Dreaming of the Bones (33 page)

Then it dawned on him that he was not in his flat at all, nor in his bed, but Gemma’s.

Ordinarily, it made her uncomfortable for him to stay, because of Toby, but last night she had insisted, and they’d made love with the silent urgency of two teenagers fearing discovery. Just the memory of it stirred him to arousal, and he opened his eyes, hoping to find her still sleep tousled and willing to come back to bed.

She sat, fully dressed, at the half-moon table, drinking coffee and shuffling pages of typescript.

“You were just using me last night,” he said, injured.

Gemma looked up and smiled. “Your powers of deduction are astounding, sir.” She stretched, showing an inch of bare skin at the waist as her jumper rose above her jeans. “Sorry about the coffee. I
was afraid the smell would wake you, but I couldn’t wait any longer—”

“That’s what you said last night,” he teased, then added, “How long
have
you been up?”

“You don’t want to know.” She turned another page of the manuscript.

He’d told her last night that he had a copy of Vic’s book locked in the boot of his car, so she must have lifted his keys while he slept with the skill of a pickpocket. “Sneak.”

“I’ve brought in your emergency kit from the boot as well,” she said, referring to the shaving things and change of clothes he kept packed for unexpected overnights.

“Then I suppose I’ve no excuse for staying in bed,” he answered regretfully, but the light filtering in from the garden through the half-opened blinds was turning from the green of early morning to gold, and Toby would doubtless be up soon.

“I think we should see Daphne Morris this morning,” said Gemma a few minutes later, watching him as he tucked in his shirttail.

“Gemma—”

“No more argument,” she interrupted firmly. “We’ve done all that.”

“You’re impossible,” he said, knowing it was a capitulation, yet feeling an unexpected sense of relief.

“You said last night that Darcy Eliot implied Lydia had a lesbian relationship with Daphne Morris.” She tapped the manuscript. “If Vic suspected that, there’s no hint of it here, but what if she’d just recently come across it? The headmistress of a girls’ school would certainly have a lot to lose if something like that got out.”

He looked up from tying his shoe. “Vic interviewed Daphne Morris; it’s in her notes. She said Daphne gave the impression she hardly knew Lydia.”

Gemma raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. “That’s obviously not true, on the basis of Lydia’s letters alone. Do you know what school it is?”

“No, but I know roughly
where
it is, and it shouldn’t be hard to ferret out the rest. What do you suppose headmistresses do on a Saturday?”

*   *   *

Headmistresses, it turned out, went away to their country cottages, but Daphne Morris had been delayed and was still packing. They had been shown into the sitting room of her private apartments by a thin woman with pockmarked skin and a protective attitude. “You won’t keep her, will you?” she said as she turned to go. “She needs every bit of her weekend—”

“It’s all right, Jeanette.” The woman who came into the room sounded affectionately amused. In jodhpurs and boots, with her fresh skin and her glossy russet hair tied back with a scarf, she looked like an advertisement from
Country Life
. “I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a quarter of an hour.

“She thinks I’m going to murder someone if I don’t get away for the weekend,” continued Daphne Morris, giving an exasperated roll of her eyes as Jeanette went out. She started towards them with her hand outstretched, but must have seen their faces freeze, because she hesitated and dropped her hand. “What is it? Have I said something wrong?”

“You really don’t know?” asked Gemma, surprised.

“I’m sorry,” said Daphne, sounding a bit wary now, “but perhaps Jeanette got it a bit muddled. Who did you say you were?”

Kincaid introduced himself and Gemma, adding, “We’re from Scotland Yard, Miss Morris.” After all, he thought as he showed her his warrant card, that
was
the truth, strictly speaking, and he’d come to the conclusion that they weren’t likely to get anywhere without calling on their official standing. “We’d like to talk to you about Victoria McClellan. We understand she came to see you about Lydia Brooke.”

Daphne frowned. “Yes, she did, but I don’t understand what it has to do with you.”

He glanced at Gemma, who widened her eyes and gave a minute shrug of her shoulders in response. Either Daphne Morris didn’t know about Vic’s death or she was an astonishing actress. This was a development he hadn’t expected. “Miss Morris, perhaps it would be better if we all sat down.”

