Kincaid had the feeling that for the second time that evening he had glimpsed beneath the brittle shell. A glimpse, however, seemed to be all he was going to get, for Sebastian started down the wide stairs to the entry hall and continued his monologue over his shoulder.
“That leaves the ground floor. The front suite is empty this week. It’s called the Herriot, by the way. Just luck we didn’t get the Siegfried and Tristan as well. We do like to capitalize on our local celebrities whenever we can. The Rennies we mentioned, and the rear suite on the other side holds the week’s treasures, the MacKenzie sisters from Dedham Vale. The dear ladies have enjoyed the first week of their visit immensely-it warms my heart.” Seeing Kincaid’s smile of recognition, he continued, “I see you’ve encountered them. But don’t let appearances fool you. Emma might be more likely to have been painted by Munnings than Constable, but I don’t believe she’s quite the battle-ax she’d like you to think, nor the fair Penny quite so dim.”
They had reached the entry, and paused. “And the cottages?” asked Kincaid.
“Empty. Except Cassie’s.” Another closed subject, Kincaid presumed from the abruptness of Sebastian’s answer. “The reception room you’ve seen. Beyond that is the sitting room, which leads into the White Rose Bar. Encourages convivial meetings among the owners. It’s supposed to work on an honor system, but you can always tell the ones who don’t pay. It’s that furtive survey of the room after they’ve poured a drink, to see if anyone will notice whether they’ve put money in the bowl.”
Sebastian studied himself in the hall mirror, flicked a pale strand of hair into place with his fingertips, then adjusted the fit of his pleated, linen trousers around his narrow waist. “Well, fun and games time. Shall I lead you to the slaughter?” His glance, as conspiratorial as a wink, left Kincaid the uncomfortable impression that he was as transparent to Sebastian Wade as the rest of the world’s poor mugs.
The air of the sitting room was pungent with smoke, the throat-catching stuffiness exacerbated by the electric bars glowing red in the fireplace. The guests stood huddled in self-protective groups on the red-and-green patterned carpet, their voices rising in an indistinguishable chorus.
Sebastian led him to the bar and poured him a lager. While he waited, Kincaid noticed a room behind the bar that Sebastian hadn’t mentioned. Unlike the polished and uncluttered reception room where Cassie had received him, this was a working office. A gray metal desk and filing cabinet, a sturdy secretarial chair, and a scarred wooden coatrack replaced Queen Anne elegance. Papers partially covered the adding machine and spilled from the desk on to the typewriter. This must be Cassie’s domain, the nerve center of the house. No wonder Sebastian had seen fit to ignore it.
Carrying their drinks, they threaded their way back across the sitting room to a vantage point near the door. Sebastian leaned back against the wall with one foot propped behind him and surveyed the room with lively interest. “Now,” he said, “Guessing game time. Let’s see if you can place the rest of the group.” Four people stood bunched in front of the mantel, drinks in hand, attention half on the conversation and half on the room, in the manner of those accustomed to cocktail gatherings. “Scoping things out, aren’t they? Making sure they’re not missing something more interesting.” Sebastian took a sip of his drink, and waited for Kincaid to pin the face to the description.
“Um,” said Kincaid, rising to the challenge, “the tall, fair man with the Savile Row tailoring. The M.P.?” Slender, with sleek hair cut to perfection, he had prominent cheekbones that lent distinction to the planes of his face. Even the nails on the hand holding the glass gleamed with careful buffing. When Sebastian nodded, Kincaid continued. “It’s not just the looks. He has that air of being on public display, of expecting to be watched. Now, the woman with the frizzy hair and the drooping denim dress. Not his wife, surely? The health store owner. Maureen, wasn’t it.” Sebastian grinned in approval.
A weedy-looking middle-aged man with thinning hair and spectacles seemed to be monopolizing the conversation. The others’ faces expressed varying degrees of disinterest and outright boredom. “Mr. Lyle, from Hertfordshire. Right? And the dark-haired woman with the long-suffering expression must be his wife.”
“Bravo. Right so far. Can you polish them off?”
“You make them sound like hors d’oeuvres.” Kincaid scanned the room obediently, enjoying the test of his memory for names and descriptions.
At a table near the window sat a bulky man, his thinning hair perhaps compensated for by the great ruff of soft, brown beard covering his chin. He played a game with two small children, and though their faces were intent on a board, he seemed uncomfortable in his jacket and tie. His fingers pulled at his collar and his shoulders moved restively inside the coat. “The rest of the Hunsingers, without a doubt.”
Sebastian hadn’t heard him. His attention was focused on a girl, standing alone against the wall. She still carried an extra layer of padding, baby fat that softened and blurred her features and made Kincaid think of an unset pudding. The ring of dark shadow surrounding her eyes gave her a nocturnal look, and her spiky, violet-streaked hair seemed a natural extension of her sullen pout. Kincaid nudged Sebastian and spoke softly. “Angela? Maybe you’d better go and see if you can cheer her up. I’m sure I can look after myself.”
“Right,” said Sebastian. “See you.”
Kincaid regretted it almost immediately. Bearing down on him from around the sofa came the woman in the denim dress, armed with a resolute smile. She must have been waiting her chance, he thought, looking around for an escape. A woman standing hesitantly in the doorway caught his eye. She wore a jumpsuit of a silky fabric, cream-colored, splashed with roses, a perfect foil for her striking, angular looks. The missing scientist, he thought, but before he could take a step toward her, Maureen Hunsinger was upon him in a tidal wave of good intention.
Hannah found the party well in progress, and as she entered the lounge, arranged her face in what she hoped was an expression of pleasant anticipation. She made for the bar and fixed herself a whiskey, not able to remember when she had felt the need for Dutch courage.
Next to her, pouring a large cream sherry, stood the fluffier MacKenzie sister, her soft gray hair fanning out in an erratic halo around her face as if she had blown in on a gale. Leaning toward Hannah, Penny lifted her glass and whispered conspiratorially, “A special treat. And what,” she continued with an air of innocent confidence, “do you think of our newest addition, Miss Alcock? We met him at the shop this afternoon, a charming young man, so polite. Cassie says he’s with the government, something dreadfully dull. You wouldn’t think it to look at him.”
Hannah followed her gaze across the room, where a tall man leaned against the wall, pinned like a moth by a well-endowed woman in an appalling dress. He didn’t look like a civil servant. Nice looking, mid-thirties, or perhaps a bit older, with rumpled, toffee-brown hair and a slightly irregular nose. He listened to Maureen with an expression of amused interest, yet Hannah sensed a watchful quality about him, a stillness that set him apart.
“Kincaid,” said Penny. “His name is Duncan Kincaid.” Hannah looked away and chided herself for indulging in such a ridiculous flight of fancy when she had more pressing concerns. Then, as though aware of her regard, Kincaid turned and met her eyes, and smiled. A Cheshire Cat grin, equal parts mischief and sweetness, and utterly disarming.
Cassie appeared at Hannah’s side with her usual silent efficiency, first heralded by the sharp, crisp scent she wore. It reminded Hannah of burning leaves.
“You and Miss MacKenzie met this morning, I think? Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”