Dreaming Of The Bones

of bare skin at the waist as her jumper rose above her jeans. “Sorry about the coffee. I was afraid the smell would wake you, but I couldn’t wait any longer—”

“That’s what you said last night,” he teased, then added, “How long have you been up?”

“You don’t want to know.” She turned another page of the manuscript.

He’d told her last night that he had a copy of Vic’s book locked in the boot of his car, so she must have lifted his keys while he slept with the skill of a pickpocket. “Sneak.”

“I’ve brought in your emergency kit from the boot as well,” she said, referring to the shaving things and change of clothes he kept packed for unexpected overnights.

“Then I suppose I’ve no excuse for staying in bed,” he answered regretfully, but the light filtering in from the garden through the half-opened blinds was turning from the green of early morning to gold, and Toby would doubtless be up soon.

“I think we should see Daphne Morris this morning,” said Gemma a few minutes later, watching him as he tucked in his shirttail.

“Gemma—”

“No more argument,” she interrupted firmly. “We’ve done all that.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, knowing it was a capitulation, yet feeling an unexpected sense of relief.

“You said last night that Darcy Eliot implied Lydia had a lesbian relationship with Daphne Morris.” She tapped the manuscript. “If Vic suspected that, there’s no hint of it here, but what if she’d just recently come across it? The headmistress of a girls’ school would certainly have a lot to lose if something like that got out.”

He looked up from tying his shoe. “Vic interviewed Daphne Morris; it’s in her notes. She said Daphne gave the impression she hardly knew Lydia.”

Gemma raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. “That’s obviously not true, on the basis of Lydia’s letters alone. Do you know what school it is?”

“No, but I know roughly where it is, and it shouldn’t be hard to ferret out the rest. What do you suppose headmistresses do on a Saturday?”

*   *   *

Headmistresses, it turned out, went away to their country cottages, but Daphne Morris had been delayed and was still packing. They had been shown into the sitting room of her private apartments by a thin woman with pockmarked skin and a protective attitude. “You won’t keep her, will you?” she said as she turned to go. “She needs every bit of her weekend—”

“It’s all right, Jeanette.” The woman who came into the room sounded affectionately amused. In jodhpurs and boots, with her fresh skin and her glossy russet hair tied back with a scarf, she looked like an advertisement from Country Life. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a quarter of an hour.

“She thinks I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get away for the weekend,” continued Daphne Morris, giving an exasperated roll of her eyes as Jeanette went out. She started towards them with her hand outstretched, but must have seen their faces freeze, because she hesitated and dropped her hand. “What is it? Have I said something wrong?”

“You really don’t know?” asked Gemma, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said Daphne, sounding a bit wary now, “but perhaps Jeanette got it a bit muddled. Who did you say you were?”

Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, adding, “We’re from Scotland Yard, Miss Morris.” After all, he thought as he showed her his warrant card, that was the truth, strictly speaking, and he’d come to the conclusion that they weren’t likely to get anywhere without calling on their official standing. “We’d like to talk to you about Victoria McClellan. We understand she came to see you about Lydia Brooke.”

Daphne frowned. “Yes, she did, but I don’t understand what it has to do with you.”

He glanced at Gemma, who widened her eyes and gave a minute shrug of her shoulders in response. Either Daphne Morris didn’t know about Vic’s death or she was an astonishing actress. This was a development he hadn’t expected. “Miss Morris, perhaps it would be better if we all sat down.”

“Oh,” she said with a start. “Do forgive me. My manners seem to have flown out the window.” Daphne gestured to the sofa, which faced the marble fireplace, and took a small, gilded chair for herself. The flat had a serene and formal atmosphere, which suited her classical looks, but also gave it an impersonal quality. There were no photographs, no open books, no magazines or newspapers, knitting or needlework. “Now, please tell me what this is all about.” She had a natural authority as well as graciousness, thought Kincaid, and she’d just shown a hint of the headmistress.

“Victoria McClellan,” he began, and cleared his throat. Bloody hell “Dr. McClellan —”

“Dr. McClellan died on Tuesday,” said Gemma quietly, coming to his rescue.

“But how dreadful…” Daphne looked from Gemma to Kincaid in concerned surprise. “I hadn’t heard. One never expects one so young—”

“She was murdered, Miss Morris. Poisoned, in fact,” Kincaid said baldly, watching her. “We believe there may be some connection to her research on Lydia Brooke.” He would have sworn the paling of her already creamy skin, the widening of her dark eyes were reflections of a genuine emotion, but was it shock or fear? Before she could recover, he said, “When Dr. McClellan interviewed you, you gave her the impression that you and Lydia were merely acquaintances, old school chums whose paths occasionally crossed.”

“But I—”

“When, in fact, you and Lydia Brooke had a long and close friendship. Why would you have wished to mislead her?”

“I didn’t deliberately mislead her,” Daphne protested. “But why should I have felt compelled to discuss my