Mourn not your Dead

find out that Gilbert was dead?” asked Kincaid, remembering Claire Gilbert’s words before she’d fainted.
    “Some of the locals were waiting when I unlocked the shop door this morning. They’d heard it from the postman, who’d heard it from the newsagent. ‘Somebody did for Alastair Gilbert last night—bashed his head in and left him in a pool of his own blood,’ were the exact words, I believe,” he added with a grimace.
    Deveney thanked him, and they took their leave, Kincaid with a backward glance at the stainless-steel arch of the German mixer-tap he hadn’t been able to afford for his own kitchen sink.
    “Terrific,” Deveney said with weary resignation as they got into the car. “So much for keeping the cause of death under our hats until we’ve interviewed the villagers. That’s life in the country for you.”
     
    THE LAST CUSTOMER, A GARRULOUS OLD WOMAN NAMED Simpson, stood chatting long after she’d paid for her meager purchases. Madeleine Wade, who included proprietorship of the village shop among her many ventures, listened absently to the latest tabloid scandal while she closed out the till. All the while she thought longingly of curling up in her snug upstairs flat with a glass of wine and the Financial Times.
    The “pink paper,” as she always thought of it, was her secret vice and the last holdover from her former life. She read it every day, tracking her investments, then tucked it away out of sight of her clients—no point in disillusioning the dears.
    Mrs. Simpson, having received no more encouragement than the occasional nod, finally sputtered to a halt, and Madeleine saw her out with relief. Over the years she’d learned to be more comfortable with people, forced herself to develop an armor impervious to all but the most open revulsion, but it was only when alone that she felt truly at peace. It became her solace, her reward at the end of the day, and she anticipated it with the same eagerness an alcoholic awaits his first drink.
    She saw him as she finished locking the door. Geoff Genovase stood half in the shadow of the White Hart next door, hands in his pockets, waiting. When he moved, the light from the street lamp glittered on his fair hair.
    His fear reached her then. Palpable and intense, it enveloped him like a dense cloud.
    She’d sensed it before, a dim undercurrent—sensed also the careful control that kept it in check. What had caused this explosion of terror? Madeleine hesitated, her desire to help warring with her fatigue and her need for solitude, then felt a pang of shame. She’d come to this village after a lifetime of running away, intending to offer whatever aid her talents might provide, and such selfishness must be squelched by discipline.
    Whatever had triggered Geoff’s distress, he’d come to her for comfort, and she could not refuse. She stepped forwards, lifting a hand to call out to him, but he had melted into the shadows.
     
    WHEN A KNOCK AT GEMMA’S DOOR BROUGHT NO RESPONSE, Kincaid went back to his room and scribbled a note telling her he’d be in the bar and that Deveney would be meeting them for drinks and dinner. He slipped the scrap of paper under her door and waited for a moment, still hoping for a quiet word with her, but when there was no stir of movement he turned away and went slowly downstairs.
    He and Nick Deveney had spent an unproductive afternoon at Guildford Police Station, reading reports and sparring with the media, and it had left the lingering taste of frustration. “A pint of Bass, please, Brian,” he said as he slid onto the only unoccupied bar stool. “A good crowd for a Thursday evening,” he added as Brian placed the pint glass on a mat.
    “It’s that nasty out,” Brian answered as he drew a pint for another customer. “Always good for business.”
    The rain had come on steadily with the dark, but Kincaid suspected that the pub’s popularity this evening had as much to do with exchanging gossip as sheltering from the weather. Although he had to admit that as refuges went, the atmosphere was pleasant enough. A pub never felt right empty. It needed the movement of bodies and the rise and fall of voices in order to come into its own. This was his first opportunity to judge the Moon under the proper circumstances. Swiveling around on his stool, he liked what he saw: comfortable without too much tarting up. There were velvet covers on the stools and benches, a dark-beamed ceiling, a few brasses, a few copper