“No,” said Morgan slowly. “And it’s an odd thing, but I find I don’t really care.”
“Morgan, you can’t mean that.” Francesca stepped away from him, sounding shocked.
He looked up at her. “I don’t mean I think it right, or that I don’t care about justice for her, in a detached sort of way. But don’t you see what this means for me, Frannie?”
“It was never your fault, Morgan, no matter how she died.” She stroked his hair. “You didn’t need that sort of absolution.”
“But I did,” he said softly. “I’m going to sell the house, Fran. Will you help me?” He turned to her, and when she gave him a nod of confirmation, he gave a long, shuddering sigh and rested his head against her breast.
Gemma and Kincaid sat for a moment, watching Francesca’s still face, then got up quietly from the table and let themselves out.
CHAPTER 15
And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,
And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,
An empty tale, of idleness and pain,
Of two that loved-or did not love-and one
Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
A long while since, and by some other sea.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “Waikiki”
“So where does this leave us?” Kincaid asked as he picked up his cheese and tomato sandwich, then winced as his first bite caught his swollen lip. Gemma had already started on hers, and he watched the egg salad squish generously over the edges of the brown bread as she bit into it.
They’d chosen a basement tearoom off St. John’s Street, partly on Hazel’s recommendation, and partly because he had made an appointment with Ralph Peregrine, and the offices of Peregrine Press were nearby. Kincaid had to admit the tearoom was a charming enough place, a warm retreat with heavy oak furniture and bright Blue Calico tea services, but the drawing of Alice in Wonderland on the restaurant’s paper menus made him think of Vic.
“You shouldn’t have pushed Morgan, you know,” said Gemma a bit reproachfully, but her expression was concerned as she watched him explore his lip with a careful fingertip. “You’re going to have a lovely bruise on that cheekbone as well,” she added in a tone of dispassionate interest.
“The man is a wife beater-by his own admission, he nearly killed Lydia. How can you possibly make excuses for him?” Kincaid countered defensively.
“You don’t usually let your personal prejudices get in the way of your judgment.” Gemma looked at him over the rim of her blue and white teacup. “And besides, I’m not sure it’s true-that Morgan’s an abuser, I mean. I think he has a rotten temper, and that Lydia pushed him-”
“You’re not saying that Lydia deserved what she got?” he sputtered through a mouthful of sandwich. “That’s preposterous. I can’t believe you’d-”
“Of course I don’t mean that,” she said, just as hotly. “I’m not saying that what Morgan did was right, only that I think this was something strictly between Morgan and Lydia, a combination of personalities that drove them both beyond their limits.
“Besides, for most men who abuse women, it’s a chronic pattern, but I’d be willing to bet you a month’s wages that Morgan’s never laid a finger on Francesca in all the years they’ve been married.”
“So? That doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Lydia twenty years later.”
“No, but not that way.” Gemma shook her head emphatically. “Morgan acts out of temper. Poisoning requires deliberate forethought, intent to harm, and I don’t think he’s capable of it.” More thoughtfully, she added, “What I’d like to know is whether Lydia really deliberately triggered these episodes, or if that’s just his perception of it-a way of excusing himself.”
“Well, there’s no way we can know that, is there? And I can’t see any point arguing with you unless we turn up something else that incriminates Morgan Ashby,” said Kincaid with a sigh. “Once you make up your mind, you’re as immovable as Mohammed.”
Gemma’s smile held the satisfaction of victory. “Then don’t you think we need to follow up what Morgan told us? We can’t see Daphne again until Monday, but we could have a go at Darcy Eliot and Nathan Winter.” She finished her tea and patted her mouth demurely with her serviette.
“All right,” he conceded. “But I still want to see Ralph Peregrine first. I’m not happy about those missing poems.”
When they had paid their bill, they climbed the steep staircase back to street level, passing through the ground-floor shop with its selection of linens and laces. Kincaid saw Gemma reach out towards a particularly elaborate tablecloth displayed near the door, but she dropped her hand without touching it and followed him out onto the pavement.
