Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  We can now count ourselves among the Survivors. We stayed up through the wee hours, and at dawn we punted to Grantchester for breakfast, a bit bedraggled but still game. There we met up with Adam’s friend Darcy Eliot and his date, an insipid blond girl from Girton who hadn’t a sensible word to say about anything. It was too bad, really, because I think Darcy is destined to be one of us. Not only is he smashingly good-looking and charming and a promising poet, but his mother is Margery Lester, the novelist. Talk about icing on the cake! You know how much I love her books-you’re the one who introduced me to them. I daren’t allow myself to hope that I might meet her one day, and if I did I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to think of a thing to say.

  Picture me, curled up in my window niche in my nightdress, scribbling away to you. The morning light has gone all soft and shadowless, and if I close my eyes I think I can smell the faintest hint of rain through the open window. My ball gown lies discarded across the chair, a bit tawdry, perhaps, in daylight, and for a moment I feel bereft, Cinderella the morning after. This time won’t come again, and I wonder if I can bear to let it go.

  Needs must, though, as Nan would say, and my eyelids feel heavy as the best parlor curtains, thick and velvety, with the scratch of old dust. One more thing to tell you, though, the best last. When we finally straggled back to Cambridge, my exam results had been posted on the boards outside the Senate House. It was a good thing I had Adam to hold me up. My knees went all jelly and I had to close my eyes while he read them to me, because I couldn’t bear to look myself. But it was all right. I did better than I expected, in fact, I really did quite shockingly well.

  But nicest of all, darling Mother, is that we’ll have all the Long Vacation to be together. I’ll have to study, of course, for they don’t expect me to be idle, and it will take me another week or so here to organize all the books and things I’ll need over the summer. Then the counties will click by outside the train windows, and you’ll be waiting at the station with the old Morris. And maybe Nan will come, too, and you’ll bring Shelley, who will pant and tail-wag in doggy anticipation, and then I will be home.

  Lydia

  Gemma regretted her decision more with every passing mile. After their disagreement last Sunday over his visit to his ex-wife (You started a row, she reminded herself), she and Duncan had spent the workweek avoiding one another. It wasn’t that they made a habit of spending every minute together, but he usually came round to her flat several evenings during the week, and when circumstances permitted she went to his. By Friday, having found herself missing him dreadfully, she faced up to the fact that she was going to have to apologize.

  She’d caught him in his office just as he was slipping into his jacket. “Um, could we have a word?” she asked a bit hesitantly. “I thought maybe we could go round the pub for a drink-that is, if you’re not too busy.”

  Kincaid had stopped shuffling papers into his briefcase. “Business or personal?” he asked, looking up at her, still pleasantly neutral.

  “Personal.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Are you buying?”

  She smiled. His teasing was a good sign that he wasn’t still too miffed with her. “You’re tight as a miser’s bum, but I suppose I can stand you a drink.”

  “That’s settled, then,” he said, and ushered her out the door.

  Without discussion they walked towards the pub on Wilfred Street, not too far from the Yard, where they’d gone for afterwork drinks since they first became partners. A surprisingly bitter wind had sprung up during the course of the day, and by the time they reached the pub they felt grateful for the warmth of the closely packed room. Gemma watched for a table to open up while Kincaid braved the crush at the bar. “I’ll let you off the hook tonight,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the haze of smoke. “But next time, it’s on you.”

  They had a favorite table, in the corner near the gas fire, and Gemma thought it a good omen when the couple occupying it stood up just as Kincaid appeared bearing their drinks. She dived for it like a rugby forward, and beamed up at him when he reached her.

  “Good job,” he said as he waited for her to wipe up the drink rings and crumbs with a tissue she’d found in her handbag; then he set the drinks down and slid in beside her. He raised his glass to her. “It’s been a long week.”

  He’d given her an opening, Gemma thought, and she’d kick herself if she didn’t take it. She took a sip of her shandy to wet her lips, and plunged ahead. “I’m sorry about last Sunday. About what I said. I was way over the mark, and it was none of my business.” She’d been studying her beer mat intently-now she raised her eyes to his. “It’s just that… I know it sounds stupid… but the idea of your seeing her makes me feel… uncomfortable.” She looked away again.

