After a moment, Jo nodded. “Martin had been jealous of Harry, but with Sarah he felt completely shut out, and he was more angry with me than ever. And Annabelle … When Mummy died, Annabelle hadn’t anything.…” The breath she took sounded almost like a sob. “They had an affair. Martin and Annabelle. Annabelle told me, after a few months. She said she couldn’t stand it anymore, knowing that she’d betrayed me and the children, and that Martin wanted to keep on. I filed for divorce.”
“Were you terribly angry with her?” Gemma asked it quietly.
“Of course I was angry. Furious. But she was my sister, and after a bit … I missed her.
“But Martin never forgave her; he swore she’d ruined his life, taken his children from him—as if he’d had nothing to do with it at all.” Her voice rose on an incredulous note.
“And Harry?”
“Martin told him it was Annabelle’s fault we weren’t a family anymore, that everything would have been wonderful if she hadn’t interfered. That was bad enough, but I thought that was all he’d told him. Until the night of the dinner party.” Jo looked round the room as if realizing where she was sitting. “Annabelle hadn’t been here often.… Things had been awkward between us, though we put up the best front we could for Father. But I thought it was time we mended things, so I invited them—Annabelle and Reg—and Mummy’s friend Rachel Pargeter who lives round the corner, and some clients who weren’t biased one way or the other.…”
When Jo lapsed into silence, Gemma said softly, “What happened?”
“It was a disaster. Oh, not at first. Harry was rude to her, but I sent him to play outside with Sarah, and we got through dinner with flying colors. Then Harry came into the kitchen as Annabelle and Reg were helping me clear up. Annabelle had never stopped trying to make things up with Harry, you see. They’d been so close, and I don’t think she really understood how deep the damage went. She touched him, called him a pet name, and he—lashed out at her. He said things … called her horrible names.…” Jo stopped. She’d gone pale under her tan.
“What sort of names?”
“Whore,” Jo said, so quietly that Kincaid had to lean forward to hear her. “Filthy tart. He said if she hadn’t … I’d no idea he even knew the words. Annabelle slapped him, and then Reg … started in on her.”
“Reg was angry at Annabelle?” Kincaid frowned. “Not at Harry?”
“Reg hadn’t known about Annabelle and Martin. He kept shouting at her, ‘Is it true? Is it true?’ and poor Harry was crying.… Then Annabelle stormed out and Reg followed her. I thought, the next day when he said she wouldn’t answer his calls, that she had bloody good reason not to.”
“And you didn’t think, when you found out she was dead, that Reg might have killed her?”
“No. I thought … not Reg. For all his faults, the three of us have been together since we were children. Reg would never have hurt her.”
“What about Martin? What if she went to see Martin after she left Reg in the tunnel?”
Jo’s eyes widened with shock, and for a moment the room was so hushed Kincaid could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Then Jo breathed, “Oh, God. Not Martin.”
GEMMA STOOD BESIDE KINCAID IN THE lane as they watched Jo Lowell pull away in her small Fiat.
“Funny, Martin Lowell didn’t happen to mention the fact that he’d had an affair with his sister-in-law when we spoke to him,” Kincaid said, lifting his hand as Jo glanced back once before turning the corner into Hyde Vale.
“Or that he hated her. Although we might have guessed it.” Not relishing the prospect, Gemma added, “I’ll stop at the bank in Greenwich and speak to him again.”
“Let’s put it off until this afternoon. I think I’d like to be in on this one.” Kincaid looked at his watch. “But I’d better not keep the guv’nor waiting. I’ll ring you from the Yard.” Unlocking the Rover, he added, “Hop in. I’ll give you a lift to the town center on my way.”
Gemma hesitated. “I’d like to hear someone else’s account of that dinner party. Jo said her mum’s friend lived just round the corner. I think I’ll give her a try.”
“You don’t know which house.”
“I’m perfectly capable of knocking on doors,” Gemma retorted, waving him off.
She found Mrs. Rachel Pargeter on her second try, one house down from the corner on Hyde Vale. A tall woman in her sixties, with silver hair swept back in a neat twist, Rachel Pargeter wore a green canvas apron over her cotton blouse and trousers.
“Gardening gear,” she explained in a husky voice when Gemma had introduced herself. “Come through to the back, and I’ll just wash my hands.”
Gemma smiled with involuntary pleasure as the woman led her into a glassed-in room whose doors stood open to a flagstone terrace and a shady garden. “It’s lovely.”
“Coolest room in the house. I’ll just make us some tea—won’t take a moment.”
