The arrival of new customers took Jack’s attention. Gemma gave him a wave of thanks and headed for the exit. It was getting on towards dinnertime and the place was filling up. Surely Melody and Doug had finished helping with the unloading of Viv’s van. And where were Duncan and the kids?
When she stepped outside, she saw that dark clouds had begun to build up again, bringing an early twilight. The breeze had died and the perfume from the rambling roses that grew on the side of the kitchen extension hung heavy in the air. She was about to round the corner into the courtyard when she heard voices. Peering past the roses, she saw Viv, standing by the kitchen steps, and with her the man who’d sat glowering next to Kincaid all through the luncheon. Something in their body language made her stop, half shielded by the twining rose canes.
“You have to tell me what’s wrong, Viv,” the man said, sounding not angry but distressed. “Did I do something to upset you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I promise it’s nothing to do with you. I’m sorry if you thought that. It’s been a horrible day.” She stepped into his arms and rested her head against his shoulder for a moment. Then, with a glance towards the kitchen, she stepped back. “I thought I’d left it all behind, my old life. I should have known I couldn’t—” She shook her head.
“Addie said you knew the fellow who was in the car with Nell.”
“I worked for him, years ago. But—it was . . . complicated. I’ll tell you, but not now. And not here.” Viv turned away, but the man reached out and caught her arm.
“Viv, did you still have feelings for him?”
“Feelings?” Viv pulled away and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “Yes. I hated his guts.”
When Kincaid and the rather sticky children followed the entrance sign and rounded the end of the pub, he saw Gemma apparently sniffing the pink roses that adorned the side of the building. She jumped guiltily and came towards them with a bright smile. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“You know you’re allowed to smell the roses, love,” he teased.
She gave him an arch look and bent down to Charlotte, who was holding out an enormous scarlet leaf.
“We found this for you, Mummy.”
“We didn’t pick it,” Toby offered. “It was on the ground.”
“That’s even nicer than ice cream,” Gemma told them.
“I had strawberry,” said Charlotte. “I tried to bring you some but it melted.” She held out the splotchy front of her T-shirt as evidence.
They had all had ice creams, and perused the gift shop at the Old Mill to the sounds of 1940s jazz. Kincaid had bought a book on local walks. Afterwards, they’d examined the mill wheel, then meandered along the Eye, looking for trout in the clear water and picking up leaves dropped by the creeper growing on the walls of the inn.
The children had spotted the play area in the garden behind the pub. “Can we go see, Mummy?” Charlotte tugged at Gemma’s hand.
“Go on, then. We’ll be right behind you,” Gemma said, waving them off. Kit sauntered behind the younger two, looking round curiously.
“Is Viv back?” Kincaid asked when the children were out of earshot. “Was it a positive ID?”
Gemma nodded. “And Booth’s still here."
As they entered the courtyard, Kincaid saw Melody and Doug sitting at a picnic table in the garden. Doug had a pint and Melody had what looked like a mug of tea. They were talking to Mark Cain, who had sat next to Kincaid at the luncheon. Cain looked considerably less aggravated than earlier in the day, and Kincaid wondered what had improved his mood.
“Hello, again,” Cain said, shaking Kincaid’s hand, then turning to Gemma.
“Hello. I’m Gemma James, Duncan’s wife.” Gemma gave Cain a smile, but Kincaid recognized the curiosity in her glance.
“Mark Cain. I’ve come to see if Grace would like to take Bella for a walk. Bella’s Nell’s dog,” he added. “I’m looking after her.”
“I think Lady Addie said she was one of your puppies?”
“Yes. And I was helping Nell with some obedience training.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe it, that Nell’s gone.”
“I understand you were her neighbor?”
“Yes. Nell’s cottage is up King’s Well Lane—the turning is opposite the mill. My farm is the next place beyond it.” Cain frowned. “Nell would have driven right past me last night.”
Kincaid could visualize the lane—he’d gone that way with Ivan that morning. And when he’d glanced at the walking guide he’d bought in the mill shop, he’d seen that the lane was part of a designated-walks loop. He thought he remembered seeing a farm gate, but there had been nothing beyond that other than the junction that led to the main road. Where had Nell Greene been going?