The weather had changed in the half hour they’d been inside. Dark clouds had scudded in, and the air held a damp chill. “It must be this way,” said Gemma, as they came to a halt at the intersection of St. John’s and a tiny lane. Remembering that she’d told him she’d done a recce day before yesterday, he followed her without question. They passed a shop selling English cheeses, and olives in an array of colors ranging from pale green to deep aubergine. Beyond that, a shop displayed handmade chocolates, and then, just before they reached Sidney Street, they saw an unobtrusive door bearing a brass nameplate with the Peregrine Press logo.
There was no bell, but when Kincaid tried the latch the door swung open. They stepped into the foyer, and saw that a flight of stairs led directly up to the first floor and another door of frosted glass. “Are you sure someone’s here?” asked Gemma. “It’s quiet as the proverbial tomb, and it is Saturday, after all.”
“Peregrine said he’d be working,” Kincaid reassured her as they climbed the stairs. He opened the glass door on the upper landing and allowed Gemma to enter first. They found themselves in an anteroom of sorts, in that it contained a shabby sofa and a coffee table much marred by drink rings, but the rest of the available space was taken up by haphazardly shelved books and assorted piles of paper. Most of the books seemed to bear the familiar Peregrine imprint, and there were multiple copies of many of them. The door to an inner office was closed, and Kincaid heard a man’s voice speaking intermittently-Ralph Peregrine must be on the phone.
“I see the elegance associated with the Peregrine Press doesn’t extend to the working quarters,” Kincaid said, rifling one dusty pile of paper with his thumb. “Are these manuscripts, do you suppose?”
“It doesn’t seem very organized, does it?” Gemma wrinkled her nose. “It’s a wonder they manage to publish any-”
“Hullo. Thought I heard voices.” The inner door had swung open soundlessly, and a thin, dark man in cords and a cherry red pullover stood on the threshold, smiling at them inquiringly. “You must be Mr. Kincaid. I’m Ralph Peregrine.”
After Kincaid had introduced Gemma, who was blushing slightly, Peregrine escorted them both into his office. “We’ll be more comfortable in here,” he said, seating them in two Queen Anne chairs that looked as if they’d been pilfered from someone’s dining room. The room’s ambiance was definitely a notch above that of the anteroom, however. The desk, although piled dangerously high with books and papers, looked expensive, and the carpet under their feet had the cushiony feel of good quality. To the left of the desk, a new model computer sat on a specially designed table, and below it was a printer. Kincaid rather liked the idea that the end product of the latest technology remained printed words on bound paper.
Peregrine propped one hip on the front edge of his desk and faced them, his back to the light pouring in from the large window behind his desk. Folding his arms across his chest in a relaxed posture, he asked, “Now, how can I help you?”
It’s a case, thought Kincaid. Just state the facts and don’t let thinking of Vic get in the way. He cleared his throat. “As I said over the phone, it’s about Lydia Brooke’s last book, the one published posthumously. Vic McClellan discovered some poems among Lydia’s effects that she felt sure should have been included in t
hat manuscript. I wondered if perhaps you had made an editorial decision not to include certain poems in the finished book?”
“I should think not,” answered Ralph, sounding amused. “Lydia and I had a good working relationship, meaning that I didn’t fiddle about with her words.” More soberly, he added, “And I would have been even less inclined to do so after her death, when it was no longer possible to consult her. I published Lydia’s book as it was given to me, with every effort to make it something that would have pleased her.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning. “I do remember thinking at the time that there was a certain lack of continuity in the placement of the poems, but in the light of Lydia’s death, I blamed her depression.”
“Were the pages of the manuscript numbered?” asked Gemma.
Ralph shook his head. “No. Lydia would play with the order of the poems until the very last, and because she used a typewriter, renumbering a manuscript every time she made a change would have been a real headache.”
“So someone could easily have slipped a page here and there out of the manuscript?” Kincaid suggested.
“Well, I suppose so,” said Ralph, looking nonplussed. “But why on earth would anyone want to do that?”
