Mourn not your Dead

vet comes, except maybe keep him warm. Have you a blanket?”
    Lucy looked up from stroking the dog’s ears. “There’s a quilt at the foot of my bed. Would you—”
    “I’ll be right back.”
    Finding Lucy’s room easily enough, he stood in the doorway for a moment as he surveyed it in surprise. Except for a motley collection of stuffed animals on the bed, there was none of the clutter he associated with teenagers’ rooms—no posters of rock bands or fashion models, no piles of clothes making an obstacle course of the floor. It had, in fact, the same air of simplicity as Geoff s room at the pub, and Kincaid wondered if Lucy had been influenced by him or if it were a natural expression of her own personality.
    The furniture looked old but well loved, and an Irish wool blanket in lovely shades of lilac and green covered the single bed. He picked up the faded and tattered quilt that lay neatly folded at the bed’s foot, yet still he lingered.
    Framed newspaper and magazine clippings covered the wall above the small desk—the simple wooden frames more of Geoff’s handiwork, thought Kincaid. Moving to examine them more closely, he saw that all the articles bore the byline of Lucy’s father, Stephen Penmaric.
    Hanging shelves either side of the window held books, and most prominently displayed was a set of C. S. Lewis’s Narnia books, complete with dustjackets. Pulling one from the shelf, he checked the copyright and whistled. They were first editions, and in flawless condition. His mother would likely give her firstborn grandchild for these.
    Beside the books rested a small cage filled with cedar shavings and a wire wheel. He tapped on it and was rewarded by a scuffling sound and the emergence of a tiny white mouse. It blinked its ruby eyes at him and scurried back under cover.
    Kincaid switched off the light and carried the quilt downstairs.
    Lucy looked at him expectantly as he entered the kitchen. “Did you meet Celeste? I forgot to tell you about her. I hope you’re not afraid of mice.”
    “Not at all. I kept them myself, until they had an unfortunate encounter with the family cat.” He knelt and tucked the quilt around Lucy as well as Lewis, for it felt chilly near the tile floor. “You don’t look very comfortable there. Will you be all right?”
    “I couldn’t bear to leave Lewis.” She glanced at Kincaid from under her lashes, then said hesitantly, “Mr. Kincaid, who was that man? He seemed so familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.”
    “He worked with your stepfather and was a friend of your mother’s after your dad died.” He’d leave it to Claire to explain the intricacies of that relationship, if she wished.
    “I couldn’t help but notice your C. S. Lewis books. Did you know they’re quite valuable?”
    “They were my dad’s. He named me for Lucy in the stories.” She gazed past Kincaid, and the hand stroking the dog’s head went still. “I always wanted to be like her. Brave, courageous, cheerful. The other children were tempted, but never Lucy. She was good, really good, all the way through. But I’m not.” She turned to Kincaid, and it seemed to him that her eyes held a sadness beyond her years.
    “Maybe,” he said slowly, “that was an unreasonable expectation.”
     
    “LOOKS LIKE WE’VE GOT THIS ONE NAILED,” SAID NICK DE-veney to Kincaid. They sat in the Guildford Police Station canteen, having a quick sandwich and coffee while David Ogilvie waited in Interview Room A.
    “He hasn’t admitted to anything,” Kincaid answered through a squishy bite of cheese and tomato. “And I don’t think we’re going to rattle him by making him wait. He’s been on the other side of the table too often.”
    “No way he can wiggle out of Gilbert, after what he’s done. Jackie Temple may be a bit more difficult, if he can prove he was lecturing that evening.” Deveney grimaced. “God, I hate to see a copper go bad. And shooting another officer—” Finding no words to express his disgust, he shook his head.
    “He wouldn’t have known Will was a cop,” Kincaid said reasonably, then wondered why he was defending Ogilvie, and why Ogilvie’s ignorance should make what he’d done any less reprehensible. “Any news of Will?”
    “He’s in surgery. Fractured femur, they think, and ruptured femoral vein.”
    Finishing his sandwich, Kincaid rolled the cling film into a tiny ball. “He was fast. Faster than I was. If I’d got out and called for backup, none of