CHAPTER SIX

“I’m too big for riding in laps.” Toby squirmed half off Gemma’s knee, but she hooked her arm round his middle and pulled him firmly back.

“You’ll just have to make the best of it, won’t you?” she said, taking the opportunity to nuzzle his silky hair, something it seemed she seldom managed these days. “And what about my poor knee, having to put up with such a big boy on it? Do you hear it complaining?” She bounced him and he giggled, relaxing against her.

“Knees don’t talk, Mummy,” Toby said with assurance.

“Mine do,” Rosemary chimed in from the front passenger seat. “Especially when I’ve spent all day in the garden.”

Hugh Kincaid’s old Vauxhall estate car could theoretically have held seven comfortably, but the third seat had been filled with cartons of books. Hugh had managed to shift them so that Kit could squeeze in the back, leaving Sam, Lally, Toby, and Gemma to jam into the center seat as best they could.

It had begun to snow again, and the car was cold in spite of the number of bodies. “We’ll soon get the heater going,” Hugh said cheerfully as he turned up the blower. The blast of frigid air made Gemma even colder and she hugged Toby to her until he wriggled like a hooked fish.

For Gemma, already disoriented by the unfamiliar terrain and her limited vision from the rear seat, the journey into town merged into a swarm of onrushing white flakes, punctuated by the yellow glare of the occasional sodium lamp and the wet gleam of black road. Ordinarily preferring to drive, she disliked the sensation of things being out of her control, and she felt a little queasy from the motion of the car.

Then, as they passed beneath a dark arch, Sam said, “Look. There’s the aqueduct. The canal goes over the road.”

“You mean the boats go overhead?” asked Kit, sounding intrigued.

“Can we see?” added Toby.

“Not tonight,” said Rosemary. “But maybe tomorrow, if the weather clears.”

There were houses now, crowding in on either side, and Sam continued his narration. “This is Welsh Row, where the Welsh would march in to kill the English. And not far from here were the brine works, where the Romans made salt. The ‘wich’ in Nantwich means salt, you know.”

“Who appointed you tour guide, Sam?” Lally said waspishly. “I’m sure they’re perfectly happy not knowing.” Lally and Kit had been talking as they left the house, and Gemma wondered if Lally was cross over having had to sit beside her brother rather than her new friend. At any rate, Gemma was glad to see Kit overcoming his shyness with his cousins.

Toby tilted his head back until he could whisper in Gemma’s ear. “Who are the Welsh, Mummy? Do they still kill the English?”

Gemma stifled a laugh. “The Welsh are perfectly nice people who live in Wales, lovey. And no, they don’t kill the English. You’re quite safe.” Wanting to encourage Sam, who had subsided into hurt silence, she peered out the window at the classical fronts of the buildings. “From what Duncan’s said, I thought Nantwich was Tudor, but these buildings look Georgian.”

“Most of Welsh Row is Georgian,” Hugh answered, and although Sam jiggled with impatience, he didn’t interrupt as his grandfather went on. “But the town center has an exceptional number of intact Tudor buildings. It was built all of a piece, after the fire of 1583, a good bit of it with monies contributed by Elizabeth the First, who wasn’t known for her generosity. It’s thought that she feared the Spanish would invade through Ireland, and Nantwich was the last important stop that provisioned the soldiers garrisoned at Chester.”

Gemma could easily see where Sam had got his interest in local history.

“There’s no access to the town square by car,” Hugh added as he stopped at a traffic light, “but I’d be glad to take you for a little tour after dinner, if you’d like. We can walk easily from Juliet’s, and of course we’ll be going to the church.”

“There may not be time before mass,” put in Rosemary, sounding a little anxious. The box of punch ingredients clinked as she adjusted it on her knees.

“Well, if it’s possible, I’d like that very much,” Gemma told Hugh. They were passing along a very ordinary shopping precinct now, and glimpsing a Boots and a Somerfield’s supermarket among the nondescript postwar shop fronts, she felt unexpectedly disappointed.

Hugh made a quick right turn, causing Rosemary to clutch her box a bit tighter, then another, and then he was pulling up in a quiet cul-de-sac. To one side, Gemma saw ordinary redbrick terraced houses, their porches sprinkled with colored fairy lights, their postage-stamp lawns and common green muffled with snow. On the other side of the street stood a high garden wall with a wrought-iron gate at one end, and it was towards this that Hugh led them like heavily padded ducklings when they had piled out of the car.

Although it was masked by evergreens, Gemma could see that the wall was built of a dark brick, as was the house that rose behind it. Near the gate, a narrow path overgrown with foliage led straight back from the cul-de-sac.

