A finer end - Deborah Crombie [77]
“Good news?” Kincaid asked.
“She’s awake. Winnie’s conscious! I’ve just rung the Archdeacon, and Fiona Allen.”
“That’s terrific, Jack.” Kincaid clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Did you see her?”
“I was there when she opened her eyes. She knew me right away.” Jack turned away and made rather a big fuss over filling the kettle and warming the teapot, and Kincaid suspected that he was fighting to keep his emotions under control.
“The bad news is that she doesn’t seem to remember anything past the evening before her accident. The nurses tell me she’ll probably regain the missing bits, but there’s no guarantee.”
“Did she say anything at all that might give us a clue as to what happened?”
“She seems to be worried about her brother. But that may be because her last clear recollection is Andrew’s abominable behavior at her dinner party.”
“How much longer will they keep her in the ICU?” Kincaid asked.
“As soon as they see she can handle liquids on her own, they’ll move her into a room.”
“At that point, you might want to make sure that someone you trust is with her at all times.”
Paling, Jack tended to the boiling kettle. He brought the tea things to the table and sat down heavily. “Somehow I’d managed to convince myself that we were over the worst.”
“It is wonderful news,” Gemma reassured him. “And cause for celebration. Let’s drink a toast.” She raised her cup.
“Wait.” Jack rose and fetched three glasses and a bottle of twelve-year-old Macallan. He splashed a bit in each glass and pushed theirs across the table. “We’ll do it properly. Here’s to Winnie.”
They all raised their glasses, and although he and Jack downed theirs, Kincaid noticed that Gemma took the merest sip. Lately she’d been ordering orange juice in the pub, and leaving her after-work glass of wine almost untouched. Was she slimming and had not bothered to tell him?
Now she sipped demurely at her tea, asking, “How’s Faith?”
“Still sleeping,” Jack told her. “Nick said she never stirred.”
“Have you checked on her?” Kincaid heard the unintended sharpness in his voice, and Jack gave him a puzzled look.
“Yes, before Nick left. Sleeping like a baby. Why?”
“Has it rained recently?”
Jack stared at him. “Yesterday morning. A brief shower, but heavy. Duncan, what on earth are you getting at?”
“Would you say Nick is trustworthy?”
“Of course I would! What is this about?”
“Nick’s been to the farmhouse in the last day, something he very carefully neglected to mention.”
“I’m sure he was looking for Faith last night,” Jack protested. “He said he’d searched everywhere for her. The farmhouse would have been the obvious place to start.”
“Then why not say so?”
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence as the implications sunk in, then Jack said, “Look. I’m sure it’s simply a matter of miscommunication. Nick’s a good kid, and he’d do anything for Faith—” Too late, he seemed to realize where that avenue was leading.
“We’ll have to tell Inspector Greely. You do see that.”
“Duncan, I can see the difficult position I’ve put you in by asking you to get involved in this. But I have obligations as well, and Nick is my friend. Talk to him first, before you turn it over to Greely. Surely that can’t hurt.”
Kincaid weighed this, then glanced at Gemma, who nodded. “Fair enough. Where can we find him?”
“When he left here he said he was going home. I know he lives in a caravan in Compton Dundon, but I’ve never been there. You could ask at the bookshop where he works. On Magdalene Street, just across from the Abbey gates. But first you’ll want to get settled in at the B and B.”
“It would be nice to unpack and freshen up. With all that’s happened, it seems as if we’ve been here for days rather than a few hours.” Gemma gathered up her bag and carried her cup to the sink. “Oh, by the way, there was a man snooping round Garnet’s house when I got there. He said he wanted some tile work done, but it didn’t quite ring true.”
“What did he look like?