A Finer End

night.’
    ‘Died?’ he echoed blankly. ‘But— Oh my God, but that’s dreadful! What was it, a sudden illness?’
    ‘I don’t think so. The police are investigating.’
    The man paled, and for an instant Gemma could have sworn she saw swift calculation in his eyes. Then his brows drew together in concern and he said, ‘I m sorry. That’s even more horrible. Are you a relative of Miss Todd?’
    ‘Not exactly,’ Gemma equivocated. ‘Did you know her well?’
    ‘Oh, no. I’d never actually met her.’ The man glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. So sorry to have bothered you.’ He flashed her an apologetic smile, then made his way swiftly across the yard and out of the gate. Gemma watched him curiously, making a mental note of the car’s registration, until he had reversed and driven away.
    How very odd, she thought, then turned her attention to the farmhouse. First, a look in the barn — obviously Garnet Todd’s workshop. The tools and materials were all neatly organized, and there was no sign of any struggle or disturbance.
    She crossed the yard again and, using her handkerchief, eased open the back door to the house. A chorus of pitiful mewling greeted her. The daylight coming in through the filmed windows was sufficient to illuminate three furry, protesting shapes on the kitchen table. It seemed no one had fed Garnet’s cats.
    Although not wanting to incur DI Greely’s ire by contaminating what might prove a crime scene, Gemma carefully searched the primitive kitchen until she found a tin canister filled with dried cat food. Garnet’s disdain for modern conveniences had apparently not extended to cat food. Gemma filled a stoneware bowl and put out fresh water as well. She watched with satisfaction while the cats ate, but after a moment she shivered as the room’s chill began to penetrate. The wood-burning stove had long since gone out, and the room had the dank smell of cold ashes.
    She tried to imagine choosing to live as Garnet Todd had, and failed. How difficult must it have been for a suburban child like Faith, weaned on television and instant gratification? The thought gave her a new respect for the girl’s perseverance.
    Fastening her lightweight jacket, she looked round the kitchen with unabashed curiosity. There was a good supply of staples on the open shelves, but no perishables that she could see other than milk, cheese, butter, and eggs. Garnet would have been a vegetarian, no doubt, and had probably done her shopping daily. The table held a casserole dish carefully covered with tinfoil. Using the handkerchief again, Gemma peeled back a corner, looked, and sniffed. A cheese and vegetable dish of some sort, still fresh.
    There were no dirty dishes in the deep, old-fashioned farmhouse sink, and the washing up had been carefully left to dry on a tea towel. It looked as if Garnet had prepared their evening meal as usual, but then what? Had she gone out, expecting to come back and share the casserole with Faith?
    The rumble of an approaching car startled her out of her ruminations. She nudged aside the faded curtains just in time to see Kincaid pull her Escort into the yard. As he got out, Gemma had the momentary pleasure of watching him unobserved. Relaxed in jeans and his old leather bomber jacket, the wind ruffling his chestnut hair, he moved with a grace unusual in a tall man.
    Coming back across the yard after closing the gate, he stopped abruptly and peered at the ground. Curious, Gemma went out to join him.
    Kincaid looked up at the sound of the door and flashed his quick grin. ‘So you are here. Good. But I see Greely’s men haven’t made it yet.’
    ‘You must have been back to the house.’
    ‘Um-hmm. And met Jack’s young friend Carlisle. Did you happen to notice his motorbike?’
    ‘Vaguely. Why?’
    ‘I used to have a bike like that, before I came down to London. I was the terror of the countryside, and my parents were certain I was going to end up glued to a tree. The thing is’ — he knelt and touched a finger to the rutted surface of the yard — ’I’d recognize those tracks anywhere.’
    Gemma looked more carefully at the ground. Of course, he was right. The tread marks were too narrow for a car, much less a van, and they were recent. She shouldn’t have missed them. ‘Bloody hell. How fresh are they, do you think?’
    ‘We’ll have to find out when it rained, but I’d say these tracks were probably made this morning or yesterday.’
    Their