Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Gemma slid from her chair and came to kneel at his feet so that she could look up into his face. “Bollocks. You can’t change what happened. There’s no point indulging in that sort of thing. What you have to decide is what you’re going to do now.”

“What can I do?” he protested. “Kit’s life has been disrupted enough as it is. He thinks Ian is his father-”

“Do you really think Ian is going to be much use to him, even if he should come back? And Kit’s prospects with his grandparents are worse than dismal.” Removing her hands from his knees, she sat back on her heels but kept her eyes fixed on his face. “I think, love, that it’s your life you’re afraid to disrupt.”

Cambridge

3 September 1965

Darling Mummy ,

You are so sweet to be concerned for me, but as much as I’d love to have you here, I’m fine, really. (Though I must admit it’s rather amusing to have you and Morgan conspiring treats behind my back, and I feel rather like the heroine in a Victorian novel, propped up in bed having my boiled egg and toast on the tray you sent.) You have enough to deal with just now, with Nan ill, and Morgan makes a gloweringly tender and surprisingly competent nursemaid .

But although this most recent miscarriage has been relatively easy, I’ve decided not to try again. I’ve schooled myself not to want it so desperately, but still the cycle of hope and disappointment is wearing, and it keeps me from getting on with my work. It’s been difficult for Morgan, too, and he says no child is worth my health and well-being. So I’ll soldier on, and try to count my blessings .

I find I can’t bear all the radiantly fecund young wives of our married friends, but Daphne’s been a comfort, and visits often. Morgan seems to be prepared to tolerate her for my sake .

There is wheat among the chaff, darling Mummy. I’ve had an offer from a small press here in Cambridge to publish my latest collection of poems. They mean to specialize in the avant-garde, and I’m quite set up to be considered so. It will mean some work, to revise and finish the collection, but I look forwards to it. Just think, a book, at last! It will be a child of sorts, I suppose .

We were right, you know, Morgan and I, in deciding that our art must come from experience. It’s the daily stuff of living, bloody as it sometimes is, that gives the photos and poems the sting of truth .

Morgan’s been approached by a London gallery to do a solo exhibition! They want all of the Welsh miner series, and anything else he can get ready. You’ll have to come up to London for the opening, and we’ll make an evening of it .

So try not to worry-I promise I’ll have shocking roses in my cheeks by the time you see me next .

Love, Lydia

The smell of coffee teased Kincaid up through the layers of consciousness like a hooked fish. Finally, he could no longer deny wakefulness, but lay with his eyes still closed, trying to figure out who could possibly be making coffee in his flat.

Then it dawned on him that he was not in his flat at all, nor in his bed, but Gemma’s.

Ordinarily, it made her uncomfortable for him to stay, because of Toby, but last night she had insisted, and they’d made love with the silent urgency of two teenagers fearing discovery. Just the memory of it stirred him to arousal, and he opened his eyes, hoping to find her still sleep tousled and willing to come back to bed.

She sat, fully dressed, at the half-moon table, drinking coffee and shuffling pages of typescript.

“You were just using me last night,” he said, injured.

Gemma looked up and smiled. “Your powers of deduction are astounding, sir.” She stretched, showing an inch of bare skin at the waist as her jumper rose above her jeans. “Sorry about the coffee. I was afraid the smell would wake you, but I couldn’t wait any longer-”

“That’s what you said last night,” he teased, then added, “How long have you been up?”

“You don’t want to know.” She turned another page of the manuscript.

He’d told her last night that he had a copy of Vic’s book locked in the boot of his car, so she must have lifted his keys while he slept with the skill of a pickpocket. “Sneak.”

“I’ve brought in your emergency kit from the boot as well,” she said, referring to the shaving things and change of clothes he kept packed for unexpected overnights.

“Then I suppose I’ve no excuse for staying in bed,” he answered regretfully, but the light filtering in from the garden through the half-opened blinds was turning from the green of early morning to gold, and Toby would doubtless be up soon.

“I think we should see Daphne Morris this morning,” said Gemma a few minutes later, watching him as he tucked in his shirttail.

“Gemma-”

“No more argument,” she interrupted firmly. “We’ve done all that.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, knowing it was a capitulation, yet feeling an unexpected sense of relief.

“You said last night that Darcy Eliot implied Lydia had a lesbian relationship with Daphne Morris.” She tapped the manuscript. “If Vic suspected that, there’s no hint of it here, but what if she’d just recently come across it? The headmistress of a girls’ school would certainly have a lot to lose if something like that got out.”

He looked up from tying his shoe. “Vic interviewed Daphne Morris; it’s in her notes. She said Daphne gave the impression she hardly knew Lydia.”

Gemma raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. “That’s obviously not true, on the basis of Lydia’s letters alone. Do you know what school it is?”

“No, but I know roughly where it is, and it shouldn’t be hard to ferret out the rest. What do you suppose headmistresses do on a Saturday?”

Headmistresses, it turned out, went away to their country cottages, but Daphne Morris had been delayed and was still packing. They had been shown into the sitting room of her private apartments by a thin woman with pockmarked skin and a protective attitude. “You won’t keep her, will you?” she said as she turned to go. “She needs every bit of her weekend-”

“It’s all right, Jeanette.” The woman who came into the room sounded affectionately amused. In jodhpurs and boots, with her fresh skin and her glossy russet hair tied back with a scarf, she looked like an advertisement from Country Life . “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a quarter of an hour.

“She thinks I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get away for the weekend,” continued Daphne Morris, giving an exasperated roll of her eyes as Jeanette went out. She started towards them with her hand outstretched, but must have seen their faces freeze, because she hesitated and dropped her hand. “What is it? Have I said something wrong?”

“You really don’t know?” asked Gemma, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said Daphne, sounding a bit wary now, “but perhaps Jeanette got it a bit muddled. Who did you say you were?”

Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, adding, “We’re from Scotland Yard, Miss Morris.” After all, he thought as he showed her his warrant card, that was the truth, strictly speaking, and he’d come to the conclusion that they weren’t likely to get anywhere without calling on their official standing. “We’d like to talk to you about Victoria McClellan. We understand she came to see you about Lydia Brooke.”