Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  “Of course.” Francesca gave her husband’s hand a squeeze as she rose.

  “Don’t leave it too long, now,” said Morgan as he came with them to the door, and Gemma noticed for the first time the faintest Welsh lilt in his accent. “You’d hate to miss out on an opportunity like this.”

  Husband and wife stood shoulder to shoulder on the step, the picture of harmony. But as Gemma turned away, some trick of the afternoon light threw a faint shadow between them, and she wondered if Francesca Ashby were truly prepared to live without Lydia’s ghost.

  * * *

  Kincaid angled the Midget into one of the pay-and-display spaces across the street from the University English Faculty and jerked up the lever on the parking brake. He hadn’t realized how much his lack of official status would handicap him, and he’d driven back to Cambridge still seething with frustration over his aborted visit to Morgan Ashby. The man must be a certifiable lunatic, shouting and waving a bloody shotgun about like a toy. And if Vic had received the same sort of reception, it didn’t surprise him that she’d made no further effort to contact Lydia Brooke’s ex-husband.

  He’d have to suggest that Alec Byrne pay the man a visit-suitably accompanied by brawny constables-but in the meantime he hoped to find more accommodating sources of information here, where his nonofficial status might prove more help then hindrance.

  After a glance at the clouds massing in the northern sky, he pulled up the Midget’s top and snapped it closed, then crossed the street to the building where he assumed Vic had spent her last day.

  Laura Miller, the department secretary, sat at her desk in the reception area, pressing the phone to her ear with one hand and scribbling with the other. She glanced up at the sound of the door, and her lips parted in soundless distress as she recognized him.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, dragging her attention back to the phone. “Listen, could I ring you back? Ta.”

  She replaced the phone in its cradle, still staring at Kincaid, and he was dismayed to see her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You have no idea… We all are. I don’t know what to say.”

  He slid into the chair opposite her desk without being asked, smiling to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. “You don’t have to say anything. It must be pretty dreadful for you.”

  “I’ve just been ringing everyone I can think of about the memorial service, but it’s still such a shock. I’ll ring off, thinking, “I’ll have to tell Vic the absurd thing so-and-so said,’ and then it hits me.”

  “I know.” He cleared his throat, searching for a less painful topic. “I only learned about the service this morning, from the police.” At the last word Laura’s normally rosy face paled even further, and he cursed himself for an idiot. That was one he’d meant to ease into.

  “They were here again before lunch, and now they say they’re treating it as a murder inquiry!” Her dark eyes looked enormous behind her thick spectacles. “I simply can’t believe it. Why would anyone want to kill Vic? There must be some mistake.”

  “I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, wishing he had some comfort to offer her. “I’m sorry.”

  “But…” Laura seemed to realize the futility of arguing, and made an effort to smile. “I’m sorry for being difficult about it all,” she said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and swiping at a tear that had trickled onto her cheek. “It’s just that I can’t seem to stop crying. Vic and I didn’t just work together-we were friends. My son Colin goes to the same school as Kit, they’re even in the same form. The poor bloody kid.”

  Kincaid didn’t want to talk about Kit-just thinking of the boy threatened to breach the wall he’d built round his own emotions-but Laura plowed on without waiting for a response.

  “You’d think he’d been through enough, wouldn’t you?” She jabbed at her glasses again as a pink flush of anger crept into her cheeks. “And that anybody with an ounce of feeling would know he needs to go on with his life as normally as possible-anyone but his grandmother. I rang them and suggested that Kit come stay with us after the service tomorrow. He could go back to school, keep up with his sport and his friends, and he’d at least have something to think about until things are sorted out with his dad.”

  “No go, I take it?”

  “You’d have thought we meant to sell him into slavery. And cause Eugenia Potts a personal injury.” Laura closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head in disgust, then blinked and gave a startled exclamation. “But you know them, of course,” she said, staring at Kincaid in consternation. “Vic’s parents. Well, I’m sorry if I was out of line, but I’m that furious.”

