“I didn’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter now. But I always thought I might have changed her mind, or at least given her some comfort-”
“You think she’d have told you what she meant to do? Or that you’d somehow have divined it, when I didn’t?” said Nathan, with a spark of anger.
“Can’t you see her intention now, looking back?” asked Adam reasonably.
“No, I bloody well can’t.” Nathan pushed the tartan rug from his legs. “Vic asked me the same thing, but Lydia sounded perfectly ordinary that day, only perhaps a little excited about something, a bit urgent. And to think I was always glad you were spared-” Nathan broke off, and Adam thought that even now he found it difficult to talk about how he had found her.
In the silence, Adam became suddenly aware of the sparrows chirping in the hedge, and of the warmth of the sun on his face. After a moment, he said, “But it would have given me some sort of… closure. You see, I understand how you felt… when you couldn’t see Vic.”
“Vic and Lydia,” said Nathan under his breath. “Lydia and Vic. They’re so intertwined now that sometimes I can’t separate what happened to one from the other.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Adam. “But it is odd that Vic should have a weak heart as well…” He thought again of his visit with Vic, and of what they’d talked about. “All those questions Vic asked about Lydia’s suicide-she didn’t believe in it, did she?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” said Chief Superintendent Denis Childs. “Or that I won’t yank you back here faster than you can blink if I get the least complaint of interference from the Cambridge force.” His chair creaked as he sat back and sighed. “Don’t be a bloody fool, man. I know Alec Byrne. He’s a good man, even if his predecessor may have been a bit of a slacker. Let him do his job.”
“I have no intention of keeping him from it,” Kincaid had said, and thanking his chief, had let himself out of Childs’s office. And it was true, he thought, as he picked up the M11 towards Cambridge. But it was also true that he had prior knowledge that Alec Byrne was not inclined to take seriously, and that he was bound by both duty and need to make use of it.
The bag containing Vic’s papers and manuscript sat beside him, wedged into the Midget’s passenger seat. He was happy enough now to turn them over to Byrne, for before he’d left the Yard last night he’d photocopied every single scrap of paper. Then he’d stayed up reading until he had some sense of what Vic had been doing.
The biography, though incomplete, was as seamless and as compelling as a novel. He’d followed Lydia, the solitary child, as she grew into an ambitious young woman, seen her give up scholarship, and, before his body had forced him to sleep, seen her marry. Vic’s intense and compassionate account of Lydia’s devotion to Morgan Ashby had made him wonder if Vic had once felt that way, too.
He intended to find out why Morgan Ashby had refused to see Vic. And he intended to see Vic’s friend and neighbor, Nathan Winter, but first he had better tackle Alec Byrne.
* * *
“I’d like to see the pathologist’s report, Alec,” he said, sitting once more in Byrne’s office. “I’ve been a good boy-surely you can have no objection.”
“And surely you’ve pushed the bounds of friendship and obligation far enough. You’ve interfered with my crime scene, for which I could have made official complaint, and on top of that you’ve been bloody rude and overbearing.”
This time Kincaid controlled his impulse to anger. Calling Byrne’s bluff would not get him what he wanted, but groveling very well might. “You’re right, Alec,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’d think you’d have done the same in my position. Vic is dead, and I don’t have the luxury of good taste. What possible harm can it do to let me see the pathologist’s report? I might even be able to offer some helpful suggestions.”
Byrne hesitated, his long fingers steepled together under his chin. Finally, he said, “I’ll tell you what she said, and you’ll have to be satisfied with that. Dr. McClellan’s heart failed due to an overdose of some form of digitalis, as you know. The pathologist couldn’t hazard a guess as to when the poison was administered, because the different forms of digitalis have varied reaction times. Digitoxin is very quick acting, while digoxin, on the other hand, takes several hours. Most cases of digitalis poisoning result from therapeutic overdose rather than homicidal intent, but we’ve tracked down Dr. McClellan’s physician, and he confirms that she had no history of heart disease and was not currently taking any medication.”