  He was silent for a long moment, and she wondered just how big a fool she had made of herself. Then he said, “I know. I should have realized from the first.” Startled, she looked up and started to speak, but he continued, “But you haven’t any need to feel uncomfortable. Or threatened.”

  She made a small gesture, halfway between a shrug and a nod of assent, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

  Moving his glass a fraction of an inch on the beer mat, he added, “I have to admit that it threw me a bit, seeing Vic again. We’d left a lot of things unfinished.”

  “Did you…” Gemma stopped and swallowed. “I mean, have you resolved them?” she finished carefully.

  “I’ve been thinking about it all week. And I’ve found, rather to my surprise, that I like her very much. But I’m not still in love with her.” He met her eyes. “Vic said she knew, somehow, that I had someone waiting, and I said I thought I did.”

  Gemma felt herself flush with shame at the thought of the reception she’d given him. “And this thing she asked you to look into-what did your friend in Cambridge say about it?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

  “It wasn’t his case, but he let me see the files.” Kincaid shrugged. “And I think there are some very odd things about it, but I don’t see what I can do.”

  “Have you told her yet?” Gemma asked, not having reached the point where she felt comfortable saying Vic.

  Shaking his head, he said, “Thought I’d better do it in person. And I wanted to go over the notes I made from the files with her, in case she found any of it helpful. I’ve rung her and said I’d come again on Sunday.” He paused, looking at Gemma, then smiled his most winning smile. “Would you go with me this time? I could use some moral support.”

  She managed to nod yes, and before she could backtrack, he took her hand in his and said, “Are you busy tonight? I’ve missed you.”

  Gemma was suddenly very aware of the shape of his fingers covering hers, the day’s-end shadow along the line of his jaw, and his knee touching hers under the table. She cleared her throat. “I told Hazel I might be a bit late tonight, end of the week and all…”

  He grinned. “Clever girl. Come to the flat. We’ll collect a take-away for dinner-unless you’d rather go out somewhere posh?” Her expression must have been answer enough, because he pulled her up, leaving their unfinished drinks on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

  And so they had made up very satisfactorily, and on Saturday they had spent the day together, taking Toby to Regent’s Park Zoo.

  Now it was inevitably Sunday and they were speeding down the motorway towards Cambridge. “When are you going to buy a new car?” Gemma asked, grousing to cover her increasing nervousness. “I swear these springs have poked holes in my bum.” She shifted in the passenger seat of Kincaid’s Midget, trying to find a more comfortable position. “And this window’s starting to drip at the join again.” It was drizzling, just enough to coat the windscreen with the slimy muck thrown up by the other cars’ tires, but not enough to wash it clean.

  She glanced over at him. “I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother. ‘It’s a classic,’” she mimicked, rolling her eyes. “Now, an old Bentley is w
hat I’d call a classic. Or a Roller. Something with style and lots of chrome. This is not a classic.”

  “That’ll give you and Vic something to talk about,” he said with a wicked smile, then he sighed and added, “But I suppose you’re right. It is getting a bit doddery. And it makes it difficult taking Toby anywhere.”

  Gemma absorbed this unexpected remark in silence. She’d no idea such concerns had even occurred to him, and the thought implied an intended permanence to their relationship that both pleased and terrified her.

  “That’s true enough,” she finally replied, as offhandedly as she could manage. “For outings and things.”

  “We could go to the seaside in the summer, the three of us. Toby would like that, don’t you think?” He flicked on his indicator. “Here’s our turnoff.”

  “Mmmm,” Gemma answered distractedly. If only she’d said no when he’d invited her to come with him today, she thought. Surely she could have come up with some brilliantly clever spur-of-the-moment excuse. A tactful and gracious refusal-a sick aunt in Gloucestershire would have done nicely. She unclasped her hands and swallowed against the tight feeling in her throat. The mild curiosity she’d felt about Vic, and even the barely admitted desire to do a bit of possessive crowing over Kincaid, seemed to have evaporated entirely and she wished herself anywhere else.