Melody and Doug had finished their drinks and risen to join them. “I’ve given Mark’s key to the cottage to DI Booth,” said Melody. “And we’d better get organized to go back to the house. Duncan, I thought you and Gemma and Charlotte could ride with me, and Doug could walk up with the boys.”
Kincaid started to say he didn’t need a ride, then remembered the grade of the hill and wondered if he felt quite up to the climb.
“She’s coddling you,” said Gemma with a smile. “And you’d better not think of arguing.”
They all looked up as DI Booth came out of the kitchen entrance, followed by Viv Holland. Booth carried a man’s camel hair overcoat.
“Is that O’Reilly’s?” Melody asked.
“Yes, but not much help, I’m afraid. There’s nothing with a London address or anything to indicate where he was staying in the area.” Booth turned to Viv. “Do you have any suggestions, Miss Holland?”
“There are only two places here in the village, the inn and the manor house. Knowing Fergus, I’d try the manor first. It’s a bit more his style.” Her smile was pinched. “You’ll find it just the other side of the church.” To Melody, Doug, and Gemma, she added, “Thank you all so much for your help. I don’t know how I’d have managed otherwise. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s someone else I need to thank.” She walked across the garden to the play area, where Kit was helping Charlotte on the slide.
Kincaid noticed that she had not acknowledged Mark Cain.
“You’ll be checking on Nell Greene’s cottage as well as the hotels?” he asked Booth. “I wondered if I might tag along.”
“Of course,” Booth said. “I’ll run you up to Beck House afterwards.”
Leaving the pub, Kincaid and Booth crossed the road at the main roundabout and took the paved path that meandered alongside the Eye, the river here wider and deeper than it had been beside the mill. Across the road, a wall of golden Cotswold brick with ironwork insets bordered the tarmac, partially concealing the manor house.
“You think there’s something in these deaths, then?” Kincaid asked Booth.
“I certainly think the whole business is odd. But I don’t have enough yet to justify authorizing overtime on a Saturday night.” Booth shot Kincaid an amused glance. “Hence my appreciation of another set of eyes and ears.”
“Happy to oblige.”
Booth walked on another few yards before he added, “Did you have a particular reason for wanting to see the woman’s cottage?”
“Nell.” Kincaid spoke with more force than necessary, then took a breath. “Mrs. Greene. Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. It’s just that no one’s accounts of her—or my impression—seem to match up with what happened last night.”
“None of the staff I just interviewed at the pub saw any interaction between Mrs. Greene and Fergus O’Reilly. According to the bartender, O’Reilly left about twenty minutes before Mrs. Greene.”
They’d reached the ornate pineapple-topped gates flanking the manor house drive. Kincaid looked back towards the pub, just visible in the fading light. “What time was this?”
“Fully dark, according to the bartender. Half seven, he guessed.”
So only a short time before Nell had run into him on the A429. How long had the drive from the village to the intersection taken Ivan that morning? Ten minutes? So, however O’Reilly had ended up in Nell’s car, it had to have happened very shortly after she left the pub. “Were they even sitting near each other?” he asked.
“Not according to the barman. If I had the resources, I’d track down the other customers in the bar.”
As they crossed the road and entered the manor drive, Kincaid gazed across a broad sweep of green lawn to the house itself. Lights had begun to wink on in all three stories. Above the roofline, dark clouds were massing, and the golden facade of the house seemed to glow against the looming backdrop. This was the place Kincaid had glimpsed when Tracey Woodman had driven him to the Talbots’, the place he had thought was Beck House.
This house, unlike the Talbots’ comfortable Arts and Crafts home, he guessed to be at least seventeenth century. “If O’Reilly was staying here, he certainly went for posh,” he said as they walked up the curving drive, their feet crunching on the manicured gravel.
A flight of steps on the left of the covered porch took them up to the elevated ground floor and a glassed-in entry. “Airlock,” Kincaid murmured as they stepped through the second set of doors into reception, and Booth’s lips twitched in a smile.
The house might be Tudor, but there was nothing fussy about the large central hall that greeted them. The cream walls and gleaming white woodwork were anchored by a chevron-patterned blond wood floor and a long, sleek reception desk. The young woman behind the desk was sleek as well, with bobbed dark hair and a crisp white blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked with professional courtesy, but her brow creased as she inspected them.
