging her on.

Julia captured his hand between her palms and held it tightly. She looked down, rubbing the back of his hand with her fingertips. “He begged me,” she said so softly Kincaid had to strain to hear. “He literally got down on his knees and begged me. Begged me to take him back, begged me to love him. I don’t know what set him off that day. I’d thought he had pretty well accepted things.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That it was no use. That I meant to divorce him as soon as the two-year limit had passed, if he still refused to cooperate.” She met Kincaid’s eyes. “I was perfectly beastly to him, and it wasn’t his fault. None of it was.”

“What are you talking about?” Kincaid said, startled enough to
forget for a moment the sensation of her fingers against his skin.