JO LOWELL HAD TOLD GEMMA THAT she thought the house where her father had spent the war years was now a country-house hotel, and that his godmother had been named Burne-Jones. That was all the information Kincaid had to go on when he arrived in Surrey in the late afternoon and took a room at the pleasant farmhouse B&B in Holmbury St. Mary. He’d hoped he might see his friend Madeleine Wade, who lived in the village, and Holmbury was in the vicinity Jo Lowell had indicated.
Madeleine practiced massage and aromatherapy from a small flat above the village shop, which she also owned, and when Kincaid had met her on a case the previous autumn he’d found her fascinating as well as a bit disturbing. She was the most matter-of-fact of selfconfessed psychics, a former investment banker with a gift for reading what she rather disparagingly referred to as “emotional auras,” and he’d discovered that conversations with her could have unexpected pitfalls.
When he’d settled the few things from his emergency overnight kit in his room, he’d walked down the road into the village proper. The shop was not on the green but tucked away in a cul-de-sac on the hill above the village, and by the time he reached it he was warm and perspiring, even with his jacket slung over his shoulder.
The girl working the counter was unfamiliar, but said she thought Madeleine was at home, then watched him curiously as he thanked her and let himself out with a jingle of the bells on the door. He climbed the white-painted steps that ran up the side of the building and knocked at the glossy white door at the top. After a moment, it swung open. Madeleine regarded him with a faint smile. “You’ve not lost your knack for good timing, I see.”
She looked just as he remembered—her bobbed, platinum hair and sharp nose receding into insignificance the moment you met her deep, moss-green eyes.
“You’re not surprised to see me?” he asked, looking round as he stepped into the small flat. He had last been here in November, but on this warm summer evening the two windows overlooking the shop-front were open to the breeze that moved the cheerful red-polka-dot curtains.
Her smile broadened. “No conjuring tricks this time,” she said, referring to the fact that the last time he’d called in unannounced, he’d found the table set for two. “But I did put a bottle of wine in the fridge to chill, just in case some old friend happened to drop by unexpectedly.”
“Madeleine, you’re astounding.”
“And you’re easily impressed,” she retorted, but she looked pleased as she retrieved a bottle of Australian sauvignon blanc from the fridge and uncorked it.
When she’d filled their glasses with the wine and they had sat down in the sitting area, she studied him for a moment before speaking. “So what brings you here, Duncan? It’s not strictly pleasure, I’m sure.”
“No, unfortunately.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Do you happen to know of a country-house hotel nearby, used to be owned by a woman named Burne-Jones?”
Madeleine frowned as she thought. “The name sounds vaguely familiar.…” Her face cleared. “Wait, I’ve got it. There is a place, up near Friday Green.”
“Any of the family still about, by any chance?”
“It does seem as though I’d heard something about one of the family still living on the grounds, in the old tied cottage. A distant cousin, female, I believe.… Sorry, I can’t seem to dredge up any more.”
“It’s a place to start.”
“I can give you directions, at least,” said Madeleine. “It’s quite near here, actually.”
Kincaid jotted them down, then slipped the notebook back into the pocket of his jacket and returned his attention to her. “How are things, then?” he asked.
Madeleine laughed. “Blessedly dull since you went away, Superintendent, thank you very much. The ripples have subsided, and we’ve all gone back to pretending we never suspected one another of murder. And what about you?”
As he told her a bit about the Hammond case, she listened intently, and when he mentioned Lewis Finch’s name, she made a small movement of surprise. “Do you know him?” Kincaid asked.
“I did, in my previous incarnation, you might say. He had quite a reputation in the City.”
“A good one?”
“Yes, surprisingly; after all, success and honesty don’t often go hand in hand. Then again, Finch didn’t get where he is without a good deal of ruthlessness. Your Annabelle was a strong character indeed if she stood up to that one.”
“To her cost.”
“Do you think Lewis Finch killed her?”
“He seems the most likely possibility. Her former brother-in-law is the only one who professes to hate her, but he has a tidy alibi. Her fiancé seems to have had everything to lose and nothing to gain by killing her, and while he might have lost control enough to have a bloody great row with her, there’s a great gap between that and murder.” He studied his wine. “And Lewis Finch’s son has no motive that I can see—he’d known about her relationship with his father for months, and Annabelle pleaded with him to make up with her.”
