Dreaming Of The Bones

“Yes,” said Christine, “do tell, please. It’s so amazingly light—”

“I’m sorry,” said Grace, interrupting the flow of compliments, “but there’s a phone call for Miss Iris. It’s Miss Enid, and she sounds dreadfully upset.”

Iris paled, and her spoon clattered into her dish. “Oh, God. It’s Orlando, something’s happened to Orlando.” She rose, knocking the table, and turned to Grace.

“You can take it in the sitting room, Miss Iris,” said Grace, and led her out.

“Who is Orlando?” asked Adam, understandably puzzled.

“Her cat,” explained Margery. “She dotes on him. He’s named after Virginia Woolf’s character.”

“Rather suitably, don’t you think?” said Darcy. “Since the poor emasculated beast is neither one thing nor the other.”

This comment brought a few guilty smiles, but the silence round the table grew uneasy as they waited for Iris to return. What on earth would they say to her, thought Margery, if something had indeed happened to the poor cat?

But when Iris came back into the dining room a few moments later, she showed no sign of incipient hysterics. She walked slowly to her chair and stood behind it, grasping its back with her hands. How odd, thought Margery, who prided herself on her powers of observation, that she had not noticed her friend’s enlarged knuckles, white now with the strength of her grip on the chair.

“I’m sorry, Margery—all of you—to spoil such a lovely party, but I’m afraid I have some very distressing news. Vic McClellan died this afternoon.”

PART II

[W]omen have been deprived of the narratives, or the texts, plots, or examples, by which they might assume power over … their lives.

CAROLYN HEILBRUN,

from Writing a Woman’s Life

CHAPTER

9

… Do you think there’s a far border town,

somewhere,

The desert’s edge, last of the lands we know,

Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,

In which I’ll find you waiting; and we’ll go

Together, hand in hand again, out there,

Into the waste we know not, into the night?

RUPERT BROOKE,

from “The Wayfarers”

Kincaid tossed the last of his paperwork in his Out basket, glanced at his watch, and yawned. Only half past six.. Mondays were reputed to be the longest day of the week, but this bleak Tuesday had far surpassed its predecessor in tediousness and he would be happy to go home.

Now he had only to wait for Gemma, who was out dredging up the last facts on a case that was over, bar the shouting. At least it had got her out of the bloody office, he thought as he rocked back in his chair and stretched. His phone rang and he picked it up lazily, expecting to hear Gemma’s voice. “Kincaid,” he answered, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he tidied a few things into his drawer.

“Duncan? It’s Alec Byrne here.” The reception was poor and Byrne’s voice faded tinnily in and out. “Sorry about the … it’s this bloody mobile phone. There, that’s better,” he said, coming in more clearly. “Listen, Duncan…”

Byrne sounded hesitant, almost diffident. Amused, Kincaid said, “What’s the matter, Alec? Did you change your mind about the Lydia Brooke case?”

“No. Listen, Duncan, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Kincaid brought the front legs of his chair back to the floor with a thump. “What are you talking about, Alec?” He couldn’t remember Byrne having a penchant for bad jokes.

“I happened to be in Control when the call came through, so I came myself. I recognized the name from our conversation the other day. You said your ex-wife was called Victoria McClellan?”

Kincaid knew the drill too well. His heart jerked in sudden fear. “What do you mean was, Alec?”

“I’m sorry, Duncan. She’s dead. The medics say probable heart attack. There was nothing they could do.”

The room receded oddly and he heard a buzzing in his ears. Byrne’s voice came distantly to him, then the words seemed to assemble themselves into something that made sense.

“Duncan, are you all right?”

“There’s been a mistake, Alec,” he managed to say against the weight pressing on his chest. “It must be a different Victoria McClellan—”

“An English lecturer living in Grantchester?” Byrne said with reluctant certainty. “I’m sorry, mate, but I thought you should know. Can you tell me how to contact her hus—”

It couldn’t be. Byrne was wrong, there must be some silly mistake, Kincaid thought, but he heard himself