Free All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie Page B

blue eyes widened in surprise. “No funeral? Why ever not?”
    “Because I ordered a post mortem, Major. There were indications that Jasmine might have committed suicide.”
    The Major stared at him for a heartbeat of shocked silence, then thumped his glass down so hard beer sloshed over the lip. “Why couldn’t you just let her go in peace, man? What difference did it make to anybody if the poor wee soul made things a bit easier for herself?”
    Kincaid shrugged. “None, Major, and I would have let it go, if that were all there was to it. But some things weren’t consistent with suicide, and I’m sure now that her death wasn’t natural. I’ve had the p.m. report.”
    “What things?” asked the Major, fastening on the pertinent statement.
    “Jasmine did intend suicide, we know that. She asked her friend Margaret to help her, but then she told Margaret she felt differently and had changed her mind. She left no note, no explanation. Surely she would have done that for Margaret. And,” Kincaid paused long enough to sip from his pint, “she made arrangements to see her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in six months, tomorrow.”
    The Major nodded along with every point, but when Kincaid finished said, “I canna believe someone would’ve harmed the poor lassie. She wouldn’t have hung on much longer anyway.” His blue eyes were surprisingly sharp in his round face.
    The waitress arrived bearing their plates, giving Kincaid a reprieve. The Major doused his chips in vinegar, then poured HP sauce on his omelet. Kincaid wrinkled his nose as the vinegar fumes reached him. Bachelor habits, he thought. He’d be doing that himself in a few years.
    “What do you think, Major? You knew her, maybe better than I did.”
    The Major speared a bite of egg with his fork and swabbed itthrough the pool of brown sauce on his plate. “Canna say I knew her well, not really. We only talked about,” he forked egg and chips into his mouth and continued, “everyday things. The garden, the telly. Now Margaret I never met, but I’d see her coming and going, and sometimes she’d come out to the steps and wave at me when I was in the garden. A friendly lass. Not like Jasmine. I don’t mean,” he corrected himself, “to say that Jasmine was unfriendly, just that she kept herself to herself, if you know what I mean.” As if surprised by his own garrulity, the Major looked away from Kincaid and concentrated on his dinner.
    The espresso machine hissed and gurgled like some subterranean monster as Kincaid took a bite of his own omelet. “Did you ever see anyone come with Margaret? A boyfriend?”
    The Major frowned and shook his head. “Canna say as I did.”
    Kincaid felt sure he would have remembered Roger. “Did you ever meet Theo, her brother?”
    “Not that I recall. She didn’t have much in the way of visitors, except that nurse the last few months. Now that,” he leaned forward confidentially as he scooped up the last of his egg and chips, “is one fine-looking woman.”
    Kincaid noted with amusement that the Major’s passion for things vegetable didn’t extend to the edible—most of his watercress and cucumber garnish lay limply abandoned on the side of his plate. “What about Thursday night? Did you see anyone visit then?”
    “Not in. Never in on a Thursday. Choir.”
    “You sing?” Kincaid asked. He pushed his empty plate away and leaned forward, elbows on the table.
    “Since I was a boy. Won prizes as a tenor, before my voice changed.”
    Kincaid thought the Major’s complexion looked even moreflorid than usual. So that was the other sustaining passion. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Where do you sing?”
    The Major finished his beer and patted his mustache with his napkin. “St. John’s. Sunday services. Wednesday Evensong. Practice on Thursdays.”
    “Were you back late on Thursday?”
    “No. Tenish, if I remember.”
    “And you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?”
    Kincaid didn’t hold his breath