Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  “Gemma-”

  “There’s nothing to stop us talking to people, is there? Yesterday I saw Morgan Ashby and his wife-”

  “You did what? The man’s a bloody lunatic. Are you out of your-” His face froze as he glimpsed something over her shoulder, and she wondered what had rescued her from an imminent bollicking.

  “Oh, Lord,” he breathed. “It’s my mother.”

  Gemma stared blankly at him. “What?”

  “I meant to tell you-I rang her yesterday. She said she’d come if she could get away.”

  “From Cheshire?” Gemma squeaked. “But it’s a half day’s drive.” Turning, she looked out through the gate, searching for a hint of the familiar among the people gathering before the church.

  “She cared about Vic,” Kincaid said simply. “She wanted to be here. Come on, I’ll introduce you. And we’ll talk about this other business later.”

  When she’d finished embracing her son, Kincaid’s mother smiled and held out a hand to Gemma. “Do call me Rosemary, won’t you?”

  The resemblance was there, thought Gemma, in the hair that had faded from Kincaid’s rich chestnut but still sprang from the brow in the same way, and in the eyes and the shape of the mouth.

  “Your dad wanted to come,” Rosemary continued to Kincaid, “but it was Liza’s day off and one of us had to mind the shop.” She looked up at him and touched the backs of her fingers briefly against his cheek. “I am sorry, darling.”

  “I know.” He smiled and clasped her hand in his. “The church is starting to fill. I suppose we’d better go in.”

  Gemma lagged behind intentionally, wanting to give them a few moments together, but Kincaid waited and took her arm. “Let’s sit near the back,” he said softly as he guided them into one of the last pews. He took the aisle himself, and Gemma saw him watching the mourners as they straggled in, searching each face.

  The church still held the night’s chill, and Gemma felt the warmth of his body when he leaned across her and whispered to his mother, “It looks as though Father Denny has High Church inclinations.” He waved the Order of Service he’d taken from the hymnal stand. “We may be here for a bit.”

  Gemma, having been brought up strictly chapel, had never learned to feel comfortable in an Anglican service, but with Kincaid’s helpful cues she managed to keep up, and discovered that she found the impersonal ritual surprisingly comforting. She let the words and the music wash over her as she gazed at the faces round her, wondering who these people were and what they had meant to Vic. And what Vic had meant to them, she thought as she cast a covert glance at Kincaid’s shuttered face. No public display of emotion would reveal his grief to the casual onlooker.

  The service ended, the congregation rose as the processional passed, then filed slowly out into the sun.

  Gemma, Kincaid, and his mother were among the first to reach the porch. Kincaid thanked the vicar, then guided them a little ways away, where they stood watching the uncertain milling of the mourners. “They don’t quite know what to do with themselves,” Kincaid said. “There’s no reception organized, but they don’t feel they should just walk away.”

  “It’s all very odd. I’m surprised her parents didn’t lay on something,” Rosemary commented in a tone of mild censure. “I’d not have expected Eugenia to give up an opportunity to do the right thing, or the chance of an audience.” She made a rueful face. “Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Kincaid smiled. “You are a darling. And you’re quite right-I thought exactly the same thing.”

  “Well, I must speak to them,” said Rosemary, but without much enthusiasm.

  “I’d like a word with Kit…” began Kincaid, then smiled at the woman coming towards them from the shadow of the porch. About Vic’s age, thought Gemma, with chin-length brown hair and a pleasant face. The woman beamed at Kincaid as if she’d spotted a long-lost brother.

  “Such a relief to have got through it,” she said as she joined them, and on closer inspection Gemma saw the smudged mascara and the slight trembling of her lips.

  Much to Gemma’s surprise, Kincaid took the woman’s hand in his and patted it as he introduced her. “This is Laura Miller, the secretary of Vic’s department. My mother, Rosemary Kincaid, and this is Gemma James.”

  He’d introduced Gemma to Rosemary just as simply, without reference to rank or their professional association, and Gemma felt a bit exposed without the usual camouflage.

