Dreaming of the Bones

didn’t need that sort of absolution.”
    ”But I did,” he said softly. ”I’m going to sell the house, Fran. Will you help me?” He turned to her, and when she gave him a nod of confirmation, he gave a long, shuddering sigh and rested his head against her breast.
    Gemma and Kincaid sat for a moment, watching Francesca’s still face, then got up quietly from the table and let themselves out.

15

    And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,
    And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,
    An empty tale, of idleness and pain,
    Of two that loved—or did not love—and one
    Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,
    A long while since, and by some other sea.

    RUPERT BROOKE,
    from ” Waikiki ”

    ”So where does this leave us?” Kincaid asked as he picked up his cheese-and-tomato sandwich, then winced as his first bite caught his swollen lip. Gemma had already started on hers, and he watched the egg salad squish generously over the edges of the brown bread as she bit into it.
    They’d chosen a basement tearoom off St. John’s Street, partly on Hazel’s recommendation, and partly because he had made an appointment with Ralph Peregrine, and the offices of Peregrine Press were nearby. Kincaid had to admit the tearoom was a charming enough place, a warm retreat with heavy oak furniture and bright Blue Calico tea services, but the drawing of Alice in Wonderland on the restaurant’s paper menus made him think of Vic.
    ”You shouldn’t have pushed Morgan, you know,” said Gemma a bit reproachfully, but her expression was concerned as she watched him explore his lip with a careful fingertip. ”You’re going to have a lovely bruise on that cheekbone as well,” she added in a tone of dispassionate interest.
    ”The man is a wife beater—by his own admission, he nearly killed Lydia . How can you possibly make excuses for him?” Kincaid countered defensively.
    ”You don’t usually let your personal prejudices get in the way of your judgment.” Gemma looked at him over the rim of her blue-and-white teacup. ”And besides, I’m not sure it’s true—that Morgan’s an abuser, I mean. I think he has a rotten temper, and that Lydia pushed him—”
    ”You’re not saying that Lydia deserved what she got?” he sputtered through a mouthful of sandwich. ”That’s preposterous. I can’t believe you’d—”
    ”Of course I don’t mean that,” she said, just as hotly. ”I’m not saying that what Morgan did was right, only that I think this was something strictly between Morgan and Lydia , a combination of personalities that drove them both beyond their limits.
    ”Besides, for most men who abuse women, it’s a chronic pattern, but I’d be willing to bet you a month’s wages that Morgan’s never laid a finger on Francesca in all the years they’ve been married.”
    ”So? That doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Lydia twenty years later.”
    ”No, but not that way.” Gemma shook her head emphatically. ”Morgan acts out of temper. Poisoning requires deliberate forethought, intent to harm, and I don’t think he’s capable of it.” More thoughtfully, she added, ”What I’d like to know is whether Lydia really deliberately triggered these episodes, or if that’s just his perception of it—a way of excusing himself.”
    ”Well, there’s no way we can know that, is there? And I can’t see any point arguing with you unless we turn up something else that incriminates Morgan Ashby,” said Kincaid with a sigh. ”Once you make up your mind, you’re as immovable as Mohammed.”
    Gemma’s smile held the satisfaction of victory. ”Then don’t you think we need to follow up what Morgan told us? We can’t see Daphne again until Monday, but we could have a go at Darcy Eliot and Nathan Winter.” She finished her tea and patted her mouth demurely with her serviette.
    ”All right,” he conceded. ”But I still want to see Ralph Peregrine first. I’m not happy about those missing poems.”

    When they had paid their bill, they climbed the steep staircase back to street level, passing through the ground-floor shop with its selection of linens and laces. Kincaid saw Gemma reach out towards a particularly elaborate tablecloth displayed near the door, but she dropped her hand without touching it and followed him out onto the pavement.
    The weather had changed in the half hour they’d been inside. Dark clouds had scudded in, and the air held a damp chill. ”It must be this way,” said Gemma, as