“The town center is only a five minutes’ walk that way,” Hugh said cheerfully, nodding at the path as he opened the gate, but Gemma could only think that she wouldn’t care to walk there alone. The atmosphere of the entire place struck her as secretive: the dark tunnel of the path, the house brooding like a fortress behind its high wall. Nor did the sight of the garden improve her first impression. Small and enclosed, it was planted entirely with shrubs sculpted in different shapes and sizes. No patch of lawn welcomed dogs—or children, for that matter.

But she could see that everything was immaculately maintained, and there were footprints leading to the door and welcoming lights in the windows. Sam charged ahead and flung open the front door, shouting, “Mum!”

It was Duncan, however, not Juliet, who came hurrying into the hall to meet them. “Jules is changing,” he explained, “and Caspar seems to have gone walkabout.”

“Did Mummy really find a body?” asked Sam, hopping from one foot to the other with impatience.

“Yes, I’m afraid she did,” Kincaid answered gravely. “I’ll let her tell you about it if she wants.”

“But what did it—”

Rosemary, still holding the punch box, forestalled her grandson. “Let’s get these things in the kitchen. Gemma, I’ll do the honors for Juliet. Take off your coats—there’s a cupboard just to your right.”

While Sam and Lally shoved their things into the cupboard willy-nilly, followed a little more carefully by Kit and Toby, Gemma took the opportunity to look about her. The sitting room to her right had forest-green walls and pristine white sofas, while the magnificent Christmas tree in one corner was decorated with white silk roses and shimmering crystal drops. The dining room on the left was just as elegant, but done in deep reds, and the long mahogany table was already set with china and crystal, as if awaiting a feast for ghosts. The rooms had none of the slightly shabby comfort of the Kincaids’ house, and none of the effortless style. It made Gemma think of a stage set, and she could see why Juliet was happy to spend her days mucking about on a building site.

When their coats were stowed—and Gemma realized that here nothing would ever be tossed casually over the back of a chair—Hugh took the box from his wife, saying, “Just tell me where you want this.”

“In the kitchen, of course,” she snapped, but Gemma had the feeling that her sharpness was not really directed at her husband. She seemed ill at ease, and Gemma suspected it had to do with her son-in-law’s absence.

“Come see our rooms,” Sam demanded of Kit and Toby, and as the children trooped obediently after him up the wide staircase, Gemma found herself momentarily alone with Duncan. He seemed to slump a little, as if glad of a respite.

“Are you all right?” he asked, touching her cheek. “Is Kit? I’m sorry it took longer than I expected.”

“What was—” she began, but he interrupted her.

“A baby. But it had been there a long time, probably years. Jules is a bit upset.” He didn’t quite meet her eyes, and his face wore the careful expression she had come to recognize.

God, how she wished he would stop treating her as if she were made of glass, and would shatter at the mere mention of an infant. She was about to protest when she heard a rustling on the stairs. Looking up, she saw a dark-haired woman coming down, dressed in just the sort of red velvet dress Gemma had imagined appropriate for the evening. While Gemma would have recognized her from the few family photos Duncan had shown her, she had not envisioned Juliet Newcombe’s delicacy, nor the haunted look about her eyes.

“You must be Gemma,” said Juliet as she reached them. She took both Gemma’s hands in her own, and although her smile seemed to take an effort, her voice held genuine warmth. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

At that moment, Gemma realized that she had been prepared to dislike Juliet, and felt a rising blush of shame. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a difficult night,” she told her, giving Juliet’s small, cold hands a squeeze before letting them go.

“Not the best of circumstances,” Juliet agreed. “But still, I’m glad you’re here, both of you.” She turned to Kincaid. “The children—I thought I heard—”

“Upstairs. Sam’s acting the tour guide,” answered Duncan.

“And Caspar—Has he—”

Duncan shook his head. “Not here yet. You should have rung him, Jules. Maybe he’s out looking for you.”

“I doubt that,” she answered, and this time her smile was as brittle as ice.

“Look,” Duncan said into the awkward silence that followed this conversation stopper, “Mum and Dad are in the kitchen making the famous punch. Can we help with any—”

The front door opened and Juliet froze as a man stepped into the hall, her hand raised to her breast in an unconsciously defensive gesture. “Caspar.”

Tall and thin, dark haired like his wife, Caspar Newcombe was fastidiously dressed and wore expensive-looking rimless glasses. His rather patrician good looks were marred, however, by the peevish set of his mouth and the cold glare he directed at his wife. He neither greeted nor acknowledged Gemma and Duncan. It was only when he took a step forward and listed dangerously to one side that Gemma realized he was drunk. He put a hand to the wall and propped himself up with deliberate nonchalance.

Juliet returned the glare and took the offensive. “Where have you been?”

“The Bowling Green.” Caspar made no effort to keep his voice down. “Having a bit of Christmas cheer, which I’m not likely to get at home, am I, my dear wife? I could ask you the same, but at least I know you’ve not been dispensing your favors to my partner, because he was in the office with me. But maybe you’ve been having a bit of rough-and-tumble with one of your lads? Or is the correct term ‘coworker’ these days?” He smirked at his own cleverness.

