Dreaming of the Bones

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.”
    ”Mr. Ashby,” called Gemma, as Kincaid put out a hand to stop the door shutting. ”We’re police officers. Both of us. From Scotland Yard. We need to talk to you.”
    Morgan gave Kincaid a disdainful look, but at least her sally had kept him from shutting Kincaid’s hand in the door, thought Gemma.
    ”Scotland Yard? So that was a load of bollocks you fed me, too,” Morgan said to Kincaid. ”All that sob story about Victoria McClellan being your ex—”
    ”It was true,” said Kincaid.