Dreaming of the bones Read online

  Hazel took a bite of strudel and chewed it. “Well, what do you know about their marriage?”

  Gemma shrugged and went back to flaking off bits of strudel with her fork. “Just that she left him without a word.”

  “Has he said why?”

  “He said it was because he worked too much and didn’t pay her enough attention,” Gemma admitted grudgingly.

  “So if he’s not blaming her-what’s her name? Victoria?-then why are you? Surely you don’t wish she hadn’t left him?” Hazel grinned impishly. “Then you might have some real competition.”

  “No, of course I don’t wish that.” Gemma pushed her coffee cup away. “Can we open that wine after all?” She watched as Hazel went to the fridge and retrieved the bottle.

  “What’s so complicated about it?” Hazel asked as she brought the bottle and two glasses to the table. “Why do you feel threatened by his relationship with Victoria?”

  “Vic. He always calls her Vic.”

  “Vic, then.”

  “I don’t feel threatened,” Gemma protested. “And I’m not jealous. I don’t go about thinking he’s going to chat up every woman he meets.” She accepted the glass Hazel filled and handed to her. “It’s just that… I don’t know where he stands with her.”

  “Why don’t you ask him how he feels? Tell him that the situation makes you uncomfortable.”

  “How can I?” Gemma choked on the wine she’d been sipping and coughed until her eyes teared. When she could speak again, she added, “I’m the one who insisted we not set those kinds of limits on each other, because I didn’t want to feel suffocated. And how could I possibly say anything after he was so bloody about it?”

  “Has it occurred to you that he might have been reticent about his visit because he was worried about your reaction?” asked Hazel. “And I gather you certainly lived up to expectations.”

  “I did, didn’t I?” Gemma said disgustedly. “I’d been stewing all weekend, and tonight I waded into it at the first opportunity. Sometimes I think I should have been born with my foot in my mouth.” She shook her head. “So what do I do now?”

  “Grovel?” suggested Hazel kindly. “Look, love.” She leaned towards Gemma, elbows on the table. “Just for once, forget your dreadful ex-husband; ignore all those little red flags that pop up at the mere suggestion of setting parameters. One of the reasons you and Duncan work so well together is that you communicate.” She jabbed her finger at Gemma for emphasis. “Why not extend the same honesty to your personal life? You’ve been tiptoeing round this ‘we don’t make demands on our relationship’ crap for how long now-since November? That was all very well in the beginning, but relationships are about demands, and obligation, and commitment. If this one is to continue, one of you is going to have to step up to the net.”

  The storm had passed through, leaving the air cool and cleansed. Vic tightened the belt on her dressing gown and stepped from the terrace into the dark garden so that she had an unobstructed view of the stars. She’d never managed to learn the constellations, and as she looked up she felt a sudden longing to put names to the clusters, to match them to the sticklike drawings she’d seen as a child. Perhaps she’d buy Kit one of those glow-in-the-dark sets she’d seen at the bookshop in Cambridge, and they could learn them together.

  Poor Kit, she thought with a sigh. Since Ian’s disappearance, her parents had taken it upon themselves to fill the gap in Kit’s life, and had succeeded in giving his hostility a new target. The more he resisted, the harder they pushed, and Vic was finding the contest more and more difficult to referee. Today they’d met him off the King’s Cross train, determined to take him to an exhibition at the British Museum, while Kit had been equally determined to cajole them into visiting the Piccadilly Circus video arcades.

  He’d come home sullen and disappointed, of course. Vic had known his wishes wouldn’t stand a chance against her mother’s agenda, but she’d made him go because she hadn’t been ready for him to meet Duncan. Not yet, not until she was sure about him, sure he hadn’t changed in the things that counted.

  Turning, she looked to the north, where Nathan’s cottage stood out of sight just round the bend in the road. She’d meant to ring him, perhaps even to slip away for a glass of wine and a half-hour’s visit before the fire in his sitting room. But Kit had needed her attention, and her guilt had dictated she spend the evening with him in front of the telly, watching some awful action film he’d begged to see.

