Leave the Grave Green (6 page)

“Just wait,” said Kincaid as he opened the car door, “until you meet the family.

Gemma assumed that the woman who answered the door must be Dame Caroline Stowe—good quality, tailored wool slacks, blouse and navy cardigan, short, dark, well-cut hair liberally streaked with gray—everything about her spoke of conservative, middle-aged good taste. But when the woman stared at them blankly, coffee mug poised halfway to her mouth, then said, “Can I help you with something?” Gemma’s certainty began to waiver.

Kincaid identified himself and Gemma, then asked for Sir Gerald and Dame Caroline.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’ve just missed them. They’ve gone down to the undertakers for a bit. Making arrangements.” She transferred the coffee mug to her left hand and held out the right to them. “I’m Vivian Plumley, by the way.”

“You’re the housekeeper?” Kincaid asked, and Gemma knew from the less-than-tactful query that he’d been caught off guard.

Vivian Plumley smiled. “You might say that. It doesn’t offend me, at any rate.”

“Good.” Kincaid, Gemma saw, had recovered both aplomb and smile. “We’d like a word with you as well, if we may.”

“Come back to the kitchen. I’ll make some coffee.” She turned
and led the way along the slate-flagged passage, then stepped back and let them precede her through the door at its end.

The kitchen had escaped modernization. While Gemma might sigh over photographs of gleaming space-age kitchens in magazines, she knew instinctively that they provided no emotional substitute for a room like this. Nubby braided rugs softened the slate floor, a scarred oak refectory table and ladder-backed chairs dominated the room’s center, and against one wall a red-enameled Aga radiated warmth and comfort.

“Sit down, why don’t you,” said Vivian Plumley, and gestured toward the table. Gemma pulled out a chair and sat, feeling tension she hadn’t been aware of flow out of her muscles. “Elevenses?” added Vivian, and Gemma shook her head quickly, fearing they’d lose control of the interview entirely, seduced by the room’s comfort.

Kincaid said, “No, thank you,” and seated himself, taking the chair at the table’s end. Gemma took her notebook from her bag and cradled it unobtrusively in her lap.

The drip coffeemaker worked as quickly as its expensive looks implied. It was only a few moments before the smell of fresh coffee began to fill the room. Vivian put together a tray with mugs, cream and sugar in silence, a woman enough at ease with herself not to make small talk. When the coffeemaker had finished its cycle, she filled the mugs and
brought the tray to the
table. “Do help yourself. And that’s real cream, I’m afraid, not dairy substitute. We have a neighbor who keeps a few Jerseys.”

“A treat not to be missed,” said Kincaid, pouring generously into his cup. Gemma smiled, knowing he usually drank it black. “Are you not the housekeeper, then?” he continued easily. “Have I put my foot in it?”

Vivian clinked her spoon around twice in her coffee cup and sighed. “Oh, I’ll tell you about myself, if you like, but it always sounds so dreadfully Victorian. I’m actually related to Caroline, second cousins once removed, to be exact. We’re as close to the same age as never-mind, and we were at school together.” She paused and sipped from her cup, then made a slight grimace of discomfort. “Too hot. We drifted apart, Caro and I, once we’d finished
school. We both married, her career blossomed.” Vivian smiled.

“Then my husband died. An aneurysm.” The palms of her hands made a slapping sound as she brushed them together. “Just like that, he was gone. I was left childless, with no job skills and not quite enough money to get by. This was thirty years ago, mind you, when not every woman grew up with the expectation of working.” She looked directly at Gemma. “Quite different from your upbringing, I’m sure.”

Gemma thought of her mother, who had risen in the early hours of the morning to bake every day of her married life, then worked the counter in the shop from opening till closing. The possibility of
not
working never occurred to Gemma or her sister—it had been Gemma’s driving ambition for the work to be of her own choosing, not something done purely for the necessity of putting food on the table. “Yes, very different,” she said, in answer to Vivian Plumley’s statement. “What did you do?”

“Caro had two toddlers and a very demanding career.” She shrugged. “It seemed a sensible solution. They had room, I had enough money of my own not to be totally dependent on the family, and I loved the children as if…”

They were your own
. Gemma finished the sentence for her, and felt a rush of empathy for this woman who seemed to have made the best of what life had dealt her. She ran her fingers along the tabletop, noticing faint streaks of color embedded in the wood’s grain.

