Dreaming of the bones

by Deborah Crombie

  “Of course not,” said Rosemary as Gemma popped the last bit of scone in her mouth and finished her tea. “Would you choose the best one for me? I’ll add it to my collection.”

  “You’re going to say motherly things, aren’t you?” said Duncan when Gemma had disappeared round the kiosk. “And tell me she’s a nice girl.”

  “She is a nice girl, though she’d probably resent both of the epithets. I would say that she’s an attractive and sensible woman, and I hope that you appreciate her.” Rosemary’s tone was half teasing, but she watched him with concern. He was too bright and brittle-she feared what would happen when the coping mechanism failed. And as much as she hated to add to his burdens, she saw no choice. Quietly, she added, “And I did want to talk to you, darling.”

  Still determinedly playful, Duncan answered, “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me today, and I fear it bodes no good.”

  “I don’t know that good or ill have much bearing here. It’s more a matter of dealing with the truth.”

  “Truth?” Duncan frowned with evident unease. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

  “Tell me what you see when you look at Kit, love.”

  “I see a nice kid who’s been dealt a bloody awful hand of it, and it’s bloody unfair,” he said with vehemence, but she saw no flicker of comprehension.

  Rosemary took a last sip of her tea, then said slowly, “Let me tell you what I see, darling. When Kit came out of the church today, between his grandparents, I thought for a moment I was hallucinating.” She reached out and laid her fingers briefly on his hand. “I saw you. Duncan at twelve years old. Not in his coloring, of course-that came from his mother-but in the shape of his head, the way his hair grows, the way he moves, even his smile.”

  “What?” His face drained of color.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that Kit is your child. The genetic stamp is as unmistakable as a brand.”

  He closed his mouth, made an effort to swallow. “But that’s impossible…”

  “The consequences of sex are usually all too possible, darling,” said Rosemary with a smile. “Don’t I remember giving you the birds and the bees lecture-”

  “But what about Ian? Surely he’s-”

  “Duncan, do some simple arithmetic, for heaven’s sake. The boy is eleven-you and Vic split up almost twelve years ago. I’m sure you’ll find his birthday falls within six to eight months of the time you separated.” Rosemary looked at his glazed expression and sighed. “I’d guess Vic didn’t know she was pregnant when she moved out-I don’t suppose you know when she started seeing what’s-his-name?”

  “Ian. I’d like to think it was after she left, but I don’t know.”

  Rosemary smiled. “Let’s say very shortly after, then, for argument’s sake. But I’m sure the truth of the matter became evident over time, at least to her.”

  “I don’t believe it. Surely you don’t think Vic knew all along… when she rang and invited me…” He trailed off, still working out the implications.

  “And I’ll wager that’s what has got Eugenia Potts in such a twist, as well. She may not be admitting the resemblance to herself, but I imagine seeing you and Kit together gave her a bloody great shock.”

  “Kit… oh, Christ. She did go right round the twist when she saw me with him the other night.”

  “She certainly never cared for you. To your credit”-she smiled at him-“because you wouldn’t dance attendance on to her.”

  He was silent for a long moment, absently pushing cake crumbs about on his plate with his finger. Then he looked up at her. “Why couldn’t I see it, then, if it’s so bloody obvious?”

  “I suppose it’s because our images of ourselves are so static. We literally don’t see ourselves the way others see us-we base our self-concept on the one view we see every morning in the mirror. But if you were to place a photo of yourself at that age next to one of Kit, you’d see it.”

  “But what if you’re wrong? This is all based on pure speculation and… and intuition,” he finished a bit lamely. He was, thought Rosemary, grasping at straws in a last-ditch effort at denial.

  “Who was it at Christmas telling me how important intuition was to a detective?” When he didn’t smile, she sighed and said, “Darling, I could very well be wrong. And I don’t like to meddle. Under other circumstances-if Vic were alive, and she and Kit and Ian were all living happily as a family-I might not have said anything. But as things are now… how can you afford not to be sure?”