  But a few short moments later Gemma glimpsed a straggle of cottages facing the road, then a few semidetached villas, and she knew they were coming into Grantchester. Kincaid slowed, turned right into the High Street, then almost immediately left into the drive of a slate-roofed cottage washed in Suffolk pink. Even in the rain the color looked warm and welcoming, and Gemma told herself that perhaps the woman who’d chosen a pink house might not be as bad as she’d imagined. In any case, there was nothing for it now but to carry on as if she met her lover’s ex-wives every day.

  She waved away Kincaid’s offer of an umbrella. Opening and shutting it would be more trouble than it was worth in the soft drizzle, and she needn’t worry about her clothes since she’d refused to dress up for the occasion. A natural wool jumper over a printed cotton skirt, lace-up boots, her hair pulled loosely back in a clip at the nape of her neck-all good enough for her usual weekends, and so would have to do for this. Gemma climbed out of the car bareheaded. She walked slowly to the porch, enjoying the feel of the cool moisture beading on her face and hair after the overheated interior of the car. By the time he rang the bell she felt more collected, and readied her face for a polite smile.

  Then the door flew back with a crash, and Gemma found herself staring down into the inquisitive blue eyes of a boy with a shock of straw-colored hair flopping on his forehead and a faint dusting of freckles across his nose. He wore a faded rugby shirt several sizes too large, jeans, and the dirtiest white socks she’d ever seen. In his right hand, he held a slice of bread spread with Marmite.

  “Um, you must be Kit,” said Kincaid. “I’m Duncan and this is Gemma. We’re here to see your mum.”

  “Oh, yeah. Hullo.” The boy smiled, a toothy grin that won Gemma instantly, then took an enormous bite of his bread and said through it, “You’d better come in.” He turned away and started down the hall without waiting to see if they followed.

  They wiped their feet on the mat, then hurried to catch up with him as he disappeared round a turn in the passage. As they came up behind him, he shouted, “Mum!” at ear-splitting volume and entered a room on the right.

  Gemma had a vague impression of a small room crowded with books and papers, but her gaze was held by the woman who sat at the computer. The heels of her long, slender hands rested on the keyboard, but as Kit came in she swung round and turned a startled face to them.

  “Duncan. I didn’t hear the door. The bell’s not working properly.”

  “It just makes a little pinging sound, but I can hear it,” volunteered Kit as he propped himself on a small clear space at the end of his mother’s desk.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re here,” said Vic, smiling. She took off the pair of tortoiseshell glasses she’d been wearing and stood up. A bit shorter than Gemma, she was slender in a fine-boned way, with straight fair hair falling to her shoulders and a delicate face bare of makeup. She wore a long aubergine-colored tunic over black leggings, and would, thought Gemma, have looked elegant in a flour sack.

  “You must be Gemma,” said Vic, holding out a hand to her. So he’d rung ahead and warned her, thought Gemma as she touched Vic’s cool, soft fingers with her own. She glanced at Kincaid and was not surprised to see a self-satisfied smirk on his face. He was enjoying this, the bastard. Suddenly she wished she’d at least brushed her hair and checked her lipstick.

  “Come through into the sitting room,” said Vic. “Kit and I have made a proper tea. All that’s lacking is to boil the kettle, and that won’t take but a minute.”

  “You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,” protested Gemma as she stepped back to let Vic pass.

  “Actually, it’s a treat-and an excuse to make Kit the goodies he likes. We don’t have guests very often.” Vic led them back the way they’d come and through a door at the opposite end of the passage.

  Following her, Gemma saw a comfortable, lived-in sort of room with a squashy sofa and armchairs, fringed lamps, and the Sunday papers neatly stacked on an end table beside silver-framed photos. At the far end French doors led into the rain-damp garden.

  “Make yourselves comfortable, and Kit will light the fire. Won’t you, sweetie?”

