Pulling a fleece hat from the rack by the door, she said, “I have to meet Leo. I promised. I—it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to tell you why.”
There was something in her face that frightened him, a reckless-ness—no, more than that, a desperation. It made him think that if he let her go alone, she might not come back.
And that meant he had no choice. “All right,” he said. “I’m coming with you.”
Gemma had taken the pocket torch from the door of the car, but once they left the bridge for the towpath, they discovered it only made the visibility worse, trapping them in an illuminated cone of swirling snowflakes. They moved into the shelter of the bridge, then switched the torch off and stood until their eyes adjusted. Beside her, Kincaid was a comforting presence.
The snow made a curtain on either side of the stone archway, but the flakes were bigger and softer than when they had left Crewe, and when Gemma stepped out into the open she found she could make out the outline of the canal’s edge, and the shapes of the boats huddled against it. Then she saw a sliver of light, the glow of a lamp seeping through a gap in curtains pulled tight over a porthole, and she knew the Daphne was still moored where she had last seen it.
She moved forward, Kincaid near enough behind her that she could hear him muttering as the snow soaked through his shoes.
When she reached the boat, she stopped, feeling the warmth of his body as he halted behind her and gave her shoulder a brief squeeze.
This time, she didn’t call out, but felt for the gunwale and climbed carefully into the well deck, then made room for Kincaid to do the same. Knowing the slight movement of the boat under their combined weight had announced their presence, she rapped
sharply on the cabin door. “Mr. Wain, it’s Gemma James. We need to talk to you.”
The door opened quickly, to Gemma’s surprise, and Gabriel Wain looked out at them without speaking. After a moment, he stepped back and down, and she saw that three steps led into the tiny cabin.
Gemma caught her breath as she peered in, thinking for an instant that she had happened upon a child’s playhouse. The space was so tiny, so cleverly arranged, and so welcoming with its dark- paneled walls decorated with gleaming brasses and delicate lace-edged plates.
There were homely touches of red in the curtains and the cushions on the two benches, a fire burned in the cast-iron stove tucked neatly into the corner nearest the steps, and a lantern hung from a hook in the sloping paneled ceiling.
But everything drew the eye towards the painting on the underside of a folding table now stowed in its upright position. A pale winding road, flower lined, led to a castle dreaming on a hilltop.
The colors were brilliant, the grass magically green, the sky a perfect blue, the clouds a luminous white, and the detail and perspective were the work of a master artist.
“My wife’s,” said Gabriel Wain, his voice filled with unexpected pride. “There’s no one on the Cut paints in the old way like my Rowan.”
Gemma now saw that there were other pieces on display bearing Rowan’s signature touch—a metal canalware cup in blue embellished with red and yellow roses, a water can, a bowl.
“You’ll let the cold in,” Wain added, nodding towards the door behind Gemma.
She started, realizing she’d stood frozen, with Kincaid trapped behind her, and stepped down into the cabin proper.
“You’ve kept the cabin in its original state,” Kincaid said as he came down after her, his admiration evident. He nodded at the passageway leading towards the bow. “But you’ll have built more living quarters into the old cargo space?”
“This boat was the butty of a pair, originally, so the cabin was larger,” Wain agreed. “But you didn’t come out in this weather to admire my boat, Mr.—Kincaid, is it?” He didn’t invite them to sit.
Gemma moved a bit farther into the center of the cabin and knew, from the way Kincaid positioned himself behind her, that he meant for her to take the lead. Gathering herself, she said, “Mr.
Wain, we need to know what happened to Marie.”
Wain stared at them, his eyes widening. He’d been wary, she thought, but he had not expected this. “Marie? She and Joseph are with the doctor. She’ll have told you—”
“No,” said Gemma, and although she hadn’t raised her voice, Wain stopped as if he’d been struck. “I want you to tell us what happened to Marie.”
The silence stretched in the small space, then Wain recovered enough for an attempt at bluster. “I don’t know what you’re on about. Marie’s staying with Dr. Elsworthy, just for a few—”
There was movement in the passageway, and a woman came into the cabin. Standing beside Gabriel, she laid thin fingers on his arm, the touch enough to silence him.
She had once been pretty, thought Gemma, but now she wore death like a pall. Her clothes hung loosely on her gaunt frame, her lank hair was pulled back carelessly, her skin tinged with gray. With her free arm she cradled an oxygen tank like an unnatural infant, tethered to her by a plastic umbilicus that ended in the twin prongs of a nasal canula.
“You must be Rowan,” Gemma said gently. “I’m Gemma James, and this is Duncan Kincaid.”
“You’re with the police?” asked Rowan Wain.
“We’re police officers in London, yes,” Gemma temporized, wishing she and Kincaid had discussed beforehand how they meant to handle this, “but we’re not here offi cially.”
“Then you’ve no right to be asking—”
“Gabriel, please.” Rowan used his arm for support as she lowered
herself onto a bench. “It’s no use. Can’t you see that?” She looked up at him imploringly. “And I need to tell it. Now, while I can.”
Gabriel Wain seemed to shrink before Gemma’s eyes, as if the purpose that had sustained him had gone. He lowered himself to the bench, beside his wife, and took her hand but didn’t speak. The only sound in the small space was the rhythmic puff of the oxygen as it left the tank.
“She was so perfect.” Rowan’s lips curved in a smile at the memory. “After Joseph, we were terrified it would start again, the vomit-ing, the seizures. And it had been a hard pregnancy, with everything that had happened.” She stopped, letting the oxygen do its work, closing her eyes in an effort to gather strength before going on. “But she ate, and she slept, and she grew rosy and beautiful, with no hint of trouble.
“Then, on the day she turned eight months old, I put her down for her afternoon sleep, just there.” She gestured at the passageway, and Gemma saw that a small bed was fitted into one side, just the size for a baby or a toddler. “I was making mince for tea,” continued Rowan.
“It was cold that day, and I knew Gabriel had been working hard.”
Her expression grew distant; her voice faded to a thread of sound.
“Gabe had taken Joseph with him. Joseph was almost three by then, and he was so much better, we didn’t worry as much. He liked helping his papa with his work, and I was enjoying the bit of time to myself.
“I was singing. With the radio. A man Gabriel had worked for had given him a radio that ran on batteries, so it was a special treat to listen. It was a silly song. I don’t know what it was called, but it made me happy.” She hummed a few breathy bars, and Gemma recognized the tune—ABBA’s “Dancing Queen.”
“I know the one you mean,” she said, and Rowan nodded, as if they had made a connection.
“I was thinking of what I might paint that night, when the children were in bed.” Rowan stopped. Her face grew even paler, her breathing more labored.
Moving towards her, Gemma said, “Are you all right? Let me—”
But Rowan lifted her hand from her husband’s and waved her back.