Kincaid realized they must look an odd couple, Booth with his expensive suit, he in his slightly rumpled sports jacket—not to mention his bruises and bandages and a few drips of pistachio ice cream on his shirtfront. Booth stepped up to the desk and flashed a blinding smile along with his warrant card.
Pulling up an online photo of Fergus O’Reilly on his mobile phone, Booth inquired if he was a guest of the hotel.
“Mr. O’Reilly?” The woman’s frown deepened. “Is there some sort of problem?”
“I’m afraid Mr. O’Reilly has been in an accident. And this is an official inquiry. Can you confirm that he was a guest here?”
“Well, yes, but— What’s happened to him?”
“Mr. O’Reilly was killed in an automobile crash yesterday evening,” Booth said.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That’s awful. I can’t believe it.” She paused for a moment, her brow puckering again. “Although I did wonder . . .”
“You wondered what? Miss”—Booth glanced at her name tag— “Jane.”
“Mr. O’Reilly never picked up his key last night. He’d left it at the desk. He didn’t come in the night before, either, but he used his room yesterday morning. Housekeeping said nothing had been touched today.”
“O’Reilly didn’t sleep in his room night before last?” Kincaid asked.
“Well, I can’t be certain,” said Jane. “But he didn’t pick up his key before I went off duty at eleven, and housekeeping said his bed hadn’t been slept in.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “We pride ourselves on our attention to our guests.”
“Of course,” Booth said. “I take it Mr. O’Reilly had booked through tonight?”
Jane checked her computer. “Yes, the booking was for three nights.” She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to sound insensitive, but what are we to do about his room? We have guests booked into it tomorrow. Will someone be coming for his things?”
“I’d suggest that you have your manager pack his things and hold them until further notice. In the meantime, my colleague and I need to have a look at his room.”
“Oh.” The young woman hesitated again. “I’m not sure— Maybe I should contact my manager—”
“I promise this won’t take long and that we’ll be very discreet. I certainly don’t think you’d want uniformed officers here.”
The idea of such disruption to the hotel did the trick. “Well, if you’re certain . . .” Jane reached into a cabinet under the reception desk.
When she’d retrieved the keys, Kincaid took the opportunity to ask, “Did you talk with Mr. O’Reilly at all during his stay?”
“Not more than the usual chitchat. I think I asked about his journey, and if he would be needing to park a car. He said he’d come by train and had got a taxi from the Moreton station.”
“Did he say why he was visiting Lower Slaughter?”
Jane shook her head. “No. He was nice enough—quite the charmer, I’d say—but it was a bit perfunctory. He seemed . . . distracted.”
“Did he meet anyone here at the hotel?”
“I don’t think so. He had a drink in the bar the first night.” She nodded to the right of reception. Kincaid had noticed the bar when they’d come in, a stunning room with a free-standing horseshoe-shaped bar and blush velvet–covered bar stools. Gemma would love it.
“He was alone?” Booth put in.
“As far as I know. I was on duty that evening and I pretty much see anyone coming or going.” She thought for a moment. “There was something, though. It was not long after he’d given me his keys. I went out to help some late arrivals with their luggage. Mr. O’Reilly was talking to someone in the garden, over near the churchyard entrance. A woman. Blond, I think.”
“You didn’t recognize her?”
“No, it was just an impression, really. A woman’s shape, a flash of light on her hair. I’m sorry.”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Booth said. “Can you tell us what time this was?”
“It was after he’d been in the bar. Half eight, maybe? I came back inside and I didn’t see him again.” Coming round the desk, she said, “If you’ll follow me,” and led them up the wide central staircase to a room on the first floor. She unlocked the door and stood aside, then hesitated. “Are you certain this is all right? I feel I should stay, but I can’t leave the desk unattended . . .”
“We won’t be long,” Booth assured her, and closed the door firmly. “I suspect she thinks you look disreputable,” he said to Kincaid, grinning. “But I thought she’d have doubted me if I’d told her you were a detective superintendent.”