“Oh,” she said with a start. “Do forgive me. My manners seem to have flown out the window.” Daphne gestured to the sofa, which
faced the marble fireplace, and took a small, gilded chair for herself. The flat had a serene and formal atmosphere, which suited her classical looks, but also gave it an impersonal quality. There were no photographs, no open books, no magazines or newspapers, knitting or needlework. “Now, please tell me what this is all about.” She had a natural authority as well as graciousness, thought Kincaid, and she’d just shown a hint of the headmistress.

“Victoria McClellan,” he began, and cleared his throat.
Bloody hell
“Dr. McClellan—”

“Dr. McClellan died on Tuesday,” said Gemma quietly, coming to his rescue.

“But how dreadful…” Daphne looked from Gemma to Kincaid in concerned surprise. “I hadn’t heard. One never expects one so young—”

“She was murdered, Miss Morris. Poisoned, in fact,” Kincaid said baldly, watching her. “We believe there may be some connection to her research on Lydia Brooke.” He would have sworn the paling of her already creamy skin, the widening of her dark eyes were reflections of a genuine emotion, but was it shock or fear? Before she could recover, he said, “When Dr. McClellan interviewed you, you gave her the impression that you and Lydia were merely acquaintances, old school chums whose paths occasionally crossed.”

“But I—”

“When, in fact, you and Lydia Brooke had a long and close friendship. Why would you have wished to mislead her?”

“I didn’t deliberately mislead her,” Daphne protested. “But why should I have felt compelled to discuss my personal affairs with a complete stranger? I have a right to my life, and my memories—”

“But what about Lydia?” interrupted Gemma. “Surely if you cared about Lydia you’d have wanted her portrayed accurately. And Lydia’s letters certainly suggest that you might give the most unbiased picture—”

“Letters?” whispered Daphne, her face ashen. “What letters?”

“Oh, Dr. McClellan had access to Lydia’s letters, of course,” said Gemma brightly. “Did she not mention that? Including Lydia’s extensive correspondence with her mother over the years, in which she mentioned you repeatedly. It appears that you weren’t on the
best of terms with Morgan Ashby. Was there some particular reason why Morgan disliked you?”

For a moment, Daphne seemed too stunned to answer, then she rallied. “It’s none of your business. And I didn’t give a damn how Lydia appeared in Dr. McClellan’s book. Biography is a useless exercise, a picking over of bones when the meat is gone.” She took a breath and clasped her trembling hands together. “Look, I’m not saying that Victoria McClellan didn’t have good intentions, but no amount of letters or interviews could ever have conveyed—”

“Well, that’s rather a moot point now, isn’t it?” Kincaid drawled. “Because there won’t
be
a biography. And if someone preferred that the details of Lydia’s life remain buried, then they’d be feeling quite comfortable with it all, wouldn’t they? Enjoying weekends in the country and all that.” He smiled. “It has come to our attention, by the way, that you might have had very good reason to safeguard the details of your relationship with Lydia Brooke, Miss Morris. Say if your relationship was of an… unorthodox sexual nature, for instance? I doubt that would go over smashingly well with the school governors.” He looked round with evident admiration. “It is rather a prestigious institution, as far as girls’ boarding schools go, I understand.”

Daphne jerked to her feet, knocking the delicate gilded chair over backwards, where it bounced soundlessly on the soft carpet. Ignoring the chair, she shouted, “You’ve been talking to Morgan, haven’t you? He’d say anything to hurt me, the jealous, paranoid bastard. Did he tell you that he was arrested for assaulting Lydia?” Their surprise must have shown in their faces, because she went on with great satisfaction, “Oh, yes. Did he tell you he broke her ribs? And her jaw? Did you think Morgan’s famous artistic temper was all bark and no bite?”

“When exactly did this happen?” asked Gemma.

The calmness of Gemma’s tone seemed to communicate itself to Daphne, for she wiped a shaking hand across her mouth, then touched the hair that had escaped its binding. She had large hands, Kincaid noticed, more suitable to a milkmaid than a goddess.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I promised Lydia I’d never tell anyone.” She shook her head. “And I’ve never in all these years broken a promise to Lydia.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“There will be records, you know, hospital admissions and so on, if we’re forced to trace them,” Gemma continued. “But it would be better coming from you. Was this shortly before Lydia died?”

