Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

His face paled, so that the spots of color on his cheekbones stood out as if they’d been painted on. “You don’t think I put foxglove in Vic’s tea? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” He lurched to his feet and staggered slightly.

For a moment, Gemma wondered if he were drunk, but thought she would have smelled the alcohol on his breath.

Kincaid, who’d stood as well, reached out a hand to steady him. “Could someone else have put it in Vic’s teas?”

“I picked the leaves myself and hand-dried them in the kitchen. Then I put them in little zip-top bags for her.”

The pain in her neck made Gemma realize she was still kneeling. Pushing herself to her feet, she said, “What about after she took the bags to school, Nathan? Could someone have added foxglove then? Would she have tasted it?”

“I don’t know. Foxglove’s very toxic-it wouldn’t take much. And the taste of the lovage might be strong enough to disguise any bitterness.”

Gemma heard the tremble in Nathan’s voice. Shock, she thought, and illness? Reaching out, she touched his neck. He flinched away from her hand, but not before her fingers had registered the heat.

“Nathan, you’re burning up with fever. What were you thinking of, out here in this wind?” To Kincaid she whispered, “Let’s get him in the house.”

Kincaid took his elbow and urged him towards the patio. “Let’s all have a cuppa, Nathan. Where’s Adam?”

Nathan let himself be led without protest. “Finally got him to bugger off,” he said. “Told him his cardie-and-false-teeth set needed him a damn sight more than I did.” Suddenly he twisted his arm from Kincaid’s grasp and looked back. “My trowel. Have to wash… always wash it.”

“I’ll get it,” said Gemma, and ran back for it.

“… funny thing is, now he’s gone I actually miss him,” Nathan was saying when she returned, his voice slurring a bit. “Old sod. Least he lets me talk about her, doesn’t change the bloody subject.” He swung round suddenly and looked at Gemma, his eyes fever-bright. “They think they’re being kind. But they’re not.”

They maneuvered Nathan in through the French doors on the patio and settled him in the nearest armchair. By this time, his shivering had developed into hard chills, and as Kincaid found a rug to cover him, Gemma went into the kitchen to make tea.

When Kincaid joined her, she said softly, “A hot drink may help, but I think he’s really ill. I’m surprised he’s not delirious.”

“Near enough, and getting worse by the minute,” said Kincaid. “I’ve Adam Lamb’s number in my wallet. I’m going to give him a ring.” He slipped out the French doors again, and Gemma saw him pull the cell phone from his pocket as she filled the kettle at the sink.

It took her a few minutes to find her way round the strange kitchen, and by the time she had everything assembled, Kincaid had returned from the patio. As he took the tray from her, he said in her ear, “Adam’s on his way, and he’s called the doctor to meet him.”

Then they tiptoed into the sitting room to find that all their whispering had been in vain. Nathan was fast asleep.

They sat at the kitchen table, drinking their tea and listening to Nathan’s slightly raspy breathing. “It won’t work,” said Kincaid.

Gemma had been looking round the room, thinking how pleasant it was, and wondering if Vic had come here. “What?”

“It’s too quick. If someone put foxglove in Vic’s tea at school, she’d have been ill by the time she left.”

“Did she drink the stuff at home, too?” Gemma wondered. “She might have had a cup once she arrived.”

Kincaid shook his head. “Forensics didn’t find a trace.”

“Could someone have removed it afterwards?”

“Kit’s dark shape in the garden?” He stared at her. “No one’s explained that.” His mouth tightened. “But if she were still alive, how could they have been so thorough?”

Gemma jumped as a sound like a gunshot came from the street, followed by a mechanical cough and splutter. “Adam?” she said, and downed the last of her tea.

He let himself in before they could get up, and greeted them quietly as he came through into the sitting room. He looked harried, his hair tangled from the wind, his collar askew, but Gemma felt the same immediate comfort in his presence she’d felt at the memorial service.

A close look at Nathan seemed to confirm an opinion, for he was shaking his head as he returned to them. “I’ve been afraid of this. He was ill like this after Jean died. It seems to be his way of dealing with shock.”

“Will he be all right?” asked Gemma.

“This seems to have hit him very hard. And the last time he developed pneumonia,” said Adam, then smiled and seemed to make an effort to sound more cheerful. “But he’s stubborn as an ox-this may be simply his body’s means of making him rest. And I’m sure the doctor will pump him full of all sorts of things he’ll despise when he’s coherent enough to know it.” He grinned and added, “Thanks for ringing me. I’ll wait for the doctor and stay with him afterwards.”

Gemma took a last look at Nathan as Adam escorted them towards the front of the house. With his pale hair and his flushed face relaxed in sleep, he looked surprisingly childlike.

“Adam,” said Kincaid when they reached the door. “We heard some odd things today, about Lydia and Nathan, and Darcy, and even Daphne Morris. Morgan Ashby told us-”

“It’s quite true,” Adam interrupted flatly.

Kincaid stared at him. “But I thought you and Lydia-”

“Oh, I had that honor, all right, although if I’d known what would come after I’d never have done it. Youth is no excuse for irresponsible behavior, and ours caused Lydia no end of grief.”

Gemma saw the weariness in his eyes. “Adam, you loved Lydia, didn’t you? How could you let her-”

“How could I stop her?” he said with a quick, impatient gesture of his hands. “What you don’t understand is that Lydia always got her way, no matter the consequences to her or to anyone else.”

Kit trudged into the wind, his hands in his pockets, his head tucked, turtlelike, into the collar of his jacket. The air smelled sharply of rain, and although it was only a few minutes past four o’clock, the lowering clouds had caused the streetlamps to flicker on.

But Kit didn’t mind the damp cold or the early dusk. He’d been glad of any excuse to get out of the house-had offered, in fact, to fetch his grandmother’s favorite biscuits from the supermarket at the edge of the housing estate.

Eugenia had frowned at him from her bed, and in desperation he’d resorted to guile. Smiling falsely, he said, “Please, Grandmama, it will only take me a few minutes, and then you can have Orange Cremes with your tea. I’m sure it would make you feel ever so much better.”

He waited, holding his breath, smile pasted in place, until the crease between her brows relaxed and she pulled the mauve bed jacket closer to her throat with a little sigh.

“Mind you don’t tarry, Christopher. You can make your grandfather’s tea when he comes in. I’m sure I can’t be expected to look after everyone,” she added, and Kit almost snorted in disgust. His grandfather had been waiting on her hand and foot since Kit had been there, even though nothing seemed to please her, or to distract her for long from the box she kept close to her side. It held things from his mother’s childhood: school reports and photos, crayon drawings, medals from spelling competitions, a bit of lace from a party dress.