Kincaid wondered how Vic, whom he had always thought of as disliking confrontation, had adapted to daily contact with a man who so obviously enjoyed stirring things up. “What did you find to argue about after that?” he asked. “Dr. Winslow said you were opposed to the biography Vic was writing.”
“I wasn’t opposed to Victoria’s biography in particular—although I can’t say I find poor Lydia an absorbing subject—just to the general idea of delving into the lives of poets and novelists. Are you a student of literature, Mr. Kincaid?”
He thought of his running joke with Vic—
Eliot hooked his thumbs a bit more firmly together over his middle and spoke in the rich tones Kincaid associated with the lecture hall. “It’s my belief that there’s not a single example of a literary text which cannot be shown to contradict itself, therefore rendering itself meaningless. And if the text itself is meaningless, of what use is it to examine the life of its author? And, I might add, since most authors’ lives differ little from that of the common man in being merely pitiable attempts to disguise crippling inadequacies, they cannot be of interest to anyone.” He rocked back in his chair and beamed at Kincaid.
“Then why bother to teach something you see as inherently useless?” Kincaid asked, wondering if he’d missed something in Eliot’s argument.
“Well, one must do something, mustn’t one?” Eliot said, still looking pleased with himself. “And I find it more amusing than any other occupation which springs to mind.”
“Do I take it that Vic didn’t subscribe to your theory?”
Eliot shook his head, pursing his lips in an expression of regret. “Victoria insisted on cobbling together feminist criticism with some sort of updated version of liberal humanism—producing a hideous hybrid which was illogical at best, and smacked of metaphysics at worst.” He closed his eyes in mock dismay.
“What you’re telling me is that Vic had the temerity to assign
Eliot clapped his hands together. “Bravo, Mr. Kincaid. Very well put. Although you’ve given yourself away in the process. I did think the vague copper bit was overdone, especially in light of your accent and your bearing—you’re obviously well educated.”
And you’re a condescending bastard, thought Kincaid, and smiled. He did not feel inclined to share the particulars of his background with Darcy Eliot. The man must’ve given Vic a chronic case of the pip. “Now that I understand the theoretical repercussions of Vic’s biography, Dr. Eliot, do you know of anyone who might have had a personal objection to Vic’s researching Lydia Brooke’s life?”
“Lydia was a minor poet whose early work was pleasantly facile, if derivative,” Eliot said tartly. “She flirted with mental illness all her life, and her later poems combined a ‘confessional’ exploration of her illness with the most trite elements of feminism. I can think of any number of people she might have offended with her poems, but I doubt her life provided the requisite drama.”
“But you knew her personally,” said Kincaid. “You were friends at Cambridge.”
“Do you still find yourself in sympathy with everyone you were at school with, Mr. Kincaid?” Eliot raised one massive eyebrow. “I find that one often outgrows such relationships. Although in Lydia’s case…” He paused and gave Kincaid a considering look.
“Don’t hesitate to express your
Eliot smiled at the thinly veiled sarcasm. “I daresay such tact would be out of character, wouldn’t it? It occurred to me that there might be one person who would prefer that not all the details of Lydia’s private life be made public. Lydia flirted with more than mental illness, and at a time when lesbianism was not considered quite as politically correct as it is these days.”
“Lydia had a homosexual relationship?” Kincaid asked, surprised. If Vic had been aware of it, she hadn’t mentioned it to him. “One can never be sure of the details unless one is personally involved, but that was the operative rumor. And as the lady in question is now headmistress of a prestigious girls’ school …” Eliot made a
“Who was the other woman, Dr. Eliot?”
Darcy Eliot looked uncomfortable. It seemed that repeating unsubstantiated titillating rumors was all in a day’s work, but naming names might press the limits of his public school code of honor. “Why should I tell you, Mr. Kincaid?”
Kincaid had expected the challenge. He leaned forwards and met Eliot’s gaze. “Because Victoria McClellan is dead, and I want to know who had reason to kill her.”
Eliot looked away first. “Well, I suppose that’s reason enough, if you put it that way. Though I can’t imagine Daphne killing anyone—”
“Daphne Morris? Lydia’s friend from Newnham?” Kincaid had a clear image of the girl as Vic had written of her, but that was years ago. “Headmistress of a girls’ school?”
“Here in Cambridge. Just on the Hills Road, in—” There was a tentative tap at the door, and an acne-scarred boy put his head round.
“Give me a minute more, will you, Matthews?” Eliot said testily, and the boy scuttled apologetically backwards, closing the door with a snap.
“Just one more thing, Dr. Eliot,” said Kincaid as he rose. “Did you see Vic at all on Tuesday?”
“It was an ordinary day,” Eliot said slowly. “One doesn’t think about it at the time, and that makes it difficult to piece things together again. We passed on the stairs, we passed in the corridor, but I’d be hard put to tell you what time.”
“Do you remember anything in particular she said?”
Eliot gave a frustrated shake of his head. “Only the most mundane of things. ‘Morning, Darcy’ ‘Do let me use the photocopier first this morning, Darcy’” He frowned. “I believe she said something about having a sandwich at her desk while she prepared for a supervision at half past one—but I can’t tell you if she actually did, as I was out
