No Mark Upon Her

Craig’s alibi when the barman added, “Missed him last night. He must have been away.”
    “I believe he said something about a meeting in London . . . no, no.” Kincaid put on a perplexed frown. “He said he was away on Monday. That was it.”
    “No, he was here. Although he came in a bit late. I remember because we were all talking about it next day—the thought of us all safe in the pub while that poor woman was washing away down the Thames.” The barman shook his head.
    “Maybe he’d been fishing,” Kincaid suggested. “It would have been a fine day for it.”
    The barman looked at him curiously. “Fishing? Whatever gave you that idea? Mr. Craig doesn’t fish. Hunting’s his cup of tea.”
    “Ah, well,” said Kincaid, having ventured as far out on a limb as he could go without falling off. “Then the pub suits him to a T, wouldn’t you say?”
    Giving him the perfunctory smile the lame comment deserved, the barman nodded. “He’s said the same himself. Many a time.”
    Resigned to the fact that by this time the man must think him a toady, currying favor with Craig, as well as a bit of an idiot, Kincaid said, “Lovely house. I understand it’s been in Mrs. Craig’s family for a long time. Sorry I didn’t get to meet her.”
    The barman’s face softened. “Nice lady, Mrs. Craig. Her family’s been in Hambleden for yonks, and Edie does more for people here than most.” He nodded towards the center of the village. “Matter of fact, I think she’s at the church, helping with the preparations for a wedding on Saturday.”
    “Is that so? Maybe I’ll stop and pay my respects.” Kincaid gave an exaggerated glance at his watch. “Damn. Didn’t realize it was so late.” He drank a little more of his pint, then set the glass on the bar, still half full.
    During his brief visit to the Stag and Huntsman, he’d presented himself as a nitwit, a stalker, and now a man who couldn’t hold his beer.
    “Must dash,” he said, and made his less-than-dignified exit.
    K incaid left his car in the pub car park and walked through the village center. A chill wind eddied a drift of brown leaves along the street. He turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing he hadn’t left his overcoat in the Astra’s boot. The fine day was over.
    He’d remembered seeing a signpost for the church as he drove through the village earlier. Like the church in Henley, it was called St. Mary the Virgin, but when he reached it, he saw that it was much less grand. The long, low building seemed more suited to human comfort than divine glorification.
    As he reached the lych-gate, a woman stepped out into the church porch, then turned to lock the door behind her. In that moment, he’d seen her clearly in the porch light, and he stopped, surprised.
    He wondered what he’d expected. It had not been this tall, slender woman, her graying hair cut in a short, stylish bob. She wore a swinging woolen skirt that just brushed the tops of her knee-high leather boots, an anorak, and, round her neck, a long green scarf that fell to the hem of her skirt. The scarf was a cheerful color that made him think of new leaves and green apples.
    When she turned round again, the key in her hand, she saw him and stopped. “Can I help you?” she asked.
    There was no fear in her voice, just gentle inquiry.
    “Mrs. Craig?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
    He stepped forward into the light. “No. My name’s Duncan Kincaid. Detective superintendent, Scotland Yard.”
    She walked towards him until she met him under the gate. “If you’re looking for my husband, I think you’ll find him at home.” She was still gracious, and perhaps slightly curious.
    “No, actually, it’s you I wanted a word with,” he said with unexpected reluctance. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
    He saw the caution settle over her like a cloak, then she moved so that the shadow of the lych-gate fell across her face. “I’m sure this will suit well enough, Superintendent.”
    “Mrs. Craig—” Kincaid suddenly found himself at a loss. No subterfuge seemed appropriate with this woman. He would simply ask what he needed to ask. “Do you know where your husband was late on Monday afternoon, from around four o’clock on?”
    A second passed, then another. He heard the wind move in the trees, saw the light from the church porch catch the green of her scarf as she reached up to loop it round her throat. “He was at home,” she said, “with me. Then,