“You bastard,” Juliet said quietly. “Did Piers just happen to suggest that to you, too, over a confidential drink? Or did you think of it yourself?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma glimpsed a movement at the top of the stairs. Looking up, she saw the treaded bottom of a trainer and a ragged denim cuff disappear round the landing. Lally. She’d noticed earlier that the bottoms of Lally’s jeans were fashionably shredded. She reached out to Juliet in warning, but Juliet was speaking again, her attention so focused on her husband that the house could have come down round their ears before she noticed.

“You’re a gullible fool, Caspar,” said Juliet, her voice rising now. “But whatever you think I am, and whatever you think I’ve done, I’m not a liar and an embezzler.”

At least he was warm, thought Ronnie Babcock as he stood in the Fosters’ sitting room, although he suspected that soon his damp clothes would start to visibly steam. Tom and Donna Foster had invited him in, albeit grudgingly, but had not taken his coat, or given him a seat. Nor had they offered that most obvious of courtesies on such a miserable night—a drink. Maybe they’d simply thought he’d refuse on principle, but that was a charitable interpretation.

He guessed the couple to be in their mid-to late fifties, townies who had embraced the country life and brought their slice of heaven along with them, transforming the interior of what must once have been a charming traditional farmhouse into a replica of the most banal suburban semidetached.

The electric two-bar heater that had been pulled in front of the empty brick hearth radiated waves of a harsh, dry heat that had at least defrosted Babcock’s extremities, even though half blocked by Foster’s considerable bulk. The wife was thin, with a tightly drawn face and hair lacquered a very unnatural shade of red. The sparkling sequined reindeer on her jumper was by far the most cheerful—not to mention the most tasteful—thing in the room. She’d perched on the edge of the sofa, part of a hideous three-piece suite done in peach plush, and kept glancing at the large television hulking in one corner of the room, its sound muted, as if she couldn’t bear to tear herself away.

Tired of standing around waiting for frostbite to set in while he watched the techies do their jobs, Babcock had decided to call on the previous owners of the barn. He’d gone on his own, intending to give his subordinates the rest of their evening off before the investigation swung into full gear tomorrow, but he’d begun to wish he had brought along a friendly face.

“I’d very much like to know what’s going on, Inspector,” demanded Tom Foster, as if he had summoned Babcock for an interview. “You lot have been up and down our lane all night, making a muck of things. We’ll be lucky to get our car out in the morning.” His accent was broad Mancunian. Babcock didn’t know about the wife’s, as she hadn’t spoken, even though her husband had included her in his perfunctory introductions.

“It’s Chief Inspector,” Babcock said mildly, but he didn’t apologize for the inconvenience. “Mr. Foster, I understand that, until recently, you owned the old barn down by the canal.”

“That’s right,” agreed Foster, his bald head gleaming in the glare of the ceiling light. “Bought the property as an investment five years ago, didn’t we?” If he’d hoped for confirmation from his wife, he was disappointed, as her eyes had swiveled back to the girls in skimpy Santa outfits parading across the telly screen.

“Figured we couldn’t lose, with the property market going up, and we didn’t, oh no.” Foster allowed himself a satisfied smirk. “Made as much on the sale of the barn and surrounding pasture as we spent on the whole place, including this house. Of course, the house was in a terrible state, and the owners left it full of moldy old bits. Had to call the junkman to haul them off.

“We’ve done the house up proper since. All the mod cons.” Foster looked round with the pride of a monarch surveying his kingdom.

Babcock realized he was beginning to grind his teeth, and that he was sweating inside his overcoat. He made a conscious effort to relax his jaw and unfastened the top button of his coat. “Mr. Foster, has the barn been in use since you bought the property?”

“What’s all this about the barn, Inspector?” Foster’s temporary joviality vanished. “Have those kids been getting into things? I won’t have them crossing my property—I’ve told them often enough—and if they’ve been trespassing down the building site, the Bonners have a right to know.”

“It’s not kids, Mr. Foster. The builder, Mrs. Newcombe, made a discovery. Someone mortared a baby into the barn wall.”

In the shocked silence that followed Babcock’s announcement, he heard a faint squeak, like the mew of a distressed kitten. He’d succeeded in removing Mrs. Foster’s attention from the television.

“What? What did you say?” Foster shook his head as if he had water in his ears.

“A baby,” whispered Mrs. Foster. “He said they found a baby. How horrible.”

Babcock relented a fraction. “It’s been there a good while, Mrs. Foster. Perhaps years.” On second thought, he wasn’t sure why the passage of time made the child’s fate any less terrible, but Mrs. Foster nodded, as if he’d said something profoundly comforting. Neither husband nor wife expressed any concern for Juliet Newcombe’s ordeal.

