Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

“What manuscript?” asked Kincaid, sounding thoroughly confused. “What did you say the author’s name was?”

“Edward Marsh,” Gemma said helpfully, but Vic was shaking her head.

“No, no, it was poems, drafts of Lydia’s poems. Let me show you.” She went quickly from the room, returning a moment later with some folded papers and wearing her tortoiseshell glasses. Sitting across from them again, she held the pages up for their inspection. “Lydia still used a typewriter rather than a computer. She was stubborn about it-she said she needed to feel some sort of physical connection between herself and the words and the paper. Sometimes she wrote first drafts in longhand, but when she typed she always made carbons.”

Gemma could see that the paper was tissue-thin copy paper, and the typescript had the smudgy look of carbon ink.

“Some of these poems were published in her last book,” Vic said, folding the pages in half again and smoothing them across her knees. “But there are others I’ve never even seen drafts of before.”

“Student poems she didn’t think worth saving?” suggested Kincaid. “If she’d had the book since she was at college.”

“No. These are better than her best-polished and mature. And they explore the same themes as many of the poems in her last book.” Vic paused as if weighing her words, then she said deliberately, patting the sheets on her knees, “These were meant to be read with the ones in the book, I’m sure of it.”

Kincaid glanced at Gemma before he said, “Maybe she was dissatisfied with them.”

“No. Lydia was unfailingly honest with herself about her writing. She recognized crap, and she knew when she’d done good work.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

Palms up in a helpless gesture, Vic shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Could she have decided not to publish them for some other reason?” Gemma asked.

“I don’t know what it could have been,” Vic said, then added thoughtfully, “One of the things I admired most about Lydia was her utter disregard for whether or not she offended people.”

Kincaid reached for the teapot and poured a little cold tea into his cup. “Would these”-he nodded at the sheets in Vic’s lap-“have offended anyone?”

“Some men. In a series of metaphors, she equates sex with death. It’s couched in symbolic terms, but there are men who are incapable of dealing with ideas about gender roles except in a personal way.”

“God forbid I should be one of them,” Kincaid said in mock horror.

Vic rolled her eyes at Gemma. “Is he as liberated as he thinks he is?”

“Not half.” Gemma smiled at her and a spark of understanding passed between them.

“If you ladies have finished amusing yourselves at my expense… perhaps we could get on with things.” Kincaid sipped at his cold tea and grimaced. “Vic-”

“Let me make another pot,” Vic said, reaching for the teapot, but he glanced at his watch and shook his head.

“We’d better be getting back. Toby will have worn out his welcome at Gemma’s parents’, I’m afraid.”

Vic sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, like a child awaiting bad news.

Kincaid cleared his throat. “Vic, I’ll agree with you that there are things about Lydia Brooke’s death that seem odd, but I simply don’t know what we can do about it at this point. It’s all supposition, and the police won’t even consider reopening the case without some sort of hard evidence.”

When she didn’t respond, he said, “One of the things I’ve learned over the years in police work is that sometimes we just can’t know all the answers-life doesn’t always tidy itself into neat little compartments. It’s frustrating and infuriating, but if you don’t learn when to let go, you can’t stay in the job.”

“Is that what you’re saying I should do? Let it go?”

He nodded. “Write a good book about Lydia and about her work. It’s the story that counts, not how it ends.” Shrugging apologetically, he added, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t know what else to suggest.”

Vic sat quite still, her face blank with disbelief. After a moment she seemed to collect herself. “I don’t know what I expected,” she said, and gave him a brittle smile. “It was kind of you to listen to me, and to take as much trouble as you have.”

“Vic-”

“Don’t worry, Duncan. I know you mean well. You’ve been a great help, really. Not to mention the fact that your visit to the Faculty will fuel the office gossip for months. I’m sure they’ve all paid up their outstanding parking tickets, just in case you come back.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding a bit injured. “I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you.”

“I should be used to difficult by now. I can’t imagine the days when I thought academia would provide a peaceful life. Do you mind if I keep your notes?”

“Not at all.”

She scooped the pages from his notebook off the lamp table and added them to the neat stack in her lap. “Will you get in trouble with your mates if I use this information in the book?”

“I’m not going to worry about it.” Kincaid’s smile held a hint of acid. “Besides, you know policemen don’t read.”

“Too right,” Vic said, making a visible effort to parry the thrust lightly. “Well, if you must go, I’ll see you out.”

In the hall, she stopped and called out to Kit.

“Just a sec,” he yelled back, and a moment later appeared from the office. “I had to pause it,” he explained. “I made it all the way to the seventh level.”

“What does that mean?” asked Gemma.

“It means I’m lean and mean and one cool dude.” Kit swaggered. “And I toasted a whole platoon of aliens.”

“Kit!” Vic tousled his hair. “You sound like some character in a bad American film. I think we’ll have to cut back on the videos.”

Ignoring this for the empty threat it undoubtedly was, Kit caught up to Kincaid at the door. “Can I look at your car? Mum says it’s awful, so it must be pretty cool.”

“Sure. You can even start it.” They went out and walked across the graveled drive to the Midget.

Gemma and Vic stood on the porch, watching them. The rain had stopped, and a few gaps in the western clouds hinted at a glorious sunset. “Is Toby your son?” asked Vic.

“He’s three. And he already loves cars. Must be genetic.”

“I know. And to think I used to believe all that stuff about raising your children free of gender stereotypes.” She laid light fingers on Gemma’s arm. “I’m glad you came.”

The Midget’s engine sputtered to life. Kit jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran across to them. “It’s really neat, Mum. Can we get one like it? Our car is so boring.”

Vic laughed. “I like boring.”

Kincaid had followed Kit and now shook his hand. “I’ll sell it to you when you’re sixteen.” He pecked Vic on the cheek, then took Gemma by the elbow. “’Bye, thanks for the tea.”

There was something in Vic’s stance, thought Gemma, looking back as they pulled away, that could be read as easily as words on a page-an invisible angle of determination. Liking the pattern the words made in her mind, she repeated them to herself, and she felt an odd quickening inside her, as if something stirred in its sleep.

By the time they reached the motorway the fissures in the clouds had widened, revealing the sunset in full hue. Kincaid always thought of sunsets as feminine, and this one was particularly voluptuous, with rosy-gold billows of cloud forming shapes reminiscent of reclining Rubenesque nudes. He smiled at his metaphor and glanced at Gemma, wondering if she’d accuse him of sexism if he shared it with her.