Daphne gave her a look of blank incomprehension. “I’m sorry?”

“You told us Morgan attacked Lydia.” Kincaid said carefully. “Did this happen near the time of her death?”

“Lydia hadn’t seen Morgan for years when she died, as far as I know This was just weeks before they separated. She came to me.” Daphne groped backwards for her chair, and Kincaid moved quickly to right it for her. “Why do you keep talking about Lydia’s death?” she asked. “What has that to do with anything?” Daphne’s hands gripped the seat of the gilded chair beneath her thighs as if it were a frail craft on a storm-tossed sea.

“Vic—Dr. McClellan—thought that Lydia’s death might have been … engineered,” said Kincaid. “She was, in fact,
convinced
that Lydia Brooke was murdered. And don’t you find it rather odd, Miss Morris, that Victoria McClellan should have been murdered, too?”

Cambridge
11 February 1968

Somehow I never thought it would come to this. Fragmented. Observed and observer. The first Lydia dispassionate, rational, knowing there were only two inevitable conclusions—death or division
.

The other Lydia knows death would have been the better alternative
.

Lydia watches Lydia lying fetus-curled in the sweat-soaked bed. Lydia knows it for sabotage, knows the other one couldn’t bear the fine, clean strength of what they had between them. So the other poisoned it, a word here, an expression there, provoked when she should have comforted, drew blood with savage appetite
.

And Lydia watched, Electra tongueless, mute, the poet silenced
.

There will be no more
.

“She never denied it,” said Gemma, glancing at Kincaid as he drove. “Who never denied what?” he asked, frowning, distracted by the
traffic at the Newnham roundabout as he signaled for the Barton Road.

“Daphne never actually denied her relationship with Lydia.”

“Maybe she didn’t think the allegation
worth
denying,” Kincaid suggested, looking away from the road long enough to grin at her. “Maybe she thinks we’re as round the twist as Morgan Ashby. Maybe by this time she’s called the Yard to complain about our irrational behavior—we have, after all, just accused a respected professional woman of having a homosexual relationship, not to mention murder, on the basis of nothing whatsoever.”

Stung by his reckless sarcasm, Gemma said hotly, “She’s not telling the whole truth. She was relieved when I said the letters were to Lydia’s mother. I’m sure of it.”

“She also seems to have a cast-iron alibi for the afternoon of Vic’s death.”

They had spoken again to Jeanette, and had a look at Daphne’s daily calendar, both of which confirmed that Daphne had had a full schedule of meetings and appointments on Tuesday, but Gemma was not ready to capitulate. “There are always holes in alibis. And we don’t know where Vic went when she left the English Faculty that afternoon. What if she went to Daphne’s flat? Daphne could have slipped out of her office and met her with no one the wiser.”

She knew from the look on his face that he’d considered the possibility, but rather than agreeing with her, he said, “Now that we’ve already done six impossible things before lunch, as well as buggering any claim to reputable behavior, how do you suggest we persuade Morgan Ashby to sit down and have a nice pleasant conversation about all this?”

Gemma felt the knot of dread in her stomach expand at the thought. She had lied to Morgan Ashby, and that was something even a calm and stable man might not take too kindly. But she smiled at Kincaid, and said carelessly, “Well, if your pretty face won’t do the trick, I suppose we’ll have to rely on my charm.”

They went by farmhouse rules this time, and knocked at the back door first. They hadn’t seen the car, but their hopes that it was Morgan
who was out, and that Francesca would be able to pave the way for them, were soon dashed.

Morgan opened the door scowling, as if he’d been expecting someone else, but it soon became obvious that they were not more welcome. “You,” he said to Kincaid. “I thought I told you to bugger off.” Then he glimpsed Gemma, half-hidden behind Kincaid’s shoulder, and for an instant his face started to relax into a smile. “What are you doing here, Miss Ja—” Breaking off, he looked from Kincaid to Gemma again, and the scowl came back in full force. “You weren’t here about the studio at all, were you? You were bloody snooping. I should have bloody known.” He shook his head in disgust. “All right, I’ve had enough. I’ve said it before, and this is the last time I’m going to tell you—either of you. Fuck off.”