Mourn not your Dead

driver back to London with your car. I’ve made arrangements to put you up at the local—you did come prepared to stay?” When they nodded, he continued. “Good. We’ll send someone to take you to the mortuary in the morning. And then—” He broke off as a plainclothes officer beckoned him from the mudroom door. With a sigh he pushed off from the wall. “Back in a tick.”
    “I’ll see to Williams,” said Gemma a little too quickly, and left Kincaid standing alone. For a few moments he watched the technicians and the photographer, then he edged around their work area until he reached the refrigerator. Opening it, he bent over and examined the contents. Milk, juice, eggs, butter, and, tucked haphazardly onto the bottom shelf, a package of fresh pasta and a plastic container of Alfredo sauce, bearing the Sainsbury deli’s seal. Neither container had been opened.
    “I found some bread and cheese. Made the ladies some sandwiches,” said a voice above his head.
    Kincaid stood and turned, and still found himself looking up at the rosy-cheeked visage of Police Constable Darling. “Ah, the minder,” he murmured, then at the constable’s blank look he added more loudly, “Very thoughtful of you...” He couldn’t quite bring himself to add the surname.
    “Add hunger to shock and exhaustion and they’d have been in a right state,” Darling said seriously, “and there didn’t seem to be anyone else to look after them.”
    “No, you’re quite right. Usually, helpful and nosy neighbors materialize out of the woodwork in this sort of situation. Relatives too, as often as not.”
    “Mrs. Gilbert said both her parents were dead,” volunteered Darling.
    “Did she now?” Kincaid studied the constable for a moment, then gestured towards the hall door. “Here, let’s have a word where it’s a bit quieter.” When they reached the relative calm of the passageway, he continued. “You sat with Mrs. Gilbert and her daughter for quite some time, didn’t you?”
    “Several hours, I’d say, in between the chief inspector’s comings and goings.”
    A lamp on the telephone table lit Darling’s face from below, revealing a few lines on his brow and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes. Perhaps he was not as young as Kincaid had first thought. “You seem to have taken this in your stride,” Kincaid said, his curiosity piqued by the man’s self-possession.
    “I grew up on a farm, sir. I’ve seen death often enough.” He regarded Kincaid for a moment, then blinked and sighed. “But there is something about this one. It’s not just Commander Gilbert being a senior officer and all. Or the mess, exactly.” Kincaid raised an eyebrow and Darling went on, hesitantly. “It’s just that it all seems so... inappropriate.” He shook his head. “Sounds stupid, I know.”
    “No, I know what you mean,” Kincaid answered. Not that appropriate was a word he’d be likely to apply to any murder, but something about this one struck a distinctly jarring note. Violence had no place in such an ordered and well-kept life. “Did Mrs. Gilbert and Lucy talk to each other while you were with them?” he asked.
    Darling settled his broad shoulders against the wall and focused on a point beyond Kincaid’s head for a moment before replying. “Now that you mention it, I can’t say that they did. Or only a word or two. But they both talked to me. I offered to ring someone for them, but Mrs. Gilbert said no, they’d be all right on their own. She did say something about having to tell the commander’s mother, but it seems she’s in a nursing home and Mrs. Gilbert thought it best to wait until tomorrow. Today, that is,” he added, glancing at his watch, and Kincaid heard the beginnings of fatigue in his voice.
    “I won’t keep you, Constable.” Kincaid smiled. “And I can’t speak for your guv’nor, but I’m about ready to salvage what little sleep I can from this night.”
     
    LATE AS THE HOUR WAS, A FEW LIGHTS STILL BURNED IN THE pub. Deveney rapped sharply on the glass pane of the door, and in a moment a shadowy form slid back the bolts.
    “Come in, come in,” the man said as he opened the door. “Take the chill off. I’m Brian Genovase, by the way,” he added, holding out a hand to Kincaid and Gemma in turn as they crowded in behind Deveney.
    The pub was surprisingly small. They had entered directly into the right-hand alcove, where a handful of tables surrounded a stone hearth. To their left the