Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

“Flatterer,” she said, laughing, and reached up to touch his cheek. “You’re frozen, darling. Come in by the fire, and pour yourself something before the hordes arrive.”

“A bloody puncture, can you believe it?” he said as he made himself a gin and tonic, then went to stand with his back to the fire. “And on the Madingley Road, in traffic so heavy you’d have sworn it was Friday rather than Tuesday. I’m damp as an old dog, and will soon fill your sitting room with the aroma of steaming fur. But at least I’ll be warm on the inside.” He smiled at her and knocked back half his drink. “Who’s coming, then? Can one have a singular horde?”

“It’s a minimal horde tonight, I’m afraid,” said Margery as she poured herself a small sherry. “Just Ralph and Christine, and Iris. Enid canceled out at the last minute, a bad case of the grippe, Iris said. Oh, and I almost forgot, Adam Lamb.”

Darcy laughed. “Where on earth did you dig up old Adam?”

“In the food hall at Marks and Sparks, actually. I bumped into him in the frozen foods, frowning over two dinners as if he might take all day debating their relative merits. He looked as though he hadn’t had a decent meal in months, and I took pity on him.”

“I’m sure he groveled accordingly.”

“Darcy, that’s neither fair nor kind, and you know it. He was polite, and he seemed pleased to be asked, and I see nothing wrong with that.”

“You’ll forgive him anything just because you were at school with his mother,” said Darcy, teasing. “Next thing I know, you’ll be calling him a ‘nice boy’”

The bell chimed again, and Margery said as she rose from the sofa, “I can say anything I like. But you, my dear boy, had better behave yourself.”

Enid’s absence had actually suited very nicely, thought Margery as she surveyed the guests assembled round her table. For one thing, it made them an even number, and for another, she always found Enid’s fluttering rather tiring.

She’d put Adam beside Iris, as they weren’t well acquainted, and Darcy next to Christine, and that left her to make comfortable conversation with Ralph.

Adam had turned himself out quite well. The elbows of his suit jacket might be a bit shiny, but he wore a crisply starched shirt, and he appeared to have got himself freshly barbered for the occasion.

Darcy was right, of course; she did have rather a soft spot for Adam because his mother, Helen, had been an old school friend. His parents had held such hopes for him-they’d been sure he would take a distinguished degree in history, then read law, and after that, of course, follow his father into politics. Margery, though, even then had doubted the wisdom of investing oneself in one’s children, and had watched their disappointment helplessly.

It was ironic that she, who had not cared so desperately, had no cause for complaint, for Darcy had done quite well for himself. She supposed that Iris would be forced to retire soon, and that Darcy would succeed her as Head of Department. The position would allow him to exercise both his taste for power and his unfailing charm.

The charm was in evidence now, as he bent close to Christine Peregrine’s sleek blonde head, telling some ribald story. It was a good thing that he and Ralph had known each other a long time, and that Ralph was not easily ruffled.

“Darcy’s in fine form tonight,” said Ralph as he reached for the decanter and refilled her wineglass.

“Just what I was thinking,” said Margery “And that Christine is looking especially lovely.”

Ralph smiled. “Just what I was thinking. I’m not getting much opportunity to appreciate her from either side of the table these days-she’s been on a lecture tour.” An eminent mathematician, Christine Peregrine looked on her husband’s passion for books with the same fond incomprehension he felt for her maths.

What an attractive man Ralph was, thought Margery, glancing at him in the candlelight. Thin and dark, with that certain indefinable air of bookishness that she had always found appealing-though she had to admit his dark hair had thinned in the years she’d known him. They’d met at some literary soiree given in her honor, he with a fresh degree in classics and a dream he had no money to implement, and she’d been captivated. She had helped him, although few people even now were aware of it, and today the familiar Peregrine Press logo was synonymous with the leading edge in fiction and poetry.

At the other end of the table Iris gave a bark of laughter at something Adam said. She’d held the floor long enough for Adam to polish off a large serving of Grace’s veal osso buco, and now he seemed to be proving he could hold his own against Iris’s rather domineering conversational style.

Adam’s job would have given him considerable experience, thought Margery, in dealing with formidable older women, and she imagined he would listen attentively while suspecting the little weaknesses Iris’s manner concealed. Iris, the terror of both staff and students, was madly devoted to her Persian cat, and could not sleep at night without a cup of Horlicks and a hot water bottle.

Margery brought her attention back to Ralph, who had begun telling her about a new talent he’d discovered, and as she listened to his voice interspersed with the soft, rhythmic clinks of silver and crystal, she found herself glad of having made tonight’s effort.

They’d finished the veal and started on Grace’s chocolate mousse when Margery heard the distant ringing of the telephone.

“Dame Margery, this pudding is absolutely heavenly,” said Adam. “If you’ll forgive me the rather inappropriate adjective,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Surely your boss would allow you the slight impertinence, given the exquisite nature of Grace’s mousse?” said Darcy.

“Or you could substitute ambrosial” suggested Ralph, “which is both inoffensive and true.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and as Grace came in, Darcy said, “How do you do it, Grace? Do tell us your secret.”

“Yes,” said Christine, “do tell, please. It’s so amazingly light-”

“I’m sorry,” said Grace, interrupting the flow of compliments, “but there’s a phone call for Miss Iris. It’s Miss Enid, and she sounds dreadfully upset.”

Iris paled, and her spoon clattered into her dish. “Oh, God. It’s Orlando, something’s happened to Orlando.” She rose, knocking the table, and turned to Grace.

“You can take it in the sitting room, Miss Iris,” said Grace, and led her out.

“Who is Orlando?” asked Adam, understandably puzzled.

“Her cat,” explained Margery. “She dotes on him. He’s named after Virginia Woolf’s character.”

“Rather suitably, don’t you think?” said Darcy. “Since the poor emasculated beast is neither one thing nor the other.”

This comment brought a few guilty smiles, but the silence round the table grew uneasy as they waited for Iris to return. What on earth would they say to her, thought Margery, if something had indeed happened to the poor cat?

But when Iris came back into the dining room a few moments later, she showed no sign of incipient hysterics. She walked slowly to her chair and stood behind it, grasping its back with her hands. How odd, thought Margery, who prided herself on her powers of observation, that she had not noticed her friend’s enlarged knuckles, white now with the strength of her grip on the chair.

“I’m sorry, Margery-all of you-to spoil such a lovely party, but I’m afraid I have some very distressing news. Vic McClellan died this afternoon.”