  Cambridge

  21 June 1964

  Dear Mrs. Brooke,

  Please forgive my writing, but I couldn’t bear to tell you our news over the telephone. Lydia is in Addenbrook’s, quite ill after suffering a miscarriage last night. The baby was a boy, and I have called him Gabriel after my father. There will be a service here in the hospital chapel tomorrow.

  Lydia is weak and feverish from the hemorrhaging, and I am unable to calm her. She seems to think this is somehow her fault, a punishment, and no amount of reasoning will change her mind.

  Could you perhaps come straightaway? It may be that you can comfort her where I cannot.

  Morgan

  Kincaid rang the bell of Gemma’s flat well after dark, hoping she was home, hoping she would consent to see him, for he’d left her abruptly on her own in Grantchester with only a muttered assurance that he’d ring her later.

  Afterwards he’d walked blindly through the village until he’d reached the footpath along the Cam, and after that he couldn’t say now how long he had walked, or even in which direction. But the temperature had eventually begun to drop, his feet in their slick-soled shoes to hurt, and he found himself back at his car on the High Street as the sun dropped below the rooftops.

  He’d driven back to London with his desire for company growing as urgent as his earlier need for solitude, and now he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the click of the latch on Gemma’s door and a sliver of yellow light spilled out onto his face and hands.

  “Gemma? May I come in?”

  She pulled the door back further and he saw she’d changed into old jeans and a sweater. As he stepped into the tiny flat he saw the picture books spread over the bed, and a boy-shaped lump under the duvet. “Is it too late?”

  “We were just reading,” said Gemma, giving an exaggerated nod towards the bed. “But Toby seems to have disappeared. I think he ate the magic pebble that makes little boys invisible, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

  Kincaid cleared his throat and put on his best Sherlock Holmes voice. “Let me put my detective skills to use. Where’s my magnifying glass? All right, Watson, the game’s afoot!”

  There followed the elaborate ritual of hide-and-seek, as they ignored the occasional suppressed giggle from under the bedclothes, until finally the missing boy was brought to light with much squealing and tickling.

  “More, more! Hide me more!” wailed Toby as Gemma carried him off to bed, but she tucked him in with a promise of another story in the morning.

  I missed all this, thought Kincaid with an unexpected stab of loss.

  “Are you all right?” asked Gemma as she carefully shut Toby’s door. “What on earth happened to you this afternoon?”

  He sat at the half-moon table, and she pulled out a chair so that she could face him.

  “I don’t know where to start,” he said, absently rearranging the candles Gemma kept on the table.

  “Start at the beginning. What did your mother say to you? You were white as chalk when I came back from the kiosk.” She leaned forwards and traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, the gentleness of her touch belying the impatience of her words.

  “You’re too observant by half,” he said, stalling, but she refused the bait and merely watched him in silence. He took a breath. “My mother says Kit is the spitting image of me at the same age. She says she thinks Kit is my son.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened, the pupils dilating with surprise until he saw hi
s own reflection in them. “Dear God,” she breathed. “How could I have been so blind?”

  “You don’t doubt it?” He found he’d hoped for at least a token protest, and yet he felt some small kernel of satisfaction in her immediate recognition.

  Shaking her head slowly, she said, “I saw it myself-the resemblance. He seemed so familiar, as if I saw him every day.” She touched his face again, with a look of wonder. “And I do. But you-how could you not have known Vic was pregnant?”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, feeling suddenly confined in the flat. “We could go for a walk,” he suggested.

  “I don’t like to leave Toby.”

  “No, of course not. Silly of me.” Bloody hell. He hadn’t got used to the responsibility of one child, much less two. He wouldn’t know where to begin.

  The odd sense of claustrophobia grew heavier, and searching for an excuse for movement, he fumbled in the breast pocket of his suit until he felt the book of matches he’d picked up yesterday in the pub. You never knew when things might come in handy. Bloody Boy Scouts had drummed that one into him, and he supposed it had come in useful. Had Kit been a Boy Scout? Could he tie knots? Whistle through his teeth? He wouldn’t know where to begin.

