Free All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie

Kincaid sensed wariness replacing the nonchalance. “There is another possibility, you know,” Kincaid said into the tension that vibrated in the room. Both faces turned toward him, Meg’s bewildered, Roger’s alert. “Someone might have given Jasmine help she didn’t want.”
    “I don’t …” Margaret began, then looked at Roger who, Kincaid thought, understood all too well.
    The silence lengthened, until Kincaid straightened up and stretched. “I’m afraid I never caught your last name,” he said to Roger.
    Roger hesitated, then volunteered grudgingly, “It’s Leveson-Gower.” He pronounced it “Loos-n-gor”.
    How fittingly posh, Kincaid thought. He moved toward the door, then turned back to Margaret. “I’ll be off, then. Are you sure you’ll be all right, Meg?”
    Margaret nodded uncertainly. Roger wrapped an arm around her waist, and with the other ran his fingernails slowly up her bare arm. Kincaid saw her nipples grow hard under her thin cotton shirt. She looked away from him, flushing.
    “Meg will be just fine, won’t you, love?” said Roger.
    Kincaid turned back to them as he opened the door. “By the way, Roger, where were you on Thursday night?”
    Roger still held Margaret before him, part shield, part possession. “What’s it to you?”
    “I’ve a bad habit of liking people to account for themselves. I’m a copper.” Kincaid smiled at them both and let himself out.

CHAPTER
6
    The east side of Carlingford Road lay in deep shadow when Kincaid drew the Midget up to the curb. He rolled up the windows and snapped the soft top shut, then stood for a moment looking up at his building. It seemed unnaturally still and silent, the windows showing no light or signs of movement. Kincaid shrugged and put it down to his own skewed perception, but halfway up the stairs to his flat he realized he hadn’t seen the Major since yesterday evening.
    His heart gave a little lurch of alarm and he told himself not to be an ass—there was no reason anything should have happened to the Major. Death hadn’t stayed lurking in the building like some gothic specter. Nevertheless, he found himself back downstairs, knocking on the Major’s door.
    No answer. Kincaid turned back to the street, thinking to go through Jasmine’s flat to check the garden, when he saw the Major turn the corner into the road. He walked slowly, hampered by the two shrubs he carried, a plastic tub tucked under each arm.
    Kincaid went quickly to meet him. “Thought you might need some help.”
    “Much obliged.”
    Kincaid, accepting one of the five-gallon tubs, heard the breath whistling through the Major’s nostrils.
    “Long pull uphill from the bus.”
    “What are they?” Kincaid asked, shortening his stride to match his step to the Major’s.
    “Roses. Antiques. From a nursery in Bucks.”
    “Today?” Kincaid asked in some surprise. “You’ve carried these from Buckinghamshire on the bus?”
    They had reached the steps leading down to the Major’s door. Setting down his tub, the Major pulled off his cap and wiped his perspiring head with a handkerchief. “Only place to get ’em. Himalayan Musk, they’re called.”
    As he set down his own tub, Kincaid looked doubtfully at the bare, thorny stems. “But couldn’t—”
    The Major shook his head vigorously. “Wrong time of year, of course. But it had to be something special.” At Kincaid’s even more perplexed expression, he wiped his face and continued, “For Jasmine. It’s the scent, you see, not like those modern hybrid teas. She loved the scented flowers, said she didn’t care what they looked like. These bloom once, late in spring. Masses of pale pink blooms, smell like heaven.”
    It took Kincaid a moment to respond, never having heard the Major make such a long speech, nor say anything remotely poetic. “Yes, you’re right. I think she would have liked them.”
    The Major unlocked his door and stooped for the tubs. “Let me give you a hand,” Kincaid