Dreaming of the Bones

his hand. ”I saw you. Duncan at twelve years old. Not in his coloring, of course—that came from his mother—but in the shape of his head, the way his hair grows, the way he moves, even his smile.”
    ”What?” His face drained of color.
    ”What I’m trying to tell you is that Kit is your child. The genetic stamp is as unmistakable as a brand.”
    He closed his mouth, made an effort to swallow. ”But that’s impossible...”
    ”The consequences of sex are usually all too possible, darling,” said Rosemary with a smile. ”Don’t I remember giving you the birds-and-the-bees lecture—”
    ”But what about Ian? Surely he’s—”
    ” Duncan , do some simple arithmetic, for heaven’s sake. The boy is eleven—you and Vic split up almost twelve years ago. I’m sure you’ll find his birthday falls within six to eight months of the time you separated.” Rosemary looked at his glazed expression and sighed. ”I’d guess Vic didn’t know she was pregnant when she moved out—I don’t suppose you know when she started seeing what’s-his-name?”
    ”Ian. I’d like to think it was after she left, but I don’t know.”
    Rosemary smiled. ”Let’s say very shortly after, then, for argument’s sake. But I’m sure the truth of the matter became evident over time, at least to her.”
    ”I don’t believe it. Surely you don’t think Vic knew all along... when she rang and invited me ..He trailed off, still working out the implications.
    ”And I’ll wager that’s what has got Eugenia Potts in such a twist, as well. She may not be admitting the resemblance to herself, but I imagine seeing you and Kit together gave her a bloody great shock.”
    ”Kit... oh, Christ. She did go right round the twist when she saw me with him the other night.”
    ”She certainly never cared for you. To your credit”—she smiled at him—”because you wouldn’t dance attendance on to her.”
    He was silent for a long moment, absently pushing cake crumbs about on his plate with his finger. Then he looked up at her. ”Why couldn’t I see it, then, if it’s so bloody obvious?”
    ”I suppose it’s because our images of ourselves are so static. We literally don’t see ourselves the way others see us—we base our self-concept on the one view we see every morning in the mirror. But if you were to place a photo of yourself at that age next to one of Kit, you’d see it.”
    ”But what if you’re wrong? This is all based on pure speculation and... and intuition,” he finished a bit lamely. He was, thought Rosemary, grasping at straws in a last-ditch effort at denial.
    ”Who was it at Christmas telling me how important intuition was to a detective?” When he didn’t smile, she sighed and said, ”Darling, I could very well be wrong. And I don’t like to meddle. Under other circumstances—if Vic were alive, and she and Kit and Ian were all living happily as a family—I might not have said anything. But as things are now... how can you afford not to be sure?”

    Cambridge
    21 June 1964

    Dear Mrs. Brooke,

    Please forgive my writing, but I couldn’t bear to tell you our news over the telephone. Lydia is in Addenbrooks, quite ill after suffering a miscarriage last night. The baby was a boy, and I have called him Gabriel after my father. There will be a service here in the hospital chapel tomorrow.
    Lydia is weak and feverish from the hemorrhaging, and I am unable to calm her. She seems to think this is somehow her fault, a punishment, and no amount of reasoning will change her mind.
    Could you perhaps come straightaway? It may be that you can comfort her where I cannot.

    Morgan

    Kincaid rang the bell of Gemma’s flat well after dark, hoping she was home, hoping she would consent to see him, for he’d left her abruptly on her own in Grantchester with only a muttered assurance that he’d ring her later.
    Afterwards he’d walked blindly through the village until he’d reached the footpath along the Cam , and after that he couldn’t say now how long he had walked, or even in which direction. But the temperature had eventually begun to drop, his feet in their slick-soled shoes to hurt, and he found himself back at his car on the High Street as the sun dropped below the rooftops.
    He’d driven back to London with his desire for company growing as urgent as his earlier need for solitude, and now he breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the click of the latch on Gemma’s door and a sliver of yellow light