  “I’m sorry if I’m a bit wobbly,” said Laura when Kincaid had released her hand. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her face. “But I’ve just been cut absolutely dead by Eugenia Potts, of all the absurd things. She wouldn’t even let me speak to Kit-I only meant to tell him that all his friends at school were asking after him. Whatever is the matter with the woman?”

  Kincaid exchanged a glance with his mother. “I don’t know. She is behaving rather strangely, even for Eugenia. Where are they?”

  “Still inside. Iris was determined to pay her condolences. I wish her luck.” Laura frowned. “Iris doesn’t need anything else to upset her just now, as badly as-” She paused, gazing past Gemma’s shoulder. “Oh, look, here they come now.”

  Turning, Gemma saw a heavyset older woman plowing determinedly towards them, with a smaller, fluffier woman fluttering along in her wake.

  “Who’s the friend?” Kincaid asked softly.

  “That’s Enid, Iris’s… um, companion,” Laura said under her breath, then the two women were upon them and introductions were performed all round again.

  Iris Winslow, like Laura, expressed great pleasure upon seeing Kincaid. “I am glad you could come,” she said, and added, with a dark glance at Enid, “I thought it a perfectly suitable service, whatever anyone else might say. And I think Vic would have approved, which is the main thing, isn’t it? She was never one for a fuss.”

  Enid pursed her lips and made clicking sounds of agreement.

  Kincaid gave a groan of exasperation. “Don’t tell me her mother’s finding fault with poor Father Denny.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said the tall, thin man in clerical garb who had stepped quietly up to join them. “But I think he’s quite capable of dealing with it.” He smiled, and Gemma was immediately charmed. This, she learned a moment later, was Adam Lamb, and Iris seemed almost as pleased at his appearance as she had Kincaid’s.

  As Gemma listened to the snippets of conversation, she began to place these people in relation to Vic. Iris Winslow, it seemed, had been her boss, and Darcy Eliot, the large man in the mauve waistcoat who had joined them, one of her colleagues. She was not quite sure about Adam, except that he seemed to know Iris and Darcy. Then she heard Kincaid say quietly to him, “How is Nathan holding up?” and at last she recognized a name. It was Nathan who’d given Vic the book in which she’d discovered Lydia’s missing poems, and he was, she remembered Kincaid saying, Lydia’s literary executor.

  Adam gave a small shake of his head. “It’s been a difficult day, I’m afraid. He’s just having a word with Austin-Father Denny-and then I’m determined to whisk him off home.”

  Was Nathan some sort of an invalid, and Adam his caretaker, wondered Gemma? But then he, too, joined the widening circle, and she saw that Nathan Winter was a striking man in his early fifties, whose white hair contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and dark eyes.

  “Adam seems determined to fuss over me, but I’m quite all right,” said Nathan, as though he’d overheard. Protest he might, thought Gemma, but he did look unwell. There was a tinge of gray beneath the tan, and the dullness of shock in his eyes. “And I have no intention of leaving until I’ve had a word with Kit,” he added. “Is there any news about Ian McClellan?” he asked Kincaid.

  “Not a trace,” said Kincaid. “I’ve just been to see the local police this morning, and they’re no further along. The man looks to have simply vanished.”

  “Bastard,” said Nathan quite clearly, and there was a momentary pause in conver
sational buzz.

  Turning to Darcy Eliot, Rosemary said brightly into the rather strained silence, “I enjoy your books, Mr. Eliot. And I adore your mother’s-I’ve been a fan of hers for longer than I care to admit.”

  “You’re too kind,” Eliot replied. “But I’m afraid my administrative duties these days don’t leave me much time for such pleasant pursuits. My mother, on the other hand, seems to grow more prolific with every passing year.”

  “Would that we could all possess a fraction of Margery’s stamina,” said Iris. “I don’t know how she does it.”

  “She claims the occasional medicinal sherry helps a great deal,” Darcy said with a wink. “And I daresay the same would have done all of us good this afternoon. I can’t imagine what-” He stopped, drawing together his bristling eyebrows as he frowned at Iris. “I say, Iris, are you all right?”

  Iris had paled and grasped Enid’s arm, but she smiled gamely at them. “It’s nothing that a small measure from your bottom drawer wouldn’t put right, Darcy. Just this headache has been plaguing me these last few days.”

