Where Memories Lie Read Free

room, brushing carefully at his trousers as he sat in the chair nearest hers, then wiping the plastic carrier bag he held with a handkerchief fished from his jacket.
    “A whisky, then. You know I keep a bottle just for you.”
    Hesitating, he said, “No, really, Erika, I won’t impose on your hospitality.” He cleared his throat. “This is not actually a social call.”
    Alarmed, she said, “What is it, Henri? Are you ill?”
    “Oh, no, it’s nothing like that. Only the arthritis playing up in this infernal damp. It’s just—” He stopped, running his hand over the carrier bag, and she noticed that it was embossed with the label of Harrowby’s, the auction house. “It’s just that I ran across something very odd today, and I may be interfering where I’ve no business, but I thought you should see it.”
    “Henri, whatever are you talking about?”
    He pulled a thin soft-cover book from the bag, and it, too, carried the Harrowby’s label. Looking more closely, she saw that it was a catalog of items in an upcoming sale of Art Deco jewelry, and her breath seemed to stop in her throat.
    Opening it, Henri thumbed quickly to a page near the end andhanded the book to her. “There. I recognized it from the name, of course, and from your description.”
    Erika’s hands trembled as she picked up her reading glasses from on top of the attempted novel. As she put them on, the picture jumped sharply into focus. There was no need for her to read the description. The room seemed to recede, and with an effort she fought back the tide of memory.
    She looked up at Henri, uncomprehending. “But this is not possible. I never thought to see this again.”
    Henri reached out and set the catalog aside, and it was only when he gathered her hands between his that she realized hers were icy cold. “I don’t see how this can be a mistake, Erika.” Very gently, he added, “Perhaps the time has come for the past to give back.”
     
    The party had reached the pudding and coffee stage, and Gemma had, at last, begun to relax. She’d been glad to see Chief Superintendent Childs again— Denis, she reminded herself—and his wife, Diane, had proved charming, as talkative as he was self-contained. Her own boss, Mark Lamb, was an old police college friend of Duncan’s, and Gemma had met his wife, Christine, often at departmental functions.
    Everyone exclaimed over the house, the roasted salmon and fennel had proved a great success, and the only thing marring Gemma’s warm glow of accomplishment was the fact that Doug Cullen and Melody Talbot didn’t seem to have hit it off particularly well.
    She had just stood to refill coffee cups when the kitchen phone rang. From the other end of the table, Kincaid met her eyes and lifted a brow in question.
    Shaking her head, she mouthed, “I’ll get it.” It was the home line, not her mobile, so it was not likely to be work. Her heart gave an anxious little jerk, as it always did when the boys were out, even though she knew they were with Wesley Howard, who often looked after them and was very responsible.
    Excusing herself, she made her way to the kitchen, coffeepot in hand, and snatched the phone from its cradle on the worktop.
    “Gemma?” The voice was female, and so tremulous that at first Gemma didn’t recognize it. “Gemma, it’s Erika. I’m so sorry to disturb you, and on a Saturday evening. I can hear that you have guests. I can ring back tomorrow if—”
    “No, no, Erika, it’s all right,” Gemma assured her, although surprised. She had met Erika when she was first posted to Notting Hill, and although they’d developed a friendship that Gemma valued, she’d never known Erika to call except to issue an invitation to tea or lunch, or to reply to an invitation from Gemma. Dr. Erika Rosenthal was a retired academic, a German Jew who had immigrated at the beginning of the war and made a noted career as a historian, and although Gemma had felt flattered by the older woman’s