Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Looking quizzically at the wire frames dangling from his thumb and index finger, Ralph said, “I’ve a habit of sitting on them, I’m afraid.” Again, he gave a barely perceptible glance at his watch, and added, “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else I can tell you. Lydia was opinionated, more so as she got older, and sometimes inclined to get on a bit of a soapbox about things. But since when are those reasons to kill someone? She was also generous with her time and advice-she often helped younger poets-and must have had people in her debt.”

“And in her personal life?” prompted Kincaid.

“Lydia didn’t share details of her personal life with me, other than the usual chitchat about creeping damp and leaks in the roof.”

“What about Morgan Ashby?”

“I met him, of course, when Lydia and I first began working together. But I don’t think he particularly cared for me, and we never made it a social relationship. I invited them for dinner once, I remember, near the end of their marriage, but it wasn’t a success.” This time the glance at his watch was overt. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve an appointment-”

They heard the sound of the anteroom’s outer door opening and closing, then a woman’s voice called, “Sorry, I’m early, Ralph darling.” The inner door swung open. “Oh. Do forgive me, Ralph,” said the voice, silvery and breathless. “I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll just-”

“No, come in, Margery, please.” Ralph crossed quickly to the door, and Kincaid and Gemma turned awkwardly in their chairs, trying to see behind them. “I do wish you wouldn’t run up the stairs,” said Ralph, in a tone of affectionate exasperation.

“Don’t fuss, darling. You know it makes me feel old,” she answered, laughing.

Kincaid stood quickly as the woman came into the room on Ralph’s arm. She was in her seventies, thought Kincaid, dressed all in gray, and matched her voice more perfectly than anyone he had ever met.

“Margery, this is Superintendent Kincaid, and Sergeant James, from Scotland Yard.” Ralph nodded at them. “Dame Margery Lester.”

She looked the picture of the famous novelist, Kincaid thought, this woman whom his mother so admired. And if she still possessed a great talent, she had once been blessed with great beauty as well. Margery Lester was still beautiful, patrician, blue-blooded even to the faint blue cast to her porcelain skin. It surprised him that his mother, with her Labour leanings, should be so enamored of a woman who embodied generations of wealth and breeding, but perhaps he was underestimating his mother. Perhaps, he thought as he met Margery Lester’s bright and intelligent eyes, he was underestimating them both.

“Dame Margery,” he said, and took her hand. When she’d greeted Gemma, he insisted she take his chair. “My mother’s a great admirer of yours,” he added as he moved to stand beside Gemma. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might have missed out on something.”

“They’re not ‘women’s’ books,” said Margery, smoothing the skirt of her pale gray suit over her knees. “I quite despise this tendency to put flowery covers on them, but the marketing people will have their way. I can only hope husbands pick them up when their wives aren’t looking and discover there’s a good story inside.” She smiled as if anything might be forgiven a person who read.

“Would anyone like something to drink?” asked Ralph, slipping gracefully into the role of host. “The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere, and it is Saturday, after all. I can do G and Ts quite adequately, except for the limes, I’m afraid.”

“Never touch the stuff,” said Margery briskly. “Doctor’s orders. I wouldn’t say no to a small sherry, though.”

Ralph glanced inquiringly at Kincaid, who found himself suddenly of a mind to become a little better acquainted with Margery Lester. “I wouldn’t mind following Dame Margery’s example,” he said, and sensed Gemma’s startled glance before she murmured an acceptance.

While Ralph busied himself with retrieving a bottle and a set of fragile-looking rose-colored crystal from a cabinet, Kincaid leaned over and, raising his eyebrow, whispered in Gemma’s ear, “We’re not exactly on duty, after all.”

“What brings you here, Mr. Kincaid, if you don’t mind my nosiness?” asked Dame Margery, and he wondered if her hearing was as acute as her wit.

Ralph looked up from pouring the sherry. “They’d some questions about Victoria McClellan.”

“Oh, that was too dreadful.” Margery shook her head. “I met her several times, you know, at Faculty functions, and thought her absolutely charming. One just doesn’t expect things like that to happen to someone one knows.” She glanced at Ralph as he handed her a sherry. “It makes our little project seem quite frivolous, doesn’t it?”

“It wouldn’t have seemed frivolous to Henry,” said Ralph as he offered a glass to Gemma, then Kincaid.

“What project is that, Dame Margery?” asked Gemma.

“I’ve been helping Ralph put Henry Whitecliff’s notes into some sort of publishable form. Poor Henry died last summer before he could finish his manuscript.” Margery lifted her glass to Ralph, who had poured his own sherry. “Cheers,” she said, and took a small sip.

“That name rings a bell,” said Kincaid, frowning. “Why does everyone refer to him as ‘poor’ Henry?”

“It’s unconscious, I suppose,” said Margery with a sigh. “But it does seem as though poor Henry-see, I’ve done it again.” She smiled and deliberately corrected herself. “It seems as though Henry Whitecliff had to bear more than his share of tragedy, and he was such a lovely, kind man that he seemed even less deserving of it than most.”

Ralph returned to his position at the edge of his desk. “Henry’s only daughter disappeared just before her sixteenth birthday. I remember her vaguely-we were near the same age, though not at the same school.”

“She was a beautiful girl, Verity, very bright and loving, but a bit headstrong-just the sort to be tempted by the idea of running away to swinging London when she’d had a row with her parents. Henry and Betty were devastated, of course, and for years they followed every possible lead, hoping against hope that she would come home. Then Betty developed cancer.” Margery came to a halt, clasping the stem of the sherry glass with both hands. Her hands were still beautiful, Kincaid noticed, with slender, tapering fingers, but the blue veins stood close to the surface and her knuckles were slightly enlarged, as if she suffered with arthritis.

After casting a concerned glance at Margery, Ralph took up the story. “After Betty died, Henry retired as Head of the English Faculty and began his book, a thorough and detailed literary history of Cambridge. He meant to dedicate it to Verity, and I think that thought kept him going for years. Then one night last summer he went to bed and didn’t wake up the next morning.” He shrugged. “A blessing, people always say when that happens, but it seems a bit unfair to me. No chance to tie up loose ends, or to say good-bye.”

Would it be any better, Kincaid thought, if he’d had a chance to tell Vic good-bye? To say all the things he might have said? He dragged his attention back to Margery.

“… so Ralph and I thought we should see the book finished, and published,” said Margery. “A labor of love, if you will.”

Ralph patted a thick stack of manuscript pages near the center of his desk. “We’ll have bound copies by June, in time for the anniversary of Henry’s death. Sounds a bit morbid, but I think he would have appreciated it.” He stared at the manuscript a moment, then looked up at Kincaid and frowned. “Those poems you were asking me about-I’d like to see them. I’m not as well versed-excuse the pun-in Lydia’s work as Dr. McClellan, but I might be able to tell if the poems belonged in the manuscript. I don’t like the idea that anyone’s manuscript pages might have gone walkabout from my office.” Turning to Margery, he added in explanation, “They say that Dr. McClellan found some poems she thought should have been included in Lydia’s book.”