Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
A long while since, and by some other sea.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “Waikiki”
“So where does this leave us?” Kincaid asked as he picked up his cheese and tomato sandwich, then winced as his first bite caught his swollen lip. Gemma had already started on hers, and he watched the egg salad squish generously over the edges of the brown bread as she bit into it.
They’d chosen a basement tearoom off St. John’s Street, partly on Hazel’s recommendation, and partly because he had made an appointment with Ralph Peregrine, and the offices of Peregrine Press were nearby. Kincaid had to admit the tearoom was a charming enough place, a warm retreat with heavy oak furniture and bright Blue Calico tea services, but the drawing of Alice in Wonderland on the restaurant’s paper menus made him think of Vic.
“You shouldn’t have pushed Morgan, you know,” said Gemma a bit reproachfully, but her expression was concerned as she watched him explore his lip with a careful fingertip. “You’re going to have a lovely bruise on that cheekbone as well,” she added in a tone of dispassionate interest.
“The man is a wife beater—by his own admission, he nearly killed Lydia. How can you possibly make excuses for him?” Kincaid countered defensively.
“You don’t usually let your personal prejudices get in the way of your judgment.” Gemma looked at him over the rim of her blue and white teacup. “And besides, I’m not sure it’s true—that Morgan’s an abuser, I mean. I think he has a rotten temper, and that Lydia pushed him—”
“You’re not saying that Lydia deserved what she got?” he sputtered through a mouthful of sandwich. “That’s preposterous. I can’t believe you’d—”
“Of course I don’t mean that,” she said, just as hotly. “I’m not saying that what Morgan did was right, only that I think this was something strictly between Morgan and Lydia, a combination of personalities that drove them both beyond their limits.
“Besides, for most men who abuse women, it’s a chronic pattern, but I’d be willing to bet you a month’s wages that Morgan’s never laid a finger on Francesca in all the years they’ve been married.”
“So? That doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Lydia twenty years later.”
“No, but not that way.” Gemma shook her head emphatically. “Morgan acts out of temper. Poisoning requires deliberate forethought, intent to harm, and I don’t think he’s capable of it.” More thoughtfully, she added, “What I’d like to know is whether Lydia really deliberately triggered these episodes, or if that’s just his perception of it—a way of excusing himself.”
“Well, there’s no way we can know that, is there? And I can’t see any point arguing with you unless we turn up something else that incriminates Morgan Ashby,” said Kincaid with a sigh. “Once you make up your mind, you’re as immovable as Mohammed.”
Gemma’s smile held the satisfaction of victory. “Then don’t you think we need to follow up what Morgan told us? We can’t see Daphne again until Monday, but we could have a go at Darcy Eliot and Nathan Winter.” She finished her tea and patted her mouth demurely with her serviette.
“All right,” he conceded. “But I still want to see Ralph Peregrine first. I’m not happy about those missing poems.”
When they had paid their bill, they climbed the steep staircase back to street level, passing through the ground-floor shop with its selection of linens and laces. Kincaid saw Gemma reach out towards a particularly elaborate tablecloth displayed near the door, but she dropped her hand without touching it and followed him out onto the pavement.
The weather had changed in the half hour they’d been inside. Dark clouds had scudded in, and the air held a damp chill. “It must be this way,” said Gemma, as they came to a halt at the intersection of St. John’s and a tiny lane. Remembering that she’d told him she’d done a recce day before yesterday, he followed her without question. They passed a shop selling English cheeses, and olives in an array of colors ranging from pale green to deep aubergine. Beyond that, a shop displayed handmade chocolates, and then, just before they reached Sidney Street, they saw an unobtrusive door bearing a brass nameplate with the Peregrine Press logo.
There was no bell, but when Kincaid tried the latch the door swung open. They stepped into the foyer, and saw that a flight of stairs led directly up to the first floor and another door of frosted glass. “Are you sure someone’s here?” asked Gemma. “It’s quiet as the proverbial tomb, and it is Saturday, after all.”
“Peregrine said he’d be working,” Kincaid reassured her as they climbed the stairs. He opened the glass door on the upper landing and allowed Gemma to enter first. They found themselves in an anteroom of sorts, in that it contained a shabby sofa and a coffee table much marred by drink rings, but the rest of the available space was taken up by haphazardly shelved books and assorted piles of paper. Most of the books seemed to bear the familiar Peregrine imprint, and there were multiple copies of many of them. The door to an inner office was closed, and Kincaid heard a man’s voice speaking intermittently—Ralph Peregrine must be on the phone.
“I see the elegance associated with the Peregrine Press doesn’t extend to the working quarters,” Kincaid said, rifling one dusty pile of paper with his thumb. “Are these manuscripts, do you suppose?”
“It doesn’t seem very organized, does it?” Gemma wrinkled her nose. “It’s a wonder they manage to publish any—”
“Hullo. Thought I heard voices.” The inner door had swung open soundlessly, and a thin, dark man in cords and a cherry red pullover stood on the threshold, smiling at them inquiringly. “You must be Mr. Kincaid. I’m Ralph Peregrine.”
After Kincaid had introduced Gemma, who was blushing slightly, Peregrine escorted them both into his office. “We’ll be more comfortable in here,” he said, seating them in two Queen Anne chairs that looked as if they’d been pilfered from someone’s dining room. The room’s ambiance was definitely a notch above that of the anteroom, however. The desk, although piled dangerously high with books and papers, looked expensive, and the carpet under their feet had the cushiony feel of good quality. To the left of the desk, a new model computer sat on a specially designed table, and below it was a printer. Kincaid rather liked the idea that the end product of the latest technology remained printed words on bound paper.
Peregrine propped one hip on the front edge of his desk and faced them, his back to the light pouring in from the large window behind his desk. Folding his arms across his chest in a relaxed posture, he asked, “Now, how can I help you?”
