Free Mourn not your Dead by Deborah Crombie Page A

that—you know what I mean. You look tired, is all.”
    She relented. “It’s okay. Maybe I will go up to my room for a bit. And thanks for looking after me. I’d have caved in, I think, if you hadn’t rescued me.”
    “Any time, fair damsel.” He stood and gave a little bow. Gemma laughed, thinking doublet and hose would have suited him and imagining his fair curls under a plumed hat.
    She followed him up the stairs, and when they reached the door of his room, he stopped. “Tell me if you need anything else. I’m at your—”
    His words faded out of Gemma’s perception. A computer sat on a desk across his room, and she stood staring, fascinated by the image on the screen. “What is it?” she asked, without taking her eyes from the picture. Mist seemed to swirl in the eerie, three-dimensional scene, but she could make out a turreted castle, and through one of its doorways a vista of green-grass and a path leading towards a mountain.
    “It’s a role-playing game, an adventure. A girl finds herself transported to a strange land, and she must survive by her wits, her skills, and her small knowledge of magic. Only by following a certain path and collecting talismans can she discover the secrets of the land, and then she will have the power to stay or to go back to our world.
    “You can play. I’ll show you.” He touched her arm, but Gemma shook her head, resisting the enchantment.
    “I can’t. Not now.” Pulling her gaze away, she focused on his face. “What does she choose, in the end?”
    He regarded her, the expression in his gray eyes unexpectedly serious. “I don’t know. That all depends on the player.”
     

Five
     
    KINCAID STOOD ALONE IN THE GILBERTS’ KITCHEN, LISTENING to the sound of the ticking clock. It hung above the refrigerator, and the large black hands and numerals against its white face were impossible to miss, reminding him that time was indeed fleeting. He should be concentrating on Alastair Gilbert’s murder, rather than wanting to punch his fist against the wall in frustration every time he thought about Gemma. After her outburst in the garden, she had left for Guildford without speaking an unnecessary word to him. What in hell had he done now? At least, he thought with a flare of satisfaction, he hadn’t sent her off traipsing around the country with Nick Deveney, after the way he’d leered at her last night.
    Sighing, Kincaid ran a hand through his hair. There was nothing for it but to get on with things as best he could. Glancing automatically at his watch, he shrugged in irritation. He bloody well knew what time it was, and as long as he had to wait for Nick Deveney and had the ground floor of the house to himself, he might as well have a look round.
    Entering the hall, he stood quietly for a moment, orienting himself. For the first time he noticed the higgledy-piggledy nature of the house—a step up here, a step down there—every room seemed to exist on a different level. The exposed beams in the walls were canted at slightly tipsy angles. For a moment he fancied he heard an echo of the kitchen clock, then traced the insistent ticking to a longcase clock half hidden in an alcove beneath the stairs. To his untrained eye, it looked old and probably quite valuable. A family heirloom, perhaps?
    Nearest the kitchen lay the sitting room they had used last night, and a quick glance showed it quiet and empty, the fire burnt down to cold ash. Continuing down the hall towards the front of the house, he opened the next door and peered in.
    A green-shaded lamp cast a pool of light on a massive desk. Lucy must have forgotten to switch it off when she collected the dog last night, thought Kincaid, as he entered and looked about. The room seemed almost a parody of a masculine retreat—the walls not covered with bookshelves were dark-paneled, and the sofa set before the heavily curtained windows was covered in a deep red tartan. Moving closer, he studied the pale oblongs on the dark