Kincaid grimaced. “Ouch. That does nothing for my confidence.” Looking round the room, he saw that the bed had been turned down by housekeeping, but not slept in. A partially open duffel bag sat on the bench at the foot of the bed, and one of the bedside tables held a dog-eared paperback thriller.
“Somehow I’d have expected better literary taste,” Booth commented. “Something on food, or at least an Irish noir detective novel.”
While Booth looked through the duffel, Kincaid opened the wardrobe. Hanging in it were a sports jacket, a couple of cotton button-down shirts, and a pair of wool trousers. The clothes were expensive brands, but he noticed that the shirts were beginning to wear at the collars and cuffs. The pair of lace-up dress shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe looked bespoke, but when he examined them more closely, he saw that the heels were wearing. “He liked his clothes, but they were getting a bit shabby. Anything in the duffel?” he asked as he checked the pockets of the jacket and the trousers.
“Socks and underwear. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt.”
“No medication?”
Booth shook his head. “I’ll check the bathroom.”
Following him, Kincaid watched as he went through the shaving kit by the sink. O’Reilly had left out on the dressing table a bottle of Tom Ford cologne. The kit held nothing but ordinary toiletries, a razor, and a travel-size bottle of aspirin. “No prescription medications, no alcohol stash,” said Booth. “The barman at the pub said he had nothing but coffee with his dinner.”
Kincaid frowned. “Would he have taken aspirin if he had a heart condition?”
“I’ll ask the pathologist. But if he took some form of digoxin, it’s not here.”
There was something about the paucity of possessions and the worn clothing that struck Kincaid as a little sad, and certainly did not fit his idea of a successful chef.
When they went downstairs, the receptionist had printed out O’Reilly’s address for them. “Chelsea,” Booth said, scanning it. “Viv Holland said he used to live in Chelsea.”
Jane had gone back to scrolling down her computer screen. “Our register shows Mr. O’Reilly as a returning guest. I didn’t realize he’d stayed here before. Ah.” Her frown cleared. “That explains it. I work Wednesday through Sunday. It was a Monday night, almost three weeks ago.”
“What the bleeding hell,” Booth said as he and Kincaid walked back towards the pub. “No one I spoke to said anything about O’Reilly being here three weeks ago.”
Kincaid was thinking it out. “So, are Viv Holland and her staff lying, or did they not see him?”
“Well, I intend to ask them. But one person at a time, and not until I know more.”
The sun had set, leaving a lingering rose stain on the underside of the clouds. The lights in the pub shone like beacons in the gloom. When they reached the roundabout and Booth turned towards the pub, Kincaid said, “I thought Nell’s cottage was to the left.”
“Yes, but I know that road and I don’t fancy walking that lane in the dark. I’ll drop you at the Talbots’ after.” Booth had glanced at him as he said it and Kincaid suspected that the detective, like Melody, was coddling him. But if he was honest, he had to admit that the doctor’s pain pill had worn off some time ago. He wasn’t, however, going to pass up his chance to learn more about Nell Greene. And he was glad enough to settle into the leather seat of Booth’s Volvo.
“Nice car.”
“What will you do about yours?” Booth asked.
Kincaid shrugged. “No idea. It will have to be something that will hold kids and dogs.”
“That’s called the wife’s.”
Kincaid thought he saw Booth smile in the dark.
Booth drove through the center of the village, then took the road that branched off by the mill. Hedges flashed by in the glare of the headlamps, and once he had to brake sharply when a rabbit darted across the road. When he slowed for Nell’s cottage, Kincaid saw why he had missed it when he and Ivan had driven by that morning.
A long, low building in the ubiquitous Cotswold stone with a neatly thatched roof, it was set back from the road and faced north, towards the village, so that the front entrance was hidden from the lane. The dark bulk of the rising hill loomed behind it, and only one faint light shone from a window by the front door. Booth stopped the car in the drive and they got out without speaking. The air felt still and heavy and the only sound was the distant call of a bird.
“Storm coming,” Booth said softly as he fished out the key.
As soon as they stepped inside and switched on the lights, Kincaid could see that no expense had been spared on the place. The floors were bleached wide plank, the walls a pale mint, and the upholstered furniture looked comfortable.
