Water Like a Stone (22 page)

The victim clutched his head and staggered, then swayed and slumped to the floor of the inn’s lounge bar, like a rag doll divested of stuffing. He twitched and, with a final moan, lay still.

Standing over him, the murderer nudged him with a toe, once, twice, then, still holding the club, raised his hands above his head and pumped his arms in victory. He pranced around the room in an impromptu dance, face obscured by his mask, ragged clothes fluttering.

“A doctor!” someone called out from the crowd. “Get a doctor!”

A tall, skeletally thin man in a black top hat pushed through the bystanders and, kneeling beside the corpse, opened his large black bag. From its depths, he pulled a jug of medicine that looked suspiciously like cider, and a pill the size of a Ping-Pong ball. The doctor held the pill up between thumb and forefinger, displaying it to the crowd, then pushed it between the unresponsive lips of the corpse.

There was a pregnant pause, a momentary holding of the collective breath, then the corpse stirred, sat up, and gave an exaggerated shake. He spat out the pill and took a swig from the jug, which made him roll his eyes and wipe his lips with the back of his hand. Then
he leapt to his feet and began to attack his assailant with the same club that had previously been used against him.

After a frenzied chase round the small open space in the pub’s center, the murderer at last fell to his knees, vanquished, and the crowd erupted into cheers. Murderer, victim, and doctor all took bows, then the doctor swept off his top hat and began passing it through the crowd to the accompaniment of clinking glasses.

“That’s barbaric,” murmured Gemma to Kincaid, who stood beside her at the bar. They’d been queuing for drinks when the play had begun and everyone had fallen silent to watch.

Tossing the change he’d received from the barman into the doctor’s hat as it passed by, Kincaid said, “Mummers on Boxing Day are a respected rural tradition. I thought they were quite good, actually.”

To Gemma, Boxing Day meant watching football on the telly, which she thought more civilized than pantomimed murder, football hooligans notwithstanding. Toby, who had clamped himself to her and tucked his face away as the villain struck his blows, now tugged on her trousers leg. “Mummy, is the bad man gone?”

Contrite at not realizing he’d really been frightened, she knelt beside him and tousled his hair. “Yes, lovey. It was all just pretend, like on the telly, or a film. See, they’re friends again.” She pointed to the actors, now engaged in a spirited conversation at a far table, and Toby stood on tiptoe to look.

“The play’s medieval, or older,” Kincaid explained as he and Gemma collected the round of drinks he’d bought for their table. “Perhaps even pagan—no one seems to know for certain. At least they don’t stone wrens these days.”

“Stone wrens?” Gemma looked at him askance. “As in little birds?”

“The twenty-sixth of December is the feast day of Saint Stephen, an early Christian martyr who was stoned to death,” Kincaid explained as they threaded their way through the crowded room, Toby
leading the way. “According to legend, it was the wren that betrayed Stephen to the mob, so boys and young men used to go out on Boxing Day and kill a wren with stones as a sort of retribution. Then they’d affix the little body to a pole tied with ribbons and parade it round the village.”

“Ugh.” Gemma made a face. “You win. I’ll take mummers. But you country people are all a bit cracked,” she teased, letting him know he was forgiven for leaving her behind that morning.

She had enjoyed her time with the children—or at least with the younger two. Sam was unexpectedly patient with Toby, and Toby had responded with his usual uncomplicated enthusiasm. Even the ponies had not been too bad: shaggy, friendly creatures who had butted her and nibbled bits of carrot, their warm plumes of breath carrying the beery scent of slightly fermented grain.

But some of her pleasure in the outing had been spoiled by a tension she sensed between Kit and Lally, although they had seemed almost pointedly to ignore each other. It made Gemma uneasy, and she would have guessed they’d had a falling-out, except that once or twice she could have sworn she saw a complicit look pass between them. Had something happened that she’d missed?

Kit had come home from his walk with Duncan the previous evening full of excitement over the boat he’d seen and its owner’s invitation to come back for another visit. Was he merely out of sorts because the family’s plans for their traditional Boxing Day lunch at the local pub had got in the way of his expedition?

