Dreaming Of The Bones

She walked round to the other side and read carved there the names of the young men of the village who had given their lives in the War to End All Wars. Rupert Brooke’s was among them.

She stood with her hand on the warm stone until Kincaid’s voice roused her. “Gemma. I thought you weren’t coming.”

Turning, she watched him walk towards her across the grass. She seldom saw him in a suit—he preferred the more casual sports jacket—but today he wore severe charcoal gray with a starched white shirt and muted tie. He looked tired.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said. “Before the funeral. That’s why I didn’t ring.”

He raised an eyebrow at that, but glanced accommodatingly at his watch. “It’s early yet. Let’s walk a bit.”

They went through the lych-gate into the churchyard proper and picked their way round the lichen-covered headstones. No point in beating about the bush, she thought, glancing up at him. “I owe you an apology for the other day,” she said. “I had no right telling you how to handle this.”

His lips curved in a smile. “And when has that ever been a deterrent?”

Gemma ignored the quip. “Especially since I know how you feel.” There was nothing he could say to that, and she knew it. A friend of hers had been killed a few months before, and though Gemma hadn’t been directly responsible for her death, she would carry the weight of it with her always, just as he would carry Vic’s.

She turned and looked back towards the church. An ornamental peach tree grew near the churchyard wall, and its puffy round blossoms looked impossibly pink against the emerald grass. Beyond the wall the square church tower rose, a massive counterpoint to the tree’s delicacy. “I understand why you have to find out who killed Vic, and I’m going to help you.”

Kincaid turned her towards him with a touch on her shoulder. “Gemma, no. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t let you risk your job for me.”

“It’s not just for you—it’s for Vic, too. And I’m already involved—you can’t change that now. Besides”—she grinned at him and held the back of her hand to her forehead—“I’ve got a dreadful case of flu. I’m sure I’ll be off work for at least a few more days.”

“Gemma—”

“There’s nothing to stop us talking to people, is there? Yesterday I saw Morgan Ashby and his wife—”

“You did what? The man’s a bloody lunatic. Are you out of your—” His face froze as he glimpsed something over her shoulder, and she wondered what had rescued her from an imminent bollicking.

“Oh, Lord,” he breathed. “It’s my mother.”

Gemma stared blankly at him. “What?”

“I meant to tell you—I rang her yesterday. She said she’d come if she could get away.”

“From Cheshire?” Gemma squeaked. “But it’s a half day’s drive.” Turning, she looked out through the gate, searching for a hint of the familiar among the people gathering before the church.

“She cared about Vic,” Kincaid said simply. “She wanted to be here. Come on, I’ll introduce you. And we’ll talk about this other business later.”

When she’d finished embracing her son, Kincaid’s mother smiled and held out a hand to Gemma. “Do call me Rosemary, won’t you?”

The resemblance was there, thought Gemma, in the hair that had faded from Kincaid’s rich chestnut but still sprang from the brow in the same way, and in the eyes and the shape of the mouth.

“Your dad wanted to come,” Rosemary continued to Kincaid, “but it was Liza’s day off and one of us had to mind the shop.” She looked up at him and touched the backs of her fingers briefly against his cheek. “I am sorry, darling.”

“I know.” He smiled and clasped her hand in his. “The church is starting to fill. I suppose we’d better go in.”

Gemma lagged behind intentionally, wanting to give them a few moments together, but Kincaid waited and took her arm. “Let’s sit near the back,” he said softly as he guided them into one of the last pews. He took the aisle himself, and Gemma saw him watching the mourners as they straggled in, searching each face.

The church still held the night’s chill, and Gemma felt the warmth of his body when he leaned across her and whispered to his mother, “It looks as though Father Denny has High Church inclinations.” He waved the Order of Service he’d taken from the hymnal stand. “We may be here for a bit.”

Gemma, having been brought up strictly chapel, had never learned to feel comfortable in an Anglican service, but with Kincaid’s helpful cues she managed to keep up, and discovered that she found the impersonal ritual surprisingly comforting. She let the words and the music wash over her as she gazed at the faces round her, wondering who these people were and what they had meant to Vic. And what Vic had meant to them, she thought as she cast a covert glance at Kincaid’s shuttered face. No public display of emotion would reveal his grief to the casual onlooker.

The service ended, the congregation rose as the processional passed, then filed slowly out into the sun.

Gemma, Kincaid, and his mother were among the first to reach the porch. Kincaid thanked the vicar, then guided them a little ways away, where they stood watching the uncertain milling of the mourners. “They don’t quite know what to do with themselves,” Kincaid said. “There’s no reception organized, but they don’t feel they should just walk away.”

“It’s all very odd. I’m surprised her parents didn’t lay on something,” Rosemary commented in a tone of mild censure. “I’d not have expected Eugenia to give up an opportunity to do the right thing, or the chance of an audience.” She made a rueful face. “Oh, dear, I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”

Kincaid smiled. “You are a darling. And you’re quite right—I thought exactly the same thing.”

“Well, I must speak to them,” said Rosemary, but without much enthusiasm.