  “Are you feeling ill, Dr. Winslow?” asked Adam, instantly concerned. “Nathan’s cottage is just up the street-do come and let me fix you some tea. Nathan does marvelous things with herbs, and I believe there’s a particular blend for headache.” Taking her elbow, he turned to Nathan for confirmation, but Nathan was staring at the trio that had stepped out of the church into the porch. The faded blonde in the dark, printed suit and black straw hat must be Vic’s mother, thought Gemma, and the thin, balding man her father. And between them, Kit, looking white and fiercely miserable. The sleeves of his navy blazer were too short, and somehow the sight of his bony wrists protruding beneath the cuffs made her throat tighten as nothing in the funeral service had done.

  Rosemary put a quick hand on Kincaid’s arm. “Duncan, is that Vic’s son?” she asked, her voice rising on an incredulous note.

  “Yes,” said Laura before Kincaid could answer. “But the poor bloody kid wasn’t so fortunate in the allotment of grandparents.” Her face was tight with anger.

  They all stood as if mesmerized as the Pottses moved on towards the drive. “She means to pass us by without a word,” said Rosemary, with blank surprise. “I don’t believe it.”

  Her words seemed to galvanize Nathan, for he suddenly started forwards, calling, “Kit, wait!” and they all followed after him, lemminglike.

  It was Vic’s father who stopped and turned, and Gemma could see the displeasure in the mother’s stiff posture as she was forced to wait.

  “Hullo, Kit,” said Nathan as he reached them. The others piled up awkwardly behind him, like witnesses to an accident. “I only wanted to see how you were.”

  Beneath the little veil on the black straw hat, Eugenia Potts’s face was blotched with weeping. She held a handkerchief to her lips with one trembling hand and made no attempt to speak.

  Into the silence, Kit said with the certainty of desperation, “I wish I were dead.”

  “Christopher!” Eugenia wailed. “Have you no respect-”

  “Eugenia,” said Rosemary quietly as she stepped forwards. “I was so sorry to hear about Victoria. This must be very difficult for you.”

  “You don’t know the meaning of difficult, Rosemary Kincaid. If you’d lost your only child-”

  “I’d like to meet your grandson,” continued Rosemary, cutting her off in midsentence. She held out a hand to Kit. “Hullo, Kit. I’m Rosemary, Duncan’s mother. Let’s see”-she tilted her head and examined him-“you must be… what? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  “Eleven,” Kit answered with a spark of interest, and pulled himself up a bit.

  “And what do you play at school? Rugger? Football?”

  “Football,” he admitted, with an anxious glance at his grandmother.

  “I thought so.” Rosemary smiled. “You look a bit like…” She turned to the men in appeal, and Gemma knew she hadn’t a clue. “What’s the chap’s name who plays for Manchester United?”

  “I feel ill, Robert,” interrupted Eugenia. “Please take us home this instant.” She sagged a bit, and Kit winced as she gripped his arm for support.

  “Of course, dear,” said Bob Potts. “Perhaps you should wait while I fetch the car-”

  “I’d like a word with Kit before you go, if you don’t mind,” said Kincaid. “It’s rather impor-”

  “I feel ill,” said Eugenia, fanning herself with the Order of Service she held in her hand. “Robert!” She started unsteadily down the drive, her hand still gripping Kit’s arm.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Bob Potts, shrugging apologetically. “But I’m afraid we must go. She really is not at all well.” He started after his wife, then turned back once more. “So sorry,” he repeated. “It was good to see you, Rosemary. Give my regards to Hugh. And… thank you.”

  The little group in the churchyard watched as he caught up to Eugenia and Kit and helped them into the car, and still no one spoke as the car pulled out into the High and disappeared round the bend.

  Then Kincaid said quietly, “His name really is Bob, you know. He told me once. Just plain Bob, but she insists on calling him Robert.”

  “God, what a farce,” said Rosemary Kincaid, glancing at her son’s composed face as she lowered herself into the sling of the canvas deck chair. “That sort of thing is distressing enough without any added pyrotechnics.” She had insisted on taking Duncan and Gemma to tea at the Orchard, on the grounds that they all needed fortification after their ordeal, and that she had no intention of setting off for her sister’s in Bedford without a much anticipated visit with Duncan.

