Dreaming of the Bones (25 page)

“Tomorrow? They have pushed things a bit, haven’t they?” The formal arrangements made Kincaid realize he hadn’t rung his own parents, and that he must do so, as painful as it would be. His mother, especially, had been fond of Vic and had been very distressed at the breakup of their marriage, though she’d never criticized either of them.

“So, what’s next then, Alec?” he asked as neutrally as he could manage.

“The usual routine. We’ve started the house-to-house in the village, in case anyone saw anything unusual that afternoon. And we’ll interview her colleagues at work, of course.”

In other words, sod all, thought Kincaid, and said, “Of course.”

Byrne sat forwards suddenly, palms flat on the desk. “I don’t need your help with this investigation, Duncan, and I’ll thank you not to interfere any further.”

“Oh, come on, Alec, be reasonable,” said Kincaid at his most persuasive. “You can’t stop me talking to people. After all, I can’t make them answer, and I can’t threaten to throw them in the nick, so why should you mind? And if I should just happen to find out something, you can be sure I’ll let you know. As far as I can see, it’s all in your favor. Have you any leads on the husband, by the way?”

The question effectively took the wind out of Byrne’s sails, and he answered grudgingly, “He’s no longer at the forwarding address he left with his college. We’re checking to see if the Home Office has any record of his reentering the country.”

“Didn’t he take one of his graduate students with him? Maybe
her people would know where they are.” Kincaid could tell from Byrne’s expression that he hadn’t been privy to this bit of information. “I’m sure someone in his department can turn up the girl’s name and particulars for you, with a little
official
prodding,” he added, grinning. “Don’t worry, Alec. I won’t expect you to tell me I’ve been helpful, even off the record.”

Byrne sat back with an air of weary resignation. “Just don’t let me hear anyone complain you’ve been harassing them, or misrepresenting yourself as having any authority in this investigation,” he said, and on that friendly basis they parted.

Kincaid had a hurried and mediocre lunch at one of the pubs in Grantchester. When he’d finished, he waited until the barman had a free moment and made his way to the bar. “Do you happen to know where Nathan Winter lives?” he asked.

The man’s round, friendly face creased with instant concern. “It’s just two cottages up the way,” he said, pointing back towards Cambridge. “The white one with the black trim and the thatched roof. Lots of flowers in the front.” Studying Kincaid with undisguised curiosity, he added, “Do you know about our Dr. McClellan, then?” He shook his head. “Who’d have thought it? A beautiful young woman like her dying like that. And who’d have thought Nathan would go absolutely berserk when he heard she was dead? Tried to break her door down, he did, until the neighbors pulled him off and got old Dr. Warren to come and dress his hand.”

“You don’t say?” Kincaid looked suitably impressed. “Have you known Mr. Winter long?”

“Since we were kids at school. That’s his parents’ cottage he has now. They died a few years ago, and Nathan came back from Cambridge and fixed it up. His wife had died and I suppose it gave him something new to think about.”

It was the mark of the truly insular villager, thought Kincaid, that the man would refer to a city less than two miles away as someplace from which to come back.

“Poor man,” added the barman with easy sympathy. “You’d think he’d had more than his share of grief as it was. And we thought he and Dr. McClellan were no more than nodding acquaintances. Just
goes to show you never really know about people, doesn’t it?” he said with great satisfaction.

Kincaid thanked him and took his leave before the man’s curiosity could turn in his direction. Nosy neighbors were one of the world’s greatest blessings, he thought as he went out into the sunshine, and that little conversation had been well worth the processed chicken and chips.

Leaving his car in the pub car park, he walked up the road, thinking about what he’d learned. Had Vic been in love with Nathan Winter? And if so, why should he be surprised she hadn’t told
him?
He’d had no claim on her personal life, and he’d certainly no cause to feel this sudden stab of jealousy. Whatever the truth of the matter, it meant that Vic’s relationship with Winter had been much more complicated than he realized.

He found the cottage easily. Its sleek, well-kept air was unmistakable, as was the hand of a master gardener. Tulips filled the beds on either side of the front door—tall, elegant, and pale pink in the background against the whitewashed cottage walls, then shorter, peony-headed tulips in rose, and beneath those the deep blue of forget-me-nots. Kincaid bent and picked one of the small blue flowers and slipped it in his pocket, then rang the bell.

