Mourn not your Dead by Deborah Crombie Page B

chatting with a man near a display of cabinet fronts, but their conversation came to an awkward halt as Kincaid and Deveney entered.
    After a moment the woman said, “Well, I’ll be off then. Cheerio, Malcolm.” She gave them a bright, interested glance as she squeezed out the door, holding her shopping to her chest like a bulging shield. What was the use of being out of uniform, Kincaid often wondered, when you might as well be wearing a sign on your chest that said POLICE?
    Deveney had his warrant card out, and introduced himself and Kincaid as Malcolm Reid came forwards to greet them. Kincaid was happy to play second fiddle for a bit, as it gave him a chance to observe Claire Gilbert’s employer. Tall, with short silvery-blond hair and evenly tanned skin that spoke of a recent holiday in a warmer clime, Reid spoke in a soft, unaccented voice. “You’ve come about Alastair Gilbert? It’s absolutely dreadful. Who would do such a thing?”
    “That’s what we’re attempting to find out, Mr. Reid,” said Deveney, “and we’d appreciate any help you can give us. Did you know Commander Gilbert personally?”
    Reid put his hands in his pockets before answering. He wore good quality trousers, Kincaid noticed, and along with the gray pullover and discreet navy tie they created just the impression needed for Reid’s position—not too casual for the owner of a successful business, not too formal for a small village. “Well, of course I’d met him. Claire had Val—that’s my wife, Valerie—and me to dinner once or twice, but I can’t say that I knew him well. We didn’t have much in common.” He gestured at the showroom, his expression slightly amused.
    “But surely Gilbert was interested in his wife’s career?” said Kincaid.
    “Look, let’s have a seat, shall we?” Reid led them to a desk at the rear of the showroom and waved them into two comfortable-looking visitors’ chairs before seating himself. “That’s not an easy question.” He picked up a pencil and watched it meditatively while he rolled it between his fingers, then looked up at them. “If you want an honest answer, I’d say he only tolerated Claire’s job as long as it didn’t interfere with his social schedule or his comforts. Do you know how Claire came to work for me?” He put the pencil down and leaned back in his chair. “She came to me as a client, when Alastair finally gave! her permission to decorate their kitchen. The house is Victorian, you know, and what little had been done to it had been done badly, as is so often the case. Claire had been nagging him for years, and I think he only gave in when their entertaining reached such a scale that it embarrassed him for guests to see the kitchen.”
    For a man who professed not to know Gilbert well, Reid had certainly managed to build up an active dislike of him, Kincaid thought as he nodded encouragingly.
    “Claire hadn’t any design training,” continued Reid, “but she had natural talent, which is even better in my book. When we started her kitchen she was brimming with imaginative and workable ideas—they don’t always go together, you see—and when she came to the shop she’d help other customers, too.”
    “And you didn’t mind?” Deveney asked a bit skeptically. Reid shook his head. “Her enthusiasm was contagious. And the customers liked her ideas, which increased my sales. She’s very good, though you’d never know it by looking at their house.”
    “What’s wrong with their house?” Deveney scratched his head in bewilderment—whether real or feigned Kincaid couldn’t guess.
    “Too stuffily traditional for my taste, but Alastair kept a tight rein on things and that’s what he liked. It was his idea of middle-class respectability.”
    Reid’s judgment certainly seemed to fit Gilbert as Kincaid had known him. As an instructor he had been unimaginative, insisting on rules where flexibility might have been more productive, attached to traditions simply