Obligingly, she filled it in for him. “I’m Lucy. Lucy Penmaric. Can’t you-” A muffled yelping came from somewhere nearby and she paused, listening. Kincaid heard the frustration in the sound, as if the dog had given up hoping for a response. “That’s Lewis,” she said. “We had to shut him in Alastair’s study to keep him from… you know, getting into things.”
“A very good idea,” Kincaid said absently as he added what he’d just heard to his assessment of the situation. Her name wasn’t Gilbert, and she referred to the commander as “Alastair.” A stepdaughter, rather than a daughter. He thought of the man he had known and realized what had struck him as odd. Try as he might, he couldn’t quite manage to imagine Gilbert relaxed before the fire, a large (from the sound of it) dog sprawled comfortably at his feet. Nor did this room, with its rich velvets and chintzes and the deep pile of a Persian carpet under their feet, seem a likely habitat for a dog. “I wouldn’t have thought of Commander Gilbert as a dog man,” he ventured. “I’m surprised he allowed a dog in the house.”
“Alastair made us-”
“Alastair preferred that we confine Lewis to his kennel,” interrupted Claire, and Lucy looked away, her face losing the brief spark of animation he’d seen when she spoke of the dog. “But under the circumstances…” Claire smiled at them, as if excusing a lapse in manners, then looked around vaguely. “Would you like some tea?”
“We’re quite all right, Mrs. Gilbert,” he said. Lucy was right: her mother needed rest. Claire’s eyes had the glazed look of impending collapse, and her coherence seemed to fade in and out like a weak radio signal. But even though he knew he couldn’t press her much further, he wanted to ask a few more questions before letting her go. “Mrs. Gilbert, I realize how difficult this must be for you, but if you could just tell us exactly what happened this evening, we can get on with our inquiries.”