Mourn not your Dead by Deborah Crombie Page A

I’ll look after Mummy when she gets up.” She jumped up from the sofa with the fluidity of the very young and had reached the door before he framed a reply.
    As she turned back to him, he said, “Lewis will be glad to see you,” and was rewarded by one more brilliant smile.
     
    “HAVE YOU NOTICED,” KINCAID SAID TO NICK DEVENEY AS they wound their way through the series of tracks that lay between villages, “that no one seems to be grieving for Alastair Gilbert? Even his wife seems to be shocked but not distraught.”
    “True enough.” Deveney flashed his lights at an oncoming car and backed into the nearest passing place. “But that doesn’t give us a motive for murder. If that were the case, my ex-mother-in-law would be dead twenty times over.” The other driver lifted a hand in a wave as he passed, and Deveney pulled out into the road again. “Hope you don’t mind the shortcut. Actually, I’m not sure it is a shortcut, but I like driving through the hills. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Storm clouds had gathered in the west, but as he spoke a shaft of sun broke through, illuminating the air deep in the woods. Deveney glanced in his rearview mirror. “I’ll bet they’re getting a soaking in Guildford,” he said, then he pointed at the elaborate gates of an estate as they passed. “Look. It’s people like that who keep this part of Surrey from being overrun by tourists. They come here from London, bringing their money with them, so that we don't really need to boost our economy by encouraging trippers.” Shrugging, he added, “But it’s a double-edged sword. Although they buy property and use services, many of them are never really accepted by the locals, and that generates some conflicts.”
    “And that was true of Gilbert, too? He certainly fit the classic commuter profile,” Kincaid said as they came around a curve and gaps in the trees revealed a sweeping view across the North Downs.
    “Oh, definitely, I’d say, and he was treated with a mixture of disdain and flattery. I mean, after all, you don’t really want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, do you? You just don’t want it to think it can sit at your table.”
    Kincaid gave a snort of laughter. “I suppose not. Do you think Gilbert was aware that he wasn’t accepted, probably would never be accepted? Did it matter to him?”
    “I didn’t really know him personally, just spoke with him a few times at police functions.” Downshifting, Deveney added, “I only know Brian Genovase because we played in the same over-the-hill rugby league.” The road had descended quickly from the hills, and now became a narrow street with picture-postcard cottages either side. “Holmbury St. Mary is quite unspoilt, while this village is competing for the ‘prettiest in England’ title. That’s the Tilingboume River,” he added as they crossed a clear stream, “star of many a postcard.”
    “It’s not too bad, surely,” Kincaid said as Deveney deftly parked against the curb. He’d seen a rather flowery tea shop but nothing else that seemed out of the ordinary.
    “No, but I’m afraid the tarting up is inevitable.”
    “Cynic.” Kincaid followed Deveney out of the car, flexing toes that had suffered from the failure of the Vauxhall’s heating system.
    Laughing, Deveney agreed, then added, “I’m too young to sound like such an old codger. Must be divorce has a tendency to sour a man’s outlook. Now this shop is certainly not a bad thing”—he gestured at a sign reading KITCHEN CONCEPTS—“and it wouldn’t be possible without commuters like Alastair Gilbert. It would never occur to the local farmers to have their kitchens refitted in Euro-chic.” The window showed them colorful expanses of tile interspersed with gleaming copper fittings. Kincaid, who had refitted the kitchen in his Hampstead flat using mostly do-it-yourself materials, opened the door with some anticipation. A wellie-clad woman holding carrier bags stood