“Please, Mummy, do stop,” she said, then she looked at Kincaid. “Let me take her upstairs now.” Her voice held more question than command, and she seemed to Kincaid very much a child playing an adult’s part.

“There must be someone you can call,” said Gemma, standing and touching Lucy’s arm. “A neighbor? A relative?”

“We don’t need anyone else. We can manage,” Lucy said a little abruptly. Then her brief bravado seemed to dissolve as she added, “What should I do about the house… and things? What if…”

Deveney answered her gently, but without patronizing her. “Please don’t worry, Miss Penmaric. I’m sure that whoever did this won’t come back. And we’ll have someone here all night, either outside or in the kitchen.” He paused for a moment, and they heard a faint whimpering. “Why don’t you take the dog upstairs with you, if it makes you feel more comfortable?” he suggested, smiling.

Lucy gave it grave consideration. “He’d like that.”

“If there’s nothing else…” Claire’s speech had begun to slur, yet in spite of her exhaustion she still maintained a semblance of graciousness.

“That’s all for tonight, Mrs. Gilbert. And Lucy. Thank you for your patience,” said Kincaid as he stood beside Deveney and Gemma, and they all watched silently as mother and daughter left the room.

When the door had swung shut, Nick Deveney shook his head and ran his fingers through the early gray streaking his hair at the temple. “I’m not sure I’d have held up as well, under the circumstances. Lucky for them, isn’t it, that they have each other?”

The scene-of-crime team was still busily at work in the kitchen, but Alastair Gilbert’s body had been removed. The drying blood had smeared in streaks and swirls, like a child’s exercise in finger paints. Excusing himself to speak to one of the SOCOs, Deveney left Kincaid and Gemma standing in the doorway.

Kincaid felt the adrenaline that had sustained him for the last few hours ebbing.