Watching her, Vivian said fondly, “The children did everything at this table. They had most of their meals in the kitchen, of course. As much as their parents traveled, formal family dinners were a rare treat. School assignments, art projects—Julia did her first paintings here, when she was in grammar school.”

The children this… the children that
… It seemed to Gemma as if time had simply stopped with the boy’s death. But Julia had been there afterward, alone. “This must all be very difficult for Julia,” she said, feeling her way into the subject delicately, “after what happened to her brother.”

Vivian looked away, grasping the table’s edge with one hand, as if she were physically restraining herself from getting up. After a moment, she said, “We don’t talk about that. But yes, I’m sure Con’s death has made life more difficult than usual for Julia. It’s made life difficult for all of us.”

Kincaid, who had been sitting quietly, chair pushed back a bit from the table, mug cradled in his hands, leaned forward and said, “Did you like Connor, Mrs. Plumley?”

“Like him?” she said blankly, then frowned. “It never occurred to me whether or not I should like Connor. He was just… Connor. A force of nature.” She smiled a little at her own analogy. “A very attractive man in many ways, and yet… I always felt a little sorry for him.”

Kincaid raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak, and Gemma followed his cue.

Shrugging, Vivian said, “I know it sounds a bit silly to say one felt sorry for someone as larger-than-life as Con, but Julia baffled him.” The gold buttons on her cardigan caught the light as she shifted in her chair. “He could never make her respond in the way he wanted, and he hadn’t any experience with that. So he sometimes behaved… inappropriately.” A door slammed in the front of the house and she cocked her head, listening. Half-rising from her chair, she said, “They’re back. Let me tell—”

“One more thing, please, Mrs. Plumley,” Kincaid said. “Did you see Connor on Thursday?”

She sank down again, but perched on the edge of her seat with the tentative posture of one who doesn’t intend staying long. “Of course I saw him. I prepared lunch—just cold salads and cheese—and we all ate together in the dining room.”

“All except Julia?”

“Yes, but she often works through luncheon. I took a plate up to her myself.”

“Did Connor seem his usual self?” Kincaid asked, his tone conversational, but Gemma knew from his still concentration that he was intent on her answer.

Vivian relaxed as she thought, leaning back in her chair again
and absently tracing the raised flower pattern on her mug with her fingers. “Con was always teasing and joking, but perhaps it seemed a bit forced. I don’t know.” She looked up at Kincaid, frowning. “Quite possibly I’m distorting things after the fact. I’m not sure I trust my own judgment.”

Kincaid nodded. “I appreciate your candor. Did he mention any plans for later in the day? It’s important that we trace his movements.”

“I remember him glancing at his watch and saying something about a meeting, but he didn’t say where or with whom. That was toward the end of the meal, and as soon as everyone had finished I came in here to do the washing up, then went to my room for a lie-down. You might ask Caro or Gerald if he said something more to them.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that,” Kincaid said with such courtesy that Gemma felt sure it would never occur to Vivian Plumley that she’d just told him how to do his job. “It’s strictly a formality, of course, but I must ask you about your movements on Thursday night,” he added almost apologetically.

“An alibi? You’re asking me for an alibi for Connor’s death?” Vivian asked, sounding more surprised than offended.

“We don’t yet know exactly when Connor died. And it’s more a matter of building known factors—the more we know about the movements of everyone connected with Connor, the easier it becomes to see gaps. Logic holes.” He made a circular gesture with his hands.

“All right.” She smiled, appeased. “That’s easy enough. Caro and I had an early supper in front of the fire in the sitting room. We often do when Gerald’s away.”

“And after that?”

“We sat before the fire, reading, watching the telly, talking a little. I made some cocoa around ten o’clock, and when we’d finished it I went up to bed.” She added with a touch of irony, “I remember thinking it had been a particularly peaceful and pleasant evening.”

“Nothing else?” Kincaid asked, straightening up in his chair and pushing away his empty mug.

