Kincaid nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Grounds for bringing proceedings against anyone?"

"Not as yet, no."

Gordon sighed. "Well, there's not much I can do other than issue a burial order." He scanned their faces. "Next of kin here?" At Kincaid's negative shake of the head, Gordon raised his eyebrows, but said only, "I'll put the certificate of death in the post, then."

Kincaid sensed a sudden easing of the atmosphere in the room. He hadn't been aware of any previous tension, and even now couldn't pinpoint the source. Meg or Felicity? Because of the nature of her work, Felicity might very well have been called to give evidence before. Meg was the least likely to have been aware of the brevity of an opening inquest, or to have known that the coroner had no legal power to accuse anyone.

"But," Gordon said loudly, bringing all eyes back to his face, "I would like to clarify a few points to my own satisfaction."

Crafty old devil's playing it for all it's worth, thought Kincaid, and smiled.

"Mrs. Howarth," said Gordon, "you visited Miss Dent last Thursday, is that correct?"

Felicity nodded. "In the morning. I helped her with her bath, checked her catheter, just the usual things." She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "There's not always a lot you can do for terminal patients while they're still ambulatory. It's more a matter of monitoring their progress, making sure they're comfortable."

"Did her state of mind seem out of the ordinary to you? Was there any evidence of depression? Nervousness?"

Felicity's smile held no humor. "Terminally ill patients are quite often depressed, Doctor. But no, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary that day. No indication that Jasmine might be contemplating taking her own life."

Unperturbed by Felicity's barb, Gordon continued his questioning. "And this was your normal routine? One daily visit?"

"Yes…" Felicity paused, her brow furrowing. "Although sometimes I would stop by on my way home in the evenings, if I'd had a case nearby. I told Jasmine I might be back that day. I'd forgotten."

"And did you stop by again?"

"No." She said it softly, regretfully. "It was too late by the time I'd finished my rounds."

"Miss Bellamy." Gordon transferred his sharp gaze to Meg, and Kincaid saw her hands jerk convulsively in her lap. "I understand Miss Dent discussed suicide with you."

"Yes, sir."

Gordon had to lean forward to hear her. "Did you understand the seriousness of what she asked you to do?"

Meg looked up at him, her face flushing blotchy red, her hands still. "She didn't actually ask me to do anything. She only wanted me to be with her. She didn't want to die alone. Can any of you understand that?" Meg looked at them all defiantly. No one held her gaze. After a moment she looked down, and said with her eyes fixed once again on her lap, "It doesn't matter. She was alone in the end, after all."

"You saw her last Thursday as well?" asked Gordon, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

"After work. I'd brought her a curry for her supper. I knew she wouldn't eat much, but she usually made an effort if she thought I'd gone to any trouble." Meg looked up at the coroner and spoke as if they were the only ones in the room. "I'd never have left her if I'd thought… never. She seemed… You would have to have known Jasmine. Even when she talked about suicide, she did it so matter-of-factly. She never said, "Meg, I'm scared," or "Meg, I don't want to be alone." Even facing death, she never let you breach that reserve. But that day, last Thursday, she was different. I don't know how to explain it." Face scrunched up in concentration, hands poised as if she might pull the words out of the air, Meg stopped and took a deep breath. "Open. The walls were down. I could feel her affection for me so clearly. And she was happy. I could feel that, too."

"Miss Bellamy." Now Gordon's voice was actually gentle. Kincaid raised an eyebrow. He would have thought James Gordon impervious to appeals to his sympathy, but Margaret Bellamy seemed to inspire a protective response even in the most crusty of souls. "Miss Bellamy," Gordon began again, "such behavior can be consistent with suicide. A decision made, the person feels relief, even euphoria."

Meg's chin came up. "So I've been told. But I don't believe it. Not Jasmine."

"Mr. Kincaid. You found no direct evidence indicating suicide?"

"No, sir. We found two vials of morphine in the refrigerator, but there was not enough missing from either to correlate with the amount found in Jasmine Dent's body, and no empty containers in the flat." Kincaid stopped and looked at Gordon while he organized his words. "She was quite weak. Stairs were difficult for her. I suppose it is within the realm of possibility that Jasmine could have given herself a lethal dose of morphine, disposed of the container outside the flat-perhaps by burying it in the garden-and put herself carefully back to bed to die. But I think it highly unlikely. And she was an organized and methodical person. I don't believe she would have killed herself without leaving some record, in case there were questions."

"Life insurance?" asked Gordon. "She might have gone to great lengths to make her death appear natural if it affected the validity of her policy."

"Suicide exclusion clause had expired. It didn't matter."

Gordon, his lips pursed, tapped the papers in front of him into a neat stack. "Well, Mr. Kincaid, in good conscience, I don't believe I can rule death by suicide. This inquest is therefore adjourned under section 20 of the Coroners Act, so that the police may investigate further."

Kincaid nodded. "Thank you, Dr. Gordon."

As they all stood and moved toward the door, Gordon stopped Kincaid. He smiled for the first time, his formality dropping away like a shed cloak. "Might have made things easier for you if I had given a suicide verdict. I'd take a sociopath over one of these quiet domestic affairs any day-good forensic detail, blood spatters, DNA typing, psychological profiling. It's a bit of a hobby of mine," he added rather diffidently as he finished shuffling the papers into his briefcase. "Historic cases, too. Jack the Ripper. Crippen. Suppose I missed my calling. Should have gone into forensic pathology." Gordon buckled up his briefcase and sketched them a quick salute as he turned toward the door. "Well, ta. Best of British luck to you sorting this one out." The courtroom door creaked shut behind him.

Kincaid and Gemma looked at each other until they both started to laugh. "Who would have thought?" said Gemma.

"Bit like seeing Maggie Thatcher with her knickers down," Kincaid added, still grinning as they followed Gordon from the courtroom.

The corridor was empty, the only sound the squeak of their own shoes on the lino. Both Margaret Bellamy and Felicity Howarth had disappeared. "They weren't inclined to hang around and chat, were they? Considering you've arranged to meet with them at-" Gemma glanced at her watch, "eleven o'clock."

"Not exactly a social occasion," he said, opening the door for Gemma as they stepped out into the gray London morning. Kincaid absently took her arm as a taxi roared past and sent up a spray of greasy water. "I feel like I'm stage-managing a bad farce with an unwilling cast. "The Reading of the Will"," he intoned sepulchrally. "I think this may have been an absurd idea, but-" he paused as they reached the Midget and unlocked Gemma's door, "I do have power as Jasmine's executor to inform the beneficiaries any way I see fit. And if I'm going to go through with it, I'd like you to be there. You can watch them while I direct the action."

Sid made a beeline for Gemma, purring and twining his sleek black body around her ankles until she had to stand still to keep from falling over him. "Slut," Kincaid addressed him bitterly. "When I'm the one who's fed you."