“Before our time, then.” Foster seemed to find some personal satisfaction in that.

“We won’t know for sure until the experts have examined the child’s remains,” said Babcock smoothly. He wasn’t about to reveal to the Fosters that the experts’ opinions might not give him a well-defined time frame, nor did he intend them to know how handicapped he was by the lack of that knowledge. “That’s why I need to know if there’s been any activity in the barn in the time you’ve owned it.”

“Never go down there, myself,” said Foster. “But we see if anyone goes up and down the lane. And we’d see lights if there was any funny business at night.”

Babcock had surveyed the prospect from their front garden himself, and felt quite sure that the bend in the lane would block any view of lights in the barn. “So you’re saying you haven’t seen anything?”

The struggle between the desire for importance and the wisdom of noninvolvement was clearly visible in Foster’s face. Caution won out. “No. No, I can’t say as we have.”

“When exactly did you sell the property to the Bonners?”

Foster screwed up his already round face in concentration, so that he looked like an overripe plum about to burst. “Must be just on a year, now. After Christmas. Old hulk of a place—we thought sure the Bonners would raze it and build new. And why on earth would they hire an inexperienced girl as a contractor? We said as much, but they paid no heed. Taken leave of their senses, if you ask me.”

Juliet Newcombe must be in her late thirties, Babcock calculated, and he doubted very much that she would think being referred to as a “girl” a compliment. “Why did they choose Mrs. Newcombe against your advice?” he asked.

“Referred by his high muckety-muck up the lane,” said Foster, jerking his head towards the Barbridge road. “Dutton. Piers Dutton. Though if you ask me, he’d like you to call him Lord Dutton.”

“We’ve asked him for drinks a half dozen times. He always has some sort of excuse,” added Mrs. Foster. Babcock felt a twinge of sympathy for the neighbor, stalked by the social-climbing Fosters, who had undoubtedly been angling for a return invitation and a look at the Victorian manor house.

Piers Dutton…an unusual name, he thought. Then a gear meshed in his brain and he realized where he had heard it. Piers Dutton was Caspar Newcombe’s partner. Perhaps Dutton had felt more sociable towards the Bonners, and it was only natural that he should recommend his partner’s wife to his new neighbors—although considering that his relationship with the Bonners would be ongoing, he must have had confidence in Juliet’s ability to do the job.

“And the people who owned the property before you? The Smiths, wasn’t it? If you could give me a contact address for them—”

“But we haven’t heard from them in years,” said Mrs. Foster. “Have we, Tom?” Babcock pegged her as one of those women who wouldn’t like to say the sun was shining without confirmation from her husband. When Foster nodded in agreement, she went on. “You see, we came along just as they’d put the place on the market. They’d expected to take their time looking for something else, but as it was, they went into rented accommodation—a flat here in Nantwich, I remember. We sent them a Christmas card that first year, but we never heard from them after.”

“Have you any idea where they meant to go?” asked Babcock. It seemed the simplest things always turned out to be the most difficult.

“I know they had a grown daughter in Shropshire, but they hadn’t decided what they wanted to do. Only that they’d had their fill of farming, and they’d made enough on the sale of the property to give them a quiet retirement.”

“If you have the address of the rented flat, perhaps they left forwarding instructions.”

Mrs. Foster looked stricken. “But I’d not have saved it, not when we didn’t hear from them the next Christmas.”

“Of course not.” Babcock had the disheartening vision of names of unresponsive recipients crossed off the Christmas card list, year after year. “What about the estate agent who handled the sale?”

“Craddock and Burbage, on the High Street,” said Tom.

Babcock made a note in his notebook, although he doubted he’d forget. Jim Craddock, like Kincaid, was an old schoolmate—one who, unlike Kincaid, had stayed in Nantwich and taken on the family business.

He’d have to hope the Smiths had left forwarding information with the estate agent, or that they’d remained on friendlier terms with some of their other neighbors. And that was assuming, of course, that they were both still living. “They were an older couple, then, I take it?” he asked. “No children left at home?”

“I only heard of the one daughter. But they did say something about being nearer the grandchildren,” answered Mrs. Foster. Then she gaped as the realization struck her. “You surely don’t think the Smiths had anything to do with the child you found? But that’s—that’s—”

“We have to examine all the possibilities.” Babcock thought it likely he could rule out the Fosters themselves. Still, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to put the wind up these two, if only for the momentary satisfaction of wiping the smug expression off Tom Foster’s face. “And you, Mr. and Mrs. Foster?” he said. “Do you have any children?”

The snow had stopped but for the occasional flake drifting erratically through the air, like a sheep straying from its flock. Hugh Kincaid led Gemma through the shrouded garden, his jacket brushing miniature flurries from the shrubs as he passed. When they reached the street, he paused and gazed up at the star sparkling clearly in the eastern sky.

