Mourn not your Dead

traumas, and it can be a very emotional catharsis. Any revelations made at these times could be misleading.”
    “Are you telling us that Claire Gilbert made such revelations?” Deveney asked. It sounded to Kincaid as if he’d chosen aggression as the method of dealing with his discomfort.
    “No, no, of course not. I’m merely illustrating why I find such self-imposed restrictions necessary when talking about any client—and Claire is no exception, despite the tragic circumstances.” She stood and lifted the loaded tray. “I have a client due in just a few minutes, Superintendent. Finding policemen on the doorstep might be a bit off-putting.”
    “Just one more thing, Miss Wade. How did Alastair Gilbert feel about his wife consulting you?”
    For the first time, Kincaid sensed hesitation. She shifted her weight, balancing the tray on her right hip, then said slowly, “I’m not sure that Claire discussed it with him. Many people prefer their visits to be entirely discreet, and I honor that. Now if you don’t mind...”
    “Thank you for your time, Miss Wade,” Kincaid said as he rose and Deveney followed suit. She went ahead of them, depositing the tray in the kitchen, then came to see them out. Kincaid took the hand she offered. He found that women’s handshakes often fell into two categories—either a limp, dead-fish touching of fingers or an overcompensating, knuckle-breaking grasp—but Madeleine Wade’s strong, quick clasp was that of a woman comfortable with her place in the world.
    He turned back to her as she opened the door. “Did you ever think of going into police work?”
    The curve of her lips as she smiled made her jutting nose seem more pronounced, and her husky voice held amusement once more. “I did consider it, actually. The thought of having that secret edge was tempting, but I was afraid it would corrupt me in the end. I felt I could only find balance in offering healing and comfort to others, and I don’t think that’s in your job description, Superintendent.”
    “Can you see guilt?”
    She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you. Guilt is a mixture of emotions—fear, anger, remorse, pity—much too complicated to separate into individual components. Nor would I implicate someone, even if I could. I don’t want that power, that responsibility, on my hands.”
    Deveney waited until they’d shut themselves in the privacy of his car before he exploded. “She’s just as batty as she looks,” he said vehemently, cranking the starter a bit too hard. “Auras, my grandmother’s arse. What a load of bullshit.”
    While Deveney groused, Kincaid thought about hunches. He suspected that all good coppers had them, even depended on them to some extent, but it was something no one discussed comfortably. They had all taken courses instructing them in the science of reading body language, but was that methodology just a means of fitting intuition into a more acceptable framework?
    All in all, he thought it prudent to regard Madeleine Wade with an open mind.
     
    THE VICARAGE FACED DIRECTLY ON THE VILLAGE GREEN, NESTLED between the pub and the little lane that led up to the church. Deveney, still muttering to himself, parked the car alongside the green. Kincaid stretched as he got out of the car, for the sun had warmed the afternoon air until it felt almost balmy for November. A light breeze had come up, and in it the green’s emerald grass rippled in velvet waves.
    Crossing the tarmac, they let themselves into the vicarage garden through the gate. The house drowsed in the high-hedged enclosure, its square and solid red-brick façade looking respectably suited to its role. The garden, on the other hand, flaunted itself, as if rebelling against such stuffiness. A riot of color washed bravely against the subdued autumn background of hedge and trees. Everything that could still bloom did—impatiens, begonias, pansies, fuchsias, dahlias, primroses, verbenas, and the last of the roses, their heads full-blown on skeletal stems. Kincaid whistled in admiration. “I’d say the vicar has a different gift.” Then unable to resist the urge to tease Deveney just a bit, he added, “I wonder how he gets on with Madeleine Wade.”
    Deveney gave him an irritated look, and they waited in silence for a few moments on the porch. When it seemed certain that Deveney’s assault on the bell was not going to produce a response, Kincaid turned away. “Let’s try the church.”
    Letting