The man who answered the door wore a dog collar, and held a bunch of herbs in his hand. Tall and thin, with curly graying hair and spectacles that slipped down his nose, he gave Kincaid a friendly smile. “Hullo. Can I help you?”

Covering his surprise, Kincaid said, “Um, I was looking for Nathan Winter, actually.”

“I’m not sure Nathan’s up to having visitors just now. If I could just tell him—”

“Who the hell is it, Adam?” called a deeper voice from the back of the house.

“My name is Duncan Kincaid. I’m Vic McClellan’s ex-husband.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Oh. You’d better come in, then.” He stepped back so that Kincaid could enter. “I’m Adam Lamb, by the way.”

So this was Adam, Kincaid thought, glad now he’d read at least part of Vic’s manuscript.

As Adam led him down the passageway, he said quietly, “Nathan’s been very upset. You won’t—” He broke off with a glance at Kincaid. “But I suppose this has been very difficult for you as well.”

They reached a door, and Adam led him through it into a large room at the back of the house. “We’ve been in the garden this morning,” he said, “and we’d just come in for some lunch.”

Kincaid took in a living area to his right, done in comfortable, masculine-looking reds, and beyond it French windows overlooking a garden. Then he saw the man sitting at a table to his left, in a sort of kitchen-dining area. His white hair made a startling contrast to his smooth, tanned skin and dark eyes, and as he rose Kincaid saw that he was stockily built. He looked strong and fit, and, when not ill and exhausted, would probably radiate an immense vitality. No wonder Vic had been smitten.

“Nathan,” Adam was saying, “this is Duncan Kincaid. He says he’s Vic’s ex-husband.”

Kincaid saw the flash of recognition in Nathan’s eyes at his name, before Adam’s elaboration. So Vic had spoken of him. The thought gave him a small twinge of satisfaction.

They stared at each other for a moment before Nathan came forwards with his hand outstretched. He seemed to realize at the last moment that his right hand was bandaged, and quickly substituted his left for Kincaid to shake. “Come and join us,” he said, gesturing towards a place at the small square table.

“We were just having egg and tomato sandwiches,” said Adam, dropping the herbs he’d been carrying on the kitchen worktop. “They may not be up to Nathan’s culinary standards, but they’re perfectly acceptable.”

“I’ve just had lunch, thank you,” said Kincaid as he took the indicated seat. A tantalizing odor came from something simmering on the cooker in the kitchen, and he felt his greasy meal sitting heavily in his stomach.

“Tea, then.” Adam began clearing the plates from the table, including Nathan’s half-eaten sandwich. “I’ll make us all some.”

Kincaid looked on with interest as Nathan started to rise in protest, then sank back into his chair. Nathan sat watching Adam with an expression of mild consternation, as if he were unaccustomed
to being looked after, but Adam moved about his friend’s kitchen with competent familiarity, chopping the herbs and scraping them into the simmering stew. “I’ve got a vegetable hot pot put together for Nathan’s dinner,” Adam called out. “It smells lovely, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I only know how to do vegetarian things, so poor Nathan will have to suffer it.”

Against the clatter of crockery coming from the kitchen, Nathan said, “Vic spoke of you a good deal. She was very fond of you, I think.”

“Did she?” Kincaid answered inadequately. Searching for something else to say, he added, “We hadn’t seen one another in years, until just recently. It seemed to me that she had changed a great deal, but now I’m not sure that I ever really knew her in the first place.”

Nathan rubbed absently at the bandage on his hand. “Nor am I,” he said, meeting Kincaid’s eyes. “There’s no way I can ever know now.”

Adam returned with the tea things, and as he set them out, Nathan said, “I understand the police rang you.”

“The officer in charge knew of my … connection with Vic,” Kincaid said as he accepted a cup of tea from Adam. “A good thing, too, as Kit had no one with him other than the police constable.”

“Do you know what’s happened to Kit? I’ve been worried sick about him.” Nathan’s hand was unsteady as he reached for his teacup, and Kincaid noticed that Adam didn’t relinquish his grip on it until the cup sat firmly on the table.

“He’s gone to his grandparents’—Vic’s parents’, that is. And I know they’ve been in touch with the vicar here in Grantchester, so he might have an idea how Kit is doing.”

“The vicar?” Nathan said, as if he didn’t quite follow.