“I think that’s it for tonight,” he said. “The storm seems to have blown itself out—just in time, too. I hate to think of the roads blocked on Christmas.”

Gemma took a deep breath, shaking off the atmosphere of the house, and the frigid air rushing into her nasal passages seemed to sear straight into her brain—a result, she suspected, of drinking too much of Rosemary’s lethal punch. Making an effort not to wobble on her feet, she glanced back towards the house and said hesitantly, “Are you sure we should go? I feel we should be helping tidy—”

“Not to worry. I promised you a tour of the town, and it’s the least I can do to make up for the first impression you must have of us,” answered Hugh, sounding pained. The subject of Juliet and Caspar’s behavior, and the fiasco that had been dinner, hung awkwardly in the silence that followed his comment.

Gemma hated to embarrass him further by agreeing, yet to pretend the evening had gone smoothly would be akin to ignoring an accident in the middle of the road—and a bloody accident, at that. “It must be difficult,” she ventured after a moment. “For you. And for the children.”

Earlier, Rosemary had put a stop to the shouting match in the hall, coming in from the kitchen with the fury of the Valkyries blazing in her face. “Whatever this is about, you will stop it this moment, and behave in a civilized manner,” she commanded. “The children will hear you, and you have guests, in case you’d forgotten.”

Juliet flushed as scarlet as her dress and looked round, belatedly, towards the top of the stairs. Caspar glared at his mother-in-law, as if he might rebel, but after a charged moment, he stomped off to his study and slammed the door.

“Thank you for reminding me, Mother,” Juliet had said stiffly, but without apparent sarcasm, and she then led the way back into the kitchen. There she’d organized the food and passed it to Duncan to carry to the table, all without speaking an unnecessary word. With her head up and her back held ramrod straight, she’d seemed almost to vibrate with repressed tension and anger.

Gemma had found herself wanting to offer a touch or a word of comfort, but had no idea how she might approach this woman she barely knew—or whether her sympathy would be welcome.

When the meal was ready, Rosemary had called the children, while Hugh had tactfully volunteered to fetch Caspar. Caspar had not appeared until everyone else was seated, then had taken his place at the head of the table with all the grace of a petulant child. He toyed with his food and downed liberal glasses of punch, the combined actions being unlikely, in Gemma’s opinion, to improve the situation.

The dinner—cold ham, a stuffed, sliced breast of turkey, and beautifully composed salads—had been delicious, but might have been sawdust for all the enthusiasm displayed by those gathered round the table. Even the children had seemed subdued, and Gemma wondered if Lally had shared what she’d overheard.

Duncan and his parents had made a valiant attempt to carry the conversation, but when every effort to include Caspar and Juliet had fallen flat, Hugh resorted to telling them in great and excruciating detail about his acquisition of the rare Dickens Christmas story.

As soon as the meal could decently be declared over, Caspar had retreated to his lair again, and Lally had asked if she and Kit could go early to church to save seats for the rest of the party. Juliet had agreed, and Sam, rather to Gemma’s surprise, had seemed quite happy to stay behind with Toby. Duncan had offered to help his mother and sister with the washing up and had rolled up his sleeves with aplomb.

Now Hugh hooked his gloved hand through Gemma’s arm and steered her, not towards the car, but towards the dark path that led away from the gate.

Gemma yielded reluctantly to the pressure. “Is this—um, are you sure it’s safe?” she asked.

“Safe?” Hugh glanced down at her in surprise. “Well, we might get a bit of the white stuff down our necks, but I doubt we’ll be mugged, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He smiled. “This is Nantwich, not London, and North Crofts is a very respectable avenue.”

“Avenue?” Gemma repeated curiously, now that she had a chance to look about her. What she saw resembled nothing she would call an avenue. The little lane, accessible only to pedestrians, was fenced on the right, and on the left had houses set back behind long, narrow walled gardens. A light showed here and there in a window; otherwise the lane seemed as deserted as the moon. “Difficult to get the shopping in, I should think,” she said, and even her voice seemed muffled by the snow and silence.

Hugh chuckled. “Spoken like a true Londoner. But there’s an alleyway behind the houses that serves both North and South Crofts. The houses on South Crofts have some lovely Victorian decorations—stained glass, mosaic tiles.”

Soon the lane curved to the left—the bottom of the horseshoe formed by the two streets, Hugh explained—and they passed the alleyway he had mentioned. Hugh steered her gently again, this time towards the dark mouth of a tunnel formed by overarching greenery. The snow was lighter, but footprints were still visible in the dusting of powder.

“Public footpath,” he explained. “It connects the Crofts with the center of town. The children will have come this way before us.”

Gemma ducked and pulled up her collar as a clump of snow fell from one of the overhanging branches. “I thought public footpaths crossed farmers’ fields.”

