Dreaming of the Bones (19 page)

Margery brought her attention back to Ralph, who had begun telling her about a new talent he’d discovered, and as she listened to his voice interspersed with the soft, rhythmic clinks of silver and crystal, she found herself glad of having made tonight’s effort.

They’d finished the veal and started on Grace’s chocolate mousse when Margery heard the distant ringing of the telephone.

“Dame Margery, this pudding is absolutely heavenly,” said Adam. “If you’ll forgive me the rather inappropriate adjective,” he added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Surely your boss would allow you the slight impertinence, given the exquisite nature of Grace’s mousse?” said Darcy.

“Or you could substitute
ambrosial”
suggested Ralph, “which is both inoffensive and true.”

The door to the kitchen opened, and as Grace came in, Darcy said, “How do you do it, Grace? Do tell us your secret.”

“Yes,” said Christine, “do tell, please. It’s so amazingly light—”

“I’m sorry,” said Grace, interrupting the flow of compliments, “but there’s a phone call for Miss Iris. It’s Miss Enid, and she sounds dreadfully upset.”

Iris paled, and her spoon clattered into her dish. “Oh, God. It’s Orlando, something’s happened to Orlando.” She rose, knocking the table, and turned to Grace.

“You can take it in the sitting room, Miss Iris,” said Grace, and led her out.

“Who is Orlando?” asked Adam, understandably puzzled.

“Her cat,” explained Margery. “She dotes on him. He’s named after Virginia Woolf’s character.”

“Rather suitably, don’t you think?” said Darcy. “Since the poor emasculated beast is neither one thing nor the other.”

This comment brought a few guilty smiles, but the silence round the table grew uneasy as they waited for Iris to return. What on earth would they say to her, thought Margery, if something had indeed happened to the poor cat?

But when Iris came back into the dining room a few moments later, she showed no sign of incipient hysterics. She walked slowly to her chair and stood behind it, grasping its back with her hands. How odd, thought Margery, who prided herself on her powers of observation, that she had not noticed her friend’s enlarged knuckles, white now with the strength of her grip on the chair.

“I’m sorry, Margery—all of you—to spoil such a lovely party, but I’m afraid I have some very distressing news. Vic McClellan died this afternoon.”

P
ART
II

[W]omen have been deprived of the narratives, or the texts, plots, or examples, by which they might assume power over … their lives
.

C
AROLYN
H
EILBRUN
,
from
Writing a Woman’s Life

CHAPTER
9

… Do you think there’s a far border town,

somewhere,

The desert’s edge, last of the lands we know,

Some gaunt eventual limit of our light,

In which I’ll find you waiting; and we’ll go

Together, hand in hand again, out there,

Into the waste we know not, into the night?

R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
from “The Wayfarers”

Kincaid tossed the last of his paperwork in his Out basket, glanced at his watch, and yawned. Only half past six.. Mondays were reputed to be the longest day of the week, but this bleak Tuesday had far surpassed its predecessor in tediousness and he would be happy to go home.

Now he had only to wait for Gemma, who was out dredging up the last facts on a case that was over, bar the shouting. At least it had got her out of the bloody office, he thought as he rocked back in his chair and stretched. His phone rang and he picked it up lazily, expecting to hear Gemma’s voice. “Kincaid,” he answered, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he tidied a few things into his drawer.

“Duncan? It’s Alec Byrne here.” The reception was poor and Byrne’s voice faded tinnily in and out. “Sorry about the … it’s this bloody mobile phone. There, that’s better,” he said, coming in more clearly. “Listen, Duncan…”

Byrne sounded hesitant, almost diffident. Amused, Kincaid said, “What’s the matter, Alec? Did you change your mind about the Lydia Brooke case?”

“No. Listen, Duncan, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Kincaid brought the front legs of his chair back to the floor with a thump. “What are you talking about, Alec?” He couldn’t remember Byrne having a penchant for bad jokes.

“I happened to be in Control when the call came through, so I came myself. I recognized the name from our conversation the other day. You said your ex-wife was called Victoria McClellan?”

