Dreaming of the Bones (28 page)

“And now you try to anchor Morgan?” guessed Gemma.

“Oh.” Francesca’s eyes widened with surprise. “I suppose it might seem that way. But it’s more of a balancing act, most of the time.”

“Surely an uneven one because of Lydia?”

“Not really,” said Francesca with a certainty Gemma hadn’t expected. “Morgan loves me, probably more than he ever imagined he would. He says the peace and security I provide make life bearable for him. And he gives me such—”

A door slammed in the back of the house. A man’s voice called, “Fran! Whose car’s in the drive?”

Francesca frowned at Gemma and gave a sharp shake of her head. “Let me handle this,” she mouthed as the footsteps came down the hall.

Tensing instinctively, Gemma sat forwards and gathered her handbag a bit closer to her body.

“Hullo, darling.” Francesca smiled at her husband as he entered the room. “This is Gemma James. She’s come about the studio.”

Gemma stopped gaping at Morgan Ashby long enough to stammer a greeting and shake the hand he held out to her. She didn’t remember seeing a photo of him among Vic’s papers, and certainly nothing else had prepared her. Even scowling suspiciously at her, the man was a stunner, drop-dead good-looking with a presence Heathcliff might have envied. Tall and well built, he had a head of dark, wavy, unkempt hair, a long straight nose, and dark gray eyes that made Gemma’s bones feel hollow.

Francesca was speaking and the words suddenly clicked into focus in Gemma’s mind. “… having a look round to see if it would do for her. She’s a …” Francesca cast a quick look of appeal at Gemma.

“Potter.” Gemma said the first thing that flew into her mind, then gulped. She could barely tell a vase from a chamber pot. At least she was wearing the long skirt and jumper she’d worn to Vic’s on Sunday, and thought she must look suitably artistic.

“A potter,” Francesca repeated. “And she’s a bit concerned about the kiln space. She does production work, you see.”

“Really?” asked Morgan as he sat on the arm of the sofa and rested a casual hand on his wife’s shoulder. He’d relaxed as soon as Francesca had mentioned the studio. “Of course if you’re really keen, the foundation might be persuaded to fund a new kiln for the compound.” When he smiled at Gemma, the creases round his eyes gave an indication of his age, but made him no less attractive.

Gemma struggled to collect herself, but before she could blurt out something inane, Morgan misinterpreted her blankness. “Has Fran not explained how we operate? We have a group of benefactors who are committed to providing low-cost studio space for talented artists. This is strictly work space, though—you do understand that?” When Gemma nodded, he went on, “We don’t sell anyone’s work here at the center. The individual artists are responsible for setting up shows elsewhere.”

“You don’t sell even your own things?” Gemma asked, her curiosity at least providing her with a sensible comment.

“Oh, Morgan and I don’t actually use the studios,” explained Francesca. “We’re basically just caretakers for the foundation, and we have our own work spaces here in the house. Morgan’s studio and darkroom are upstairs, and I prefer it in here by the fire,” she added, smiling. “Would you like to see the available studio again?”

“Oh, no, I’d better not,” said Gemma, taking her cue. She glanced at her watch. “I’ve an appointment, in fact, and I’m late as it is.” Placing her coffee mug carefully on the table, she stood up. “You’ve been too kind, giving me so much of your time. Is it all right if I let you know when I’ve had a chance to think it over?”

“Of course.” Francesca gave her husband’s hand a squeeze as she rose.

“Don’t leave it too long, now,” said Morgan as he came with them to the door, and Gemma noticed for the first time the faintest Welsh lilt in his accent. “You’d hate to miss out on an opportunity like this.”

Husband and wife stood shoulder to shoulder on the step, the picture of harmony. But as Gemma turned away, some trick of the afternoon light threw a faint shadow between them, and she wondered if Francesca Ashby were truly prepared to live
without
Lydia’s ghost.

*   *   *

Kincaid angled the Midget into one of the pay-and-display spaces across the street from the University English Faculty and jerked up the lever on the parking brake. He hadn’t realized how much his lack of official status would handicap him, and he’d driven back to Cambridge still seething with frustration over his aborted visit to Morgan Ashby. The man must be a certifiable lunatic, shouting and waving a bloody shotgun about like a toy. And if Vic had received the same sort of reception, it didn’t surprise him that she’d made no further effort to contact Lydia Brooke’s ex-husband.