“No,” Vivian said, but then paused and stared into space for a moment. “I do remember something, but it’s quite silly.” When Kincaid nodded encouragement, she continued. “Just after I’d fallen asleep I thought I heard the doorbell, but when I sat up and listened, the house was perfectly quiet. I must have been dreaming. Gerald and Julia both have their own keys, of course, so there was no need to wait up for them.”

“Did you hear either of them come in?”

“I thought I heard Gerald around midnight, but I wasn’t properly awake, and the next thing I knew it was daybreak and the rooks were making a god-awful racket in the beeches outside my window.”

“Couldn’t it have been Julia?” Kincaid asked.

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. “I suppose it could, but if it’s not terribly late, Julia usually looks in on me before she goes up.”

“And she didn’t that evening?”

When Vivian shook her head, Kincaid smiled at her and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Plumley. You’ve been very helpful.”

This time, before rising, Vivian Plumley looked at him and said, “Shall I tell them you’re here?”

Sir Gerald Asherton stood with his back to the sitting room fire, hands clasped behind him. He made a perfect picture of a nineteenth-century country squire, thought Gemma, with his feet spread apart in a relaxed posture and his bulk encased in rather hairy tweeds. He even sported suede elbow patches on his jacket. The only things needed to complete the tableau were a pipe and a pair of hunting hounds sprawled at his feet.

“So sorry to have kept you waiting.” He came toward them, pumped their hands and gestured them toward the sofa.

Gemma found the courtesy rather disarming, and suspected it was meant to be.

“Thank you, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid said, returning it in kind. “And Dame Caroline?”

“Gone for a bit of a lie-down. Found the business at the undertakers rather upsetting, I’m afraid.” Sir Gerald sat in the armchair
opposite them, crossed one foot over his knee and adjusted his trouser leg. An expanse of Argyle sock in autumnal orange and brown appeared between shoe and trouser cuff.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir Gerald,” Kincaid smiled as he spoke, “it seems a little odd that your daughter didn’t take care of the arrangements herself. Connor was, after all, her husband.”

“Just so,” answered Sir Gerald with a touch of asperity. “Sometimes these things are best left to those not quite so close to the matter. And funeral directors are notorious for preying on the emotions of the newly bereaved.” Gemma felt a stab of pity at the reminder that this burly, confident man spoke from the worst possible personal experience.

Kincaid shrugged and let the matter drop. “I need to ask you about your movements on Thursday night, sir.” At Sir Gerald’s raised eyebrow, he added, “Just a formality, you understand.”

“No reason why I shouldn’t oblige you, Mr. Kincaid. It’s a matter of public record. I was at the Coliseum, conducting a performance of
Pelleas and Melisande
.” He favored them with his large smile, showing healthily pink gums. “Extremely visible. No one could have impersonated me, I assure you.”

Gemma imagined him facing an orchestra, and felt sure he dominated the hall as easily as he dominated this small room. From where she sat she could see a photograph of him atop the piano, along with several others in similar silver frames. She stood up unobtrusively and went to examine them. The nearest showed Sir Gerald in a tuxedo, baton in hand, looking as comfortable as he did in his country tweeds. In another he had his arm around a small dark-haired woman who laughed up at the camera with a voluptuous prettiness.

The photograph of the children had been pushed to the back, as if no one cared to look at it often. The boy stood slightly in the foreground, solid and fair, with an impish gap-toothed grin. The girl was a few inches taller, dark-haired like her mother, her thin face gravely set. This was Julia, of course. Julia and Matthew.

“And after?” she heard Kincaid say, and she turned back to the conversation, rather embarrassed by her lapse of attention.

Sir Gerald shrugged. “It takes a while to wind down after a performance. I stayed in my dressing room for a bit, but I’m afraid I didn’t take notice of the time. Then I drove straight home, which must have put me here sometime after midnight.”

“Must have?” Kincaid asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.

Sir Gerald held out his right arm, baring a hairy wrist for their inspection. “Don’t wear a watch, Mr. Kincaid. Never found it comfortable. And a nuisance taking it off for every rehearsal or performance. Always lost the bloody things. And the car clock never worked properly.”

“You didn’t stop at all?”

Shaking his head, Sir Gerald answered with the finality of one used to having his word taken as law. “I did not.”

“Did you speak to anyone when you came in?” Gemma asked, feeling it was time she put an oar in.