Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

It was the mark of the truly insular villager, thought Kincaid, that the man would refer to a city less than two miles away as someplace from which to come back.

“Poor man,” added the barman with easy sympathy. “You’d think he’d had more than his share of grief as it was. And we thought he and Dr. McClellan were no more than nodding acquaintances. Just goes to show you never really know about people, doesn’t it?” he said with great satisfaction.

Kincaid thanked him and took his leave before the man’s curiosity could turn in his direction. Nosy neighbors were one of the world’s greatest blessings, he thought as he went out into the sunshine, and that little conversation had been well worth the processed chicken and chips.

Leaving his car in the pub car park, he walked up the road, thinking about what he’d learned. Had Vic been in love with Nathan Winter? And if so, why should he be surprised she hadn’t told him? He’d had no claim on her personal life, and he’d certainly no cause to feel this sudden stab of jealousy. Whatever the truth of the matter, it meant that Vic’s relationship with Winter had been much more complicated than he realized.

He found the cottage easily. Its sleek, well-kept air was unmistakable, as was the hand of a master gardener. Tulips filled the beds on either side of the front door-tall, elegant, and pale pink in the background against the whitewashed cottage walls, then shorter, peony-headed tulips in rose, and beneath those the deep blue of forget-me-nots. Kincaid bent and picked one of the small blue flowers and slipped it in his pocket, then rang the bell.

The man who answered the door wore a dog collar, and held a bunch of herbs in his hand. Tall and thin, with curly graying hair and spectacles that slipped down his nose, he gave Kincaid a friendly smile. “Hullo. Can I help you?”

Covering his surprise, Kincaid said, “Um, I was looking for Nathan Winter, actually.”

“I’m not sure Nathan’s up to having visitors just now. If I could just tell him-”

“Who the hell is it, Adam?” called a deeper voice from the back of the house.

“My name is Duncan Kincaid. I’m Vic McClellan’s ex-husband.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. You’d better come in, then.” He stepped back so that Kincaid could enter. “I’m Adam Lamb, by the way.”

So this was Adam, Kincaid thought, glad now he’d read at least part of Vic’s manuscript.

As Adam led him down the passageway, he said quietly, “Nathan’s been very upset. You won’t-” He broke off with a glance at Kincaid. “But I suppose this has been very difficult for you as well.”

They reached a door, and Adam led him through it into a large room at the back of the house. “We’ve been in the garden this morning,” he said, “and we’d just come in for some lunch.”

Kincaid took in a living area to his right, done in comfortable, masculine-looking reds, and beyond it French windows overlooking a garden. Then he saw the man sitting at a table to his left, in a sort of kitchen-dining area. His white hair made a startling contrast to his smooth, tanned skin and dark eyes, and as he rose Kincaid saw that he was stockily built. He looked strong and fit, and, when not ill and exhausted, would probably radiate an immense vitality. No wonder Vic had been smitten.

“Nathan,” Adam was saying, “this is Duncan Kincaid. He says he’s Vic’s ex-husband.”

Kincaid saw the flash of recognition in Nathan’s eyes at his name, before Adam’s elaboration. So Vic had spoken of him. The thought gave him a small twinge of satisfaction.

They stared at each other for a moment before Nathan came forwards with his hand outstretched. He seemed to realize at the last moment that his right hand was bandaged, and quickly substituted his left for Kincaid to shake. “Come and join us,” he said, gesturing towards a place at the small square table.

“We were just having egg and tomato sandwiches,” said Adam, dropping the herbs he’d been carrying on the kitchen worktop. “They may not be up to Nathan’s culinary standards, but they’re perfectly acceptable.”

“I’ve just had lunch, thank you,” said Kincaid as he took the indicated seat. A tantalizing odor came from something simmering on the cooker in the kitchen, and he felt his greasy meal sitting heavily in his stomach.

“Tea, then.” Adam began clearing the plates from the table, including Nathan’s half-eaten sandwich. “I’ll make us all some.”

Kincaid looked on with interest as Nathan started to rise in protest, then sank back into his chair. Nathan sat watching Adam with an expression of mild consternation, as if he were unaccustomed to being looked after, but Adam moved about his friend’s kitchen with competent familiarity, chopping the herbs and scraping them into the simmering stew. “I’ve got a vegetable hot pot put together for Nathan’s dinner,” Adam called out. “It smells lovely, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I only know how to do vegetarian things, so poor Nathan will have to suffer it.”

Against the clatter of crockery coming from the kitchen, Nathan said, “Vic spoke of you a good deal. She was very fond of you, I think.”

“Did she?” Kincaid answered inadequately. Searching for something else to say, he added, “We hadn’t seen one another in years, until just recently. It seemed to me that she had changed a great deal, but now I’m not sure that I ever really knew her in the first place.”

Nathan rubbed absently at the bandage on his hand. “Nor am I,” he said, meeting Kincaid’s eyes. “There’s no way I can ever know now.”

Adam returned with the tea things, and as he set them out, Nathan said, “I understand the police rang you.”

“The officer in charge knew of my… connection with Vic,” Kincaid said as he accepted a cup of tea from Adam. “A good thing, too, as Kit had no one with him other than the police constable.”

“Do you know what’s happened to Kit? I’ve been worried sick about him.” Nathan’s hand was unsteady as he reached for his teacup, and Kincaid noticed that Adam didn’t relinquish his grip on it until the cup sat firmly on the table.

“He’s gone to his grandparents’-Vic’s parents’, that is. And I know they’ve been in touch with the vicar here in Grantchester, so he might have an idea how Kit is doing.”

“The vicar?” Nathan said, as if he didn’t quite follow.

“Funeral arrangements,” said Adam, with a questioning look at Kincaid.

“A memorial service. It’s tomorrow at one o’clock.”

“So soon? But they’ve not let anyone know-”

“I’m sure Father Denny meant to come round this afternoon, Nathan,” interrupted Adam, attempting to soothe him.

“But it’s not just the neighbors who will have to be notified. There’s everyone at College, and in her department. I’ll have to ring them-” He started to rise.

Adam put a restraining hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Nathan. I’ll do it. You can make me a list in a bit.”

“What about her husband?” asked Kincaid. “Have you any idea how to contact him?”

“Ian?” said Nathan. “I haven’t a clue. Hasn’t anyone been in touch with him?”

“Not as far as I know. He seems to have flown the coop rather successfully,” said Kincaid, and saw Nathan make an automatic grimace of distaste. “What’s he like, anyway, the remarkable Ian McClellan?”

“Academically sound, as far as I know,” Nathan answered neutrally.

“But?” Kincaid prompted. “Don’t bother being tactful.”

Nathan smiled. “All right. Ian McClellan is one of those tiresome chaps who think they know everything and everyone. And smooth with it. ‘Let me put you in touch with just the person…’ You know the drill.”