Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, and Gemma guessed he was marshaling all his patience not to curse Eugenia in front of Kit. “We don’t know,” he said. “The police are trying to find out. But in the meantime, you need to understand that whatever happened, it’s not your fault. It had nothing to do with you.”

A muffled squeal came from the sitting room, followed by giggles and excited barking.

“Oh, dear,” said Gemma. “We’ve left the little demons alone too long.” She pushed back her chair.

“I’ll go,” offered Kit, jumping up. “I left them watching 101 Dalmatians . Maybe they’ve decided to make a fur coat out of Tess.” He left the room and Gemma sank back into her seat.

“I know two things now,” said Kincaid. “One, we can be pretty sure where Vic went when she left the English Faculty that afternoon. And two,” he paused and met her eyes across the table, “I’m not letting him go back to Reading, no matter what it takes.”

The Park Lane Hotel, Piccadilly

5 June 1974

Dear Mummy ,

Sorry I haven’t written lately, but there’s been so much going on it’s hard to squeeze in a moment to think, much less keep up with correspondence .

I came up yesterday for my launch party and decided to stay a few extra days. Sometimes it does one good to get away from provincial life and provincial company for a bit. Tonight I’m making up a party with several (rather glamorous) London friends for the theater and dinner at the Savoy after .

The launch party yesterday was lovely. It will make next week’s punch and biscuit affair at Heffer’s seem even drearier than usual. Daphne will be lurking about hoping not to be noticed, while Darcy bores everyone within earshot with a lecture on the intricacies of deconstructionism. You know what they always say , If you can’t write…

At least we won’t have Adam mooning about like a forlorn crow, since he’s off do-gooding somewhere in Africa .

Did you see the piece in the Times? If not, I’ll send you a copy. It seems my work is finally getting the critical attention it deserves, though I think the reviewer could have been a bit better informed .

Must dash, people waiting .

Love, Lydia

This time Gemma and Kincaid were left to cool their heels in the plushly upholstered anteroom of Daphne Morris’s office. They’d left London early in Gemma’s battered Ford Escort, Kincaid having expressed concern over the Midget’s acquisition of a new noise, and they’d made good time to Cambridge considering the Monday morning traffic. Kit had agreed to stay behind with Hazel and the children without too much protest.

Daphne’s assistant, Jeanette, still wearing the baggy cardigan Gemma remembered from Friday, informed them that the Headmistress’s schedule didn’t allow time for unexpected visitors, and if they wanted to see her, they’d have to wait until she finished her history lecture.

But before the appointed hour was up, Daphne herself appeared, looking every inch the headmistress in a navy suit and upswept hair. She ushered them into her office and took a seat behind the massive barrier of her desk. “What can I do for you this morning?” she asked with the smooth smile and the touch of impatience Gemma imagined she used when dealing with annoying parents.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” Kincaid countered as he made himself comfortable in one of the rather feminine visitor’s chairs. “Relaxing and all that?”

Daphne merely watched him, but Gemma saw her make an aborted reach for the pen on her desk, then clasp her hands together on the desktop.

“I hope so, because we had a very interesting weekend, didn’t we, Gemma?”

Daphne glanced from Gemma to the darkening bruise under Kincaid’s eye, her unease more evident. “If this is a social call, Mr. Kincaid, I really must-”

“We had a very productive visit with Morgan Ashby, as you may have noticed”-Kincaid smiled-“once he had calmed down a bit. It seems Morgan felt he had a good reason for disapproving of your relationship with Lydia-beyond the fact that Lydia had been intimate with you.”

“Of course we were intimate,” said Daphne with a touch of exasperation. “Lydia was my closest friend.”

“Don’t prevaricate, Miss Morris. You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant, but if you want me to spell it out for you, I will. You had an ongoing sexual relationship with Lydia Brooke. According to Morgan, she bragged about it when they had rows. She must have enjoyed making him feel inadequate.” Kincaid shook his head as if disappointed. “She didn’t tell you that, did she?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I-” Daphne swallowed and clenched her hands together. “It’s not true. She’d never have told Morgan. She said he tried to bully her into admitting it, but she wouldn’t.”

“Do you mean you didn’t have sex with Lydia, or simply that Lydia wouldn’t have shared your secret with her husband?” Kincaid paused, frowning, then added with an air of discovery, “And if she told him , she might have told others, too-she might even have gone so far as to tell someone who could use it to damage your career.”

“No!” Daphne stood up, gripping the edge of her desk. “You don’t understand. Morgan was a raging paranoid. He imagined things, and if Lydia told him anything it was because he frightened her. They were poison for each other, and he drove her-”

“Why did she marry him, then?” asked Kincaid, and Gemma thought of Morgan thirty years ago, dark and dangerously handsome. The intensity of his need for her must have seemed flattering at first, and she doubted Lydia would have had the judgment to see what might lie behind it.

“I don’t know,” said Daphne. “I never knew. All I can tell you is that something happened that summer. Lydia was never the same after that.”

“Morgan says it was you who changed Lydia-drove her over the edge-you and the others.” Kincaid leaned forwards and jabbed his finger at her for emphasis. “She slept with all of you-you and Adam and Nathan and Darcy-and the strain of it made her ill.”

“We’ve seen Darcy, too, and he confirms the story,” said Gemma, gently. “You may be right about Morgan’s paranoia, but we have no reason not to believe Darcy when he says you and Lydia were lovers. Why should he lie about it?”

Daphne stared down at her white-knuckled hands, and after a moment she let go of the desk and walked slowly to the window. With her back to them, she said, “Darcy is a right bastard. What would he know about lovers-or love-when he never understood anything but his own gratification? And it was so much more complicated than that.” She fell silent and stood looking out into the manicured school grounds.

“More complicated than what?” Gemma prompted.

“Lydia…” Daphne shook her head. “I loved Lydia from the very first moment I saw her, running up the staircase at Newnham with her arms full of books, laughing. She seemed so much more alive, more intense than other people. You thought if you could just get close enough to her, some of that specialness would rub off on you, like fairy dust.

“But there was a vulnerability about her, too, and I suppose that’s what made her a good victim for Morgan.” Turning to face them, Daphne continued, “I’ll tell you what you want to know because I’m tired of hiding things. It’s gone on far too long…” She closed her eyes for a moment, then began on the exhalation of a breath. “We’d experimented a bit at college, but it was just that for Lydia-experimenting. It wasn’t until she came back to Cambridge after her suicide attempt that we began to have a serious affair, but even then she had a different agenda. She was only seeking comfort, emotional support. She’d decided she couldn’t risk another relationship with a man, and I was safe.” Daphne’s smile held little humor.