  Now it was too late to ring anyone, but she felt restless, unable to settle. She ought to be in bed, but she knew she’d only lie awake, wide-eyed, replaying the afternoon’s conversation with Duncan in her head. Did she say too much? Did she say enough? Did he take her seriously, or was he merely humoring her?

  She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself drift in the dark, then turned and let herself quietly back into the house. There must be something she’d missed, something conclusive that she could show him. Making her way by touch down the dim corridor, she slipped into her office and stood staring at the clutter of papers illuminated by her desk lamp. She would simply start again, from the beginning.

  Newnham 7

  October 1961

  Dearest Mother,

  Oh, how I wish you were here. It’s everything we dreamed of, yet in some ways nothing like we imagined. Newnham isn’t the least bit cold and forbidding, its red brick and white trim are charming, and I’ve been given the loveliest set of rooms, on the corner, overlooking the gardens. You’ll have to think of me here, once I’ve hung my prints and put my bits and pieces about, curled in my chair in front of the gas fire, reading, reading, reading… I met my Director of Studies today, Dr. Barrett, and I think we’ll get on famously. The trouble is going to be in choosing which lectures to attend and which papers I’ll do this term. I feel like the proverbial child in the candy store, overwhelmed by bounty.

  So far the other girls seem nice enough, if a bit standoffish. Daphne, the tall redhead across the hall, seems the best prospect for striking up a real friendship, as she’s from some village in Kent the size of your thumb. That gives us at least one thing in common.

  Last night I went to Evensong at King’s for the first time. Oh, Mummy, it was incredible. The voices soared, and for a little while I soared with them, imagining myself floating above Cambridge in the clear night, held only by a silver tether of sound. I sat next to a Trinity boy, very serious, who invited me to a poetry reading on Thursday in his rooms. So you see, I already have a social engagement, and you needn’t have worried about me.

  If the weather’s fine on Sunday I mean to walk to Grantchester along the river path. I’ll pretend I’m Virginia Woolf going to visit Rupert Brooke. We’ll have tea in the garden at the Old Vicarage and discuss important things: poetry and philosophy and life.

  Darling Mother, I’m sure I haven’t thanked you properly. You made me work when I felt tired or cranky; you encouraged me when I couldn’t see past some trivial setback; you built me up when I lost faith in myself. If it weren’t for your vision and determination I’d probably be standing behind the chemist’s counter today, dispensing cough syrup and milk of magnesia, instead of here, in this most glorious of places. I’ll write in a day or two and give you my schedule. I want to share this with you.

  Your loving… Lydia

  CHAPTER 4

  My restless blood now lies a-quiver,

  Knowing that always, exquisitely,

  This April twilight on the river

  Stirs anguish in the heart of me.

  RUPERT BROOKE,

  from “Blue Evening”

  Kincaid had kept his word to Vic, ringing his friend, Chief Inspector Alec Byrne, first thing Monday morning, but it wasn’t until midday Wednesday that he found the time to go to Cambridge. Having decided he’d put enough wear and tear on the Midget for one week, he took the train, stretching his legs out in the empty compartment and dozing between stations. A little more than an hour after leaving King’s Cross,
he paid off a taxi in front of the cinder-block building on Parkside Road that housed the Cambridge police.

  A blonde constable with traffic-stopping legs escorted him to Byrne’s office, ushering him in with a smile and the merest suggestion of a wink.

  “Watch out for our Mandy,” Byrne said with a grin as the door closed. He stood and came round his desk. “She’s been through every man in the department once, and now she’s starting on the second round.”

  “I’ll exercise proper caution,” Kincaid assured him. “It’s good to see you, Alec. They seem to be treating you well, if the accommodations are anything to go by.” He raised an eyebrow at the furniture and carpeting, a definite step up from Scotland Yard standard issue.

  “I can’t complain. Executive loo and three squares a day.”

  Something nagged at Kincaid, and after a moment he realized what it was. Alec Byrne had quit smoking. His desk no longer held ashtrays, and the hand he’d held out for Kincaid to shake was scrubbed pink, only the nails of his thumb and forefinger still showing faint yellow stains. When they’d been fledgling detective constables together, his friend had seldom been seen without a cigarette adhering to his lip or dangling from his fingers. Kincaid had always found it odd, as Byrne was a most fastidious man in other ways.

