Dreaming of the Bones (35 page)

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?”

It’s a case, thought Kincaid. Just state the facts and don’t let thinking of Vic get in the way. He cleared his throat. “As I said over the phone, it’s about Lydia Brooke’s last book, the one published posthumously. Vic McClellan discovered some poems among Lydia’s effects that she felt sure should have been included in that manuscript. I wondered if perhaps you had made an editorial decision not to include certain poems in the finished book?”

“I should think not,” answered Ralph, sounding amused. “Lydia and I had a good working relationship, meaning that I didn’t fiddle about with her words.” More soberly, he added, “And I would have been even less inclined to do so after her death, when it was no longer possible to consult her. I published Lydia’s book as it was given to me, with every effort to make it something that would have pleased her.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, frowning. “I do remember thinking at the time that there was
a certain lack of continuity in the placement of the poems, but in the light of Lydia’s death, I blamed her depression.”

“Were the pages of the manuscript numbered?” asked Gemma.

Ralph shook his head. “No. Lydia would play with the order of the poems until the very last, and because she used a typewriter, renumbering a manuscript every time she made a change would have been a real headache.”

“So someone could easily have slipped a page here and there out of the manuscript?” Kincaid suggested.

“Well, I suppose so,” said Ralph, looking nonplussed. “But why on earth would anyone want to do that?”

“We don’t know. We only have Vic’s assertion that something was wrong.” Kincaid blinked, as if that would erase the image of Vic’s animated face as she waved the sheaf of poems at them.

“Dr. McClellan was certainly the expert on Lydia’s work, but if she suspected that the manuscript had been tampered with, why didn’t she discuss it with me?” asked Ralph. The man had an intelligent face, Kincaid thought as he watched him, accentuated by alert, dark eyes and the high forehead exposed by his receding hairline. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.

“She only discovered this a few days before she died,” said Gemma. “I doubt she had the chance to consult you.”

“Have you any idea who might have had access to Lydia’s manuscript before you yourself read it?” Kincaid asked.

Ralph glanced round at a profusion of books and papers equaling that of the front room and shrugged eloquently. “You can see how things are. I feel like Sisyphus trying to keep up with all the projects, and my assistant only keeps the stone from backsliding a bit. There are always a fair amount of people tramping through here, as well, but we’ve never seen any need to be security conscious.” He tilted his wrist and glanced unobtrusively at his watch. “Surely it’s just as possible that Lydia herself decided to remove the poems for some reason. And I can’t imagine what bearing this has on Dr. McClellan’s death. This all seems a bit far-fetched, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Not only might it have something to do with Dr. McClellan’s death, it may be connected with Lydia’s death as well.” Kincaid,
watching Ralph carefully, saw the speed with which he drew a conclusion from the vague statement.

“Lydia? What do you mean?” Ralph sounded genuinely surprised, and he glanced from Kincaid to Gemma as if seeking confirmation.

“We think it quite possible Lydia Brooke may have been murdered,” Kincaid said.

Ralph stared at him. “Murdered? But… that’s just not possible. Lydia was a middle-aged poet of moderate success, with a history of depression. Why would anyone want to murder her?”

“That’s what we were hoping you might tell us, actually,” said Gemma, with a smile. “We thought you might have a more objective view of her, since yours was primarily a working relationship. And you had been together a long time.”

“Yes,” Ralph said slowly. “We had. Lydia was one of the first authors I took on, and we grew up together, so to speak. We were incredibly naive about the publishing business in the beginning, both of us, but Lydia was forgiving of my mistakes. I was very fond of her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again, and when he dropped his hand Kincaid could see the red marks left by the spectacles’ nose pads.

Looking quizzically at the wire frames dangling from his thumb and index finger, Ralph said, “I’ve a habit of sitting on them, I’m afraid.” Again, he gave a barely perceptible glance at his watch, and added, “Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else I can tell you. Lydia was opinionated, more so as she got older, and sometimes inclined to get on a bit of a soapbox about things. But since when are those reasons to kill someone? She was also generous with her time and advice—she often helped younger poets—and must have had people in her debt.”

“And in her personal life?” prompted Kincaid.

“Lydia didn’t share details of her personal life with me, other than the usual chitchat about creeping damp and leaks in the roof.”

“What about Morgan Ashby?”

“I met him, of course, when Lydia and I first began working together. But I don’t think he particularly cared for me, and we never made it a social relationship. I invited them for dinner once, I
remember, near the end of their marriage, but it wasn’t a success.” This time the glance at his watch was overt. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve an appointment—”

They heard the sound of the anteroom’s outer door opening and closing, then a woman’s voice called, “Sorry, I’m early, Ralph darling.” The inner door swung open. “Oh. Do forgive me, Ralph,” said the voice, silvery and breathless. “I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll just—”

“No, come in, Margery, please.” Ralph crossed quickly to the door, and Kincaid and Gemma turned awkwardly in their chairs, trying to see behind them. “I do wish you wouldn’t run up the stairs,” said Ralph, in a tone of affectionate exasperation.

“Don’t fuss, darling. You know it makes me feel old,” she answered, laughing.

Kincaid stood quickly as the woman came into the room on Ralph’s arm. She was in her seventies, thought Kincaid, dressed all in gray, and matched her voice more perfectly than anyone he had ever met.

“Margery, this is Superintendent Kincaid, and Sergeant James, from Scotland Yard.” Ralph nodded at them. “Dame Margery Lester.”

