Kissed a Sad Goodbye (20 page)

He began with the
Financial Times
, as always, then the
Telegraph
, and last, the
Daily Post
—his daily prescription for taking the world’s pulse.

The headline jumped out at him from the front page of the tabloid. WOMAN FOUND MURDERED IN MUD-CHUTE PARK IDENTIFIED. He read on, at first with the sort of uneasy curiosity engendered by the mention of violence on one’s own doorstop—then with unbelieving horror.

It couldn’t be. He read it again, tracing the words with his finger as if he were a child, willing it not to be true.

At last, he lowered the newspaper with shaking hands, his vision blurred. What had he done?

Years of hatred had spilled in a moment of fury—then he had let her walk away, white-hot with her own anger. And he feared she’d gone straight to his son.

L
OOKING IN THE OPEN DOOR OF
Janice Coppin’s dimly lit office, Gemma saw a television on a portable stand flickering bluely in one corner. “You wanted to see me?”

Janice sat on the edge of her desk, sorting through a pile of videotapes. “Did the guv’nor reach you?” she asked, looking up. The room smelled of stale cigarette ends and
Gemma saw that the tin ashtray on the desk was near to overflowing, although she didn’t remember ever seeing Janice smoke.

“On my mobile,” Gemma replied. She’d awakened to find Toby fractious and feverish, not a good omen for a Monday morning. By the time she’d got him settled in front of the telly at Hazel’s, she was running late, and Kincaid had rung her to say he’d keep the appointment he’d made with Annabelle Hammond’s solicitor on his own. She’d not had a chance to ask why he hadn’t stayed last night, and he hadn’t offered an explanation.

Coming farther into the room, Gemma peered at the juddering black and white image on the telly screen, her interest quickening. “What have you got?”

“The security-camera video from the foot tunnel. I spent the morning in their office, watching the footage from all the cameras on the time-lapse VCR. Once we’d isolated this camera, they made me a copy.”

Gemma noticed her creased blouse and flattened hair. “What time did you come in?”

“Crack of dawn, it feels like. But worth it.” Janice put down the videos she was holding and picked up the remote. “Watch.”

It was an odd perspective, with pedestrians moving in both directions in the foreground while the tunnel receded in the distance. Then Gemma saw what someone had momentarily blocked—Gordon Finch, standing against the curving tunnel wall, his clarinet case and his dog at his feet. Then the tape jumped jerkily to the next recorded segment, reminding Gemma a bit of an old silent film.

Now a woman stood in front of Gordon, her back to the camera, but Gemma recognized her sleek, black jacket and short skirt, and even in monochrome the wavy fall of her hair was unmistakable. It was Annabelle Hammond.

From her body movements, she seemed to be speaking, but Gordon didn’t respond. Annabelle reached out, touching his arm in a gesture of entreaty. Only then did he look at her and shake his head. For a moment, Annabelle stood
there, hand still on his arm. Then she shoved past him and walked away down the tunnel, anger visible in every stride.

The tape jumped again. Gordon Finch slowly broke apart his clarinet and knelt to put it in its case. Still squatting, he leaned back against the white-tiled wall of the tunnel, his eyes closed, one hand resting on the dog’s head.

Then again, the now-familiar jerk and pause, and the frame showed nothing but moving pedestrians and an unoccupied segment of white-tiled wall. Janice stopped the tape.

Gemma realized she’d been holding her breath. “That’s all?”

“There’s no sign of either of them after that, on any of the cameras,” Janice replied as she rewound the video. “But there’s no doubt, is there, that it’s Annabelle Hammond?”

“So he lied to us.”

“It’s certainly obvious he knew her.” Janice slid off her desk and switched on the overhead light, then went round to her chair, brushing a speck from her trousers as she sat down.

That Gordon had known Annabelle came as no surprise to Gemma, but she had not been prepared for the emotional intensity of the eerily silent scene, or for the oddness of seeing Annabelle Hammond come to life. “But did he follow her?” she asked.

“It didn’t look as though they were making an assignation,” said Janice. “She wanted him to do something, and he seemed to be refusing.”