  “You’re not out of line. And I don’t mind at all.” He added, smiling, “Eugenia can be a bit… There’s no diplomatic way to put it, is there?”

  Laura smiled back. “How did Vic come from such a family?”

  “I used to tell her they must have found her under a cabbage plant,” he said. He’d forgotten that.

  “Have you any influence with them?” asked Laura. “The father doesn’t seem unreasonable. I’m sure he’d see that it would be better for Kit to be in a familiar environment with children his own age.”

  Kincaid shook his head. “I agree with you, but I’m afraid any intervention on my part would only prejudice them against your idea. Eugenia doesn’t care for me, to put it mildly.”

  “I’d call that a sterling recommendation of your character,” said Laura, and this time the smile reached her eyes.

  “Good,” he said, taking advantage of the opening. “Because I want to ask a favor of you.” He hesitated, not sure how far he should commit himself. In the end, he compromised, telling her what he wanted but not why. “It would help me to know how Vic spent her day on Tuesday. I’d like to talk to anyone in the department who saw her.”

  “Those are the same questions the police asked.” Laura looked steadily at him.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a detective, too. Vic told me. Are you helping the local police?”

  “Not exactly.” He met her eyes. “This is personal.”

  Laura held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once, a signal of understanding. “I’ve got to run somethings to the printer”-she glanced at her watch-“now, as a matter of fact. But I’ll be back in a tic, and in the meantime, you could have a word with Iris-that’s Professor Winslow, if you remember, our Head of Department. And I think Dr. Eliot has a supervision finishing in about a quarter of an hour. You might catch him after that. The others are out for afternoon lectures, but then, they had heavy schedules on Tuesday afternoon as well, and probably wouldn’t be much use to you.” A model of efficiency now that he’d given her a direction, Laura pushed her chair back and stood up, then paused and plucked at the fabric of her plain, gray, long-sleeved dress. “I bought this yesterday,” she said. “I know mourning went out of fashion with the Victorians, but it felt right, somehow.”

  “They understood the use of symbols,” said Kincaid. “We could do worse than to remember it.”

  * * *

  Iris Winslow didn’t question Kincaid about his motives. She rose from her chair behind the scarred oak desk in her office and held out her hand to him as he sat down. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she said. Her sympathy, like Laura’s, seemed genuine, and he found it surprisingly hard to bear.

  But Iris Winslow was both tactful and perceptive, and without waiting for him to respond, she talked of how much she had liked Vic and of what it had been like to work with her, so that he began to feel more comfortable-and even, after a few moments, as if he’d been given an unexpected gift.

  “Thank you,” he said simply when she’d come to an end. “You’ve helped me fill in some of the blanks. You know I hadn’t seen Vic for a longtime until recently?”

  “She spoke of you, though-oh, not at first, of course, but as we came to know one another better. She thought well of you.”

  And he had let her down.

  Dr
. Winslow meant it as a comfort, he knew, and misunderstood his silence. “This has been too much for all of us,” she said, looking away from him, out the window that overlooked the graveled car park. “Vic’s death was shock enough, but then the police, this morning, saying she’d been murdered…” She shook her head slightly.

  “I know it’s difficult-”

  “No, it’s not just that. No one finds such news easy to accept under any circumstances. But for me, it’s tipped the scale. I’m tired, and I suddenly find I can’t cope with things in the way I always took for granted. I’ve decided to take early retirement.” She turned back to him and added, with a hint of amusement in her voice, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t said a word to anyone else.”

  “I’m outside the loop,” he offered. “I can’t pass judgment or demand an accounting of the consequences.”

  Dr. Winslow smiled. “Or perhaps I only think you’re too polite to do so.” She touched her forehead briefly, as if brushing at a gnat, and her brow creased. “Or perhaps it’s because you were close to Vic, and because of that I think you might understand. I saw something of myself in her, you see, and I suppose I had some unacknowledged wish that she might follow in my footsteps. And now it all seems rather pointless.”

