Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Morgan nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he said slowly, “It was when I found myself shaking her with my hands round her throat that I knew I had to be the one to do it.”

Sensing Kincaid stir at that, Gemma gave a quick shake of her head. She waited, resisting the impulse to hurry Morgan or to speak for him.

“I pried my hands away, and I felt as though they’d never be clean again. How had I let her bring me to that? Later that night, when she had cried herself to sleep, I packed my things and walked out. The next day I filed for divorce. I gave her the house and everything in it.” He looked up at Gemma beseechingly. “Was it such a terrible thing to do, abandoning her that way?”

“You couldn’t have done anything else.” Gemma allowed herself to touch his hand. “Morgan, who was it that made Lydia ill? Besides Daphne?”

The skin beneath his eyes crinkled as he frowned at her. “Adam, of course. The spoiler of her virginity, she liked to call him, or the Lamb of God. She thought it funny.”

“Just Adam?” she asked.

“Adam, and Darcy Eliot, and that bloody hypocrite Nathan Winter, who went on afterwards to become the perfect, morally upright husband and father,” Morgan sneered.

“You’re saying that Lydia slept with all of them?” Gemma refrained from making eye contact with Kincaid. “Including Daphne?”

“She told me I was unreasonable because I didn’t want them coming round after we were married.”

“But you gave in about Daphne, didn’t you? After Lydia lost the babies, because Daphne was the only woman she could bear to be round. What about afterwards, when you’d separated? Did they continue to see one another?”

Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see Lydia again, except for the few occasions when we couldn’t avoid running into one another.” He sounded suddenly very tired.

“There was Francesca.”

“Francesca kept me sane. Still does, though it’s a job I don’t envy her.” Morgan attempted a smile. “We’d both have been better off if I’d-” He paused and tilted his head, listening. “She’s home now. Back from the shops. I can recognize the sound of the bloody old Volvo’s engine a mile away.”

A car door slammed nearby. They waited, and after a moment the back door swung open. Francesca Ashby stepped in, her pleasant face creased with anxiety. She took in Morgan’s face, with the traces of blood drying black beneath his nose, and dropped her parcels where she stood. “Morgan! Are you-”

“I’m fine, love, don’t worry,” he reassured her.

“But-” She glanced at Kincaid, whose cheekbone was beginning to darken in a bruise, then at Gemma. “What happened?” she asked as she went to stand beside her husband.

“Something that should have happened a long time ago,” he said, putting his arm round her waist. “But I’m not sure I can explain it. It’s over, Fran. Finally. They say that someone killed Lydia. She didn’t commit suicide.” He looked at Kincaid for the first time since their scuffle. “Are you sure of it?”

“There’s no physical proof at this point, but I think it’s fairly certain,” said Kincaid.

“And you think this same person may have killed your Dr. McClellan?”

Kincaid nodded. “Do you have any idea who might have done such a thing?”

“No,” said Morgan slowly. “And it’s an odd thing, but I find I don’t really care.”

“Morgan, you can’t mean that.” Francesca stepped away from him, sounding shocked.

He looked up at her. “I don’t mean I think it right, or that I don’t care about justice for her, in a detached sort of way. But don’t you see what this means for me, Frannie?”

“It was never your fault, Morgan, no matter how she died.” She stroked his hair. “You didn’t need that sort of absolution.”

“But I did,” he said softly. “I’m going to sell the house, Fran. Will you help me?” He turned to her, and when she gave him a nod of confirmation, he gave a long, shuddering sigh and rested his head against her breast.

Gemma and Kincaid sat for a moment, watching Francesca’s still face, then got up quietly from the table and let themselves out.

“So where does this leave us?” Kincaid asked as he picked up his cheese and tomato sandwich, then winced as his first bite caught his swollen lip. Gemma had already started on hers, and he watched the egg salad squish generously over the edges of the brown bread as she bit into it.

They’d chosen a basement tearoom off St. John’s Street, partly on Hazel’s recommendation, and partly because he had made an appointment with Ralph Peregrine, and the offices of Peregrine Press were nearby. Kincaid had to admit the tearoom was a charming enough place, a warm retreat with heavy oak furniture and bright Blue Calico tea services, but the drawing of Alice in Wonderland on the restaurant’s paper menus made him think of Vic.

“You shouldn’t have pushed Morgan, you know,” said Gemma a bit reproachfully, but her expression was concerned as she watched him explore his lip with a careful fingertip. “You’re going to have a lovely bruise on that cheekbone as well,” she added in a tone of dispassionate interest.

“The man is a wife beater-by his own admission, he nearly killed Lydia. How can you possibly make excuses for him?” Kincaid countered defensively.

“You don’t usually let your personal prejudices get in the way of your judgment.” Gemma looked at him over the rim of her blue and white teacup. “And besides, I’m not sure it’s true-that Morgan’s an abuser, I mean. I think he has a rotten temper, and that Lydia pushed him-”

“You’re not saying that Lydia deserved what she got?” he sputtered through a mouthful of sandwich. “That’s preposterous. I can’t believe you’d-”

“Of course I don’t mean that,” she said, just as hotly. “I’m not saying that what Morgan did was right, only that I think this was something strictly between Morgan and Lydia, a combination of personalities that drove them both beyond their limits.

“Besides, for most men who abuse women, it’s a chronic pattern, but I’d be willing to bet you a month’s wages that Morgan’s never laid a finger on Francesca in all the years they’ve been married.”

“So? That doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Lydia twenty years later.”

“No, but not that way.” Gemma shook her head emphatically. “Morgan acts out of temper. Poisoning requires deliberate forethought, intent to harm, and I don’t think he’s capable of it.” More thoughtfully, she added, “What I’d like to know is whether Lydia really deliberately triggered these episodes, or if that’s just his perception of it-a way of excusing himself.”

“Well, there’s no way we can know that, is there? And I can’t see any point arguing with you unless we turn up something else that incriminates Morgan Ashby,” said Kincaid with a sigh. “Once you make up your mind, you’re as immovable as Mohammed.”

Gemma’s smile held the satisfaction of victory. “Then don’t you think we need to follow up what Morgan told us? We can’t see Daphne again until Monday, but we could have a go at Darcy Eliot and Nathan Winter.” She finished her tea and patted her mouth demurely with her serviette.

“All right,” he conceded. “But I still want to see Ralph Peregrine first. I’m not happy about those missing poems.”