If so, perhaps the inn would make up for it, Gemma thought as she and Duncan reached the table their party had snagged near the fire. In London, going to pubs wasn’t a normal experience for the kids, but the Barbridge Inn, like many country pubs that served meals, allowed children in the restaurant area and was family oriented.

The pub was a welcoming place, Gemma had to admit, hugging the canal side in the tiny hamlet of Barbridge, just a mile or two from the Kincaids’ farmhouse. Open fires burned in both bars, the ram
bling rooms were filled with comfortably worn furniture, and the walls were covered with canal-themed prints. There was even a bookcase, filled with used volumes that the patrons traded, and in the central room, a jazz band was setting up for a session.

The musicians were older, all local men and friends of Hugh’s, Rosemary explained when Gemma and Duncan had taken their places at the table again. Juliet sat with her back to the fire, as quiet as she had been since her return from the police station, but it seemed to Gemma that she had begun to relax in the warmth and bustle of the pub. Her face seemed softer, less pinched with strain.

The children had taken a small table beside the adults, adjusting their chairs so that they could see the band, but Sam often glanced back at his mother, as if assuring himself that she hadn’t vanished.

The band started up just as their food arrived, and they ate the good, plain pub cooking with their feet tapping under the table. After a few bites, Toby abandoned his chicken and chips and stood, jiggling to the beat with the unself-conscious abandon of a five-year-old. It was happy music, Gemma thought, New Orleans–style jazz in an irresistible upbeat tempo, played with professional flair and obvious enjoyment by the band. By the end of the first set, even Juliet had begun to smile.

When the band stopped for a break, wiping sweaty faces with handkerchiefs, the crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Gemma had pushed back her chair, intending to take Toby for a closer look at the instruments, when she saw Juliet’s face freeze.

Turning, she saw Caspar Newcombe standing a few feet away. How long he’d watched them while their attention was diverted, she didn’t know, but now he stepped up to their table and blocked Juliet’s chair.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said, quite pleasantly, and gave them all a smile that chilled Gemma’s blood. She had seen such control before, and it was much more frightening than any drunken shouting. “You’re such creatures of habit, which I suppose is good
for me, since you didn’t trouble to invite me to your little gathering.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma saw that Piers Dutton and his son had apparently come in with Caspar, but they were watching from the bar, as if disassociating themselves from impending disaster.

“I thought we might have a little civilized conversation,” Caspar continued, all his attention now focused on Juliet. “You’ve behaved very irresponsibly, you know, and you’re obviously unfit to look after the children. I’m going to take them home now. You”—he stabbed a finger at her, his careful discipline slipping—“can do whatever you bloody well like, you stupid—”

“Caspar, don’t make a scene,” Kincaid broke in, his voice even but firm. Heads were beginning to turn, and the tables nearest theirs had fallen silent.

“Me? Make a scene?” Caspar’s voice dripped sarcasm. “And what advice did you give to your sister after she walked out of my parents’ house without a word? Did you tell her it didn’t matter that she insulted my parents and upset the children?” He was certainly playing the righteously incensed husband to the hilt, but Gemma had the odd feeling that his performance was not entirely for their benefit.

“It’s you who’s upsetting the children now.” Hugh rose, as if determined to step into the breach, and Gemma remembered he had berated himself for not defending his daughter when Caspar had verbally attacked her on Christmas Eve. “This isn’t the time or place—”

“Shut up. Just shut up, all of you.” Juliet sprang up, pushing her chair back with a grating screech that drew the attention of everyone in the room not already mesmerized. “I don’t need anyone to answer for me. You’re not taking the children, Caspar.” Her hands were raised, her breathing hard, and Gemma feared the situation was seconds away from degenerating into a brawl.

“Sam! Lally!” called out Casper. “Come here. Now.”

For an instant, no one breathed. Then Sam moved slowly to his mother’s side. “I—I want to stay with Mummy.” He locked eyes with his father, and after a moment, Caspar looked away.

“Lally.” There was threat in Caspar’s voice now, rather than command. He stepped towards her, hand out.

Lally cast a stricken look at him, another at her mother. Then she scrambled from her chair and ran from the pub.