“This one probably did, at one time. Now, however,” he added as they emerged from the tunnel, “it brings us to Monk’s Lane. There are very fine Georgian buildings here.” Gemma looked where Hugh pointed, but again her view was blocked by a wall. Walls, tunnels, secrets, and enveloping deathly quiet—Gemma wasn’t sure she liked this place at all.

“Caspar’s office is just there,” Hugh said as they reached the end of the row, his tone indicating that Caspar didn’t deserve to have an office in a hovel, much less a fine Georgian building. “And off to the left is the Bowling Green pub, where Caspar stopped off on his way home.”

“Does he make a habit of it?” asked Gemma.

“I don’t know. I’m not usually privy to Caspar’s habits. Although we work such a short distance apart, I seldom see him except for family occasions.” He paused, then said more slowly, “I hadn’t realized how bad things had got. Juliet doesn’t talk to us about it—or at least not to me.”

Gemma recalled that she’d said nothing to her parents about the problems she and Rob were having until she’d filed for divorce—she’d been too humiliated to admit to her parents that her marriage was a failure. She considered sharing this with Hugh, but doubted he would find it comforting.

Hugh stopped, hands in his pockets, staring up at the dark mass of the church now rising like a fortress above them. Even in the dim light Gemma could see that his face looked drawn. “I should have stopped it tonight. She’s my daughter, for God’s sake. He practically called her a whore.”

“You couldn’t have known what he was going to say.”

“No. But I could have waded in afterwards, not left it to Rosemary,” argued Hugh. “Rosemary doesn’t have to think out what to do, she just goes ahead and does it.”

Gemma knew from personal experience that acting before you thought could have regrettable consequences, and, emulating Duncan, had tried to learn to rein in her more impulsive tendencies. Odd that his father disliked in himself one of the qualities she’d admired in his son.

“Duncan and I stood by, too,” she said. “Sometimes domestic situations blow out of control more quickly than anyone expects.”

“Of course, you’re right,” said Hugh, but Gemma sensed he was merely agreeing out of politeness. “Poor Gemma,” he added, touching her elbow again to draw her on. “Here I said I meant to make up for our bad impression, and I’ve gone and aired the family’s dirty laundry. Must be Rosemary’s famous punch. Either that or you have a talent for eliciting confidences.”

“A bit of both, I expect,” Gemma said with a smile. He might have had too much punch, but his footsteps were steadier than hers, and he was very perceptive.

They passed the church, then a snow-covered expanse Gemma assumed must be the green. Their street intersected another at the green’s end, and there Gemma stopped, her mouth open in an “O” of surprise and delight. This was what Duncan had described, what she had imagined. The buildings ran together higgledy-piggledy, black-and-white timbering against Cheshire redbrick, gingerbread gables, and leaded windows winking like friendly eyes.

This was the High, she saw from a signpost, but she would have known instinctively that she stood in the very heart of the town. The shops were ordinary—a WH Smith, a Holland & Barrett, a newsagent’s—but they had been tucked into the lower floors of the original Tudor houses, and so were transformed into something quite magical.

The movement of the buildings over the centuries had caused the black-and-white timbering to shift a little, giving the patterns a tilted, slightly rakish air. Snow iced the rooftops, Christmas lights twinkled, bundled pedestrians hurried through the streets, and from somewhere came the faint strains of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” Gemma laughed aloud. “It’s perfect. Absolutely. The best sort of Christmas-card perfect.”

“It is rather lovely,” agreed Hugh, the pride in his voice reflecting her delight. “That’s the Crown Hotel.” He pointed to a particularly fine example of half-timbering. “Built in 1585, after the Great Fire. It’s famous for its continuous upper-story windows. And down this way is Pillory Street, and the bookshop.” He urged her on, and a few moments later she peered into the window of a less remarkable shop front. The windows, however, were dimly lit, and Gemma caught a glimpse of aisles of books, invitingly arranged.

“You do like books?” Hugh asked suddenly.

“I do,” answered Gemma, laughing. “But I didn’t grow up with them, so I haven’t read all that much. Not like Duncan. And with my job, and the children…”

“I was afraid I might have bored you, at dinner.”

“Not at all. Will you keep it? The Dickens?”

“It’s tempting,” Hugh admitted with a sigh. “But it’s valuable, and it’s finds like this that pay the bills. Besides, it’s the discovery as much as anything—the thrill of it.”

Gemma thought of the moment of illumination when the parts of a case came together, and imagined that the instant when you realized the book you held in your hands was something special must be the same. “I can understand that.”

Hugh gave her a searching glance. “Yes, I think you can. Duncan and Juliet take books for granted, you know. They’ve lived with them all their lives.