  “I see you’ve given it up,” he said as he settled into the visitor’s chair.

  “Had to, I’m afraid. Developed a bit of a spot on my lung.” Byrne shrugged a bony shoulder beneath an exquisitely tailored suit jacket. “Decided it wasn’t worth dying for.”

  “You look well.” Kincaid meant it sincerely. A tall man, still as thin as he’d been when Kincaid had first known him, Byrne looked whippet fit. His reddish fair hair had receded above the temples, leaving him a pronounced and rather distinguished widow’s peak.

  “I’m not too stubborn to admit that I feel better.” Byrne smiled. “I knew becoming a fanatic was the only way I Could do it, so I changed my diet and I started exercising-I’m rowing again, can you believe it? Joined a club.”

  Byrne had been nonchalant concerning his Cambridge blue, but he’d also made sure it got about among his fellow rookies, and his athletic prowess had done much to alleviate their distrust of his upper-class background. The suspicion Byrne’s Cambridge degree had aroused seemed odd now, in this new era of educated policing, but it seemed to Kincaid that the man had always had an instinct for being ahead of his time.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Alec. I know how busy you must be.”

  “You know all too well, I’d imagine-and of course that makes me wonder what you’re doing here, but I’ll try to keep my curiosity in check. I’ve had the file you asked for brought up from the dungeon. I’d suggest you take it to the canteen and look at it while you have a cuppa.” Byrne handed a folder across his desk to Kincaid. “But you owe me, old chap.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find some suitable revenge.” Kincaid accepted the fat file and realigned the errant papers.

  “You can buy me a pint when you’ve finished. I’m sure they’ll never miss me.”

  “Privilege of rank?” Kincaid suggested.

  Byrne answered in his most sardonic drawl. “Hardly worth it, otherwise, I dare say.”

  “I see you didn’t handle Lydia Brooke’s case,” Kincaid said as he set two foaming pints of bitter on the table at The Free Press. The pub was tucked away in a residential street behind the station, and was, Byrne had informed him zealously, the only nonsmoking pub in Britain, at least as far as he knew.

  “No, the Brooke case was Bill Fitzgerald’s, one of his last before he took his peptic ulcer and his pension off to a bungalow in Spain. He sends us a postcard occasionally.” Byrne raised his pint to Kincaid. “Cheers. May we someday do the same.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” For the first time in years, Kincaid had a brief vision of his honeymoon with Vic in Majorca. Sun and rocks and scarlet bougainvillea climbing on stuccoed walls… He shook himself back to reality. “About Lydia Brooke-did you know her when you were at Cambridge?”

  Byrne shook his head. “No, she left a few years before I came up, but I heard the occasional odd thing about her. I remember the case well enough, though. Just about this time of year, wasn’t it, five years ago? She died from an overdose of the medication she took for her heart arrhythmia, leaving everything to her ex-husband. It seemed a fairly obvious suicide, and it at least got her a mention on the local news. You know-’tragic death of award-winning Cambridge poet’-that sort of thing.”

  Kincaid pulled his notebook from his breast pocket and flipped it open, then drank off a bit of his pint. He’d taken the bench, putting the wall at his back, and from where he sat he could see the day’s specials carefully lettered on the chalkboard over the bar. “Mushroom stroganoff,” it read, and “Courgette flan.” It followed, he supposed, that a smoke-free pub would also be vegetarian. Glancing at the notebook, he said, “I understand that Brooke had a history of more violent suicide attempts.”

  “She had a reputation as a bit of an hysteric, if I remember correctly. All part of the artistic persona.”

  “What crap,” Kincaid said. “In my experience, artists are more likely to be driven like furies, and are a hell of a lot more disciplined than your average accountant.” He sat back and lifted his pint once more. “Do you remember the details of the previous attempts?”

  Byrne shook his head. “Not really, except that they seem to have been rather elaborately staged, as was this one.”

  “Yes… except there were one or two things about this one that seemed a bit odd to me. Her clothes, for instance.”

  “Clothes? I don’t remember that there was anything unusual about them.”

