Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

One of the casements was cranked open a few inches, and Gemma felt the air move against her face, cool and fresh. “Yes, I can see that,” she said, with a glance at Kincaid beside her, still silent.

She was accustomed to a consistency on his part that allowed her to function as the volatile half of the partnership, but his behavior over the past few days had been unpredictable. He seemed to ricochet from a forced, feverish pleasantness, to a sharp-tongued sarcasm, to the withdrawn silence he exhibited now.

In that moment, she realized how much she had come to depend on him, even when she argued with him and questioned his decisions. The sense that she might no longer be able to count on his strength frightened her.

Well, I’ll carry us both, she resolved, but she had the feeling it was going to take all her wits. She turned to Darcy Eliot and smiled.

“You must feel king of the castle up here,” she said, looking about her as she let him lead her back to the sofa. The room was comfortably opulent, with much gilt in evidence on picture frames and mirrors, and a coordination of color and fabric that spoke of a professional hand in the designing. In the center of the wall opposite the windows, an ornate mahogany bookcase displayed multiple copies of Darcy Eliot’s books-some with the now-familiar Peregrine logo-and Gemma found the little vanity rather endearing.

Darcy seated himself at the other end of the sofa, carefully crossed one ankle over the other knee, revealing a colorful argyle sock, and said, “To what do I owe this visit, other than the attractions of my college?”

This had been Vic’s college, too, Gemma remembered with a quick glance at Kincaid.

He turned but didn’t come to join them. “We’ve just had a very pleasant visit with your mother,” he said. “I hadn’t met her before.”

“Please don’t tell me my mother inflicted the damage to your face.” Darcy stared with frank curiosity at Kincaid’s swollen lip and purpling cheekbone. “Her manners are usually exemplary.”

“Her manners were exemplary.” Kincaid smiled and ignored the probe. “We seem to have interrupted her meeting at the Peregrine Press, but she was quite gracious.” He crossed to the sitting area and sat in the armchair opposite Darcy.

“Ah, my mother’s other child,” said Darcy, sounding faintly amused. When Kincaid raised a questioning eyebrow, he went on. “Did she not mention she was on the board of directors?”

“She only said she’d been helping Peregrine with Henry White-cliff’s manuscript.”

“Henry was on the board as well,” said Darcy. “Both of them from the beginning. But Peregrine Press would never have seen the light of day without my mother’s considerable assistance, financial and otherwise. She and Ralph have had a long and productive relationship.” He smiled, and Gemma felt a bit shocked, wondering if he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. Dame Margery must be at least twenty-five years older than Ralph Peregrine, if not more. Surely…

“… Vic tell you that she thought some poems might have been removed from Lydia’s last manuscript?” Kincaid was saying as she picked up the conversation again.

“You’re not serious.” Darcy looked from Kincaid to Gemma, his smile fading. “You are serious. Surely you don’t think Ralph had anything to do with it? He’s as honest a chap as you could ever come across.”

“We don’t know anything at this point, except that Vic was worried about this manuscript,” said Kincaid. “I thought she might have mentioned it to you.”

Darcy smoothed the sock on his crossed ankle before lowering his foot to the floor. “No, she didn’t. And I doubt I’d have been Vic’s first choice as a confidant, I’m sorry to say. We didn’t always see eye to eye as far as Lydia’s work was concerned.”

“I remember that you weren’t an admirer of Lydia’s, Dr. Eliot. I find that interesting, in the light of the close… nature of your relationship.” Kincaid settled back in his chair, his posture more relaxed as Darcy appeared less comfortable.

“Lydia and I were friends for many years, but I’ve never considered friendship grounds for wholesale professional admiration. That sort of thing does not tend to increase one’s standing in academic circles.” Darcy sounded as though he’d expected a bit more sophistication from Kincaid.

Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean that one is required not to praise good work by friends, for fear of being thought weak and undiscriminating? That seems a sort of reverse hypocrisy.”

Darcy gave a bark of laughter. “I should have learned not to underestimate you the first time we spoke, Mr. Kincaid. And you’re right, of course, but since I genuinely did not approve of the direction of much of Lydia’s later work, I don’t think I’m guilty of hypocrisy on that count. I find the idea of the confessional voice quite revolting, regardless of the owner.”

“But perhaps I can accuse you of being less than truthful about Lydia herself, Dr. Eliot. You hinted to me about Lydia’s relationship with Daphne Morris, but you didn’t mention the fact that it was all a bit more complicated than that. According to Morgan Ashby-”

“So that’s what happened to your face,” said Darcy, grinning. “Had a little run-in with Morgan’s famous temper, did we? You should-”

“According to Morgan Ashby,” interrupted Kincaid, “you and Lydia were lovers. In fact, Morgan seems to think that Lydia slept with everyone-you, Adam, Nathan, and Daphne.”

“Morgan Ashby is a certifiable paranoid,” said Darcy, unfazed. “And insanely jealous. The man should have been locked up years ago.”

“Are you saying that what he told me isn’t true?” asked Kincaid mildly.

Gemma, watching the two men from her corner of the sofa, was content to observe for the moment. She felt relieved, after what had happened with Morgan, that Kincaid seemed his usual unruffled self again.

“I’m saying so what if it is true?” said Darcy. “This was the sixties-remember the Profumo Affair? We were riding the crest of the great sexual revolution, imitating in our rather tame and provincial way what we thought they must be doing in London. We were young, we were away from home, and we were drunk with the idea of our own daring.” He grinned. “God, just thinking of it makes me realize how middle-aged and conventional I’ve become.”

“If these… things happened before Lydia married Morgan, then why did he feel so threatened?” Gemma asked. “She seems to have been quite devoted to him.”

Darcy made a face. “Besotted might be more accurate. Of course Lydia always did have a bit of an obsessional streak, but I thought she had better sense than to focus it on a man of Ashby’s background.”

“Background?” said Gemma, her hackles rising. “What does Morgan Ashby’s background have to do with it?”

“Oh, you know, Welsh mining family, salt of the earth and all that-and the bloody great load of puritanism that came with it. He couldn’t bear the idea that Lydia had enjoyed anyone else, no matter how much she loved him.” Darcy paused, knitting his thick brows together, then added, “I don’t think Ashby much liked the idea of anyone enjoying anything, for that matter, including himself.”

“I doubt that could be said of you, Dr. Eliot,” said Gemma with a smile. She glanced towards the sideboard, where a drinks tray held glasses ready beside an ice bucket and a dish of cut limes.

“Certainly not,” he said in mock offense. “Though I have to admit that a meeting of my graduate students seems quite dull after being reminded of the good old days.” He smiled at her in a way that made her suddenly aware that he was still a very attractive man, then he gave an exaggerated sigh. “But even I cannot escape duty entirely, especially as it looks as though I may need to take on some of Iris’s workload.”