“But my family were shopkeepers in a small Scottish town—they had the newsagent’s—and other than the papers, the most challenging things I saw in print were comics and a few pulp novels. I was good at my schoolwork, however, and won a place at a grammar school. My English teacher encouraged me, and I’ve never forgotten how I felt when I discovered there were more worlds at my fingertips than I had ever imagined, more worlds than I could ever explore…” He stopped, looking abashed. “Oh, dear. I’m pontificating. A very bad habit, when I’ve so willing a listener. And I’m going to make us late,” he added, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost eleven. We’d better go back. I’ll show you the shop tomorrow, if time permits, or the next day.”

They were quiet as they walked back down to the High, but now Gemma felt comfortable with the silence. She’d found unexpected common ground with Hugh Kincaid.

There were more people in the square now, gathering, she guessed, for the midnight service at St. Mary’s. Hugh had started to lead her across the High when Gemma saw a flare of light from the corner of her eye. It had come from the direction of the Crown Hotel, a match or a lighter, perhaps, she thought as she looked back. Two figures—no, three—were silhouetted briefly in an archway beside the hotel’s front door. Teenagers, Gemma felt sure, from their slenderness, and a certain slouchy cockiness in their postures. There had been a hint of furtiveness as well, she thought as they disappeared into the darkness of what she now realized must be the old carriage entrance. Or was that just her, bringing the job with her?

She shrugged and turned away—it was none of her business what kids got up to here—then stopped and looked back once more. The girl—yes, she was sure one of the three had been a girl—had been dark haired, and the boy she’d seen most clearly, blond. Lally and Kit? But they were in church, she reminded herself, and the boy had been too tall, too thin. Nor would Kit have been smoking—he hated it with a passion. She was letting her imagination run away with her.

“Gemma?” Hugh’s voice came warmly beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She took the arm he offered and smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”

The smell of old incense, woodworm, and damp stone hit Kincaid like a sensory bomb as he followed his family into the porch of St. Mary’s. It happened when he entered any church, the scent-triggered barrage of memories, but it was most intense at St. Mary’s.

He had grown up in this place—the cathedral of South Cheshire, it was often called. Although in truth it was only a town church, it was one of the finest in England, built on the scale of a cathedral by masons who had worked on York Minster, then later completed by men who had built the cathedrals at Gloucester and Lichfield.

It was a cavernous church, but to him it seemed intimate, comforting even. If he closed his eyes, his feet could find the worn places in the stones unaided, his fingertips the nicks and gouges made by bored children in the backs of the pews. Here he had been baptized and confirmed.

His father, who had rebelled early against his Scots Presbyterian upbringing and declared himself an “intellectual agnostic”—or had it been “agnostic intellectual”?—had protested, but his mother insisted that the human animal had a need for structure, for ritual and discipline, for the ties with the community that the church provided, and for a sense of something larger than itself. His mother had won, as she usually did, but it was the sort of argument that had often echoed through house and bookshop in his childhood.

The porch, crowded with congregants jostling to break through the bottleneck into the nave, smelled of sweat and wet wool. Before him, Kincaid could see his parents, then the top of Juliet’s dark head. He knew that Sam, although momentarily invisible, was clinging to his mother’s hand. Rather to Kincaid’s surprise, Caspar had joined them on their walk to church, but he seemed to have disappeared in the shuffle through the porch doors.

Kincaid’s fingertips rested on Gemma’s shoulder as insurance against separation, and Toby, his view limited to waistbands and coattails, butted against his leg like a frustrated calf.

“Where’s Kit?” Toby asked, picking at Kincaid’s trousers, his voice rising perilously close to a whine. “I want to see Kit.”

It was long past the five-year-old’s bedtime, and Kincaid suspected they’d be lucky to get through the service without a meltdown. Bending over, he hefted the boy to his hip, a harder task than it been only a few months ago. “We’ll look together,” he suggested, “and if you find him first, I’ll give you a pound to put in the collection box. Deal?”

“Deal,” agreed Toby, looking much happier now.

At that moment, the organist launched into a Bach prelude and the sound rolled over them like a thunderclap, vibrating teeth and bones. Kincaid felt an unexpected lurch of joy, and tightened his grip on Gemma’s shoulder. She looked back at him in surprise, and he saw his delight mirrored in her face.

“The organist was always good,” he said, with proprietary pride, but she was gazing upwards, transfixed.

“The windows are wonderful. But look at that one”—she pointed—“it’s modern, isn’t it?”

Kincaid’s gaze followed her finger. “Ah. That’s the Bourne window. It’s my favorite, although it was installed just about the time I left home for London. It’s a memorial to a local farmer named Albert Bourne. It depicts God’s creations.” He pointed in turn. “See, at the very top of the arch, God’s hand? And below that, the swirl of the cosmos, then the birds of the heavens and the creatures of the sea, then the world’s wildlife.” His hand had traveled two-thirds of the way down the window. “But here’s the surprise. Here the designer moves from the general to the particular. Those are the rolling hills of Cheshire. And the house, there in the center, that’s Cheshire brick. Then the animals of farm and field and thicket, and there, on the right, the very best bit.”