“What medication did Lydia take?” Kincaid asked, wishing he could remember more of the detail from the file he’d read.
Byrne pulled another folder from his desk drawer, and Kincaid was glad to see that he had at least kept Lydia’s file at hand. “Let’s see,” Byrne muttered as he opened the folder and skimmed the pages, using his finger to mark his place. “Lydia took digoxin for a minor heart arrhythmia, although there’s a note here from the pathologist that digoxin is not usually the first choice for that condition, because the therapeutic dose is so near the toxic dose. If Lydia had not had a previous history of attempted suicide, he would have been inclined to rule it an accidental death.”
“But they can’t tell if Vic was given the same thing?”
Byrne steepled his fingers again. “No. Nor can we even be certain that Lydia Brooke actually died from an overdose of her own medication, even though digoxin was present in her body, because-as I understand it, and I’m no chemist-digoxin is one of the metabolic by-products of digitoxin.” He glanced at the report. “The twelve-hydroxy analog, to be exact, if that’s any help.”
“So basically what you’re telling me is that it all comes down to the same thing in the end,” said Kincaid. “Was there anything else?”
Switching folders, Byrne said, “Dr. McClellan had a trace of alcohol in her blood, but nothing else of interest that I can see.”
“So she might have had wine or beer with her lunch?” asked Kincaid. He didn’t remember that Vic had been fond of drinking during the day, but perhaps she’d changed her habits.
“Her stomach was empty, but that doesn’t necessarily tell us anything, as she’d have digested her lunch by that time anyway. We have yet to confirm where or with whom she had a meal.”
Kincaid refrained from saying that they’d had almost forty-eight hours, and just what exactly had they been doing? Instead he made an effort to say mildly, “And did you turn up anything in the garden?”
Byrne grimaced in disgust. “You’d think a herd of cows had been milling about on the river side of that sodding gate. We’ve taken a few casts, but I don’t expect much from them.”
More likely every busybody in the village, thought Kincaid, and any passerby curious enough to wonder what the villagers were gawking at. But he said noncommittally, “Mmmm. And the house?”
“Nothing of interest so far, although it looks as though Dr. McClellan might have meant to make herself a cup of tea when she… um, lost consciousness. According to the doc, she might have felt a headache coming on, or some nausea. If she hadn’t been alone, it’s quite possible she could have been saved.”
Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment. Dear God, he thought, don’t let Kit ever hear that. The child would carry enough guilt as it was. “What about time of death?” he asked. “Could the pathologist narrow it down at all?”
Smiling, Byrne said, “That’s about as likely as squeezing blood out of a turnip. Her son said he thought she was still breathing when he found her at five o’clock, and I think we’ll have to take that as fact, at least for now.” He shuffled the papers back into their respective files. “The coroner held the inquest this morning, and I believe the family has asked the vicar to arrange a small memorial service, as the release of the body may be delayed indefinitely. They feel the boy needs some sort of closure.”
For once, Kincaid had to agree with his former in-laws, but he felt certain that any real cons
ideration for Kit’s feelings came from Bob rather than Eugenia. “Do you know when they’ve scheduled the service?”
“I believe it’s Friday at one o’clock, in the church at Grantchester.”
“Tomorrow? They have pushed things a bit, haven’t they?” The formal arrangements made Kincaid realize he hadn’t rung his own parents, and that he must do so, as painful as it would be. His mother, especially, had been fond of Vic and had been very distressed at the breakup of their marriage, though she’d never criticized either of them.
“So, what’s next then, Alec?” he asked as neutrally as he could manage.
“The usual routine. We’ve started the house-to-house in the village, in case anyone saw anything unusual that afternoon. And we’ll interview her colleagues at work, of course.”
In other words, sod all, thought Kincaid, and said, “Of course.”
Byrne sat forwards suddenly, palms flat on the desk. “I don’t need your help with this investigation, Duncan, and I’ll thank you not to interfere any further.”