  Leaning forwards, he lit the candles, and when he’d blown out the match, he said, “Things were strained between Vic and me. We hadn’t been… sleeping together much-”

  “It only takes once,” Gemma interrupted with a grin.

  “Well, yes.” Christ, this was awkward. There had been an argument, and a passionate reconciliation, some weeks before Vic left. He had forgotten.

  “Was she unusually emotional those last few weeks? The hormonal changes at the onset of pregnancy are powerful enough to-”

  “What you’re saying is that Vic might have walked out-which was irrational and totally unlike her-because she was pregnant?” There was no room to pace. He forced himself to sit on the foot of the reclining leather and chrome chair he called the torture cradle. “I should have seen it. You’re quite right.”

  “That’s not the way I meant. And she might not have known herself-”

  “But I failed her then as well.”

  Gemma slid from her chair and came to kneel at his feet so that she could look up into his face. “Bollocks. You can’t change what happened. There’s no point indulging in that sort of thing. What you have to decide is what you’re going to do now.”

  “What can I do?” he protested. “Kit’s life has been disrupted enough as it is. He thinks Ian is his father-”

  “Do you really think Ian is going to be much use to him, even if he should come back? And Kit’s prospects with his grandparents are worse than dismal.” Removing her hands from his knees, she sat back on her heels but kept her eyes fixed on his face. “I think, love, that it’s your life you’re afraid to disrupt.”

  CHAPTER 14

  And because I,

  For all my thinking, never could recover

  One moment of the good hours that were over.

  And I was sorry and sick, and wished to die.

  RUPERT BROOKE,

  from “Pine-Trees and the Sky: Evening”

  Cambridge

  3 September 1965

  Darling Mummy,

  You are so sweet to be concerned for me, but as much as I’d love to have you here, I’m fine, really. (Though I must admit it’s rather amusing to have you and Morgan conspiring treats behind my back, and I feel rather like the heroine in a Victorian novel, propped up in bed having my boiled egg and toast on the tray you sent.) You have enough to deal with just now, with Nan ill, and Morgan makes a gloweringly tender and surprisingly competent nursemaid.

  But although this most recent miscarriage has been relatively easy, I’ve decided not to try again. I’ve schooled myself not to want it so desperately, but still the cycle of hope and disappointment is wearing, and it keeps me from getting on with my work. It’s been difficult for Morgan, too, and he says no child is worth my health and well-being. So I’ll soldier on, and try to count my blessings.

  I find I can’t bear all the radiantly fecund young wives of our married friends, but Daphne’s been a comfort, and visits often. Morgan seems to be prepared to tolerate her for my sake.

  There is wheat among the chaff, darling Mummy. I’ve had an offer from a small press here in Cambridge to publish my latest collection of poems. They mean to specialize in the avant-garde, and I’m quite set up to be considered so. It will mean some work, to revise and finish the collection, but I look forwards to it. Just think, a book, at last! It will be a child of sorts, I suppose.

  We were right, you know, Morgan and I, in deciding that our art must come from experience. It’s the daily stuff of living, bloody as it sometimes is, that gives the photos and poems the sting of truth.

  Morgan’s been approached by a London gallery to do a solo exhibition! They want all of the Welsh miner series, and anything else he can get ready. You’ll have to come up to London for the opening, and we’ll make an evening of it.

  So try not to worry-I promise I’ll have shocking roses in my cheeks by the time you see me next.

  Love, Lydia

  The smell of coffee teased Kincaid up through the layers of consciousness like a hooked fish. Finally, he could no longer deny wakefulness, but lay with his eyes still closed, trying to figure out who could possibly be making coffee in his flat.

  Then it dawned on him that he was not in his flat at all, nor in his bed, but Gemma’s.

