All Shall Be Well by Deborah Crombie Page A

back until he rounded the first landing. The smell of grease and the raucous sounds of the television followed him up three more flights, where the stairs ended in a dim hallway with streakily distempered walls. The two doors were unmarked and he tapped lightly on the right-hand one.
    The sound of the downstairs’ television switched off, and in the sudden silence Kincaid heard the creak of bedsprings. Margaret Bellamy opened the door with an expectant half-smile. “Oh. It’s you,” she said, disappointment evident in her swollen face. She made an effort to smile again. “You’d better come in.” Jerking her head toward the hall as she drew him in, she added, “She’s listening, the horrid old snoop. That’s why she turned the telly off.” Margaret closed the door and stood awkwardly, as if she didn’t know what to do with Kincaid now that she’d shut him in. She looked round the small room and grimaced.
    He took in the small bed with its rumpled covers sagging to the floor, a single, stained armchair, a wardrobe, and an old deal table which seemed to serve as desk, dresser and kitchen.
    Margaret made a small, circular motion with her hand and said, “I’m sorry.” Kincaid thought the apology covered both herself and the room.
    He smiled at her. “I lived in a bedsit myself, when I was training at the Academy. It was pretty dreadful, though I don’t think my landlady could’ve held a candle to yours.” This brought an answering smile from Margaret, and she moved toclear the chair for him. As she bent to scoop up a pile of clothes, she staggered and had to steady herself against the chair back.
    “Are you all right?” Kincaid asked, and studied her more carefully. Her soft, brown hair was matted, and her eyelids were puffy from weeping. She wore a large T-shirt which had a section of its tail bunched in the waistband of faded gray sweatpants—probably the result of pulling them on hastily when he knocked on the door.
    “Have you been out today at all?” he asked.
    Margaret shook her head.
    “Eaten?”
    “No.”
    “I thought as much. Have you anything here?”
    Another negative shake. “Just some tea, really.”
    Kincaid thought for a moment, then said briskly, “You make us some tea. I’ll go down and ask your landlady to put together some sandwiches.”
    Margaret looked horrified. “She’d never … She wouldn’t—”
    “She will.” He stopped at the door. “Though if Saint George is going to conquer the dragon, he’d better know her name.”
    “Oh.” A flicker of amusement lit Margaret’s face. “It’s Mrs. Wilson.”
    The door from which Kincaid guessed Mrs. Wilson had emerged earlier stood slightly ajar. He tapped smartly. The television still played very faintly, and over it he heard the shuffle of slipper-clad feet. The door opened a moment later and Mrs. Wilson squinted at him through the cigarette smoke which trickled from her nostrils. A dragon indeed.
    “Mrs. Wilson?”
    She glared at him suspiciously. “What of it?”
    “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
    “Not if you’re aimin’ to sell me something.” The door began to inch closed. “I don’t hold with solicitation.”
    Kincaid wondered what she thought he could be selling. “No. It’s about Margaret. Please.”
    She snorted with annoyance, but stepped back enough to let Kincaid into the room. He surveyed Mrs. Wilson’s lair with interest. It apparently served as sitting room as well as kitchen—a small sofa was jammed between the fittings, and a large color television held pride of place next to the fridge.
    Mrs. Wilson sat down at the Formica-topped table and picked up the cigarette which lay smoldering in the ashtray. An open tabloid and a half-drunk cup of tea were evidence of her afternoon’s activity. She didn’t invite Kincaid to sit down.
    “She’s all wet, that girl,” Mrs. Wilson pronounced disgustedly. “What’s up now? More trouble with the boyfriend?”
    Boyfriend? That was a complication