Mourn not your Dead

garden, her back to them. “It’s his shop—his business—and I work in the shop, but I also do some consulting.”
    Forced to turn around awkwardly, Gemma squinted at Claire’s outline, haloed by the light. “Consulting?” She hadn’t thought of Claire Gilbert working, had automatically categorized her as a pampered housewife with no duties more demanding that attending meetings at the Women’s Institute, and now she chided herself for her carelessness. Assumptions in an investigation were dangerous—and an indication that she didn’t have her mind on her job. “What sort of business is it?” she added, resolving to give Claire Gilbert her undivided attention.
    “Interior design. The shop’s in Shere—it’s called Kitchen Concepts, but kitchens aren’t all we do.” Claire glanced at her watch and frowned. “It’s just getting on for nine o’clock—Malcolm won’t have missed me yet.” The smooth fall of her fair hair caught the light as she shook her head, and when she spoke her voice wavered for the first time. “Telling Gwen was all I could think of from the time I woke this morning, then once I’d done that... I feel such a ninny—” She broke off suddenly and laughed. “When have you heard that expression? My mother used to say that.” Her laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun and she sniffed.
    Will had taken advantage of Claire’s retreat to the window to rise and explore the room. He’d wandered over to a dresser that stood against the back wall and now idly rearranged a collection of seashells. “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself,” he said, turning to Claire. “You’ve had a dreadful shock and you can’t expect to go on as if nothing had happened.”
    “Those are Lucy’s.” Coming to stand beside him, Claire picked up a small green-and-red-speckled shell and turned it in her hands. “She had a book about the seaside she loved as a child, and she’s collected shells ever since. This one’s called Christmas. Apt, isn’t it?” She replaced the shell, aligning it carefully, then gave an odd little shake of her head, as if to clear it. “I keep thinking that Alastair would expect me to cope, and then I remember...” Her words trailed off and she stood for a moment, staring at the shells, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Then, seeming to gather herself with an effort, she turned to them and smiled. “I’d better ring Malcolm as soon as possible. The shop opens at half-past and I’d not want him to hear it from someone else.”
    Gemma gave in gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” she said as she tucked her notebook into her bag and stood. “You’ve been very helpful. We’ll leave you to get on with things.” The rote phrases came easily, while underneath she wondered furiously where in hell Kincaid had got to and what he could have been doing poking about in the garden all this time. Claire came with them to the door, and as Gemma stepped into the hall Will stopped and murmured something to her that Gemma didn’t quite catch.
    The fingerprint technician had packed up his equipment and gone, leaving only his dust to mar the impression that normal life in the Gilbert household would resume at any time. The light came more strongly through the bay window, highlighting the motes dancing in the air. Gemma went to the window and looked out into the garden—there was no sign of Kincaid.
    “What’s next?” asked Will as he came in from the hall. “Where’s our super got himself off to?”
    Gemma thanked whatever guardian angel made her bite her lip rather than venting her bad temper, because just at that moment Kincaid came in through the mudroom door and smiled broadly at them both. “Waiting for me? Sorry. I got a bit carried away in the garden shed.” He wiped a smudge of dirt from his forehead and brushed ineffectually at the cobwebs on his jacket. “How did you—”
    “Was the dog giving you a hand?” interrupted Gemma. As soon as the words left her mouth she heard their shrewishness and would have called them back if she could. Flushing with shame, she drew a breath to explain, apologize, and then she saw that in his left hand he held a hammer.
    The hall door flew open and Claire Gilbert came in as if propelled, her cheeks pink-stained. “Malcolm says they’ve been round to the shop already,” she said breathlessly, looking from one of them to the other in appeal. “People saying things and reporters. They’re coming here.