Dreaming Of The Bones

“Who’s Miss Pope?” he asked. “One of your teachers?”

“English.” Kit grimaced. “I hate English. I’m going to be a biologist like Nathan. And I hate Miss Pope.”

Gemma sensed that there was more here than a subject preference. “Did Miss Pope do something that made you particularly angry?” she asked gently.

Kit nodded. “She … she said bad things about my mum. About my mum and my dad. She said that if my mum had been a proper wife, Dad would never have left.”

“Oh, Christ,” Kincaid whispered. Then he said, carefully, “Kit, did you tell your mum about this?”

Kit’s eyes filled with tears, and he wiped angrily at them as he nodded again. “The day before she … At first I thought maybe that was why she died—because she was upset. They said it was her heart… and then last night…” He stopped and sniffed.

“Go on,” said Kincaid. “What happened last night?”

“Tess wasn’t the only reason I ran away. I heard them talking. Grandmama said Mummy … she said Mummy was murdered. But I don’t understand. Why would someone want to kill my mum?”

Kincaid closed his eyes for a moment, and Gemma guessed he was marshaling all his patience not to curse Eugenia in front of Kit. “We don’t know,” he said. “The police are trying to find out. But in the meantime, you need to understand that whatever happened, it’s not your fault. It had nothing to do with you.”

A muffled squeal came from the sitting room, followed by giggles and excited barking.

“Oh, dear,” said Gemma. “We’ve left the little demons alone too long.” She pushed back her chair.

“I’ll go,” offered Kit, jumping up. “I left them watching 101 Dalmatians. Maybe they’ve decided to make a fur coat out of Tess.” He left the room and Gemma sank back into her seat.

“I know two things now,” said Kincaid. “One, we can be pretty sure where Vic went when she left the English Faculty that afternoon. And two,” he paused and met her eyes across the table, “I’m not letting him go back to Reading, no matter what it takes.”

CHAPTER

18

I said I splendidly loved you; it’s not true.

Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.

On gods or fools the high risk falls—on you—

The clean clear bitter-sweet that’s not for me.

RUPERT BROOKE,

from “Sonnet” (January 1910)

The Park Lane Hotel, Piccadilly

5 June 1974

Dear Mummy,

Sorry I haven’t written lately, but there’s been so much going on it’s hard to squeeze in a moment to think, much less keep up with correspondence.

I came up yesterday for my launch party and decided to stay a few extra days. Sometimes it does one good to get away from provincial life and provincial company for a bit. Tonight I’m making up a party with several (rather glamorous) London friends for the theater and dinner at the Savoy after.

The launch party yesterday was lovely. It will make next week’s punch and biscuit affair at Heffer’s seem even drearier than usual. Daphne will be lurking about hoping not to be noticed, while Darcy bores everyone within earshot with a lecture on the intricacies of deconstructionism. You know what they always say, If you can’t write …

At least we won’t have Adam mooning about like a forlorn crow, since he’s off do-gooding somewhere in Africa.

Did you see the piece in the Times? If not, I’ll send you a copy. It seems my work is finally getting the critical attention it deserves, though I think the reviewer could have been a bit better informed.

Must dash, people waiting.

Love, Lydia

This time Gemma and Kincaid were left to cool their heels in the plushly upholstered anteroom of Daphne Morris’s office. They’d left London early in Gemma’s battered Ford Escort, Kincaid having expressed concern over the Midget’s acquisition of a new noise, and they’d made good time to Cambridge considering the Monday morning traffic. Kit had agreed to stay behind with Hazel and the children without too much protest.

Daphne’s assistant, Jeanette, still wearing the baggy cardigan Gemma remembered from Friday, informed them that the Headmistress’s schedule didn’t allow time for unexpected visitors, and if they wanted to see her, they’d have to wait until she finished her history lecture.

But before the appointed hour was up, Daphne herself appeared, looking every inch the headmistress in a navy suit and upswept hair. She ushered them into her office and took a seat behind the massive barrier of her desk. “What can I do for you this morning?” she asked with the smooth smile and the touch of impatience Gemma imagined she used when dealing with annoying parents.

“Did you have a nice weekend?” Kincaid countered as he made himself comfortable in one of the rather feminine visitor’s chairs. “Relaxing and all that?”

Daphne merely watched him, but Gemma saw her make an aborted reach for the pen on her desk, then clasp her hands together on the desktop.

“I hope so, because we had a very interesting weekend, didn’t we, Gemma?”