Dreaming Of The Bones

the kettle, and that won’t take but a minute.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble,” protested Gemma as she stepped back to let Vic pass.

“Actually, it’s a treat—and an excuse to make Kit the goodies he likes. We don’t have guests very often.” Vic led them back the way they’d come and through a door at the opposite end of the passage.

Following her, Gemma saw a comfortable, lived-in sort of room with a squashy sofa and armchairs, fringed lamps, and the Sunday papers neatly stacked on an end table beside silver-framed photos. At the far end French doors led into the rain-damp garden.

“Make yourselves comfortable, and Kit will light the fire. Won’t you, sweetie?”

Kit made a disgusted face at his mother as he knelt by the hearth. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Oops. Sorry.” Vic grinned unrepentantly, and suddenly looked about ten years old herself.

“Can I help?” asked Gemma, feeling she ought to offer.

“No, we’ve got it all under control. Kit’s promised to be my dogsbody today—it’s my reward for making scones and cake.” Vic put a hand on Kit’s back as he returned to her, and pushed him gently out of the room.

When the door had closed behind them, Gemma joined Kincaid, who stood with his back to the fire, warming his hands.

After a moment, Gemma broke the silence. “She’s nice.”

Kincaid glanced down at her. “What did you expect?” he asked, sounding definitely amused. “Horns and tail?”

“Of course not. It’s just…” Deciding she’d better not dig herself into an inescapable hole, Gemma changed the subject. “Did you meet Kit when you came before?”

“He was away that day, visiting his grandparents, I think.”

Slowly, Gemma said, “He seems so familiar … Maybe it’s just that I imagine Toby will look like that in a few years.” Toby’s hair would darken to just that barley color, and he would move with the same coltish grace. Already Toby was fast losing his baby softness. Soon he’d grow into Kit’s sort of stretched leanness, as if every calorie spared from upward growth was shunted directly into the production of kinetic energy.

The hallway door creaked open and Kit shouldered his way through the gap, bearing a heavily laden tea tray. Hastily clearing the table for him, Gemma said, “I can see why you like an excuse for your mum to make a proper tea. And I think it’s a good thing we didn’t have any lunch.”

“She’ll do scones or cake sometimes if it’s just the two of us, but not both,” Kit said, glancing up at Gemma as he knelt with the tray. He transferred plates and dishes from tray to tabletop, then arranged them with meticulous care. A platter of scones, a dish of strawberry jam, a dish of cream, a plate of thin sandwiches on brown bread, another with thick slices of raisin-studded cake—all apparently had to occupy a certain position, and Gemma knew better than to offer help.

Sitting back on his heels as he surveyed his handiwork with a satisfied expression, Kit said, “Mum’s bringing the tea.”

“I thought your mum couldn’t cook,” Kincaid said from his stance before the fire.

“She can’t, really,” Kit admitted. “She only learned these special things for me. And anybody can make sandwiches.” Reaching towards a slice of cake, he glanced furtively up, then smoothly returned the offending hand to his knee when he saw them watching. “I can cook,” he offered as a distraction. “I can do scrambled eggs on toast, and sausages, and spaghetti.”

“Sounds a perfectly good repertoire to me,” Kincaid said, then he nodded towards the platter. “Go on, have some cake.”

Kit shook his head. “She’ll kill me if I forget my manners. I’m not to touch anything until the tea’s served.”

“Then I’d not take the risk,” Kincaid said, grinning. “It’s hardly worth the consequences.”

Pushing himself up from the floor, Kit straddled the arm of the sofa and studied Kincaid curiously. “You’re a cop, aren’t you?” he said after a moment. “Mum told me. Why aren’t you wearing a uniform?”

“Well, it’s my day off, for one thing. And I’m an investigator, and investigators don’t usually wear uniforms.”

Kit thought about this for a moment. “Does that mean you can ask people things and they don’t know you’re a copper? Cool.”

“Whenever we question anyone we have to show them our identification,” Kincaid said a bit apologetically. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair.” When he saw Kit’s disappointed expression, he nodded towards Gemma and added, “Gemma’s a police officer, too.”

Kit’s eyes widened. “No way. I thought that was just on the telly. The only copper I know is Harry. He’s the bobby here in the village, and he’s thick as two planks, you know—”

“Kit!” Vic had come in quietly, carrying a second tray. “What a horrid thing to say.”

“You know it’s true.” Kit sounded more injured than abashed. “You said so yourself.”

“I said no such thing. Harry’s very nice.” Vic looked daggers at her son.

“Nice is the first requirement for village bobbies,” Kincaid put in diplomatically “Except we call it community policing.”

Gemma controlled a snicker and went to help Vic. “Here, let me take the cups.”

When the tea had been poured and handed round, Kincaid said, “Kit’s shown great restraint over the cake, I think.”

Vic laughed. “Oh, all right, go ahead. Just save some for the rest of us.”