A Finer End

people!’
    ‘Nevertheless,’ said Gemma, ‘there may be a connection.’
    Kincaid returned to his original question. ‘The evening of your sister’s accident, Mr Catesby — where were you?’
    ‘You can’t possibly think... You can’t actually think I had something to do with Winnie’s accident?’ Catesby stared at them.
    ‘No, of course not,’ Gemma reassured him. ‘It’s just routine, really. We have to ask.’
    ‘I had a parents’ consultation at school. Then I was home — alone — for the rest of the evening.’
    ‘What time did your consultation finish, Mr Catesby?’
    ‘About half past six, I think—’
    ‘Can the parents you met confirm this?’
    ‘You’re not serious? You can’t involve parents of my students in this! Do you realize what something like that would mean? When you teach at a public school, you can’t afford a breath of scandal. Something like that would go round the board of trustees like wildfire. I’d be finished!’
    ‘No one’s accusing you of anything—’
    ‘Even the possibility of involvement is enough. Please, you must understand.’
    ‘Mr Catesby—’
    ‘I won’t tell you their names.’
    ‘But—’ Gemma stopped. There was no point pushing him. If they needed the information, they could easily get it from other sources. Instead she took another tack. ‘I understand your sister has regained consciousness, Mr Catesby. That’s wonderful news.’
    ‘I— Yes, isn’t it?’
    ‘You’ve seen her, then?’
    He gazed at her blankly. ‘No. No, I haven’t. I’d thought of going to hospital this afternoon.’
    ‘Perhaps she’ll remember something that will help us trace the person responsible for her injuries.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose that’s a possibility.’
    ‘Did you see your sister at all that day?’
    ‘No, not after the dinner party she gave on the previous evening.’
    ‘And you’ve no idea why she was in Bulwarks Lane?’
    ‘Obviously, she must have meant to visit Fiona Allen, but I’ve no idea why.’
    Kincaid stood and handed Catesby one of his cards. ‘You’ve been very helpful. If you think of anything else, just ring my mobile number.’ He started towards the door, then stopped and peered into the kitchen. ‘I’ve just refitted my kitchen recently. It was bloody hell, so you have my sympathy. What did you have in mind?’
    Catesby looked from Kincaid to the kitchen as if trying to decipher a foreign language. ‘Oh — I — everything. Start from scratch. I’d thought tile worktops, but now...’
    Good recovery, thought Gemma, stopping to give Phoebe a last pat as they said their goodbyes.
    When they reached the street, Kincaid took her arm. ‘Shall we climb to the top of the hill before we start back, since we’ve come this far?’
    Gemma nodded and, when they had continued upwards for a few yards, said quietly, ‘What would you bet that Andrew Catesby had never given a thought to his kitchen before this morning?’
    Kincaid grinned. ‘I’d need damned good odds. But if that’s the case, what did he want with Garnet Todd?’
    They reached the stile that gave access to the Wear-yall Hill footpath, and he gave her a hand over. The west wind tore at their hair and clothes, and sent ripples like waves through the long green grass on the slope.
    ‘Is that the famous Thorn?’ asked Gemma, spying a small, twisted tree enclosed by a circle of chicken wire. ‘It seems so forlorn.’
    ‘So would you be, if you were stuck on this hillside and whipped by this bloody wind day in and day out.’ When they reached the summit, they found they could lean against the full force of the wind as if against a wall.
    ‘Are you okay?’ Kincaid asked, knowing how much she disliked heights.
    ‘It’s all right as long as I don’t get too near the edge — lovely, in fact. I feel right on top of the world.’
    Kincaid pointed to the west. ‘There — see where the land dips right at the horizon? That must be the Bristol Channel.’
    Squinting into the wind, Gemma gazed into the grey-blue distance, but failed to make out anything that might be the sea. Then she rotated slowly and looked out across a low, flat landscape criss-crossed by a grid of straight, silvery lines. ‘What are those?’
    ‘They’re called rhynes. Drainage ditches. That’s what keeps this area from reverting to marshland, but it still floods when the rains are heavy.’
    Gemma turned once more, knowing what she would see. To the east, the southern edge of the