Mourn not your Dead

wounds?”
    “Not that I’ve found so far. All right with you if I have him moved now? The sooner I get him on the table, the more we’ll know.”
    “It’s your call, Doc.” Kincaid stood up.
    “The photographer and the scene-of-crime lads would like to move the live bodies out as well,” said Deveney, “so they can get on with things.”
    “Right.” Kincaid turned to him. “Can you fill me in on what you’ve got so far? Then I’d like to see the family.”
    “Claire Gilbert and her daughter came home around half past seven. They’d been away several hours, doing some shopping in Guildford. Mrs. Gilbert parked the car in the garage as usual, but as she came across the back garden towards the house they saw that the back door stood open. When they entered the kitchen they found the commander.” Deveney nodded at the body. “Once she’d ascertained there wasn’t a pulse, Mrs. Gilbert called us.”
    “In a nutshell,” said Kincaid, and Deveney smiled. “So what’s the theory? Did the wife do it?”
    “There’s nothing to suggest they had a fight—nothing broken, no marks on her. And the daughter says they were shopping. Besides—” Deveney paused. “Well, wait till you meet her. I’ve had her check the house, and she says she can’t find a few items of jewelry. There have been a few thefts reported in the area recently. Petty things.”
    “No suspects in the thefts?”
    Deveney shook his head.
    “All right, then. Where are the Gilberts?”
    “I’ve a constable with them in the sitting room. I’ll take you through.”
    Pausing in the doorway for a final glimpse of the body, Kincaid thought of Alastair Gilbert as he had seen him last—lecturing from a podium, extolling the virtues of order, discipline, and logical thinking in police work—and he felt an unexpected stirring of pity.
     

Two
     
    AS THEY ENTERED THE SITTING ROOM, KINCAID GATHERED A quick impression of deep red walls and understated elegance. A fire burnt in the grate, and across the room a plainclothes constable sat in a straight-backed chair with a teacup balanced on his knee, looking not at all uncomfortable. From the corner of his eye, Kincaid saw Gemma’s eyes widen as she took in the male hand holder, then his attention was drawn to the two women seated side by side on the sofa.
    Mother and daughter—the mother fair, small-boned, and delicate of feature; the daughter a darker copy, her long, thick hair framing a heart-shaped face. Above her pointed chin her mouth looked disproportionately large, as if she hadn’t quite grown into it. Why had he thought of the Gilberts’ daughter as a child? Although his wife appeared considerably younger, Gilbert had been in his mid-fifties, and certainly they might have had a grown, or nearly grown, daughter.
    The women looked up inquiringly, their faces composed. But the perfection of the little tableau was marred by Claire Gilbert’s clothes. The front of her white, turtle-necked sweater was decorated with a Rorschach stain of dried blood, and the knees of her navy trousers bore darker splotches as well.
    The constable had set down his cup and crossed the room to have a murmured word with his boss. Deveney nodded at him as he left the room, then turned back to the women and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gilbert, this is Superintendent Kincaid and Sergeant James from Scotland Yard. They’ll be helping us in our inquiries. They’d like to ask you a few questions.”
    “Of course.” Her voice was low and almost hoarse, huskier than Kincaid had expected for a woman of her size, and controlled. But when she set her cup on the low table, her hand trembled.
    Kincaid and Gemma took the two armchairs opposite the sofa, and Deveney shifted the constable’s chair so that he sat beside Gemma.
    “I knew your husband, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid said. “I’m very sorry.”
    “Did you?” she asked in a tone of bright interest. Then she added, “Would you like some tea?” The low table before her held a tray with a pot and some extra cups and saucers. When Kincaid and Gemma both murmured affirmatives, she leaned forwards and poured a little into her own cup, then sat back, looking around vaguely. “What time is it?” she asked, but the question didn’t seem to be directed to anyone in particular.
    “Let me do that for you,” said Gemma after a moment, when it became clear that tea was not forthcoming. She filled two cups with milk and strong tea, then glanced at Deveney, who