  Ordinarily, it made her uncomfortable for him to stay, because of Toby, but last night she had insisted, and they’d made love with the silent urgency of two teenagers fearing discovery. Just the memory of it stirred him to arousal, and he opened his eyes, hoping to find her still sleep tousled and willing to come back to bed.

  She sat, fully dressed, at the half-moon table, drinking coffee and shuffling pages of typescript.

  “You were just using me last night,” he said, injured.

  Gemma looked up and smiled. “Your powers of deduction are astounding, sir.” She stretched, showing an inch of bare skin at the waist as her jumper rose above her jeans. “Sorry about the coffee. I was afraid the smell would wake you, but I couldn’t wait any longer-”

  “That’s what you said last night,” he teased, then added, “How long have you been up?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She turned another page of the manuscript.

  He’d told her last night that he had a copy of Vic’s book locked in the boot of his car, so she must have lifted his keys while he slept with the skill of a pickpocket. “Sneak.”

  “I’ve brought in your emergency kit from the boot as well,” she said, referring to the shaving things and change of clothes he kept packed for unexpected overnights.

  “Then I suppose I’ve no excuse for staying in bed,” he answered regretfully, but the light filtering in from the garden through the half-opened blinds was turning from the green of early morning to gold, and Toby would doubtless be up soon.

  “I think we should see Daphne Morris this morning,” said Gemma a few minutes later, watching him as he tucked in his shirttail.

  “Gemma-”

  “No more argument,” she interrupted firmly. “We’ve done all that.”

  “You’re impossible,” he said, knowing it was a capitulation, yet feeling an unexpected sense of relief.

  “You said last night that Darcy Eliot implied Lydia had a lesbian relationship with Daphne Morris.” She tapped the manuscript. “If Vic suspected that, there’s no hint of it here, but what if she’d just recently come across it? The headmistress of a girls’ school would certainly have a lot to lose if something like that got out.”

  He looked up from tying his shoe. “Vic interviewed Daphne Morris; it’s in her notes. She said Daphne gave the impression she hardly knew Lydia.”

  Gemma raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. “That’s obviously not true, on the basis of Lydia’s letters alone. Do you know what school it is?�
��

  “No, but I know roughly where it is, and it shouldn’t be hard to ferret out the rest. What do you suppose headmistresses do on a Saturday?”

  * * *

  Headmistresses, it turned out, went away to their country cottages, but Daphne Morris had been delayed and was still packing. They had been shown into the sitting room of her private apartments by a thin woman with pockmarked skin and a protective attitude. “You won’t keep her, will you?” she said as she turned to go. “She needs every bit of her weekend-”

  “It’s all right, Jeanette.” The woman who came into the room sounded affectionately amused. In jodhpurs and boots, with her fresh skin and her glossy russet hair tied back with a scarf, she looked like an advertisement from Country Life. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a quarter of an hour.

  “She thinks I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get away for the weekend,” continued Daphne Morris, giving an exasperated roll of her eyes as Jeanette went out. She started towards them with her hand outstretched, but must have seen their faces freeze, because she hesitated and dropped her hand. “What is it? Have I said something wrong?”

  “You really don’t know?” asked Gemma, surprised.

  “I’m sorry,” said Daphne, sounding a bit wary now, “but perhaps Jeanette got it a bit muddled. Who did you say you were?”

  Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, adding, “We’re from Scotland Yard, Miss Morris.” After all, he thought as he showed her his warrant card, that was the truth, strictly speaking, and he’d come to the conclusion that they weren’t likely to get anywhere without calling on their official standing. “We’d like to talk to you about Victoria McClellan. We understand she came to see you about Lydia Brooke.”

  Daphne frowned. “Yes, she did, but I don’t understand what it has to do with you.”

  He glanced at Gemma, who widened her eyes and gave a minute shrug of her shoulders in response. Either Daphne Morris didn’t know about Vic’s death or she was an astonishing actress. This was a development he hadn’t expected. “Miss Morris, perhaps it would be better if we all sat down.”