Mourn not your Dead

but I’d hate to have to resort to that. Very unpleasant for everyone concerned.”
    “I don’t like being bullied, Mr. Kincaid, no matter how charmingly it’s couched. You must do whatever you think necessary, but I’ll not willingly divulge anything confidential about my patient.” The doctor folded her arms across her nondescript jumper, her mouth clamped in a stubborn line.
    Kincaid met her look. “Look, Doctor, let’s not beat around the bush. We have very good reason to think that Claire Gilbert was being beaten by her husband, and I believe that you came to the same conclusion. That day that Geoff overheard you quarreling with Gilbert—it was about Claire, wasn’t it? Did you confront him with your suspicions? He’d not have taken kindly to your interfering in his business.”
    “I’ll give you that Alastair Gilbert could be difficult,” she said, her mouth still set. “But I’ll not discuss Claire with you.”
    “Alastair Gilbert was more than difficult the last few weeks of his life. He’d started to behave in uncharacteristic ways, and I think he had become so consumed by jealousy that he was no longer rational. Gilbert used his control, his appearance of remaining above emotion, as a method of dominance. The fact that he allowed himself to be drawn into an out-and-out row with you is an indication of how far he’d slipped. Surely you must realize that it’s vital we know the truth about what happened that day.”
    “So that you can put pressure on Claire?”
    “We are talking about a murder, Doctor, and I have a duty to make whatever inquiries I think can help bring the matter to a conclusion. I’ll have to question Claire in any case, and I’d prefer to do it with the benefit of your advice. I’m sure I need not remind you that you have an obligation of care as well as one of confidentiality.”
    The doctor met his eyes for a long moment, then her mouth relaxed and her shoulders slumped a bit. “Claire is very vulnerable right now, Mr. Kincaid. If you go stomping about making damaging allegations about her husband it could cause her serious harm.”
    “Then help me out. Deny that you believe Claire Gilbert was physically injured at any time by her husband, and I’ll leave it alone.”
    The silence stretched until Kincaid could hear his breath and the rasp of tweed against tweed as Deveney shifted in the chair beside him. He waited, thinking of the time he’d stared down a bulldog as a child, until the doctor looked away. Still she didn’t speak.
    Kincaid stood up. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve been most helpful. We’ll see ourselves out.”
    “I have to hand it to you,” Deveney said when they reached the car. “That was rather cleverly done.”
    Grimacing, Kincaid said, “Doesn’t make me feel any better about it. But the good doctor is as perceptive as she is honest, and if she was worried enough about Claire to confront Gilbert directly, you can be sure she had good cause.”
    “So you got the confirmation you wanted.” Deveney settled into the passenger seat.
    “Confirmation of a suspicion only, not proof.”
    “Still,” Deveney said as Kincaid turned the key in the Rover’s ignition, “the suspicion’s enough to put Claire Gilbert squarely in the frame.”
     

Fourteen
     
    GEMMA HAD WILL DROP HER OFF IN HOLMBURY ST. MARY ON his way back to the station, as Kincaid had told her he’d meet her in the village. It was almost two o’clock, and the sun had seared through the morning’s haze. She stood on the edge of the green for a moment after Will drove away, turning her face to the light until stars blossomed behind her closed eyelids. Mid-November was seldom so generous, and one couldn’t expect it to last. This was a day for sailing model boats on the Serpentine, a day for storing memories of warmth enough to last through the long winter days ahead.
    She heard the whir of wheels on pavement, and, opening her eyes, she found that a jaunty little red Vauxhall had pulled up before her. The woman driving rolled down her window and leaned out. “You looked a bit lost. Can I help you?” She had a slightly husky, melodious voice, a bob of platinum hair, and the largest beak of a nose Gemma had ever seen.
    Embarrassed at being caught standing about daydreaming like an idiot, Gemma stammered, “I’m not—I mean I’m quite all right, thank you. Just waiting for someone.”
    The woman studied her until Gemma looked away from her penetrating gaze. “You