There was a moment of chaos as everyone in the family shoved and jostled in an instinctive attempt to follow the girl. Then Kit’s voice rose clearly above the hubbub, with a ring of authority Gemma had never heard before. “I’ll go. Let me talk to her.”

Kincaid hesitated, then nodded his approval. Stopping just long enough to grab Lally’s jacket, Kit slipped out the side door Lally had taken.

“All right,” Kincaid said, taking charge in a manner that brooked no more argument. “Jules, you stay with Sam.” He laid a seemingly casual hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder, but Gemma saw Caspar wince from the pressure. “Caspar, you can’t force the children to go with you,” he continued. “When everyone is a bit calmer, I’m sure you and Juliet will be able to work out a visitation arrangement.

“In the meantime, I just saw the barman pick up the phone. My guess is that he’s calling to report a public disturbance. I’d highly recommend you not be here when the police arrive—unless, of course, you want to embarrass yourself further. I’ll walk out with you, shall I?”

Kit pushed his way out the door that led to the children’s play area at the side of the pub and stopped, getting his bearings. The gunmetal sky had lowered until it met the horizon in a gray sheet, and a fine, freezing mist hung in the air. Traces of glaze had begun to form on the playground climbing equipment and on the branches of the
nearby trees. Outside the fenced area, a swath of lawn ran down to the canal side. Mooring rings had been set into the concrete edging, and though every space was filled, the boats were all dark, wrapped and shuttered.

Lally stood on the concrete border, back turned and shoulders hunched, staring into the canal. She must have heard the sound of the door, because she swung round and started picking her way along the edging, away from the pub.

“Lally, wait up!” Kit called. “It’s me.”

She stopped, nudging a mooring ring with the toe of her trainer, but didn’t turn round. “Just bugger off, Kit. Leave me alone.”

He let himself out of the playground gate and slid down the lawn. “We can talk,” he said, coming to a breathless stop beside her. The concrete felt elusively slippery beneath his feet. “Here.” He handed her jacket to her. “I thought you might want this.”

“I don’t want to talk,” she said, but she shrugged the coat on.

“Look, I—” He’d started to say he knew how she felt, but realized that he didn’t, not really. How could he, when it hadn’t been his parents fighting in front of everyone in the pub?

For the first time, he realized how people must feel when they tried to speak to him about his mother. Their awkward declarations of understanding had made him furious—they couldn’t know what it was like, how he felt. But now he saw that it didn’t matter that they didn’t—couldn’t—understand. They genuinely wanted to help and were going about it the best they could.

He also suspected, from his own experience, that even though Lally said she didn’t want to talk, she didn’t really want to be left alone, either. She had moved on a few steps, to the end of the concrete edging, and stood dangerously close to the lip of the canal. Beyond her, an arched stone bridge crossed the water, giving access to the towpath on the opposite side.

Kit glanced back at the pub. If he went in to say he was taking Lally for a walk, she might disappear. They would just have to trust
that he was looking after her. “Come on,” he said, and started back up the bank towards the play yard and the road. “Let’s have a look at the boats on the other side.” He didn’t look back, didn’t give her a chance to refuse, and after a moment he heard the squelch of her footsteps on the mist-soaked grass. When he reached the road, he slowed a bit and let her draw level, but he still didn’t look at her or speak.

At the apex of the bridge, they stopped in silent accord and gazed downstream. On the left-hand side of the canal, a dozen boats were moored end to end along the towpath, like brightly painted railway cars shuffled into a watery siding.

On the right, a cluster of houses backed onto private mooring spaces, and beyond them, a grove of evergreens stood, ghostly sentinel, in the mist. Their trunks were bare and evenly spaced, their tops round and full, so that they looked like Toby’s drawings of trees.

“I used to like it when we came here.” Lally’s voice was soft, disembodied. “Sam and I played on the swings, and in the summer you could see inside the boats at night. I’d watch the families and imagine that their lives were perfect.”

Kit knew that game. When he was small, he’d peered in neighbors’ windows, wondering what it was like to have brothers and sisters. Then, after Ian had left them, he’d watched families with fathers and wondered why some dads stayed and others didn’t. Now, if he glanced into an uncurtained window at dusk, he’d fancy he saw his mother, just for an instant.