Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

“Yes,” Francesca said without hesitation. Then she added musingly, “It’s very odd, but that ax had been poised over our heads for so long that it was almost a relief when it fell. It seemed the worst had happened and not been as bad as we’d feared.”

“And when she died, five years ago?”

Francesca stared at the window overlooking the front garden and absently pinched a fold of fabric between her fingers. “I don’t know. We were shocked at first, I suppose, and after that we felt a sort of release. I thought he could heal then, let it go.” She seemed to bring her gaze back to Gemma with an effort, and in the strong north light the lines of weariness in her pleasant face were deeply etched. “Then we learned she’d left him the house.”

“Why did she leave Morgan the house?” asked Gemma. “It seems a bit odd if she hadn’t seen him for years, and they’d parted so bitterly.”

“I think she meant it as an act of reconciliation,” said Francesca slowly. “A closing of the books.”

“And Morgan?”

Francesca met her eyes reluctantly. “Morgan saw it as a deliberate attempt at torture. To reach out for him from beyond the grave. It’s got all twisted inside him over the years-his guilt and his love for her. Morgan thought he could anchor her, but he wasn’t strong enough, and he’s never forgiven himself.”

“And now you try to anchor Morgan?” guessed Gemma.

“Oh.” Francesca’s eyes widened with surprise. “I suppose it might seem that way. But it’s more of a balancing act, most of the time.”

“Surely an uneven one because of Lydia?”

“Not really,” said Francesca with a certainty Gemma hadn’t expected. “Morgan loves me, probably more than he ever imagined he would. He says the peace and security I provide make life bearable for him. And he gives me such-”

A door slammed in the back of the house. A man’s voice called, “Fran! Whose car’s in the drive?”

Francesca frowned at Gemma and gave a sharp shake of her head. “Let me handle this,” she mouthed as the footsteps came down the hall.

Tensing instinctively, Gemma sat forwards and gathered her handbag a bit closer to her body.

“Hullo, darling.” Francesca smiled at her husband as he entered the room. “This is Gemma James. She’s come about the studio.”

Gemma stopped gaping at Morgan Ashby long enough to stammer a greeting and shake the hand he held out to her. She didn’t remember seeing a photo of him among Vic’s papers, and certainly nothing else had prepared her. Even scowling suspiciously at her, the man was a stunner, drop-dead good-looking with a presence Heathcliff might have envied. Tall and well built, he had a head of dark, wavy, unkempt hair, a long straight nose, and dark gray eyes that made Gemma’s bones feel hollow.

Francesca was speaking and the words suddenly clicked into focus in Gemma’s mind. “… having a look round to see if it would do for her. She’s a…” Francesca cast a quick look of appeal at Gemma.

“Potter.” Gemma said the first thing that flew into her mind, then gulped. She could barely tell a vase from a chamber pot. At least she was wearing the long skirt and jumper she’d worn to Vic’s on Sunday, and thought she must look suitably artistic.

“A potter,” Francesca repeated. “And she’s a bit concerned about the kiln space. She does production work, you see.”

“Really?” asked Morgan as he sat on the arm of the sofa and rested a casual hand on his wife’s shoulder. He’d relaxed as soon as Francesca had mentioned the studio. “Of course if you’re really keen, the foundation might be persuaded to fund a new kiln for the compound.” When he smiled at Gemma, the creases round his eyes gave an indication of his age, but made him no less attractive.

Gemma struggled to collect herself, but before she could blurt out something inane, Morgan misinterpreted her blankness. “Has Fran not explained how we operate? We have a group of benefactors who are committed to providing low-cost studio space for talented artists. This is strictly work space, though-you do understand that?” When Gemma nodded, he went on, “We don’t sell anyone’s work here at the center. The individual artists are responsible for setting up shows elsewhere.”

“You don’t sell even your own things?” Gemma asked, her curiosity at least providing her with a sensible comment.

“Oh, Morgan and I don’t actually use the studios,” explained Francesca. “We’re basically just caretakers for the foundation, and we have our own work spaces here in the house. Morgan’s studio and darkroom are upstairs, and I prefer it in here by the fire,” she added, smiling. “Would you like to see the available studio again?”

“Oh, no, I’d better not,” said Gemma, taking her cue. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve an appointment, in fact, and I’m late as it is.” Placing her coffee mug carefully on the table, she stood up. “You’ve been too kind, giving me so much of your time. Is it all right if I let you know when I’ve had a chance to think it over?”

“Of course.” Francesca gave her husband’s hand a squeeze as she rose.

“Don’t leave it too long, now,” said Morgan as he came with them to the door, and Gemma noticed for the first time the faintest Welsh lilt in his accent. “You’d hate to miss out on an opportunity like this.”

Husband and wife stood shoulder to shoulder on the step, the picture of harmony. But as Gemma turned away, some trick of the afternoon light threw a faint shadow between them, and she wondered if Francesca Ashby were truly prepared to live without Lydia’s ghost.

Kincaid angled the Midget into one of the pay-and-display spaces across the street from the University English Faculty and jerked up the lever on the parking brake. He hadn’t realized how much his lack of official status would handicap him, and he’d driven back to Cambridge still seething with frustration over his aborted visit to Morgan Ashby. The man must be a certifiable lunatic, shouting and waving a bloody shotgun about like a toy. And if Vic had received the same sort of reception, it didn’t surprise him that she’d made no further effort to contact Lydia Brooke’s ex-husband.

He’d have to suggest that Alec Byrne pay the man a visit-suitably accompanied by brawny constables-but in the meantime he hoped to find more accommodating sources of information here, where his nonofficial status might prove more help then hindrance.

After a glance at the clouds massing in the northern sky, he pulled up the Midget’s top and snapped it closed, then crossed the street to the building where he assumed Vic had spent her last day.

Laura Miller, the department secretary, sat at her desk in the reception area, pressing the phone to her ear with one hand and scribbling with the other. She glanced up at the sound of the door, and her lips parted in soundless distress as she recognized him.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, dragging her attention back to the phone. “Listen, could I ring you back? Ta.”

She replaced the phone in its cradle, still staring at Kincaid, and he was dismayed to see her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You have no idea… We all are. I don’t know what to say.”

He slid into the chair opposite her desk without being asked, smiling to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. “You don’t have to say anything. It must be pretty dreadful for you.”

“I’ve just been ringing everyone I can think of about the memorial service, but it’s still such a shock. I’ll ring off, thinking, “I’ll have to tell Vic the absurd thing so-and-so said,’ and then it hits me.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat, searching for a less painful topic. “I only learned about the service this morning, from the police.” At the last word Laura’s normally rosy face paled even further, and he cursed himself for an idiot. That was one he’d meant to ease into.