Gemma sat slowly down in the visitor’s chair, smoothing her skirt beneath her thighs. She’d pulled the coolest item she could find from her wardrobe this morning—a short, loose, Indian cotton dress. “Maybe she wanted him to meet her, and after she left he changed his mind.”

“But she was the one who was angry. Why would
he
kill
her?”

“We don’t know what they were arguing about. Or what he might have been building up to,” Gemma countered.

“Even if he met her later, it doesn’t mean he killed her. And what about Mortimer? He says he saw them together—what proof do we have that Mortimer didn’t wait for her?” Janice’s blunt face was set in a stubborn scowl.

Gemma studied her. “You’re defending him, aren’t you? Gordon Finch, I mean. Why?”

“I’m not,” Janice said hotly. Then she shrugged and looked embarrassed. “It’s just that I’d admired what he stood for—you know, the Robin Hood sort of thing. Rich man’s son comes back to his roots and supports the working classes. Probably all a load of bollocks, and it’s not as if his father hasn’t done his part for the Island. And speaking of the father,” Janice added, “I’ve come up with something.”

Gemma thought she detected reluctance. “He cheated on his income tax,” she joked, but Janice didn’t smile. “All right,” said Gemma. “Out with it, then.”

“You were right about George Brent. I went back to see him last night, and it wasn’t too difficult to get him to ‘remember’ where he’d seen Annabelle Hammond.”

“With Lewis Finch?”

“More than once. Coming out of a restaurant sometime in the autumn, then again fairly recently. And he described their behavior as ‘friendly-like.’ ”

“So it
was
Lewis Finch on Annabelle’s answering machine,” Gemma mused aloud. “And we have evidence that she had some sort of relationship with his son as well.” She nodded at the videotape.

“I think we can take for granted that Annabelle Hammond could lift a finger and have any man she wanted—but doesn’t it seem a bit odd that she chose both the Finches?”

“Coincidence?” Gemma ventured, but she didn’t believe it. “And at this point, we don’t know that she had sex with either of them. Maybe her relationship with Lewis Finch was strictly business, and with Gordon …”

“Music lessons?” Janice gave her a skeptical look. “All right, let’s just say she slept with them both. Why keep up
her engagement to Reg Mortimer, if she was so inclined to sample other merchandise?”

“Men do it often enough. But if Mortimer knew, it gives him a hell of a motive for killing her.” Gemma thought for a moment, then said decisively, “We’d better get all our ducks in a row before we pursue this any further. The guv will want to see Lewis Finch when he gets back from the solicitor’s.”

“And in the meantime, I suppose we’d better have Gordon brought in again.” With a grimace, Janice reached for the phone.

“Wait.” The request had been unpremeditated, and Janice’s startled expression prompted Gemma to back it up. “I know it’s not exactly protocol, but it’s obvious he doesn’t respond well to authority. He’ll just be shouting for his solicitor. Let me go and have a word with him.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s only half-nine. I doubt buskers leave for work very early.”

Janice stared at her, her hand still poised over the phone; then, with a sigh, she leaned back in her chair. “On your head be it, then.”

L
EWIS DID NOT MEET
E
DWINA
B
URNE
-J
ONES
that day. After he had finished a breakfast in which the rashers of bacon seemed endless, John had taken him back to the stables and allowed him to help polish the autos. This Lewis had done with reverence, rubbing at the merest smudge on the Bentley until its black paint shone like glass. For the rest of his life he would associate the scent of automobile wax with comfort; for those industrious hours spent with John, listening to his stories and receiving the occasional word of praise, held homesickness at bay as nothing else could
.

In the afternoon, John officially introduced him to the horses, showing him how to fill their water troughs and mangers and how to sweep the soiled straw from their stalls, and promising that when Lewis felt a bit more
comfortable, he would teach him how to use the curry comb and brush
.

There was no further sign of the elegant William Hammond, and by the time Lewis fell into bed after supper, he had almost forgotten about him
.

Sunday, September 3rd, dawned clear and mild. Lewis woke to a chorus of birdsong floating in through his open window. Not liking to think what his mother would have said about his consorting with Methodists, he’d refused John’s invitation to attend chapel, and so found himself at a loose end after breakfast
.

Cook, seeing a pair of idle hands, set him to work at the kitchen table peeling carrots and potatoes for Sunday dinner
.