Kincaid knew the drill too well. His heart jerked in sudden fear. “What do you mean
was
, Alec?”

“I’m sorry, Duncan. She’s dead. The medics say probable heart attack. There was nothing they could do.”

The room receded oddly and he heard a buzzing in his ears. Byrne’s voice came distantly to him, then the words seemed to assemble themselves into something that made sense.

“Duncan, are you all right?”

“There’s been a mistake, Alec,” he managed to say against the weight pressing on his chest. “It must be a different Victoria McClellan—”

“An English lecturer living in Grantchester?” Byrne said with reluctant certainty. “I’m sorry, mate, but I thought you should know. Can you tell me how to contact her hus—”

It couldn’t be. Byrne was wrong, there must be some silly mistake, Kincaid thought, but he heard himself saying, “I’m on my way.” Byrne’s voice still came faintly from the handset as he replaced it in the cradle.

Struggling into his jacket in the corridor, he ran full tilt into Chief Superintendent Childs.

“Been sneaking out to the pub?” said Childs, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. Then, as he looked into Kincaid’s face, “I say, Duncan, are you all right? You’re white as a sheet, man.”

Kincaid shook his head and pulled away from Childs’s restraining fingers. “Have to go.”

“Wait, lad.” Childs reached for him again with a hand the size of a ham, and it was the sheer bulk of him that finally made some impression on Kincaid’s dazed mind. “Tell me what’s up,” Childs said. “You can’t just go haring off like that without a word.”

“It’s Vic,” Kincaid managed to say. “My wife … ex-wife. They say she’s dead. I’ve got to go.”

“Where?” Childs asked, to the point as always.

“Cambridgeshire.”

“Where’s Gemma? You don’t look fit to drive.”

“I’m all right. I’ll be all right,” Kincaid repeated as he slipped from his superior’s grasp like a footballer evading a tackle and dodged his way towards the lift.

Even in his shock, he realized his chief was right. He had no business driving the Midget at high speeds in bad weather, so he took the best car available from the pool, a late model Rover with a powerful engine.

All the way to Cambridge he repeated his litany of disbelief to the rhythm of his tires on the motorway’s wet tarmac.
It couldn’t be Vic. Vic couldn’t die of a heart attack, for God’s sake—she was too young. It couldn’t be Vic
.

Some small rational voice in his head reminded him that he and Vic both were getting near forty, they weren’t all that young. And a few months ago, the wife of one of his mates, younger even than Vic, had died suddenly of an aneurysm.

All right, it happened. Of course it happened. But not to him. And not to Vic
.

His armor began to weaken as he reached the Grantchester turn-off. He clamped his hands tighter on the wheel to stop them from trembling, and tried not to think at all.

He saw the blue flash of the emergency lights as he made the turn into the High Street. Two patrol cars were parked up on the curb in front of Vic’s cottage, but there was no sign of an ambulance. Kincaid pulled the Rover up into the graveled drive and stopped it where he had parked on Sunday. On Sunday, he thought, Vic had been fine on Sunday.

Slowly now, he got out of the car and shut the door. His knees felt insubstantial as he stepped deliberately onto the gravel, and he
took a breath to clear the sudden swimming in his head.
Vertigo. What a solid word for such an unanchored feeling
. The door opened and a dark form appeared, silhouetted against the light.
Vic. No, not Vic
. Alec Byrne, crunching across the gravel to meet him.

Byrne reached him, touched his arm. “Duncan. There was no need for you to come all this way. We’ve everything in hand.”

“Where is she?”

“I’m afraid they’ve taken her to the morgue,” Byrne said gently. “The medics pronounced her dead on scene.” He searched Kincaid’s face. “Come on. We’d better get you a cup of tea.”

Morgue. No, not yet
. He wasn’t ready to think of it, not yet.

Kincaid allowed himself to be led into the house, then through to the sitting room, while the detached part of his mind commented on how odd it was to be the one ministered to. Byrne directed him to sit on the sofa, and a constable brought him hot, sweet tea. He drank it obediently, thirstily, and after a few moments his mind began to function again.