“We don’t know. We only have Vic’s assertion that something was wrong.” Kincaid blinked, as if that would erase the image of Vic’s animated face as she waved the sheaf of poems at them.
“Dr. McClellan was certainly the expert on Lydia’s work, but if she suspected that the manuscript had been tampered with, why didn’t she discuss it with me?” asked Ralph. The man had an intelligent face, Kincaid thought as he watched him, accentuated by alert, dark eyes and the high forehead exposed by his receding hairline. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.
“She only discovered this a few days before she died,” said Gemma. “I doubt she had the chance to consult you.”
“Have you any idea who might have had access to Lydia’s manuscript before you yourself read it?” Kincaid asked.
Ralph glanced round at a profusion of books and papers equaling that of the front room and shrugged eloquently. “You can see how things are. I feel like Sisyphus trying to keep up with all the projects, and my assistant only keeps the stone from backsliding a bit. There are always a fair amount of people tramping through here, as well, but we’ve never seen any need to be security conscious.” He tilted his wrist and glanced unobtrusively at his watch. “Surely it’s just as possible that Lydia herself decided to remove the poems for some reason. And I can’t imagine what bearing this has on Dr. McClellan’s death. This all seems a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Not only might it have something to do with Dr. McClellan’s death, it may be connected with Lydia’s death as well.” Kincaid, watching Ralph carefully, saw the speed with which he drew a conclusion from the vague statement.
“Lydia? What do you mean?” Ralph sounded genuinely surprised, and he glanced from Kincaid to Gemma as if seeking confirmation.
“We think it quite possible Lydia Brooke may have been murdered,” Kincaid said.
Ralph stared at him. “Murdered? But… that’s just not possible. Lydia was a middle-aged poet of moderate success, with a history of depression. Why would anyone want to murder her?”
“That’s what we were hoping you might tell us, actually,” said Gemma, with a smile. “We thought you might have a more objective view of her, since yours was primarily a working relationship. And you had been together a long time.”
“Yes,” Ralph said slowly. “We had. Lydia was one of the first authors I took on, and we grew up together, so to speak. We were incredibly naive about the publishing business in the beginning, both of us, but Lydia was forgiving of my mistakes. I was very fond of her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again, and when he dropped his hand Kincaid could see the red marks left by the spectacles’ nose pads.
Looking quizzically at the wire frames dangling from his thumb and index finger, Ralph said, “I’ve a habit of sitting on them, I’m afraid.” Again, he gave a barely perceptible glance at his watch, and added, “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else I can tell you. Lydia was opinionated, more so as she got older, and sometimes inclined to get on a bit of a soapbox about things. But since when are those reasons to kill someone? She was also generous with her time and advice-she often helped younger poets-and must have had people in her debt.”
“And in her personal life?” prompted Kincaid.
“Lydia didn’t share details of her personal life with me, other than the usual chitchat about creeping damp and leaks in the roof.”
“What about Morgan Ashby?”
“I met him, of course, when Lydia and I first began working together. But I don’t think he particularly cared for me, and we never made it a social relationship. I invited them for dinner once, I remember, near the end of their marriage, but it wasn’t a success.” This time the glance at his watch was overt. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve an appointment-”
They heard the sound of the anteroom’s outer door opening and closing, then a woman’s voice called, “Sorry, I’m early, Ralph darling.” The inner door swung open. “Oh. Do forgive me, Ralph,” said the voice, silvery and breathless. “I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll just-”
“No, come in, Margery, please.” Ralph crossed quickly to the door, and Kincaid and Gemma turned awkwardly in their chairs, trying to see behind them. “I do wish you wouldn’t run up the stairs,” said Ralph, in a tone of affectionate exasperation.
“Don’t fuss, darling. You know it makes me feel old,” she answered, laughing.
Kincaid stood quickly as the woman came into the room on Ralph’s arm. She was in her seventies, thought Kincaid, dressed all in gray, and matched her voice more perfectly than anyone he had ever met.