“Funeral arrangements,” said Adam, with a questioning look at Kincaid.

“A memorial service. It’s tomorrow at one o’clock.”

“So soon? But they’ve not let anyone know—”

“I’m sure Father Denny meant to come round this afternoon, Nathan,” interrupted Adam, attempting to soothe him.

“But it’s not just the neighbors who will have to be notified.
There’s everyone at College, and in her department. I’ll have to ring them—” He started to rise.

Adam put a restraining hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Nathan. I’ll do it. You can make me a list in a bit.”

“What about her husband?” asked Kincaid. “Have you any idea how to contact him?”

“Ian?” said Nathan. “I haven’t a clue. Hasn’t anyone been in touch with him?”

“Not as far as I know. He seems to have flown the coop rather successfully,” said Kincaid, and saw Nathan make an automatic grimace of distaste. “What’s he like, anyway, the remarkable Ian McClellan?”

“Academically sound, as far as I know,” Nathan answered neutrally.

“But?” Kincaid prompted. “Don’t bother being tactful.”

Nathan smiled. “All right. Ian McClellan is one of those tiresome chaps who think they know everything and everyone. And smooth with it. ‘Let me put you in touch with just the person…’ You know the drill.”

“An ambitious man, then? Why would someone like that be willing to throw it all up to run off with a girl?”

“Ambitious only in a small sphere, I think,” said Nathan. He thought for a moment before adding, “I didn’t know the man well. But my guess would be that he’d reached the age where he was finding his own line of goods hard to believe, and he had to either find a less critical audience or reevaluate himself. The former would certainly be easiest.”

Perceptive, thought Kincaid, and, from the little bit that Vic had told him, likely to be true. He sipped at his tea and looked up to find Nathan watching him.

“Why are you here?” asked Nathan. “If you don’t mind my asking. Did Vic talk to you about me?”

“Vic merely said that you were friends. But she also told me a good bit about her biography of Lydia Brooke, and I’ve seen the police report on Lydia’s death, so I know it was you who found Lydia’s body.”

“Ah,” said Nathan. “I wondered how Vic had managed access to the details of the police report, but she didn’t tell me.”

“Did she tell you she had doubts that Lydia’s death was suicide?” Kincaid asked.

“No… no, but I’d begun to guess,” Nathan said slowly, frowning.

“And do you think she had cause to be dissatisfied with the verdict? You were the one who found Lydia’s body, after all.”

“I … I don’t know,” said Nathan, and Kincaid read the uncertainty in his dark eyes. “At the time I simply took for granted that the police had investigated all the possibilities.”

“But what if they didn’t?” Kincaid asked, almost to himself. Then he said abruptly, “Why did Lydia leave everything to her former husband?”

Adam had listened to their conversation with his full attention, but without the body language that indicated he was just waiting a chance to get his oar in. A rare good listener, then, but by nature or training? “What do you think, Adam?” Kincaid said, turning to him. “You were closer to Lydia than anyone.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Mr. Kincaid,” said Adam with a small smile. “Although I wish I could say otherwise, those days were long past by the time of Lydia’s death.”

“And it never occurred to you that there was anything suspect about Lydia’s death?”

Adam seemed to consider this before answering. “No,” he said finally. “I can’t honestly say that it did.”

“Did you know Vic as well?” Kincaid asked. Vic had written so convincingly about Adam that he felt he knew the man, at least as he had been in those early days with Lydia, and he found it difficult to believe that he would tell a deliberate lie. But would he hedge the truth?

“I only met her once,” said Adam, with what sounded like genuine regret. “When she came to see me about her book.”

“And were you able to help her?”

Adam shrugged. “How can I tell you that? She wanted to know what Lydia was really like, and I did my best. But that is surely a matter of perception as well—perception squared, as it were. Not only might Lydia have behaved differently towards every person with whom she came in contact, but I would then have the option of interpreting her behavior in a multitude of ways.”

“Nicely put,” said Kincaid, grinning. “Were you a student of philosophy by any chance?”

“Philosophy and comparative religion,” admitted Adam.

“Ah, so I was right,” Kincaid said with satisfaction. “I thought I recognized that particular brand of logic.” He returned to the thread of the conversation. “But isn’t that a biographer’s job, to take all those different perceptions of a person and make a cohesive whole of them?”