A Bitter Feast(11)

“Asleep, upstairs. But I’ll just go make sure the dogs didn’t wake her. Then, I want to know exactly what happened to you.”



Kincaid scrubbed as well as his sore hand would allow, then dried his hands gingerly on the Talbots’ fine linen bathroom towel. Then, he examined his forehead and cheek in the mirror, dabbing at the remaining dried blood with a wad of tissue from the toilet roll. Still, even tidied, he was not a pretty sight. No wonder Gemma had looked horrified. His jacket had a rip in the right shoulder but he had nothing to change into—his overnight bag, he realized, was still in his car. His knee was stinging, too, but he didn’t feel like rolling up his trouser leg to check the damage.

The small downstairs loo was warm, and for a moment he was tempted to sink down on the toilet lid and close his eyes, just for a bit . . .

He shook himself and splashed a little water on the undamaged parts of his face. His hand throbbed—he would have to get some ice on it. By the time Gemma rapped on the door and said, “Are you okay, love?” he was as presentable as he was going to get. Coming out into the kitchen, he gave her a one-sided hug and rested his cheek against her hair for just an instant, but she pulled away so that she could look at him. She touched her fingers lightly to his cheek, then asked, “Where else are you hurt? And how badly?”

“I’m fine, really. Just banged up a bit.”

Lady Addie had made him a plate of sandwiches. As she urged him into the sitting room, she said, “Whatever happened to you, I think you won’t have eaten.” He took the plate willingly, and he didn’t object when Ivan waved him into the chair nearest the fire and handed him a crystal tumbler with a finger’s worth of whisky. He wondered if he should drink it, as odd as he felt, but the first sip warmed him to his toes and he felt his muscles ease.

“The car,” said Gemma. “What happened to the car? Did you—”

Ivan held up a hand. “Let the man eat, lass. Whatever it is, I imagine it will keep a few more minutes.”

Kincaid bit into a ham and tomato sandwich. Suddenly, he was ravenous. As murmured conversation went on round him, he finished the ham, and then the cheese and pickle. Down-to-earth food, and delicious, the sort of thing he’d grown up on in Cheshire. When he’d finished, he set the plate aside and cradled the whisky in his left hand. The big dog, the deerhound, came over to him and settled against his feet with a sigh.

Melody smiled at him. “You’re well and truly accepted now, if Mac likes you. He doesn’t take to everyone like that.”

“It’s probably the sandwiches,” Kincaid said, trying for humor. Ivan was watching him now, ready to hear his story, his big-boned face intent. The journalist was never far from the surface.

Kincaid took another sip of the whisky, then looked at Gemma as he said, “The car. It’s . . . it’s totaled, I think. There was a crash.”

As he told them what had happened, Gemma came and sat beside him, her hand on his uninjured knee. She’d gone pale, the light dusting of freckles across her nose visible even in the lamplight. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “You could have been killed.”

Ivan was frowning. “That’s a well-marked junction. Anyone local would know it. You say they identified the woman who was driving?”

“The ambulance medic who stopped to help—the one who gave me a lift here—recognized her. She said her name was Nell Greene.”

Addie Talbot looked shocked. “Nell? But that’s—” She shook her head. “I can’t believe it. Was she certain?”

“She said she knew her from work, that Nell Greene had been an administrator at the hospital.”

“Yes, she was. She took early retirement and moved to Lower Slaughter from Cheltenham. She’d inherited a cottage from her aunt. It’s just on the west side of the village.” Still frowning, Addie continued, “It seems so unlikely that Nell would do something like that. I’d have said she was a careful person. Very responsible. In fact, she was one of my volunteer helpers for tomorrow.”

“You say there was a passenger, a man?” asked Ivan.

Kincaid nodded. He hadn’t mentioned the ambulance crew’s speculation that the man had been dead before the crash. Nor had he told them that he’d been with Nell Greene in her last few minutes.

“Any identification?”

“Not that I heard. Tracey—the medic who stopped—didn’t recognize him.”

“Did Nell Greene have any family that need to be notified?” Melody asked.

“I suppose there’s an ex somewhere—a doctor, I think,” said Addie. “No children that I know of.” Then her eyes widened. “The dog. Oh, dear. Someone will have to see to the dog. She’ll be alone in the house.”

“She?” asked Gemma.

“Yes, she’s called Bella. A young border collie bitch. Training her was Nell’s retirement project.” For the first time, Addie’s voice wobbled a little. “I think she was lonely, poor woman.”

“Is there anyone who has access to the cottage?” asked Melody, as if her mother’s show of emotion had in turn made her brisk.

Addie thought for a moment. “Mark Cain might. He’s her nearest neighbor. And Bella was one of his puppies—he breeds working collies. I think he was helping Nell with the dog’s training. I’m sure he’ll take Bella until something is sorted. I’ll ring him straightaway.”