“Oh, come on, Alec, be reasonable,” said Kincaid at his most persuasive. “You can’t stop me talking to people. After all, I can’t make them answer, and I can’t threaten to throw them in the nick, so why should you mind? And if I should just happen to find out something, you can be sure I’ll let you know. As far as I can see, it’s all in your favor. Have you any leads on the husband, by the way?”
The question effectively took the wind out of Byrne’s sails, and he answered grudgingly, “He’s no longer at the forwarding address he left with his college. We’re checking to see if the Home Office has any record of his reentering the country.”
“Didn’t he take one of his graduate students with him? Maybe her people would know where they are.” Kincaid could tell from Byrne’s expression that he hadn’t been privy to this bit of information. “I’m sure someone in his department can turn up the girl’s name and particulars for you, with a little official prodding,” he added, grinning. “Don’t worry, Alec. I won’t expect you to tell me I’ve been helpful, even off the record.”
Byrne sat back with an air of weary resignation. “Just don’t let me hear anyone complain you’ve been harassing them, or misrepresenting yourself as having any authority in this investigation,” he said, and on that friendly basis they parted.
Kincaid had a hurried and mediocre lunch at one of the pubs in Grantchester. When he’d finished, he waited until the barman had a free moment and made his way to the bar. “Do you happen to know where Nathan Winter lives?” he asked.
The man’s round, friendly face creased with instant concern. “It’s just two cottages up the way,” he said, pointing back towards Cambridge. “The white one with the black trim and the thatched roof. Lots of flowers in the front.” Studying Kincaid with undisguised curiosity, he added, “Do you know about our Dr. McClellan, then?” He shook his head. “Who’d have thought it? A beautiful young woman like her dying like that. And who’d have thought Nathan would go absolutely berserk when he heard she was dead? Tried to break her door down, he did, until the neighbors pulled him off and got old Dr. Warren to come and dress his hand.”
“You don’t say?” Kincaid looked suitably impressed. “Have you known Mr. Winter long?”
“Since we were kids at school. That’s his parents’ cottage he has now. They died a few years ago, and Nathan came back from Cambridge and fixed it up. His wife had died and I suppose it gave him something new to think about.”
It was the mark of the truly insular villager, thought Kincaid, that the man would refer to a city less than two miles away as someplace from which to come back.
“Poor man,” added the barman with easy sympathy. “You’d think he’d had more than his share of grief as it was. And we thought he and Dr. McClellan were no more than nodding acquaintances. Just goes to show you never really know about people, doesn’t it?” he said with great satisfaction.
Kincaid thanked him and took his leave before the man’s curiosity could turn in his direction. Nosy neighbors were one of the world’s greatest blessings, he thought as he went out into the sunshine, and that little conversation had been well worth the processed chicken and chips.
Leaving his car in the pub car park, he walked up the road, thinking about what he’d learned. Had Vic been in love with Nathan Winter? And if so, why should he be surprised she hadn’t told him? He’d had no claim on her personal life, and he’d certainly no cause to feel this sudden stab of jealousy. Whatever the truth of the matter, it meant that Vic’s relationship with Winter had been much more complicated than he realized.
He found the cottage easily. Its sleek, well-kept air was unmistakable, as was the hand of a master gardener. Tulips filled the beds on either side of the front door-tall, elegant, and pale pink in the background against the whitewashed cottage walls, then shorter, peony-headed tulips in rose, and beneath those the deep blue of forget-me-nots. Kincaid bent and picked one of the small blue flowers and slipped it in his pocket, then rang the bell.
The man who answered the door wore a dog collar, and held a bunch of herbs in his hand. Tall and thin, with curly graying hair and spectacles that slipped down his nose, he gave Kincaid a friendly smile. “Hullo. Can I help you?”
Covering his surprise, Kincaid said, “Um, I was looking for Nathan Winter, actually.”
“I’m not sure Nathan’s up to having visitors just now. If I could just tell him-”
“Who the hell is it, Adam?” called a deeper voice from the back of the house.
“My name is Duncan Kincaid. I’m Vic McClellan’s ex-husband.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. You’d better come in, then.” He stepped back so that Kincaid could enter. “I’m Adam Lamb, by the way.”