He’d have to suggest that Alec Byrne pay the man a visit—suitably accompanied by brawny constables—but in the meantime he hoped to find more accommodating sources of information here, where his nonofficial status might prove more help then hindrance.

After a glance at the clouds massing in the northern sky, he pulled up the Midget’s top and snapped it closed, then crossed the street to the building where he assumed Vic had spent her last day.

Laura Miller, the department secretary, sat at her desk in the reception area, pressing the phone to her ear with one hand and scribbling with the other. She glanced up at the sound of the door, and her lips parted in soundless distress as she recognized him.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, dragging her attention back to the phone. “Listen, could I ring you back? Ta.”

She replaced the phone in its cradle, still staring at Kincaid, and he was dismayed to see her eyes fill with tears. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “You have no idea… We all are. I don’t know what to say.”

He slid into the chair opposite her desk without being asked, smiling to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. “You don’t have to say anything. It must be pretty dreadful for you.”

“I’ve just been ringing everyone I can think of about the memorial service, but it’s still such a shock. I’ll ring off, thinking, “I’ll have to tell Vic the absurd thing so-and-so said,’ and then it hits me.”

“I know.” He cleared his throat, searching for a less painful topic. “I only learned about the service this morning, from the police.” At the last word Laura’s normally rosy face paled even further, and he cursed himself for an idiot. That was one he’d meant to ease into.

“They were here again before lunch, and now they say they’re
treating it as a murder inquiry!” Her dark eyes looked enormous behind her thick spectacles. “I simply can’t believe it. Why would anyone want to kill Vic? There must be some mistake.”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt,” he said, wishing he had some comfort to offer her. “I’m sorry.”

“But …” Laura seemed to realize the futility of arguing, and made an effort to smile. “I’m sorry for being difficult about it all,” she said, pushing her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and swiping at a tear that had trickled onto her cheek. “It’s just that I can’t seem to stop crying. Vic and I didn’t just work together—we were friends. My son Colin goes to the same school as Kit, they’re even in the same form. The poor bloody kid.”

Kincaid didn’t want to talk about Kit—just thinking of the boy threatened to breach the wall he’d built round his own emotions—but Laura plowed on without waiting for a response.

“You’d think he’d been through enough, wouldn’t you?” She jabbed at her glasses again as a pink flush of anger crept into her cheeks. “And that anybody with an ounce of feeling would know he needs to go on with his life as normally as possible—anyone but his grandmother. I rang them and suggested that Kit come stay with us after the service tomorrow. He could go back to school, keep up with his sport and his friends, and he’d at least have something to think about until things are sorted out with his dad.”

“No go, I take it?”

“You’d have thought we meant to sell him into slavery.
And
cause Eugenia Potts a personal injury.” Laura closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head in disgust, then blinked and gave a startled exclamation. “But you know them, of course,” she said, staring at Kincaid in consternation. “Vic’s parents. Well, I’m sorry if I was out of line, but I’m that furious.”

“You’re not out of line. And I don’t mind at all.” He added, smiling, “Eugenia can be a bit… There’s no diplomatic way to put it, is there?”

Laura smiled back. “How did Vic come from such a family?”

“I used to tell her they must have found her under a cabbage plant,” he said. He’d forgotten that.

“Have you any influence with them?” asked Laura. “The father
doesn’t seem unreasonable. I’m sure he’d see that it would be better for Kit to be in a familiar environment with children his own age.”

Kincaid shook his head. “I agree with you, but I’m afraid any intervention on my part would only prejudice them against your idea. Eugenia doesn’t care for me, to put it mildly.”

“I’d call that a sterling recommendation of your character,” said Laura, and this time the smile reached her eyes.

“Good,” he said, taking advantage of the opening. “Because I want to ask a favor of you.” He hesitated, not sure how far he should commit himself. In the end, he compromised, telling her what he wanted but not why. “It would help me to know how Vic spent her day on Tuesday. I’d like to talk to anyone in the department who saw her.”

“Those are the same questions the police asked.” Laura looked steadily at him.

“Yes.”

“You’re a detective, too. Vic told me. Are you helping the local police?”