  After a quick glance at the menu, she said, “Let’s go the whole hog, why don’t we? Pots of tea and sandwiches and scones and cake.”

  “Comfort food?” said Duncan with a smile. “Or has Dad been nagging you to eat again?”

  “I’d say a good dose of comfort with a dollop of nostalgia would fit the bill nicely. ‘Yet stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?’” she quoted.

  “There is,” said Gemma. “Honestly. I saw it on the menu.”

  “Then I’ll go and put the order in at the window, honey included,” said Duncan, and scrambled up out of the chair.

  Rosemary watched his long-limbed stride as he walked away, then focused on the young woman across from her with frank curiosity. Beautiful? Well, perhaps not in the strictly classical sense, she thought, but certainly very attractive, with the sun glinting from her burnished copper hair and her open, friendly face alight with intelligence.

  They worked together, Rosemary knew, but Duncan had mentioned her more and more frequently in the past year, and when he’d come home at Christmas she’d sensed a definite change in the status of the relationship. “You’ve been good for him, you know,” she said, and saw Gemma color slightly. “These last few months he’s seemed more relaxed than I’ve seen him in-well, I suppose since he was a child.”

  “You were going to say, ‘Since he was married to Vic,’ weren’t you?” asked Gemma.

  “Yes. But I realized it’s not true.” Rosemary glanced at Duncan, standing in the tea queue, hands in trouser pockets. “He was very intense about work then-he’d just made inspector, and there was a lot of pressure to perform. I think the marriage pulled him apart-he could never give enough of himself to either. And in the end the job won out.”

  Frowning, Gemma said slowly, “Do you blame him for what happened with Vic?”

  Rosemary shrugged. “Not really. It was a difficult situation. Vic responded to living with her mother by learning not to express her emotions. Duncan grew up in a family that voiced their grievances, and so he equated her lack of complaint with contentment. By the time either of them worked out the truth, the damage was irreparable.” She smiled at Gemma’s intense expression. “So the moral is, my dear, if something he does gets on your wick, you’d better bloody well tell him.”

  “Oh.” Looking surprised by the off-color expressi
on, Gemma laughed, as Rosemary had intended.

  “Men aren’t very good at working things out for themselves, you know,” Rosemary added affectionately. “Sometimes you have to give them a prod. I understand you have a son.”

  “Toby. He’s three, and a devil with it,” said Gemma, with obvious pride in his precocity. “Would you like to see a photo?”

  Rosemary took the snapshot and gazed at the small blond boy with the impish grin. And as if he weren’t enough to contend with, she thought, their lives were about to become infinitely more complicated. Would Gemma be willing to stick with Duncan if it meant compromising the security of her own child? “He’s lovely,” she said. “Absolutely lovely. And I’m sure he runs you ragged.”

  “Who, me?” asked Duncan, returning at last with the tea tray. “I know I’m lovely, but I do try not to take advantage. Sorry about the delay, by the way, but it was chockablock with people wanting tea in the garden. Can you imagine?”

  “The wasps seem enthusiastic about the idea, as well,” said Rosemary as she swatted at the one exploring her sandwich. “So you’d best prepare for battle.”

  They all tucked in with newly discovered appetites, and as they ate Duncan gave them encapsulated sketches of the cast of characters at the funeral.

  “You mean Vic was having an affair… or a relationship-whatever you want to call it-with Nathan?” said Gemma, scattering a few scone crumbs in the process. “That rather puts things in new light.”

  “Why? Did you fancy him yourself?” asked Duncan lightly, but Rosemary wondered if he’d felt a prick of jealousy over the engagement of Vic’s affections.

  “I thought he looked rather ill today,” said Gemma as she spread strawberry jam on the last half of her scone. “Under other circumstances, though…” She smiled mischievously. “But I’m temporarily unavailable. I’ve lost my heart to a young man named Rupert, and they’ve some lovely postcards and things up at the front. So if you don’t mind…”