Gemma searched for a moment, then gave a laugh of pleasure as she saw what he meant. “It’s a man, walking his spaniel through the field.”

“Bourne himself. No man could ask for a more fitting memorial—or woman, either,” he corrected quickly, as she turned on him a look of reproach. “Although I suspect the dog is a springer, not a cocker like Geordie.”

“There’s Kit!” called Toby, who from his elevated height had been peering through the crowd shuffling in front of them. “And Lally.”

The teenagers were not near the front, as Kincaid had expected, but halfway down the nave on the outer aisle. There was a gap of several feet between, and when Kincaid neared the spot, he saw that they had filled it with coats, hats, and gloves.

“It’s the best we could do,” Lally said to her mother as their group reached the pew. “The church filled early. And people are giving us dirty looks.”

“Never mind,” Juliet told her. “We’re here now. We’ll squeeze in as best we can.”

“Where’s Dad?” Lally asked, as Kit stood aside to make room for them.

“Oh. He’s here somewhere,” Juliet said, as casually as if she had mislaid a handbag, but Kincaid thought no one was fooled, particularly Lally.

“I want to sit with him.”

“Well, you’ll have to make do with me for the moment,” snapped Juliet, her attempt at calm normality slipping. “You’re not to wander off looking for him. The service is about to start.”

Any further argument was quelled as the organ stopped and a hush fell on the congregation. As the family jammed into a space meant for half as many people, Kincaid with an arm round Gemma’s shoulders and Toby half in his lap, the processional began.

Kincaid slipped easily into the familiar rhythm of lessons and carols. He was home, and nothing had changed—or at least the things that had changed were for the better. He had his own family here now, Gemma and the boys, and he felt that at last all the pieces of his life had come together.

As if to punctuate his thoughts, the choir launched into “O Holy Night,” one of his favorite carols, and the congregation followed suit. Behind him, a clear alto voice rose. The voice was untrained, but powerful and true, with a bell-like quality that sent a shiver down his spine.

His curiosity overcoming his good manners, he turned round until he could see the woman singing. She was tall, with short blond hair going gray. Lines of care were etched into a strong, thin face he suspected was not much older than his own, and she seemed unconnected to the family groups around her.

As she became aware of his gaze, the woman’s voice faltered, then faded altogether as she stared back at him.

Embarrassed by the alarm in her eyes, Kincaid nodded and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned round and joined in the carol. After a moment, she began to sing again, hesitantly at first, then more strongly, as if caught up in the music. Through the remainder of the service, he listened for her, but dared not risk another glance. He felt as if he’d stumbled across a shy animal that mustn’t be spooked.

Only one thing marred his pleasure in the mass. The last of the carols was “Away in a Manger,” a piece he had always disliked. He thought the lyrics saccharine, the tune impossible, and tonight it conjured up an image he’d tried to suppress. He glanced at Juliet and saw her standing tight-lipped, her face strained, her hands gripping the top of the forward pew. So she had thought of the child in the manger as well, this one no cause for celebration.

Then the recessional began and they filed slowly out after the choir, joining the queue of those waiting to pay their respects to the priest. Kincaid spotted Caspar Newcombe standing to one side, shaking hands and chatting with passersby, ignoring his wife and family as if they didn’t exist. Beside him stood a large, handsome man whose well-cut clothes didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was running to heaviness. His good looks and wavy fair hair made Kincaid think of a matinee idol, from the days when film stars had looked like men, not androgynous boys. He, too, was meeting and greeting, but not alone. Beside him stood a tall boy with the stamp of the older man’s features beneath his bored expression, and fair hair that might wave if not cut stylishly short.

“Who’s the bloke with Caspar?” he whispered to his mother, who stood nearest him in the queue.

Rosemary looked at him in surprise. “That’s Piers Dutton. Caspar’s partner. I didn’t realize you’d never met him. And that’s his son, Leo. He and Lally are in the same class.”

So this was the partner with whom Caspar had taunted Juliet during their row. At first sight, Kincaid couldn’t imagine a man less likely to appeal to his sister—but then he’d not have wagered on Caspar, either.

“Caspar and Piers never miss a chance to oil their connections,” said his mother, the softness of her voice not disguising the bite. “The churchwardens are good clients.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise—”

Kincaid looked round as he felt a bump against his shoulder, followed by a murmured apology. A woman had nudged past him, slipping out of the queue and making her way towards the porch doors. Although she moved with her head ducked, avoiding eye contact with those she passed, he recognized the slightly untidy short hair, the slender body whose movement hinted at unexpected fitness.

It was the woman who had sung so beautifully, leaving as she had come, alone.