  Kit made a disgusted face at his mother as he knelt by the hearth. “I told you not to call me that.”

  “Oops. Sorry.” Vic grinned unrepentantly, and suddenly looked about ten years old herself.

  “Can I help?” asked Gemma, feeling she ought to offer.

  “No, we’ve got it all under control. Kit’s promised to be my dogsbody today-it’s my reward for making scones and cake.” Vic put a hand on Kit’s back as he returned to her, and pushed him gently out of the room.

  When the door had closed behind them, Gemma joined Kincaid, who stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands.

  After a moment, Gemma broke the silence. “She’s nice.”

  Kincaid glanced down at her. “What did you expect?” he asked, sounding definitely amused. “Horns and tail?”

  “Of course not. It’s just…” Deciding she’d better not dig herself into an inescapable hole, Gemma changed the subject. “Did you meet Kit when you came before?”

  “He was away that day, visiting his grandparents, I think.”

  Slowly, Gemma said, “He seems so familiar… Maybe it’s just that I imagine Toby will look like that in a few years.” Toby’s hair would darken to just that barley color, and he would move with the same coltish grace. Already Toby was fast losing his baby softness. Soon he’d grow into Kit’s sort of stretched leanness, as if every calorie spared from upward growth was shunted directly into the production of kinetic energy.

  The hallway door creaked open and Kit shouldered his way through the gap, bearing a heavily laden tea tray. Hastily clearing the table for him, Gemma said, “I can see why you like an excuse for your mum to make a proper tea. And I think it’s a good thing we didn’t have any lunch.”

  “She’ll do scones or cake sometimes if it’s just the two of us, but not both,” Kit said, glancing up at Gemma as he knelt with the tray. He transferred plates and dishes from tray to tabletop, then arranged them with meticulous care. A platter of scones, a dish of strawberry jam, a dish of cream, a plate of thin sandwiches on brown bread, another with thick slices of raisin-studded cake-all apparently had to occupy a certain position, and Gemma knew better than to offer help.

  Sitting back on his heels as he surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied expression, Kit said, “Mum’s bringing the tea.”

  “I thought your mum couldn’t cook,” Kincaid said from his stance before the fire.

  “She can’t, really,” Kit admitted. “She only learned these s
pecial things for me. And anybody can make sandwiches.” Reaching towards a slice of cake, he glanced furtively up, then smoothly returned the offending hand to his knee when he saw them watching. “I can cook,” he offered as a distraction. “I can do scrambled eggs on toast, and sausages, and spaghetti.”

  “Sounds a perfectly good repertoire to me,” Kincaid said, then he nodded towards the platter. “Go on, have some cake.”

  Kit shook his head. “She’ll kill me if I forget my manners. I’m not to touch anything until the tea’s served.”

  “Then I’d not take the risk,” Kincaid said, grinning. “It’s hardly worth the consequences.”

  Pushing himself up from the floor, Kit straddled the arm of the sofa and studied Kincaid curiously. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?” he said after a moment. “Mum told me. Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”

  “Well, it’s my day off, for one thing. And I’m an investigator, and investigators don’t usually wear uniforms.”

  Kit thought about this for a moment. “Does that mean you can ask people things and they don’t know you’re a copper? Cool.”

  “Whenever we question anyone we have to show them our identification,” Kincaid said a bit apologetically. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair.” When he saw Kit’s disappointed expression, he nodded towards Gemma and added, “Gemma’s a police officer, too.”

  Kit’s eyes widened. “No way. I thought that was just on the telly. The only copper I know is Harry. He’s the bobby here in the village, and he’s thick as two planks, you know-”

  “Kit!” Vic had come in quietly, carrying a second tray. “What a horrid thing to say.”

  “You know it’s true.” Kit sounded more injured than abashed. “You said so yourself.”

  “I said no such thing. Harry’s very nice.” Vic looked daggers at her son.

  “Nice is the first requirement for village bobbies,” Kincaid put in diplomatically “Except we call it community policing.”