  “I can understand that,” he said, wondering if in Iris Winslow Vic had found a woman capable of giving her the sort of support and encouragement she’d never had from her own mother. He sensed that Iris’s loss was real and deep, not manufactured for the sake of drawing attention to herself.

  “But your confidence does give me the right to express concern, Professor,” he continued. “And it seems to me that you’ve not even begun to get over the shock of Vic’s death, much less deal with the aftermath. Are you sure this isn’t a hasty decision?”

  She adjusted one of the silver frames on her desk, but it faced away from him and he couldn’t see the photo it contained. “I’ve been thinking of it for quite some time,” she said. “And it’s ironic that Vic’s death has removed one of the reasons for my hesitation.” Giving the edge of the frame a final touch, almost a pat, Dr. Winslow looked up at him. “There’s no doubt that Darcy Eliot will be asked to take over my position-it’s well deserved and none too soon. But Vic and Darcy were always squabbling like naughty children, and I have to admit I feared for her position without my intervention. Now there’s no need.”

  “Why didn’t they get along?” Kincaid remembered Vic’s veiled comments about problems with her colleagues.

  “Oh, it’s quite silly, really.” Dr. Winslow made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But university faculties are like any closed microcosm-the least little conflict or difference of opinion gets blown all out of proportion. Darcy didn’t approve of Vic writing a biography intended for popular consumption. He thought it didn’t reflect well on the department, which is more than a bit hypocritical of him, considering the success of his popular criticism.”

  “That’s why his name sounded familiar,” said Kincaid. “I’d been trying to place it. My mother’s quite fond of his books, but I’ve never read one myself.”

  “They’re very enjoyable-witty and well informed, if not always kind. And I personally have never been able to see why anything which encourages people to read, be it biography or criticism couched in terms a layman can understand, should be considered an embarrassment to the study of English literature.” For a moment, as Iris Winslow spoke, he had seen the truth of the resemblance between this large, plain woman and his former wife.

  Then Dr. Winslow rubbed at her forehead with blunt fingers and added wearily, “But the battle against elitism is a losing proposition, and I’m hanging up my sword. I’m going to sit in my garden and learn to enjoy books again-that was, after all, what brought me here in the first place.”

  “Are you feeling all right, Professor?” asked Kincaid, as she grimaced and continued to apply pressure to her forehead.

  “It’s just this damnable headache.” She lowered her hand and gave him a strained smile. “Since Tuesday. Hasn’t let up.”

  “You’ve been too kind to let me take so much of your time, especially when you weren’t well,” he said, preparing to rise. “But if you don’t mind, I have one more question.”

  She gave a nod of permission and waited, watching him intently.

  “Did you notice anything unusual about Vic on Tuesday?”

  Her lips tightened in an expression of regret. “I only saw her in the morning, I’m afraid. We had a brief talk about some faculty business, then I had an appointment for lunch, and afterwards a meeting at Newnham. But she seemed perfectly all right then.” Moving restlessly, she clasped her hands together on her desktop. “Of course now I wish I’d come back here after lunch, as illogical as such a desire is. It wouldn’t have changed anything, and I’d not have had the foreknowledge to say good-bye.”

  As Kincaid stood up, he looked round her office. Every available inch of wall space held bookshelves. The volumes overflowed onto desk and table, had even crept onto the extra chairs placed against the far wall, and the room had the faint musty smell of old paper and bindings. He waved a hand in a vague gesture towards the books. “If we humans were ever as logical as we’d like to believe, I doubt literature would have got very far, don’t you, Professor?”

  What he didn’t say was that he was just as guilty of human frailty as she-he wished the same futile wish, that he’d seen Vic just once more.

  * * *

  Alone in the reception area, Kincaid realized he’d forgotten to ask which office belonged to Darcy Eliot. He checked the other ground-floor doors, looking for Eliot’s nameplate, then started up the stairs.

