A Bitter Feast(103)

“No, I’m fine,” she said, when she could find her voice, and as she spoke she realized that she meant it.

She was fine. She would be fine. She would manage somehow. She would make it all work.

And she would be a good mum in the bargain.

Letting go of her grip on the railing, she rubbed her hands together to warm them. “But thank you for asking.”

She summoned a smile and turned away, walking with quick, firm steps, back the way she had come.



The rain must have stopped in the very early hours of the morning, because when Gemma woke and went to the window, the sky was a pure bright blue, unmarred by any cloud. Mist hung over the treetops, muting the beginnings of autumn color, and the hills climbed green into the distance. Gemma sighed.

“What is it, love?”

Turning, she saw that Kincaid was awake and had pushed himself up in the bed. She went to sit beside him. “I was just wishing I could keep that picture in my head on days when London is full of traffic and shouting and petrol fumes.”

“You’re homesick, aren’t you?” he said with a grin.

“Desperately,” she agreed, laughing. “But I’ve liked it here much better than I thought I would. Aside from the complications.”

Which, thank God, had turned out much better than they might have, in part due to Kit’s initiative in finding Grace. Last night, Doug had rung Melody from the walking path, and by the time Ivan had carried Grace back to the pub, the ambulance—and Viv—had been on their way to meet them.

Viv had gone with Grace to hospital in Cheltenham, Booth had taken Bea Abbott into custody, and the rest of them—including a bandaged Mark Cain—had gathered in the pub bar to wait for news of Grace. Ibby and Angelica had made them sandwiches and chips. Then, when the last customer had left, Ibby locked the doors, stoked the fire, and poured them all a generous measure of the bar’s best whisky. All except Kit, that is.

“Ginger beer for you, kiddo,” Ibby told him regretfully.

“Give him a sip,” said Kincaid. “He deserves it. And he should learn to recognize good whisky so he won’t be tempted to drink the bad stuff.”

Kit had taken one little taste, blinked watering eyes, and made a face. “I think I’ll pass on that, thanks,” he said, coughing, but he’d looked pleased to be the hero of the hour.

When Viv rang at last, she said the scans showed Grace’s ankle to be badly sprained, not broken. As Grace had also been dehydrated and slightly hypothermic, they expected to keep her under observation for a few more hours. Mark had wanted to go to hospital to wait with Viv but had been cautioned against driving, considering the blow to his head.

It was Ibby who insisted on going to Cheltenham, taking Viv’s van as Booth had warned him that his truck would be impounded by forensics. “We need to have a word, me and Viv,” Ibby had said. “She’s going to be gutted. But this was not her fault, not any of it.”

With Ibby’s departure, they had all gone their separate ways, but Gemma had sensed a reluctance, as if no one wanted to face the reality of the things Bea Abbott had done.

“Kids not up?” Kincaid asked, yawning, bringing Gemma back to the present with a start.

“I thought I heard the thump of little feet. I’d better check.” Addie had put Charlotte to bed with Toby before they’d returned from the pub the night before, so heaven knew what the kids were getting up to this morning. She suspected it was only strict orders from Addie and Ivan that had kept them from coming in and jumping on the bed. “How’s the hand?”

Kincaid flexed his fingers. “Better. Look. The redness is already fading. Ribs hurt like hell this morning, though.”

“I’m not surprised.” Gemma rubbed Kincaid’s stubbly cheek, then brushed the hair from his forehead. “You have a bit of a lie-in, love. I’ll bring you a cuppa.”

But when she returned from the kitchen, he was up and dressed and ready to accompany her down to the village after breakfast. They’d promised Kit that he could say goodbye to Grace before they left for London, but first Gemma wanted a chance to talk to Viv on her own. Kincaid had something he wanted to do as well, so after tea and toast, they walked down the hill together in the bright fresh morning, matching steps, her hand tucked into the crook of his left arm. Gemma was painfully aware of how close she had come to losing him on Friday night.

They parted at the Old Mill, Gemma cautioning him to wait for her before walking back up to the house. “Just in case you need a push,” she’d added.

She found Viv sitting in the sun on the bench against the cottage wall, head back, eyes closed. At the sound of Gemma’s footsteps on the gravel, Viv started, then sat back with a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you, Gemma.”

Sitting beside her, Gemma patted her knee. “It’s okay, you know. Bea is going to be thoroughly tied up for the near future. And hopefully a good deal longer.”

“Have you spoken to Booth?”

“No, but Duncan did. He’s charged Bea with aggravated assault and the attempted murder of Mark Cain. Whether or not he can bring charges on Fergus’s poisoning and Jack’s murder will depend, at least in part, on the forensics.”

“Ibby told me they’ve cordoned off her house. He’s gone to Angelica’s for a kip. He can stay with her while he looks for someplace else to live.”