A finer end - Deborah Crombie [75]
“Of course. There should be someone at Jack’s, if you want to ring up later.”
Buddy nodded, and Gemma left him to his solitary grief.
As she continued her climb, she wondered what other lives had intersected with Garnet Todd’s. The woman had certainly inspired strong emotion in those close to her—surely not a bad epitaph?
The muscles in the backs of Gemma’s calves began to ache as the lane grew steeper. She was paralleling the northward rise of the Tor, moving closer to the ruined church on its summit. The climbers milling about the structure were clearly visible now, if disproportionately antlike.
At last she saw the landmark Nick had given her, the fork of Stonedown Lane to the left and, fifty yards beyond it, a solitary and dilapidated farmhouse. Much to her surprise, there were no police cars. Only a Volkswagen sedan stood before the closed farmyard gate.
As Gemma drew closer, she saw a man in the yard, and something in his movements struck her as furtive. He peered into the barn, then walked towards the back door of the house. A few feet from the stoop, he halted, as if unsure what to do next.
Reaching the gate, Gemma hailed him. “Hullo, there. Can I help you?”
The man spun round, and for an instant she had the impression he might bolt. But she stood between him and his car, and by the time she’d let herself through the gate and crossed the yard, he seemed to have thought better of it.
“I’m looking for Garnet Todd,” he replied, planting his feet firmly as if he had every right to be there. “I want to consult her about some tile work. This is the right place?” he added, smiling, and it occurred to Gemma that he was quite attractive.
“Yes, it’s the right place. But I’m afraid Miss Todd won’t be able to help you.”
“But I’ve heard she’s the best—”
“I’m sorry. I should have explained first off. Miss Todd won’t be helping anyone. She died sometime last night.”
“Died?” he echoed blankly. “But—Oh my God, but that’s dreadful! What was it, a sudden illness?”
“I don’t think so. The police are investigating.”
The man paled, and for an instant Gemma could have sworn she saw swift calculation in his eyes. Then his brows drew together in concern and he said, “I’m sorry. That’s even more horrible. Are you a relative of Miss Todd?”
“Not exactly,” Gemma equivocated. “Did you know her well?”
“Oh, no. I’d never actually met her.” The man glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to go. So sorry to have bothered you.” He flashed her an apologetic smile, then made his way swiftly across the yard and out the gate. Gemma watched him curiously, making a mental note of the car’s tag, until he had reversed and driven away.
How very odd, she thought, then turned her attention to the farmhouse. First, a look in the barn—obviously Garnet Todd’s workshop. The tools and materials were all neatly organized, and there was no sign of any struggle or disturbance.
She crossed the yard again and, using her handkerchief, eased open the back door to the house. A chorus of pitiful mewling greeted her. The daylight coming in through the filmed windows was sufficient to illuminate three furry, protesting shapes on the kitchen table. It seemed no one had fed Garnet’s cats.
Although not wanting to incur DI Greely’s ire by contaminating what might prove a crime scene, Gemma carefully searched the primitive kitchen until she found a tin canister filled with dried kibble. Garnet’s disdain for modern conveniences had apparently not extended to cat food. Gemma filled a stoneware bowl and put out fresh water as well. She watched with satisfaction while the cats ate, but after a moment she shivered as the room’s chill began to penetrate. The wood-burning stove had long since gone out, and the room had the dank smell of cold ashes.
She tried to imagine choosing to live as Garnet Todd had, and failed. How difficult must it have been for a suburban child like Faith, weaned on television and instant