“Margery, this is Superintendent Kincaid, and Sergeant James, from Scotland Yard.” Ralph nodded at them. “Dame Margery Lester.”
She looked the picture of the famous novelist, Kincaid thought, this woman whom his mother so admired. And if she still possessed a great talent, she had once been blessed with great beauty as well. Margery Lester was still beautiful, patrician, blue-blooded even to the faint blue cast to her porcelain skin. It surprised him that his mother, with her Labour leanings, should be so enamored of a woman who embodied generations of wealth and breeding, but perhaps he was underestimating his mother. Perhaps, he thought as he met Margery Lester’s bright and intelligent eyes, he was underestimating them both.
“Dame Margery,” he said, and took her hand. When she’d greeted Gemma, he insisted she take his chair. “My mother’s a great admirer of yours,” he added as he moved to stand beside Gemma. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might have missed out on something.”
“They’re not ‘women’s’ books,” said Margery, smoothing the skirt of her pale gray suit over her knees. “I quite despise this tendency to put flowery covers on them, but the marketing people will have their way. I can only hope husbands pick them up when their wives aren’t looking and discover there’s a good story inside.” She smiled as if anything might be forgiven a person who read.
“Would anyone like something to drink?” asked Ralph, slipping gracefully into the role of host. “The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere, and it is Saturday, after all. I can do G and Ts quite adequately, except for the limes, I’m afraid.”
“Never touch the stuff,” said Margery briskly. “Doctor’s orders. I wouldn’t say no to a small sherry, though.”
Ralph glanced inquiringly at Kincaid, who found himself suddenly of a mind to become a little better acquainted with Margery Lester. “I wouldn’t mind following Dame Margery’s example,” he said, and sensed Gemma’s startled glance before she murmured an acceptance.
While Ralph busied himself with retrieving a bottle and a set of fragile-looking rose-colored crystal from a cabinet, Kincaid leaned over and, raising his eyebrow, whispered in Gemma’s
ear, “We’re not exactly on duty, after all.”
“What brings you here, Mr. Kincaid, if you don’t mind my nosiness?” asked Dame Margery, and he wondered if her hearing was as acute as her wit.
Ralph looked up from pouring the sherry. “They’d some questions about Victoria McClellan.”
“Oh, that was too dreadful.” Margery shook her head. “I met her several times, you know, at Faculty functions, and thought her absolutely charming. One just doesn’t expect things like that to happen to someone one knows.” She glanced at Ralph as he handed her a sherry. “It makes our little project seem quite frivolous, doesn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t have seemed frivolous to Henry,” said Ralph as he offered a glass to Gemma, then Kincaid.
“What project is that, Dame Margery?” asked Gemma.
“I’ve been helping Ralph put Henry Whitecliff’s notes into some sort of publishable form. Poor Henry died last summer before he could finish his manuscript.” Margery lifted her glass to Ralph, who had poured his own sherry. “Cheers,” she said, and took a small sip.
“That name rings a bell,” said Kincaid, frowning. “Why does everyone refer to him as ‘poor’ Henry?”
“It’s unconscious, I suppose,” said Margery with a sigh. “But it does seem as though poor Henry-see, I’ve done it again.” She smiled and deliberately corrected herself. “It seems as though Henry Whitecliff had to bear more than his share of tragedy, and he was such a lovely, kind man that he seemed even less deserving of it than most.”
Ralph returned to his position at the edge of his desk. “Henry’s only daughter disappeared just before her sixteenth birthday. I remember her vaguely-we were near the same age, though not at the same school.”
“She was a beautiful girl, Verity, very bright and loving, but a bit headstrong-just the sort to be tempted by the idea of running away to swinging London when she’d had a row with her parents. Henry and Betty were devastated, of course, and for years they followed every possible lead, hoping against hope that she would come home. Then Betty developed cancer.” Margery came to a halt, clasping the stem of the sherry glass with both hands. Her hands were still beautiful, Kincaid noticed, with slender, tapering fingers, but the blue veins stood close to the surface and her knuckles were slightly enlarged, as if she suffered with arthritis.
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