  He found it on the second floor, across the corridor from Vic’s.

  A knock on the door brought a grumbled, “You’re bloody early, Matthews.” Kincaid opened the door and looked round it. Darcy Eliot sat half turned away from the door, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Without looking up, he said, “Why do you suppose God invented the watch, Matthews? Do you suppose he meant that man should be punctual, which by definition means arriving at a designated place neither early nor late?”

  “I’ll be sure to ask him next time we meet,” said Kincaid, amused.

  Eliot swiveled round with a start and frowned at Kincaid. “You’re not Matthews. For which you should probably be grateful. He’s a pimply little brute, and not likely to impress the world with his intellectual prowess. But I’m sure I know you-” His face lit in recognition. “You’re Victoria McClellan’s former policeman. Or is it former husband, still a policeman?”

  “The latter, I’m afraid.” Kincaid indicated a chair. “May I?”

  “Please do,” said Eliot. “And forgive my flippancy. Old habits and all that, but it is rather inappropriate under the circumstances.”

  “Dr. Winslow’s just been telling me that you had a habit of disagreeing with Vic,” Kincaid said, deciding on the direct approach.

  Eliot laced his fingers over his canary yellow waistcoat and leaned back in his chair. “And took great pleasure in it. In fact, my days seem quite surprisingly empty without the anticipation of our little sparring matches.” He frowned, drawing together his heavy, springing brows. “That may seem odd to you, Mr.-”

  “Kincaid.”

  “-Mr. Kincaid, but I assure you it meant a great deal to me. Victoria and I were the lone occupants of the aerie, as we liked to call this floor. I could have moved into one of the larger, ground-floor offices years ago, by right of seniority, but I found I’d settled in here, and the very idea of a change became almost as daunting as moving house. But I am not solitary by nature, and the coming of fair Victoria did much to relieve my sense of being incarcerated in the proverbial ivory tower.”

  Kincaid thought that if Iris Winslow remained set on retiring, Darcy Eliot might be contemplating a move after all, but he could see why he’d become attached to the space. It was a pleasant room, graced with a dormer window looking north, lined with glass-fr
onted bookcases, and above the shelves a series of framed satirical prints was arranged on the pale gold walls. A pipe rack filled with several expensive-looking pipes sat atop one of the cases, but Kincaid had noticed no odor of tobacco.

  Following his glance, Eliot said, “Had to give it up a few years back-the first intimations of mortality-but I couldn’t quite bring myself to dispose of the pipes. They add quite the professorial touch, don’t you think?”

  “Undoubtedly. And your students probably appreciate your not smoking them.”

  Eliot smiled. “As did Victoria. I still indulged when she first came, and we had no end of rows about it.”

  Kincaid wondered how Vic, whom he had always thought of as disliking confrontation, had adapted to daily contact with a man who so obviously enjoyed stirring things up. “What did you find to argue about after that?” he asked. “Dr. Winslow said you were opposed to the biography Vic was writing.”

  “I wasn’t opposed to Victoria’s biography in particular-although I can’t say I find poor Lydia an absorbing subject-just to the general idea of delving into the lives of poets and novelists. Are you a student of literature, Mr. Kincaid?”

  He thought of his running joke with Vic-policemen don’t read- and decided this was one instance in which he needn’t defend himself. “Um, not particularly,” he said, putting on a rather hesitant expression.

  Eliot hooked his thumbs a bit more firmly together over his middle and spoke in the rich tones Kincaid associated with the lecture hall. “It’s my belief that there’s not a single example of a literary text which cannot be shown to contradict itself, therefore rendering itself meaningless. And if the text itself is meaningless, of what use is it to examine the life of its author? And, I might add, since most authors’ lives differ little from that of the common man in being merely pitiable attempts to disguise crippling inadequacies, they cannot be of interest to anyone.” He rocked back in his chair and beamed at Kincaid.