All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online

can go down with him. If he trampled the tulips the Major might eat him.” He grinned and ruffled Toby’s fair hair. “Do you think we should divide up the—”
    They both heard the mewing, faint even in the quiet flat. They turned and watched as the black cat crept from under Jasmine’s bed and crouched, ready to retreat. “A cat! You didn’t tell me she had a cat.”
    “I keep forgetting,” Kincaid said, a little shamefaced.
    Gemma knelt and called to him. After a moment’s hesitation he padded toward her and she scooped him up, holding him under her chin. “What’s he called?”
    “Sid. He wouldn’t come for me.” Kincaid sounded aggrieved.
    “Maybe my voice reminded him of her,” Gemma suggested.
    Kincaid knelt and checked the food he’d left under the bed. “He’s still not eating, though.”
    “No wonder.” Gemma wrinkled her nose in disgust at thecrusted food. “You’ll have to do better than that.” She put the cat down and rummaged through the kitchen cupboards until she found a tin of tuna. “This might do the trick.” She opened the tin and spooned a little tuna into a clean dish, then set it before the cat. Sidhi sniffed and looked at her, then settled over the dish and took a tentative bite.
    Kincaid had wandered back into the sitting room, touching objects absently before moving on to something else. “This won’t do at all,” Gemma said under her breath, remembering his normal assertiveness. “He couldn’t find a haystack in the middle of the sitting room in this state, could he, Sid?” The cat ignored her, intent now on his food.
    Kincaid stopped in front of the solid, oak bookcase and contemplated the spines as if they might reveal something if he stared long enough. Books were jammed in every which way, taking up every inch of available space. Gemma joined him and scanned the titles. Scott, Forster, Delderfield, Galsworthy, a much worn, leather set of Jane Austen. “There aren’t any new ones,” said Gemma, realizing what struck her as odd. “No paperbacks, no best sellers, no mysteries or romances.”
    “She reread these. Like old friends.”
    Gemma studied him as intently as he studied the books, deciding to take matters in hand. “Look. You start with the desk, all right? And I’ll tackle the bedroom.”
    Kincaid nodded and crossed to the secretary. He sat in the chair, which looked much too delicate to bear his six-foot frame, and gingerly opened the top drawer.
    Jasmine’s small bedroom faced north, toward the street, and Gemma turned on the shaded dressing table lamp. The room held a narrow single bed with an old chenille spread stretched tightly over it, the dresser, a nightstand, and a heavy wardrobe—and unlike the sitting room, it reflected none of itsowner’s personality. Gemma sensed that the room had been used for sleeping and storage only, not inhabited in the same sense as the rest of the flat.
    She started with the dressing table, working her way gently through layers of underclothes and bottles of half-empty cosmetics. Under slips and stockings in a bottom drawer lay a picture frame, face down. Gemma lifted it out and turned it over. A dark-eyed young woman stared back at her from a black-and-white studio photograph. Slipping the backing from the frame, she examined the back of the photograph itself. Neatly penciled letters read “Jasmine, 1962”. Gemma turned the photo over again. The dark hair was long and straight, parted in the center, the face small and oval, the mouth held a hint of a smile at some secret not shared with the observer. In spite of the date on the back, the girl had an old-fashioned look—she might have modeled for a Renaissance Madonna.
    Gemma opened her mouth to call Kincaid, hesitated, then carefully placed the photo back in the top of its drawer, face down.
    She moved to the wardrobe and swung open the heavy doors. It held mostly good business suits, dresses and a few silk caftans. Gemma ran her hands appreciatively over