Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

When they had paid their bill, they climbed the steep staircase back to street level, passing through the ground-floor shop with its selection of linens and laces. Kincaid saw Gemma reach out towards a particularly elaborate tablecloth displayed near the door, but she dropped her hand without touching it and followed him out onto the pavement.

The weather had changed in the half hour they’d been inside. Dark clouds had scudded in, and the air held a damp chill. “It must be this way,” said Gemma, as they came to a halt at the intersection of St. John’s and a tiny lane. Remembering that she’d told him she’d done a recce day before yesterday, he followed her without question. They passed a shop selling English cheeses, and olives in an array of colors ranging from pale green to deep aubergine. Beyond that, a shop displayed handmade chocolates, and then, just before they reached Sidney Street, they saw an unobtrusive door bearing a brass nameplate with the Peregrine Press logo.

There was no bell, but when Kincaid tried the latch the door swung open. They stepped into the foyer, and saw that a flight of stairs led directly up to the first floor and another door of frosted glass. “Are you sure someone’s here?” asked Gemma. “It’s quiet as the proverbial tomb, and it is Saturday, after all.”

“Peregrine said he’d be working,” Kincaid reassured her as they climbed the stairs. He opened the glass door on the upper landing and allowed Gemma to enter first. They found themselves in an anteroom of sorts, in that it contained a shabby sofa and a coffee table much marred by drink rings, but the rest of the available space was taken up by haphazardly shelved books and assorted piles of paper. Most of the books seemed to bear the familiar Peregrine imprint, and there were multiple copies of many of them. The door to an inner office was closed, and Kincaid heard a man’s voice speaking intermittently-Ralph Peregrine must be on the phone.

“I see the elegance associated with the Peregrine Press doesn’t extend to the working quarters,” Kincaid said, rifling one dusty pile of paper with his thumb. “Are these manuscripts, do you suppose?”

“It doesn’t seem very organized, does it?” Gemma wrinkled her nose. “It’s a wonder they manage to publish any-”

“Hullo. Thought I heard voices.” The inner door had swung open soundlessly, and a thin, dark man in cords and a cherry red pullover stood on the threshold, smiling at them inquiringly. “You must be Mr. Kincaid. I’m Ralph Peregrine.”

After Kincaid had introduced Gemma, who was blushing slightly, Peregrine escorted them both into his office. “We’ll be more comfortable in here,” he said, seating them in two Queen Anne chairs that looked as if they’d been pilfered from someone’s dining room. The room’s ambiance was definitely a notch above that of the anteroom, however. The desk, although piled dangerously high with books and papers, looked expensive, and the carpet under their feet had the cushiony feel of good quality. To the left of the desk, a new model computer sat on a specially designed table, and below it was a printer. Kincaid rather liked the idea that the end product of the latest technology remained printed words on bound paper.

Peregrine propped one hip on the front edge of his desk and faced them, his back to the light pouring in from the large window behind his desk. Folding his arms across his chest in a relaxed posture, he asked, “Now, how can I help you?”

It’s a case, thought Kincaid. Just state the facts and don’t let thinking of Vic get in the way. He cleared his throat. “As I said over the phone, it’s about Lydia Brooke’s last book, the one published posthumously. Vic McClellan discovered some poems among Lydia’s effects that she felt sure should have been included in that manuscript. I wondered if perhaps you had made an editorial decision not to include certain poems in the finished book?”

“I should think not,” answered Ralph, sounding amused. “Lydia and I had a good working relationship, meaning that I didn’t fiddle about with her words.” More soberly, he added, “And I would have been even less inclined to do so after her death, when it was no longer possible to consult her. I published Lydia’s book as it was given to me, with every effort to make it something that would have pleased her.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning. “I do remember thinking at the time that there was a certain lack of continuity in the placement of the poems, but in the light of Lydia’s death, I blamed her depression.”

“Were the pages of the manuscript numbered?” asked Gemma.

Ralph shook his head. “No. Lydia would play with the order of the poems until the very last, and because she used a typewriter, renumbering a manuscript every time she made a change would have been a real headache.”

“So someone could easily have slipped a page here and there out of the manuscript?” Kincaid suggested.

“Well, I suppose so,” said Ralph, looking nonplussed. “But why on earth would anyone want to do that?”

“We don’t know. We only have Vic’s assertion that something was wrong.” Kincaid blinked, as if that would erase the image of Vic’s animated face as she waved the sheaf of poems at them.

“Dr. McClellan was certainly the expert on Lydia’s work, but if she suspected that the manuscript had been tampered with, why didn’t she discuss it with me?” asked Ralph. The man had an intelligent face, Kincaid thought as he watched him, accentuated by alert, dark eyes and the high forehead exposed by his receding hairline. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

“She only discovered this a few days before she died,” said Gemma. “I doubt she had the chance to consult you.”

“Have you any idea who might have had access to Lydia’s manuscript before you yourself read it?” Kincaid asked.

Ralph glanced round at a profusion of books and papers equaling that of the front room and shrugged eloquently. “You can see how things are. I feel like Sisyphus trying to keep up with all the projects, and my assistant only keeps the stone from backsliding a bit. There are always a fair amount of people tramping through here, as well, but we’ve never seen any need to be security conscious.” He tilted his wrist and glanced unobtrusively at his watch. “Surely it’s just as possible that Lydia herself decided to remove the poems for some reason. And I can’t imagine what bearing this has on Dr. McClellan’s death. This all seems a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Not only might it have something to do with Dr. McClellan’s death, it may be connected with Lydia’s death as well.” Kincaid, watching Ralph carefully, saw the speed with which he drew a conclusion from the vague statement.

“Lydia? What do you mean?” Ralph sounded genuinely surprised, and he glanced from Kincaid to Gemma as if seeking confirmation.

“We think it quite possible Lydia Brooke may have been murdered,” Kincaid said.

Ralph stared at him. “Murdered? But… that’s just not possible. Lydia was a middle-aged poet of moderate success, with a history of depression. Why would anyone want to murder her?”

“That’s what we were hoping you might tell us, actually,” said Gemma, with a smile. “We thought you might have a more objective view of her, since yours was primarily a working relationship. And you had been together a long time.”

“Yes,” Ralph said slowly. “We had. Lydia was one of the first authors I took on, and we grew up together, so to speak. We were incredibly naive about the publishing business in the beginning, both of us, but Lydia was forgiving of my mistakes. I was very fond of her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again, and when he dropped his hand Kincaid could see the red marks left by the spectacles’ nose pads.