She looked the picture of the famous novelist, Kincaid thought, this woman whom his mother so admired. And if she still possessed a great talent, she had once been blessed with great beauty as well. Margery Lester was still beautiful, patrician, blue-blooded even to the faint blue cast to her porcelain skin. It surprised him that his mother, with her Labour leanings, should be so enamored of a woman who embodied generations of wealth and breeding, but perhaps he was underestimating his mother. Perhaps, he thought as he met Margery Lester’s bright and intelligent eyes, he was underestimating them both.

“Dame Margery,” he said, and took her hand. When she’d greeted Gemma, he insisted she take his chair. “My mother’s a great admirer of yours,” he added as he moved to stand beside Gemma. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might have missed out on something.”

“They’re not ‘women’s’ books,” said Margery, smoothing the skirt of her pale gray suit over her knees. “I quite despise this tendency to put flowery covers on them, but the marketing people
will
have their way. I can only hope husbands pick them up when their
wives aren’t looking and discover there’s a good story inside.” She smiled as if anything might be forgiven a person who read.

“Would anyone like something to drink?” asked Ralph, slipping gracefully into the role of host. “The sun must be over the yardarm somewhere, and it is Saturday, after all. I can do G and Ts quite adequately, except for the limes, I’m afraid.”

“Never touch the stuff,” said Margery briskly. “Doctor’s orders. I wouldn’t say no to a small sherry, though.”

Ralph glanced inquiringly at Kincaid, who found himself suddenly of a mind to become a little better acquainted with Margery Lester. “I wouldn’t mind following Dame Margery’s example,” he said, and sensed Gemma’s startled glance before she murmured an acceptance.

While Ralph busied himself with retrieving a bottle and a set of fragile-looking rose-colored crystal from a cabinet, Kincaid leaned over and, raising his eyebrow, whispered in Gemma’s ear, “We’re not exactly on duty, after all.”

“What brings you here, Mr. Kincaid, if you don’t mind my nosiness?” asked Dame Margery, and he wondered if her hearing was as acute as her wit.

Ralph looked up from pouring the sherry. “They’d some questions about Victoria McClellan.”

“Oh, that was too dreadful.” Margery shook her head. “I met her several times, you know, at Faculty functions, and thought her absolutely charming. One just doesn’t expect things like that to happen to someone one knows.” She glanced at Ralph as he handed her a sherry. “It makes our little project seem quite frivolous, doesn’t it?”

“It wouldn’t have seemed frivolous to Henry,” said Ralph as he offered a glass to Gemma, then Kincaid.

“What project is that, Dame Margery?” asked Gemma.

“I’ve been helping Ralph put Henry Whitecliff’s notes into some sort of publishable form. Poor Henry died last summer before he could finish his manuscript.” Margery lifted her glass to Ralph, who had poured his own sherry. “Cheers,” she said, and took a small sip.

“That name rings a bell,” said Kincaid, frowning. “Why does everyone refer to him as ‘poor’ Henry?”

“It’s unconscious, I suppose,” said Margery with a sigh. “But it does
seem as though poor Henry—see, I’ve done it again.” She smiled and deliberately corrected herself. “It seems as though Henry Whitecliff had to bear more than his share of tragedy, and he was such a lovely, kind man that he seemed even less deserving of it than most.”

Ralph returned to his position at the edge of his desk. “Henry’s only daughter disappeared just before her sixteenth birthday. I remember her vaguely—we were near the same age, though not at the same school.”

“She was a beautiful girl, Verity, very bright and loving, but a bit headstrong—just the sort to be tempted by the idea of running away to swinging London when she’d had a row with her parents. Henry and Betty were devastated, of course, and for years they followed every possible lead, hoping against hope that she would come home. Then Betty developed cancer.” Margery came to a halt, clasping the stem of the sherry glass with both hands. Her hands were still beautiful, Kincaid noticed, with slender, tapering fingers, but the blue veins stood close to the surface and her knuckles were slightly enlarged, as if she suffered with arthritis.

After casting a concerned glance at Margery, Ralph took up the story. “After Betty died, Henry retired as Head of the English Faculty and began his book, a thorough and detailed literary history of Cambridge. He meant to dedicate it to Verity, and I think that thought kept him going for years. Then one night last summer he went to bed and didn’t wake up the next morning.” He shrugged. “A blessing, people always say when that happens, but it seems a bit unfair to me. No chance to tie up loose ends, or to say good-bye.”

Would it be any better, Kincaid thought, if he’d had a chance to tell Vic good-bye? To say all the things he might have said? He dragged his attention back to Margery.

“… so Ralph and I thought we should see the book finished, and published,” said Margery. “A labor of love, if you will.”

Ralph patted a thick stack of manuscript pages near the center of his desk. “We’ll have bound copies by June, in time for the anniversary of Henry’s death. Sounds a bit morbid, but I think he would have appreciated it.” He stared at the manuscript a moment, then looked up at Kincaid and frowned. “Those poems you were asking me about—I’d like to see them. I’m not as well versed—excuse the
pun—in Lydia’s work as Dr. McClellan, but I might be able to tell if the poems belonged in the manuscript. I don’t like the idea that anyone’s manuscript pages might have gone walkabout from my office.” Turning to Margery, he added in explanation, “They say that Dr. McClellan found some poems she thought should have been included in Lydia’s book.”