“What happened?” he asked Byrne. “Where was she? You’re sure it was—”

“Her son found her in the kitchen when he came home from sports. Unconscious, or perhaps already dead—we can’t be sure.”

“Kit?”

“You know the boy?” asked Byrne. “We’ve not been able to contact the father, and he ought to have someone with him he knows.”

Kit, dear God
. He hadn’t even thought of Kit. And Kit had found her. “Where is he?”

“In the kitchen with Constable Malley. I believe she’s made him some tea as well.”

“In the kitchen?” Kincaid repeated, and all the things he’d pushed out of his mind came rushing back.
Lydia Brooke found dead in her study, of apparent heart failure. A suicide note that wasn’t. Candles and music and gardening clothes
. He stood up. “You’re not treating it as a crime scene?”

Byrne looked at him warily. “I really don’t see that it’s necessary, under the circumstances—”

“You don’t know the circumstances!” Kincaid shouted at him, then made an effort to lower his voice. “Don’t let them touch anything
until after the postmortem. God knows what damage has been done already.” His anger came as a relief, making a clean burn through the fog in his head.

“Look, Duncan,” Byrne said, standing to face him. “I realize you’re upset, but this is not your jurisdiction, and I’ll handle a routine death in the way I see fit—”

Kincaid stabbed a finger at him. “What if you’re wrong, Alec? Can you afford to be wrong?”

They stared at each other, both flushed, then after a moment Byrne relaxed and said, “All right. I’ll humor you. After all, what do I have to lose?”

“I’m going to see Kit,” said Kincaid. “And you can keep everyone else out of the bloody room.”

Kit sat huddled in the near kitchen chair, his back to Kincaid, while a female constable occupied the other.

“We’ve notified the grandparents,” Byrne said in Kincaid’s ear as they stood in the doorway. “They’re on their way.”

“Vic’s parents?”

“Yes. Her mother was quite … distraught.” Byrne jerked his head at the constable and she rose, coming to join them. “We’ll wait for you in the sitting room,” he said to Kincaid, and they went out, closing the door behind them.

The room looked ordinary, domestic, unmarred by what had happened in it. Kincaid walked round the small table and slid into the chair the constable had vacated. “Hullo, Kit.”

The boy looked up.
“You
came,” he said with a sort of distant puzzlement, and so blank was his face with shock that Kincaid wasn’t sure he’d have recognized him had he passed him on the street.

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t wake her,” Kit said, as if continuing a conversation. “I thought she was asleep, but I couldn’t wake her. I rang nine-nine-nine.” The cup of tea before him was untouched.

“I know.” Kincaid reached out and felt the cup; it was cold. He took it and poured the contents down the sink, then set about making fresh cups for them both. Kit watched him without interest.

When the kettle boiled, Kincaid ladled a generous amount of
sugar into Kit’s tea and added enough milk to cool it to drinkable temperature. He returned to the table with both cups and pushed Kit’s across to him. “Drink your tea.”

Kit lifted the cup with both hands and drank it without stopping, like a small child. Kincaid watched him, waiting, and after a few moments a little color returned to his cheeks.

“You had sports after school today?” Kincaid asked, sipping his own tea.

Kit nodded. “Running. I’m going for the five hundred meter.”

“Do you walk home?”

A negative shake. “Too far. I ride my bike, most days.”

“What time did you get home today?” The questions came out of habit, a need to lay the details out like a grid, perhaps to build a framework that would support them both.

“Fiveish. The usual.”

“Tell me what happened next.”

Kit moved his feet restively. “She wasn’t in her office, so I looked in the sitting room. We started Monopoly yesterday, and she promised we’d play when I got home.”

Kincaid had seen the game without registering it, pushed to one side of the sitting room table. “And then what?”
Gently, gently, but he must know
.

No response. The silence stretched so long that Kincaid thought he’d lost his tenuous link with the boy, then Kit said, violently, “They didn’t believe me.”