So this was Adam, Kincaid thought, glad now he’d read at least part of Vic’s manuscript.
As Adam led him down the passageway, he said quietly, “Nathan’s been very upset. You won’t-” He broke off with a glance at Kincaid. “But I suppose this has been very difficult for you as well.”
They reached a door, and Adam led him through it into a large room at the back of the house. “We’ve been in the garden this morning,” he said, “and we’d just come in for some lunch.”
Kincaid took in a living area to his right, done in comfortable, masculine-looking reds, and beyond it French windows overlooking a garden. Then he saw the man sitting at a table to his left, in a sort of kitchen-dining area. His white hair made a startling contrast to his smooth, tanned skin and dark eyes, and as he rose Kincaid saw that he was stockily built. He looked strong and fit, and, when not ill and exhausted, would probably radiate an immense vitality. No wonder Vic had been smitten.
“Nathan,” Adam was saying, “this is Duncan Kincaid. He says he’s Vic’s ex-husband.”
Kincaid saw the flash of recognition in Nathan’s eyes at his name, before Adam’s elaboration. So Vic had spoken of him. The thought gave him a small twinge of satisfaction.
They stared at each other for a moment before Nathan came forwards with his hand outstretched. He seemed to realize at the last moment that his right hand was bandaged, and quickly substituted his left for Kincaid to shake. “Come and join us,” he said, gesturing towards a place at the small square table.
“We were just having egg and tomato sandwiches,” said Adam, dropping the herbs he’d been carrying on the kitchen worktop. “They may not be up to Nathan’s culinary standards, but they’re perfectly acceptable.”
“I’ve just had lunch, thank you,” said Kincaid as he took the indicated seat. A tantalizing odor came from something simmering on the cooker in the kitchen, and he felt his greasy meal sitting heavily in his stomach.
“Tea, then.” Adam began clearing the plates from the table, including Nathan’s half-eaten sandwich. “I’ll make us all some.”
Kincaid looked on with interest as Nathan started to rise in protest, then sank back into his chair. Nathan sat watching Adam with an expression of mild c
onsternation, as if he were unaccustomed to being looked after, but Adam moved about his friend’s kitchen with competent familiarity, chopping the herbs and scraping them into the simmering stew. “I’ve got a vegetable hot pot put together for Nathan’s dinner,” Adam called out. “It smells lovely, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I only know how to do vegetarian things, so poor Nathan will have to suffer it.”
Against the clatter of crockery coming from the kitchen, Nathan said, “Vic spoke of you a good deal. She was very fond of you, I think.”
“Did she?” Kincaid answered inadequately. Searching for something else to say, he added, “We hadn’t seen one another in years, until just recently. It seemed to me that she had changed a great deal, but now I’m not sure that I ever really knew her in the first place.”
Nathan rubbed absently at the bandage on his hand. “Nor am I,” he said, meeting Kincaid’s eyes. “There’s no way I can ever know now.”
Adam returned with the tea things, and as he set them out, Nathan said, “I understand the police rang you.”
“The officer in charge knew of my… connection with Vic,” Kincaid said as he accepted a cup of tea from Adam. “A good thing, too, as Kit had no one with him other than the police constable.”
“Do you know what’s happened to Kit? I’ve been worried sick about him.” Nathan’s hand was unsteady as he reached for his teacup, and Kincaid noticed that Adam didn’t relinquish his grip on it until the cup sat firmly on the table.
“He’s gone to his grandparents’-Vic’s parents’, that is. And I know they’ve been in touch with the vicar here in Grantchester, so he might have an idea how Kit is doing.”
“The vicar?” Nathan said, as if he didn’t quite follow.
“Funeral arrangements,” said Adam, with a questioning look at Kincaid.
“A memorial service. It’s tomorrow at one o’clock.”
“So soon? But they’ve not let anyone know-”
“I’m sure Father Denny meant to come round this afternoon, Nathan,” interrupted Adam, attempting to soothe him.
Dreaming of the bones Page 19
