“No. I can manage. Thanks.” She swept the spilled coffee into the filter and put together the small drip pot. “There. Won’t be a sec now.” Hannah’s gaze drifted across Kincaid’s face and away, not meeting his eyes. The coffee pot had not quite finished dripping when she yanked the filter out and splashed coffee into a cup.
“Come on. Let’s go sit down.” He placed a hand between her shoulders and guided her into the sitting room, wondering all the while how he could ease into what he wanted to say. Sitting down didn’t seem to calm Hannah-she sat hunched on the sofa’s edge and her hands trembled as she lifted her cup.
“Cold?” Kincaid asked.
“Me or the coffee?”
“Weak. Your humor, not the coffee.” Kincaid smiled and she seemed to relax a bit. “Hannah,” he said slowly, “has Patrick Rennie ever said anything to you about Cassie Whitlake?”
“No,” she answered, puzzled, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time, “why should he? I mean,” her response grew more forceful, “why should he speak to me about Cassie, and why should he know anything to speak of? You don’t think that Cassie… had anything to do with…”
“I think that Patrick might know quite a bit about what Cassie has or hasn’t had anything to do with-might know, in fact, far more about Cassie Whitlake than he’d like anyone to guess, especially his wife.”
“Patrick… and Cassie?” The patches of rouge on Hannah’s cheekbones flared scarlet against the sudden chalkiness of her skin.
“Oh, I think so.” Kincaid spoke conversationally, sipping his coffee. “You see, Cassie’s been having an affair with Graham Frazer for some time, but I gather there’s been a change recently. A new lover, someone with real prospects, a rising star. And Cassie has become desperately anxious that no one find out she’s still seeing Graham.”
He paused, gauging Hannah’s reaction. She sat very still, the coffee cup sagging, forgotten, in her fingers. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s tried to end it with Graham, and he’s being stubborn about it. He strikes me as the stubborn type.
“Now,” Kincaid continued, “give the situation a half-degree twist and look at it again. Cassie doesn’t want Patrick to find out about Graham, right? End of romance, end of prospects, real or imagined. But what about Patrick? What would it mean to Patrick if anyone, especially his wife, found out about Cassie? Marital squabble? Messy divorce? Scandal in the gutter press?”
He tilted his head questioningly, as if Hannah had expressed some skepticism. “Old-fashioned, you think? Not scandal enough to ruin a budding political career? Maybe not. But consider this-Marta Rennie’s parents are very politically active in the constituency where Patrick is standing his by-election. In fact, they’re Patrick’s biggest financial supporters. I’d say it’s not the best time for them to find out he’s been cheating on their darling daughter. Wouldn’t you?”
“No.” The word was barely a whisper. Hannah seemed to gather herself, then spoke again. “No. I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it. Patrick would never-” Her voice rose, edging toward hysteria. “How could you say such things? Why are you doing this to me?”
“Hannah, listen to me.” Kincaid leaned forward, reached out a hand toward her. She jerked away from his touch as if she’d been stung. “Hannah, if you know something about Patrick Rennie, something you saw or heard, something he told you, you mustn’t keep it to yourself. It could be dangerous. I don’t want to see you end up like-”
“No! That’s absurd. I won’t even listen to it.” She stood up, her breath coming in short gasps. “Just get out.”
Kincaid stood and they faced one another. He could see her body trembling, feel her breath against his face. “Why, Hannah? What loyalty do you owe him? What has Patrick Rennie ever done for you?”
For a long moment he held her gaze, then the fury seemed to drain from her. She half turned from him, her head drooping as if her slender neck no longer had the strength to support it. “Patrick Rennie,” she said simply, “is my son.”
CHAPTER 14
The small entrance building of Rievaulx Abbey sold tickets and souvenirs as well as serving as a sort of mini-museum. A glass-covered scale model of the complete abbey invited scrutiny. The walls were covered with drawings and photographs detailing the abbey’s history, but Hannah passed them by with only a glance. She’d done her homework last night, after Patrick mentioned he intended coming here.
Then it had simply seemed an opportunity to talk with him alone, skirting the dangerous edge of revelation. She’d meant to wait until their relationship had progressed a bit from its first spontaneous warmth-she’d meant to build trust and confidence between them, lead into it gently, ask him, perhaps, how he felt about his real mother.
Now her mind shied away from all her rehearsed scenarios, unable to fasten on anything coherent. But tell him she must. Somehow hearing Kincaid’s suspicions had forced her hand, made it impossible for her to continue the relationship under false pretenses. How could she expect Patrick to be honest with her if she hadn’t been honest with him? And she must hear his own account, judge for herself the truth of it. Could her son be capable of murder? She couldn’t bear not knowing.
Hannah pushed through the building’s rear exit and stepped onto the grass. Her first glimpse across the long, green lawns quite literally took her breath away. She felt the sharp prickle of tears against her eyelids, blinked them back.
Before her Rievaulx Abbey lay cupped in a natural hollow at the foot of Rievaulx moor, held like a jewel between brilliant green grass in the foreground and the red-golds of the trees covering the slope of the moor. The morning’s sun had given way to a soft, low overcast, and the moisture in the air seemed to saturate the colors with an elemental vividness.
She crossed the lawn slowly, her eyes on the soaring arches of the choir. Six hundred monks had lived here, eating, sleeping, praying, tending their sheep and their gardens. She could almost hear them singing as they worked, such was the timeless, dream-like quality of the place. She knew for a fleeting instant how close they must have felt to their god, and a shaft of envy stabbed through her.
Patrick sat on a ruined sill with his back against one of the choir arches, his hair bright against the weathered stone. The nubby, brown wool of his Shetland sweater might almost have been the rough brown cloth of a monk’s habit, but the smoke that curled from the cigarette he held between his fingers ruined the image. She’d never seen him smoke.
He showed no surprise at her presence, speaking only after she had stood there a moment, watching him. “I thought you might turn up. Magnificent, isn’t it?” He indicated the choir around them with a tilt of his head. He dropped the cigarette and ground the butt with his toe. At her look he said, “I don’t around Marta. I suppose I’d lose the advantage of my righteous superiority. Politicians,” he smiled, his voice lightly self-mocking in a way she hadn’t heard before, “never let go an advantage.”
“Is that why you wanted to make sure no one found out about Cassie?” Hannah said, surprised to find her own voice steady. She hadn’t meant to start that way, hadn’t meant to accuse him outright, but the words tumbled from her mouth of their own accord. “What were you willing to do, Patrick, to make sure Marta didn’t find out? To make sure you didn’t lose Marta’s parents’ support and your election with it?” Hannah found her breath coming in little gasps and she began to shiver as if with a chill.