Mourn not your Dead

prison.”
    “They wrote to each other. It was a difficult time, but she never talked about it. Lucy’s always been a bit of a loner. She gets along with kids at school and in the village well enough; she just never forms close attachments. Geoff seems to be her anchor.” She looked towards the pub. Dusk had crept upon them, and light shone visibly from the back window. “Look, I must see if there is anything I can do for Brian. He’ll be frantic with worry.” She stepped forwards, but Kincaid touched her arm.
    “There’s nothing you can do here. Brian’s gone to headquarters with Geoff. They’ll make him cool his heels in reception, but he insisted on it.”
    “He would.” In the light spilling from the pub, her shirt flared white between the lapels of her jacket. Kincaid saw it rise and fall as she sighed. “And you’re right, of course. I need to deal with my own child.”
     
    KINCAID SAT WITH HIS HAND ON THE KEY FOR A MOMENT, started the car, then turned it off and reached for his pocket phone instead. When he had Deveney on the line, he said, “Don't start without me, Nick. I’ll be along in a bit.”
    The first customer’s car pulled into the pub car park as he pulled out, but the houses clustered around the green looked dark and silent, as did the shop when he reached it. He could just make out the CLOSED sign, but yellow light filtered through the curtain chinks in the upstairs windows.
    The stairs were inky, invisible but for the white rail under his hand, but he persevered to the top and knocked smartly on Madeleine Wade’s door. “You really should do something about a light,” he said when she answered.
    “Sorry,” she said, frowning at the fixture. “Must have just burned out.” She motioned him inside and shut the door. “Should I assume this is a social call, Superintendent, since you are unaccompanied by minions?”
    He gave a snort of laughter as he followed her into the kitchen. “Minions?”
    “Such a nice word, isn’t it? I do like words with descriptive power.” As she spoke she rummaged in various cupboards. “Most people’s vocabularies are dismally bland, don’t you think? Ah, success,” she added as she fished a corkscrew triumphantly from a drawer. “Will you have some wine with me, Mr. Kincaid? Sainsbury’s is remarkably up-market these days. You can actually get something quite decent.”
    Madeleine filled two slender glasses with a pale gold chardonnay, then led the way back to the sitting room. Candles burned, adding their flickering light to that of two shaded table lamps, and the music he’d admired before played softly in the background. “Expecting a client, Miss Wade?” he asked as he accepted a glass and sat down.
    “This is just for me, I’m afraid.” Slipping out of her shoes, she tucked her feet up on the settee, and the marmalade cat jumped up beside her. “I try to practice what I preach,” she said with a chuckle as she rubbed the cat under its chin. “Stress reduction.”
    “I could do with a bit of that.” Kincaid sipped his wine, holding it for a moment in his mouth. The flavors exploded on his tongue—buttery rich, with a touch of the oak found in good whiskey, and beneath that a hint of flowers. The sensation was so intense that he wondered if he were suffering from some sort of perceptual enhancement.
    “Lovely, volatile molecules.” Madeleine closed her eyes as she sipped, then gazed at him directly. In the candlelight her eyes looked green as river moss. “How can I help you, Mr. Kincaid?”
    It occurred to him that in the few minutes he’d been in the flat, he had ceased to regard her as homely. It was not that her features had altered but rather that the normal parameters of judging physical beauty seemed to have become meaningless. He felt light-headed, although he’d barely touched his wine. “Are you a witch, Miss Wade?” he asked, surprising himself, then he smiled, making a joke of it.
    She returned the smile with her characteristic wry amusement. “No, but I’ve considered it quite seriously. I know several, and I incorporate some aspects of their rituals into my practice.”
    “Such as?”
    “Blessings, protective spells, that sort of thing. All quite harmless, I assure you.”
    “People keep assuring me of a lot of things, Miss Wade, and quite frankly, I’m getting a bit fed up.” He set his glass on the table and leaned forwards. “There’s a conspiracy of silence in this village. A conspiracy