“Did he leave a note?”
“Not that Wes could find.”
“What about Tess?” asked Gemma. “Did he take Tess?”
Kit seldom went anywhere without the little terrier he had befriended in the days following his mother’s death.
“No. But his school bag is gone, so he must have started out—”
“Oh, God.” Gemma had gone dead white. “You don’t think—someone—”
“No.” Kincaid pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “No, I don’t think anything’s happened to him. I think he was angry with me, and decided at the last minute to do a runner. I’m going to call Laura Miller.”
Laura Miller had worked with Vic in the university’s English faculty, and Laura’s son, Colin, had been Kit’s best friend at school. Kit had stayed with the Millers for several months after Vic’s death and still visited Colin every few weekends.
“Right.” Gemma gave him a shaky smile. “That’s where he will have gone.”
But when Kincaid got Laura on the phone, she said she hadn’t seen Kit since the last time he’d come to visit. She promised to quiz Colin and to ring back if she learned anything.
When he related this news to Gemma he saw the flare of panic in her eyes. “We’ll have to put out a bulletin,”
she said. “If he’s been gone since first thing this morning, he could be anywhere—”
“No, wait.” Kincaid held up a hand as a thought occurred to him. “Let me try one more thing.” This time he rang a Grantchester number. Nathan Winter had been Vic’s next-door neighbor and, briefly, her lover. A Cambridge biology professor, he had encouraged Kit in his love of science, and the two had become friends.
“Hullo, Nathan? It’s Duncan—”
“It’s all right, Duncan,” came Nathan’s familiar deep rumble. “He’s here. I found him down by the river a half hour ago. I’m just taking some tea and sandwiches out to the garden for him—he was ravenous, poor lad.”
Relief left Kincaid’s muscles weak, but the emotion was quickly replaced by a rush of anger. What the hell had prompted Kit to go to Grantchester without telling them? And how was he going to get the boy home, if he couldn’t trust him? Even if he had Nathan put him on the train, he’d no guarantee that Kit would do as he was told. “Put him on the phone, Nathan. I want to speak to him.”
“Duncan, wait. Let him stay with me for a bit, let me talk to him. He wouldn’t have come just on a whim. He muttered something about Ian having rung him this morning—”
“Ian?”
“That’s all I’ve got out of him, so far. But perhaps I can help him sort it out, whatever’s happened. I’ve a light day for tutorials tomorrow, and he can come with me.”
Kincaid thought of the circumstances that had sent Kit running to Grantchester once before. Then, he’d been escaping from his grandmother’s abuse. What could Ian have said to the boy to induce such a response? And if he had been home, would Kit have confided in him, instead of running away?
“All right,” he said to Nathan at last, feeling as if he’d set the seal on his failure. “Perhaps for a day or two, until I can get back. But you should know what’s been going on.” He told Nathan about Eugenia’s latest maneuver.
“I’ve asked Kit to have DNA testing, to put paid to her once and for all, and Ian’s agreed, but Kit won’t consider it. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”
“I’ll do my best. Look, I’d better go. He’s coming in from the garden.”
“Okay. Tell him he can stay tomorrow, at the least, and ring me when you’ve had a chance to speak to him. And, Nathan,” Kincaid added, “don’t let him out of your sight.”
Dinner that night was a strained affair. Louise served Gemma, Kincaid, Martin, and Hazel in the dining room, Heather and Pascal having gone to Benvulin for the night.
Everyone seemed preoccupied with his or her own worries. Hazel had at last reached her mother-in-law, Carolyn Cavendish, who had told her that Tim was being questioned by the London police. Louise had not heard anything from John since Chief Inspector Ross had taken him to Aviemore, and both Gemma and Kincaid were concerned about Kit. Since his discussion with Nathan, Kincaid had been trying to ring Ian in Toronto, with no success.
Martin, to his credit, had offered to help Louise in the kitchen, but she’d refused him with a marked lack of gra-ciousness, and he had been glowering at her ever since.
When Louise had set the last bowl of steaming fish stew before them, Hazel said, “Louise, come sit down and join us, please.”
Louise stopped in the doorway, twisting the skirt of her apron in her hands. “Oh, no, thanks. I don’t think I can bear to sit, to tell the truth, not until John’s . . . I’ll just get some more hot bread.” She vanished back into the kitchen.
Gemma felt as if the painted fish swimming round the walls were staring down at her accusingly. With an apologetic nod at the largest trout, she took a bite of her stew and found it much better than she’d anticipated.
“How long can they keep him?” asked Martin, frowning at his soup bowl. “It’s not like they can charge him with anything—can they?” The sudden appeal in his voice made him sound very young.
“I shouldn’t think so,” answered Gemma, “based on what Chief Inspector Ross said.” She leaned forward, catching the fresh green scent of the boughs Louise had placed on the sideboard. “But, Martin, you have to understand that we’re not privy to all the chief inspector’s information.”
“What sort of information?”
“Forensics results, witness reports—”
“You’re saying he may have more evidence against John than he told us? But John can’t have—John wouldn’t—”
“Martin.” Louise had slipped back into the room, un-noticed, a basket of sliced bread in her hand. “Just shut up. You don’t know anything, and you’ll only make things worse by going on about it.”
“Worse?” Martin’s voice rose to a squeak. “How could asking questions possibly make anything worse? Good God, Louise, anyone would think you believed John had done—” He stared at her, his eyes widening. “That is what you think, isn’t it? You actually believe your own husband shot Donald!”
“You’ve no idea what I think.” Louise bit the words off furiously. “And I’m bloody sick and tired of you swan-ning round my house as if you owned it, spouting your opinions, as if anyone actually cared what you thought.
When John gets back—”
“Louise—” began Hazel, but Martin stood, rocking the table and sloshing soup on the tablecloth.
“Right. That’s it. I’m going, and when John gets back, you can explain to him why I left.” Martin brushed by
Louise and stalked out of the room. A moment later they heard his footsteps clattering up the stairs.
“Louise,” said Hazel again, but Louise turned and bolted back into the kitchen.
The other three sat looking at one another for a moment, then Gemma said quietly, “He’s got no place to go.”
“Maybe I should have a friendly word with him.” Kincaid’s offer was given so swiftly that Gemma suspected he’d been looking for an excuse to leave the room and ring Ian again.
When he’d gone out, Hazel dropped her face into her hands. “And I should go talk to Louise,” she said, her voice muffled.
“You’ve enough on your plate just now,” Gemma told her gently. “Give her a minute to cool down and I’ll go in. But in the meantime, I want a word with you.” They hadn’t had a moment alone since Hazel had spoken with Heather in the barn. “Hazel, Heather did tell you—”