No Mark Upon Her

small motor launch to the island. Kincaid had been happy to turn the boat driving over to Cullen, who had piloted with finesse, easing the little launch into the landing raft with nary a bump.
    Two uniformed arson investigators were moving methodically through the site, photographing, measuring, sampling, and Kincaid guessed that the launch tied up at the next-door neighbor’s larger dock belonged to them. The blue-and-white crime-scene tape that had been staked round the shed swayed slightly in the rising breeze.
    The photographer came out of the shed and walked across the postage stamp of lawn to meet them.
    Kincaid held up his warrant card. “Superintendent Kincaid, Sergeant Cullen. Scotland Yard.”
    “Owen Morris. Oxfordshire Fire Investigation.” Morris transferred the camera to his left hand and shook theirs. “Been expecting you.” He had gray-blond hair, bristle cut, and the ruddy complexion of a fair-skinned man who spent too much time in the sun.
    The smell of wet ash was strong, even in the cool air, and Kincaid thought that in yesterday’s muggy damp the odor would have been sickening.
    “This guy was damned lucky,” said Morris, nodding towards the shed, where his partner, a young redhead—who just for an instant reminded Kincaid of Gemma—went on taking samples and marking positions on a chart.
    Kincaid raised a brow in surprise. “It looks pretty devastating to me.”
    “Messy, yeah, but the structure is still intact. Wall joists, all but one beam, even most of the roof.” Morris shook his head. “Place was full of solvents. Good thing most of them were stored in a metal cabinet.”
    “Is that what started the fire?” Kincaid asked. “The solvents?”
    “No. Have a look.” Morris walked to the shed and they followed. He pointed through what had been a window, now a hole surrounded by a few bits of splintered frame. “It was a petrol bomb, all right. We found pieces of the bottle and of the rag wick. And you can see the cone of the blaze from the point of impact.”
    Peering into the shed, Kincaid could see nothing but soot, rubbish, and puddles of water. “I’ll take your word for it. So, if that’s the case, did it come through this window?”
    “I’d say definitely. Only one tin of solvent exploded, but that might have been what gave your owner the gash on the head.”
    Kincaid turned and surveyed the shore, gauging the distance. “An easy throw from a boat?”
    “For someone with a good arm,” agreed Morris. “Not to be sexist, but most likely a bloke.”
    Cullen walked back to the landing raft and gazed upstream and downstream. “We’ve been checking with boat hires, thinking maybe someone ‘borrowed’ a little skiff. Why not a rowing single? There’s no reason a sculler couldn’t have eased in, tossed the bottle, rowed away. Quiet, quick, nearly invisible.”
    Thinking it through, Kincaid said, “We’ve made the assumption that whoever killed Becca Meredith was a rower. So that would make sense. But where did he get the boat?”
    Doug shrugged. “There are three rowing clubs within easy distance for an experienced sculler. Or—” He gestured towards the single scull resting on trestles a few yards from the boatshed, streaked with soot but otherwise apparently not badly damaged. “I’d guess that was Connolly’s boat. Who knows how many other boats there are on private property up and down the river?”
    “There was a boat in the shed,” offered Morris. “It looks like Connolly was repairing it. Some burn damage, but not too bad. And that one”—he pointed towards a canvas-draped shape on the far side of the little lawn—“I’d call that one a bloody miracle. Not a cinder on it.”
    They walked across the grass and Doug lifted the tarp. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, staring. He pulled the tarp farther down, with the slow reverence a lover might have used in revealing a lovely, naked woman. When the boat was free, he stepped back and gave a low whistle.
    It was a racing single, but it was built of wood, not carbon fiber. The shell was complete and glistened with new varnish.
    It might be a smaller version of the Sydney Four suspended in the museum, Kincaid thought, but the wood gave the boat a sense of richness—it almost hummed with life. He reached out, ran a hand along the grain of the perfectly joined and sanded segments. The wood felt like satin and was warm beneath his palm.
    “Mahogany, at a guess,” said Morris. “I do some