“Not exactly.” He met her eyes. “This is personal.”

Laura held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once, a signal of understanding. “I’ve got to run somethings to the printer”—she glanced at her watch—“now, as a matter of fact. But I’ll be back in a tic, and in the meantime, you could have a word with Iris—that’s Professor Winslow, if you remember, our Head of Department. And I think Dr. Eliot has a supervision finishing in about a quarter of an hour. You might catch him after that. The others are out for afternoon lectures, but then, they had heavy schedules on Tuesday afternoon as well, and probably wouldn’t be much use to you.” A model of efficiency now that he’d given her a direction, Laura pushed her chair back and stood up, then paused and plucked at the fabric of her plain, gray, long-sleeved dress. “I bought this yesterday,” she said. “I know mourning went out of fashion with the Victorians, but it felt right, somehow.”

“They understood the use of symbols,” said Kincaid. “We could do worse than to remember it.”

*   *   *

Iris Winslow didn’t question Kincaid about his motives. She rose from her chair behind the scarred oak desk in her office and held out her hand to him as he sat down. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she said. Her sympathy, like Laura’s, seemed genuine, and he found it surprisingly hard to bear.

But Iris Winslow was both tactful and perceptive, and without waiting for him to respond, she talked of how much she had liked Vic and of what it had been like to work with her, so that he began to feel more comfortable—and even, after a few moments, as if he’d been given an unexpected gift.

“Thank you,” he said simply when she’d come to an end. “You’ve helped me fill in some of the blanks. You know I hadn’t seen Vic for a longtime until recently?”

“She spoke of you, though—oh, not at first, of course, but as we came to know one another better. She thought well of you.”

And he had let her down.

Dr. Winslow meant it as a comfort, he knew, and misunderstood his silence. “This has been too much for all of us,” she said, looking away from him, out the window that overlooked the graveled car park. “Vic’s death was shock enough, but then the police, this morning, saying she’d been murdered …” She shook her head slightly.

“I know it’s difficult—”

“No, it’s not just that. No one finds such news easy to accept under any circumstances. But for me, it’s tipped the scale. I’m tired, and I suddenly find I can’t cope with things in the way I always took for granted. I’ve decided to take early retirement.” She turned back to him and added, with a hint of amusement in her voice, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t said a word to anyone else.”

“I’m outside the loop,” he offered. “I can’t pass judgment or demand an accounting of the consequences.”

Dr. Winslow smiled. “Or perhaps I only think you’re too polite to do so.” She touched her forehead briefly, as if brushing at a gnat, and her brow creased. “Or perhaps it’s because you were close to Vic, and because of that I think you might understand. I saw something of myself in her, you see, and I suppose I had some unacknowledged
wish that she might follow in my footsteps. And now it all seems rather pointless.”

“I can understand that,” he said, wondering if in Iris Winslow Vic had found a woman capable of giving her the sort of support and encouragement she’d never had from her own mother. He sensed that Iris’s loss was real and deep, not manufactured for the sake of drawing attention to herself.

“But your confidence does give me the right to express concern, Professor,” he continued. “And it seems to me that you’ve not even begun to get over the shock of Vic’s death, much less deal with the aftermath. Are you sure this isn’t a hasty decision?”

She adjusted one of the silver frames on her desk, but it faced away from him and he couldn’t see the photo it contained. “I’ve been thinking of it for quite some time,” she said. “And it’s ironic that Vic’s death has removed one of the reasons for my hesitation.” Giving the edge of the frame a final touch, almost a pat, Dr. Winslow looked up at him. “There’s no doubt that Darcy Eliot will be asked to take over my position—it’s well deserved and none too soon. But Vic and Darcy were always squabbling like naughty children, and I have to admit I feared for her position without my intervention. Now there’s no need.”

“Why didn’t they get along?” Kincaid remembered Vic’s veiled comments about problems with her colleagues.

“Oh, it’s quite silly, really.” Dr. Winslow made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But university faculties are like any closed microcosm—the least little conflict or difference of opinion gets blown all out of proportion. Darcy didn’t approve of Vic writing a biography intended for popular consumption. He thought it didn’t reflect well on the department, which is more than a bit hypocritical of him, considering the success of his popular criticism.”