The cottage was feminine, and above all, tidy. Tidier, God knew, than his own house ever looked, between the kids and the cats and the dogs. Here there were no stacks of newspapers, no empty tea mugs, not even any dog toys littering the kilim. A few issues of Country Life were stacked neatly on the ottoman that served as a coffee table, the television remote aligned perfectly in the center. In a basket at the end of the sofa, he found a current issue of the Radio Times and some knitting.
Bookcases had been built in on either side of the hearth. Examining the volumes, Kincaid found popular novels, some classics, as well as some books on gardening and knitting.
There were two framed photos on the bottom shelf. Kincaid recognized Nell instantly, even though he’d only seen her in the dark and in pain. Both showed Nell with a black-and-white border collie—Bella, he presumed. In one, Nell was smiling at the camera. In the other, she was facing the dog, which was placed in a perfect sit. Kincaid wondered if Mark Cain had taken the photos.
Although Kincaid had another look among the books and objets d’art, there were no other photos, and nothing to suggest that she had kept in touch with work colleagues or extended family.
Kincaid picked up the first photo and held it in the lamplight. Nell Greene had been a trim woman with an ordinary, pleasant face and short light-colored hair that might have been described as blond. The photo did not highlight what he remembered the most. She had had beautiful eyes.
“The woman alphabetized her spices,” Booth called from the kitchen. Photo in hand, Kincaid joined him. Booth was peering into a drawer beside the cream-colored Aga. The only spots of color in the room were provided by a turquoise teakettle on the Aga and a bowl of green apples on the kitchen table. Kincaid spotted a few cookery books grouped on an open shelf, but when he looked more closely he saw that they were well-thumbed copies of Nigella and Nigel Slater, homey rather than challenging.
Looking about, Kincaid saw a couple of unopened bottles of wine in a rack and a bottle of sherry beside the salt and pepper mills. “No other alcohol?”
“No. And no sign she’d been drinking in her initial blood test last night, which corroborates what the bartender told me. He said she only had coffee and a glass of tap water.”
Kincaid held up the photo for Booth’s inspection. “Would you say she was blond?”
“You mean could she have matched our receptionist’s description?” Booth squinted at the image. “Maybe. At night, in the right light.”
“Questionable, I agree.”
Neither of them said that no one could mistake Viv Holland for anything other than blond.
The dog’s bowls, Kincaid discovered, were by the back door, and the basket with her toys and chew bones was under the kitchen table. There were only a few stray tufts of black-and-white hair on the bare floors. Having grown up with collies, he thought Nell must have vacuumed every day to have kept the house in such a pristine state.
He had always found searching the property and the possessions of the recently dead a complicated business—fascinating, because how people lived and what they lived with told so much about them, disturbing, because it seemed such an elemental invasion of privacy.
“I don’t think we’ll find anything in here,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll just check the rest of the house.”
The only bathroom was off the hall and, unlike the kitchen and living areas, did not seem to have had much updating. It was clean, however, and the toiletries were organized in pretty baskets. Checking the medicine cabinet, he found toothpaste and various over-the-counter medications. Behind these were two prescription bottles.
He wasn’t carrying gloves, so using a tissue as a precaution, he turned the bottles until he could read the labels. One was an antianxiety drug, the other a common antidepressant. Both were nearly full, and both were dated nearly a year ago.
The bedroom held a neatly made double bed, nightstands, a dresser, and an old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe. He tried that first, running his hands gently over the hanging things. The business suits were of good quality but had a layer of dust on the shoulders. The other things in the wardrobe were the sort of simple, practical things one wore for life in the country, much of which was spent outdoors.
Carelessly, he’d used his right hand to move the hangers in the wardrobe and now it was throbbing badly. With a grunt of pain, he sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer with his left hand. Bookmarks, hand cream, a small torch. And beneath the detritus, a framed photograph, facedown. He held it to the light.
It was Nell’s wedding picture. The clothes were dated, the dress the overly ruffled fashion made popular by Princess Diana. The young Nell looked hopefully out at him, perhaps a little too seriously for a wedding day. The groom had been a good-looking man with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, but Kincaid thought that even then his expression showed the beginnings of a certain pomposity.
What had become of this young couple? And why had Nell kept the photo if she couldn’t bear to look at it?