A Bitter Feast(27)

“Eleven. People think I’m older because I’m tall for my age.”

Kit hid a grin. He’d put her at ten.

“How old are you?” Grace asked.

“Fifteen.”

“Wow,” she breathed.

Kit felt embarrassed by her awe. “Look, can you help me make room for some more of these plates?”

“Sure.” Together they moved some canisters to the back of the work top and shifted plates, Kit keeping an eye on Grace to make sure she was careful.

“Do you live in the pub?” he asked. Melody had pointed it out to him as they’d passed through the place with the funny name—Lower Slaughter. The sight of the village had given him a pang. It reminded him of where he’d lived in Cambridgeshire until he was eleven, before his mum died.

“Behind it,” Grace said. “There’s a separate cottage.”

“That must be cool.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Not really. I want to live in a real house. With a dog. And you know, like a normal life.”

“Nobody’s life is normal.”

That earned him another eye roll. “You sound like my mum.”

“Well, it’s true.” Kit went back to plating greens. Maybe he could ask Grace about the conversation in the kitchen. “I heard your mum say somebody died.”

“Yeah. A lady. Nell. She was nice. I helped train her dog.” The girl looked down and brushed her hands on her jeans. “I never knew anybody who died before. It’s weird.” She seemed younger than eleven then, and Kit felt suddenly ancient.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”





Chapter Eight

They were late.

After leaving police headquarters, Ivan had driven back through Cheltenham, insisting that Kincaid see his GP. “No point in taking you to A and E,” Ivan said. “The wait would be hours.”

“But I’m fine,” Kincaid had protested.

Ivan shot him a glance. “Obviously, you’re not. You wince every time you move and I can see that your hand is useless. I’ve already rung my doctor. She’s meeting us at her surgery. At the very least she can give you some tablets for the pain.”

Having realized by now that trying to stop Ivan Talbot in action was akin to trying to halt a juggernaut, Kincaid had said merely, “I’ll not be responsible to Addie if we miss the lunch.” The truth was that his ribs and his hand hurt like hell, and his head felt like someone was pounding it with an anvil.

He’d expected some snazzy upmarket practice, but the surgery occupied the ground floor of a Georgian town house and the rooms were just worn enough to feel comfortable.

“Saunders,” the doctor said, when Ivan introduced him. “Ivan said you had a bit of a banging. Let’s have a look at you.”

Leaving Ivan in the waiting room, she sat Kincaid on a scuffed leather exam table and had him take off his shirt. “Bit difficult for you, doing things left-handed, I see,” she commented, examining his right hand with strong but gentle fingers. “Well, I don’t think you’ve broken anything here.” Moving on to his ribs, she pressed until he let out a grunt of pain. Then she held a cold stethoscope to his bare back and had him take deep breaths.

“Well, I don’t think you’ve punctured anything,” said Dr. Saunders. “I’m going to give you some painkillers. But if you feel any difficulty breathing, it’s straight to the A and E. Got that?”

Kincaid nodded carefully.

“Right, then,” she said. “Let’s have a look at your head.” She’d shined a light in his eyes, then manipulated his head and face with the same gentle fingers. “I’m going to give this cut on your forehead a couple of stitches,” she told him. “Unless you’d really like to have a battle scar.”

“Don’t want to give my kids any copycat ideas,” Kincaid managed, closing his eyes and trying not to flinch as she applied a local anesthetic. As she worked, he said, “How is it that you know the Talbots?”

“Oh, everyone round here knows the Talbots.” Kincaid could hear the amusement in her voice. “But my dad was doctor to the Manns—that’s Addie’s parents—and my grandfather was doctor to her grandparents. Addie and I were at the same boarding school.”

Cheltenham, it seemed, was the sort of town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. “Did you know the woman who died in the accident last night?” he asked. “Nell Greene? I was told she was an administrator at the hospital here.”

“Yes, I knew Nell. Ivan told me what happened.” Dr. Saunders snipped a piece of tape and applied it to his forehead. “I was sorry to hear it. And just when she was beginning to put herself back together.” She snipped again and applied more tape with firm pressure. “Now, that should do you, but if you have any dizziness or headaches that last for more than a day, you should get a scan.”

With that cheerful rejoinder, she left him to put on his shirt and join Ivan.



When they emerged from the leafy tunnel of upper Becky Hill Road, the verge outside the entrance to Beck House was already lined with cars. A young bearded man was turning cars away from the Beck House drive. Ivan raised a hand to him, and as they reached the house, Kincaid saw that the graveled forecourt was filled as well.