  “That’s the point. Lydia Brooke seems to have had a heightened sense of the dramatic, I will give you that.” Kincaid smiled at Byrne, then glanced again at his notes. “According to her file, there was music repeating on the stereo when her body was discovered, Elgar’s Cello Concerto, to be exact. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the piece at all, but I’d say it’s probably the most wrenchingly sad music I’ve ever heard.”

  “I know the piece,” Byrne said. He closed his eyes for a moment, then hummed a few bars, keeping time with his finger. “And I’d be inclined to agree with you. It’s quite powerful stuff.”

  “So picture this,” Kincaid continued. “She lay on the sofa in her study, arms crossed on her breast, a candle burning on the table beside her. In her typewriter there was a fragment of a poem about death, and the music playing.” He pushed his pint aside and leaned forwards. “But she was wearing khaki trousers and a T-shirt with the slogan ‘Eat Organic Food.’ She had dirt under her fingernails. For Christ’s sake, Alec, she’d been gardening. Are we to surmise that Lydia Brooke had a particularly difficult encounter with her herbaceous border and decided to end it all?”

  Byrne tapped his long fingers on the tabletop. “I take your point. After she went to so much trouble to set the scene, you’d think she’d have worn something more suitable to the occasion. But I think you’re stretching it a bit-suicides aren’t always so logical.”

  Kincaid shrugged. “Perhaps. It just struck me, that’s all. I don’t suppose anyone checked to see if she’d left her gardening tools out?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. I wouldn’t be willing to wager on it.”

  “Do you remember the statement of the man who found the body?”

  “No,” Byrne answered, beginning to sound a bit exasperated. “I can’t say that I ever actually read the file. I only know what was circulating in the department at the time.”

  Consulting his notes again, Kincaid said, “His name was Nathan Winter. He was a friend, apparently, as well as her literary executor. Brooke had rung him and asked him to come round, but when he arrived later that evening he found the porch dark. She didn’t answer when he rang the bell, so he tried the door and found it unlocked. Do you know if anyone ever found out why the light was out?”

  Frowning, Byrne studi
ed Kincaid. “I suspect where you’re going with this, and I think I’ve contained my curiosity long enough. Why this interest in a straightforward case that’s been closed for almost five years? Do you think we’re not capable of doing a job properly?”

  “Oh, bollocks, Alec. You know perfectly well that’s not true, so don’t come the injured provincial with me. Besides, it wasn’t your case. You were the new boy on the block then, remember? And isn’t it just possible that old Bill was more interested in looking at travel brochures than in doing much digging on a case that came all wrapped up in a pink ribbon?”

  For a moment Byrne seemed to be concentrating on placing his tankard in the exact center of his beer mat, then he looked up at Kincaid. “Even supposing you’re right-and I’m not sure I’m willing to go that far, mind you-why are you sticking your nose in?”

  It was Kincaid’s turn to fiddle. He drew rings in the moisture on the tabletop, wishing he’d started as he meant to go on. Finally, he said, “It’s personal.” When Byrne merely raised his brows expectantly, Kincaid went on. “My ex-wife-her name is Victoria McClellan-is working on a biography of Brooke. She’s at All Saints’-a Fellow-and she lectures at the University as well,” he added quickly, as if Byrne had questioned her credentials.

  “I see,” Byrne drawled. “She asked you to ferret out the details so she could use them in her book. And you agreed?”

  Kincaid bridled at the mildly amused censure. “Not at all. I’d not have agreed to it, for one thing, and for another, I think scandal value is the last thing on Vic’s mind. Look, Alec, I know how it sounds, but Vic isn’t given to flights of fancy. I daresay she knows Lydia Brooke down to the color of her knickers, and she doesn’t believe Brooke committed suicide.”

  “Murder?” Byrne laughed. “Tell that to the AC, with bells on. Just let me be there to see his face turn that lovely apoplectic purple.” His mirth subsiding, he looked pityingly at Kincaid. “Duncan, I can tell you now, you don’t stand a hope of getting the AC to reopen this case unless you come up with some new, absolutely incontrovertible physical evidence-or you get a confession.” He shook his head and eyed his friend ruefully. “And I’d say your chances of doing either are about on a par with the proverbial snowball’s.”