It was there, in the warm steaminess of the kitchen at eleven o’clock in the morning, that he heard Prime Minister Chamberlain announce over the wireless that Britain had declared war on Germany
.

Cook sat down, fanning herself and clucking with dismay. “Oh, Lord, who’d have thought it, after the last one? All the young men will go—such a terrible waste.” She shook her head. “I lost both my brothers in the Great War. Just boys they were, too young to die in the trenches.”

At the sight of Lewis’s face, she reached out and pressed her damp, red hand against his. “Oh, dearie, I am sorry. You told me you had brothers, didn’t you?”

Lewis nodded, but the constriction in his throat kept him from speaking. What he hadn’t told her was that his brothers meant to sign up the very second that war was declared, and had sworn him to secrecy. His mum would be inconsolable when she found out what they’d done
.

“Well, mayhap it’s a tempest in a teapot, and nothing will come of it,” Cook said comfortingly. “And speaking of tea, I think a nice cuppa would brighten us up a bit,” she added, heaving herself to her feet. Watching her ample backside as she bustled about the cooker with kettle and teapot, Lewis tried to come to terms with the fact of war. In spite of the weeks of preparing for the blackout, the
talk of shelters, the antiaircraft balloons that floated above London like escapees from a child giant’s birthday party, he hadn’t really believed in it. He hadn’t thought his evacuation would mean more than a week or two away in the country, and now it looked as though he was here to stay
.

The door to the hall swung open and William Hammond came in. He was dressed as he had been yesterday, in school blazer and tie, but his hair had sprung up from its neat combing as if unable to contain itself. “I say, have you heard? Isn’t it tremendously exciting?”

Cook turned from the kettle with an admonishing shake of her head. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Master William. If your mother heard you—”

“Mummy’s had hysterics all over the parlor. Father’s administered the smelling salts and sent her upstairs for a lie-down,” William volunteered. “And Aunt Edwina wants to see everyone in half an hour, in the drawing room. I think she’s going to make a speech. I’m to tell all the staff.” With that, William charged out as energetically as he had entered, and Lewis was left to wait with Cook
.

They gathered in the kitchen—John Pebbles and his wife, Mary, a delicate woman with soft brown hair; Kitty, the parlormaid, a girl not much older than Lewis; Owens, the Welsh butler with the singsong voice; Lewis; and Cook. As they waited, they muttered and exclaimed among themselves, yet when the bell summoned them they trooped to the front of the house in silence
.

Lewis found himself last as they entered the drawing room, but that gave him a moment to take in his surroundings. After the smokey dimness of the kitchen and the polished, dark woodwork of the hall and staircase, the white-plastered room seemed garden-bright. A chintz-covered sofa faced the fireplace, flanked by needlepoint chairs displaying a profusion of roses. A side table held a large vase of late summer flowers, and a painting over the mantel carried on the soft reds and blues. Lewis drew his
eyes from the oddly dressed children in the painting to the slender man who stood turned away from them, one elbow on the mantel as he gazed out the window
.

Then the figure turned, and Lewis saw that it was not a man at all, but a tall woman in riding breeches and coat, with the shortest bobbed hair he had ever seen. Her face was sharp and browned to the color of oak, and she had blue eyes that stood out bright as cornflowers against her dark skin
.

“You will all have heard the news,” she said, lifting a packet of cigarettes from the mantel and lighting one with a silver lighter. “It seems I was wrong in believing it wouldn’t come to war, but I hope that will not be the case when I say I don’t think this can last long.” Edwina Burne-Jones spoke with such conviction that for a moment Lewis felt his fear lift. “But in the meantime, we must take the necessary precautions. We will rigorously enforce the blackout. Owens, Kitty, from now on that will be your responsibility.”

“Ma’am,” Owens acknowledged calmly, but Kitty looked terrified
.

Edwina drew on her cigarette, then continued as she exhaled. “Everyone should make sure that their gas masks are in working order. And if we have warning of a raid, the cellar should do as a shelter.” She fixed Lewis with her startling blue eyes. “You’re the boy from London?”

Lewis could only nod. Then John’s elbow jabbed him sharply in the ribs and he managed to croak out, “Yes, ma’am. Lewis Finch.”