Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Turning, Gemma saw a heavyset older woman plowing determinedly towards them, with a smaller, fluffier woman fluttering along in her wake.

“Who’s the friend?” Kincaid asked softly.

“That’s Enid, Iris’s… um, companion,” Laura said under her breath, then the two women were upon them and introductions were performed all round again.

Iris Winslow, like Laura, expressed great pleasure upon seeing Kincaid. “I am glad you could come,” she said, and added, with a dark glance at Enid, “I thought it a perfectly suitable service, whatever anyone else might say. And I think Vic would have approved, which is the main thing, isn’t it? She was never one for a fuss.”

Enid pursed her lips and made clicking sounds of agreement.

Kincaid gave a groan of exasperation. “Don’t tell me her mother’s finding fault with poor Father Denny.”

“I’m afraid so,” said the tall, thin man in clerical garb who had stepped quietly up to join them. “But I think he’s quite capable of dealing with it.” He smiled, and Gemma was immediately charmed. This, she learned a moment later, was Adam Lamb, and Iris seemed almost as pleased at his appearance as she had Kincaid’s.

As Gemma listened to the snippets of conversation, she began to place these people in relation to Vic. Iris Winslow, it seemed, had been her boss, and Darcy Eliot, the large man in the mauve waistcoat who had joined them, one of her colleagues. She was not quite sure about Adam, except that he seemed to know Iris and Darcy. Then she heard Kincaid say quietly to him, “How is Nathan holding up?” and at last she recognized a name. It was Nathan who’d given Vic the book in which she’d discovered Lydia’s missing poems, and he was, she remembered Kincaid saying, Lydia’s literary executor.

Adam gave a small shake of his head. “It’s been a difficult day, I’m afraid. He’s just having a word with Austin-Father Denny-and then I’m determined to whisk him off home.”

Was Nathan some sort of an invalid, and Adam his caretaker, wondered Gemma? But then he, too, joined the widening circle, and she saw that Nathan Winter was a striking man in his early fifties, whose white hair contrasted sharply with his tanned skin and dark eyes.

“Adam seems determined to fuss over me, but I’m quite all right,” said Nathan, as though he’d overheard. Protest he might, thought Gemma, but he did look unwell. There was a tinge of gray beneath the tan, and the dullness of shock in his eyes. “And I have no intention of leaving until I’ve had a word with Kit,” he added. “Is there any news about Ian McClellan?” he asked Kincaid.

“Not a trace,” said Kincaid. “I’ve just been to see the local police this morning, and they’re no further along. The man looks to have simply vanished.”

“Bastard,” said Nathan quite clearly, and there was a momentary pause in conversational buzz.

Turning to Darcy Eliot, Rosemary said brightly into the rather strained silence, “I enjoy your books, Mr. Eliot. And I adore your mother’s-I’ve been a fan of hers for longer than I care to admit.”

“You’re too kind,” Eliot replied. “But I’m afraid my administrative duties these days don’t leave me much time for such pleasant pursuits. My mother, on the other hand, seems to grow more prolific with every passing year.”

“Would that we could all possess a fraction of Margery’s stamina,” said Iris. “I don’t know how she does it.”

“She claims the occasional medicinal sherry helps a great deal,” Darcy said with a wink. “And I daresay the same would have done all of us good this afternoon. I can’t imagine what-” He stopped, drawing together his bristling eyebrows as he frowned at Iris. “I say, Iris, are you all right?”

Iris had paled and grasped Enid’s arm, but she smiled gamely at them. “It’s nothing that a small measure from your bottom drawer wouldn’t put right, Darcy. Just this headache has been plaguing me these last few days.”

“Are you feeling ill, Dr. Winslow?” asked Adam, instantly concerned. “Nathan’s cottage is just up the street-do come and let me fix you some tea. Nathan does marvelous things with herbs, and I believe there’s a particular blend for headache.” Taking her elbow, he turned to Nathan for confirmation, but Nathan was staring at the trio that had stepped out of the church into the porch. The faded blonde in the dark, printed suit and black straw hat must be Vic’s mother, thought Gemma, and the thin, balding man her father. And between them, Kit, looking white and fiercely miserable. The sleeves of his navy blazer were too short, and somehow the sight of his bony wrists protruding beneath the cuffs made her throat tighten as nothing in the funeral service had done.

Rosemary put a quick hand on Kincaid’s arm. “Duncan, is that Vic’s son?” she asked, her voice rising on an incredulous note.

“Yes,” said Laura before Kincaid could answer. “But the poor bloody kid wasn’t so fortunate in the allotment of grandparents.” Her face was tight with anger.

They all stood as if mesmerized as the Pottses moved on towards the drive. “She means to pass us by without a word,” said Rosemary, with blank surprise. “I don’t believe it.”

Her words seemed to galvanize Nathan, for he suddenly started forwards, calling, “Kit, wait!” and they all followed after him, lemminglike.

It was Vic’s father who stopped and turned, and Gemma could see the displeasure in the mother’s stiff posture as she was forced to wait.

“Hullo, Kit,” said Nathan as he reached them. The others piled up awkwardly behind him, like witnesses to an accident. “I only wanted to see how you were.”

Beneath the little veil on the black straw hat, Eugenia Potts’s face was blotched with weeping. She held a handkerchief to her lips with one trembling hand and made no attempt to speak.

Into the silence, Kit said with the certainty of desperation, “I wish I were dead.”

“Christopher!” Eugenia wailed. “Have you no respect-”

“Eugenia,” said Rosemary quietly as she stepped forwards. “I was so sorry to hear about Victoria. This must be very difficult for you.”

“You don’t know the meaning of difficult, Rosemary Kincaid. If you’d lost your only child-”

“I’d like to meet your grandson,” continued Rosemary, cutting her off in midsentence. She held out a hand to Kit. “Hullo, Kit. I’m Rosemary, Duncan’s mother. Let’s see”-she tilted her head and examined him-“you must be… what? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“Eleven,” Kit answered with a spark of interest, and pulled himself up a bit.

“And what do you play at school? Rugger? Football?”

“Football,” he admitted, with an anxious glance at his grandmother.

“I thought so.” Rosemary smiled. “You look a bit like…” She turned to the men in appeal, and Gemma knew she hadn’t a clue. “What’s the chap’s name who plays for Manchester United?”

“I feel ill, Robert,” interrupted Eugenia. “Please take us home this instant.” She sagged a bit, and Kit winced as she gripped his arm for support.

“Of course, dear,” said Bob Potts. “Perhaps you should wait while I fetch the car-”

“I’d like a word with Kit before you go, if you don’t mind,” said Kincaid. “It’s rather impor-”

“I feel ill,” said Eugenia, fanning herself with the Order of Service she held in her hand. “Robert!” She started unsteadily down the drive, her hand still gripping Kit’s arm.

“I’m so sorry,” said Bob Potts, shrugging apologetically. “But I’m afraid we must go. She really is not at all well.” He started after his wife, then turned back once more. “So sorry,” he repeated. “It was good to see you, Rosemary. Give my regards to Hugh. And… thank you.”