Mourn not your Dead

pieces in the dining area, flowered red-trimmed curtains shutting out the night, and the wood fire radiating warmth within.
    A man in an oiled jacket squeezed in between Kincaid and the next stool, handing his glass to Brian to be refilled. He spoke without preamble, as if continuing a discussion. “Well, he may have been a right bastard, Bri, but I never thought it would have come to that.” He shook his head. “Can’t even feel safe in our own bloody beds these days.”
    Brian gave a quick, involuntary glance in Kincaid’s direction, then said noncommittally as he pulled the pint, “He wasn’t in his bed, Reggie, so I doubt we need worry about ours.” He wiped away the foam that had overflowed the glass and slid it across the bar before nodding at Kincaid and adding, “This is Superintendent Kincaid, down from London to look into things.”
    The man gave Kincaid a brusque acknowledgment, muttering something that sounded like, “Our own lads do well enough,” before making his way back to his table.
    Brian leaned across the bar and said earnestly to Kincaid, “Don’t mind Reggie. He’d find fault with sunshine in May.” But the buzz of conversation around Kincaid had died, and he felt himself the target of glances both interested and wary.
    It was a relief when Deveney came in a few minutes later, shaking the water droplets from his rain hat before stuffing it into his overcoat pocket. Just as Kincaid stood up to greet him, the table nearest the fire emptied and they snagged it with alacrity.
    When Deveney had returned from the bar with his pint, Kincaid lifted his in salute. “Cheers. You’ve just had a vote of confidence from the locals.”
    “Wish I felt I deserved it.” Sighing, he rotated his shoulders and neck. “What a hell of a day. As much as I hated paperwork at school, why I ever—” His eyes widened as he looked towards the far end of the room, then he smiled. “The day just improved considerably.” Following his gaze, Kincaid saw Gemma edging her way through the crowd. “Why can’t my sergeant look like that?” Deveney complained with an air of much-practiced martyrdom. “I’ll complain to the chief constable, take it all the way to the top.” But Kincaid barely heard him. The dress was black and long-sleeved, but there any pretense of demureness ended, for the fabric clung to Gemma’s body until it stopped midway down her thighs. She seldom wore her hair loose, but tonight she had left it so, and her fair skin looked pale as cream within its copper frame.
    “Close your mouth,” Deveney said with a grin as he got up to fetch Gemma a chair.
    “Gemma,” Kincaid began, not knowing what he meant to say, and the lights went out.
    For an-eerie moment a hush fell over the pub, then the voices rose in a wave—questioning, exclaiming.
    “Just hold on,” Brian called out. “I’ll get the lanterns.” The wavering flame of his cigarette lighter disappeared through the door at the far end of the bar. Within moments he had three emergency lanterns lit and placed throughout the room.
    The lamplight cast a soft yellow glow, and Deveney smiled at Gemma with unabashed pleasure. “I’d say that was perfect timing. You look even lovelier by lamplight, if that’s possible.”
    At least she had the grace to blush, Kincaid thought as she murmured something unintelligible. “No, let me get it,” Deveney said as Kincaid rose to get Gemma a drink. “It’s easier for me to get out.”
    Kincaid sank back onto his bench and regarded her, unsure what he might say without antagonizing her. Finally, he offered, “Nick’s right, you do look wonderful.”
    “Thanks,” she said, but instead of meeting his eyes she fidgeted with the empty ashtray and looked toward the bar. “I wonder where Geoff is? That’s Brian’s son,” she explained, turning back to Kincaid. “I met him this afternoon, and from what he told me I thought he’d be helping out behind the bar.”
    Appearing once more from the kitchen, Brian announced, “I’ve been on to the Electricity Board. There’s a transformer down between Dorking and Guildford, so it may be quite some time before we have power again. Not to worry,” he interrupted the beginning buzz, “the cooker’s gas, so most of the menu is still on.”
    “That’s a relief,” Deveney said as he returned with Gemma’s vodka and orange, and the dinner menu. “I’m starved. Let’s see what Brian can do in a pinch.” When they’d made their