Dreaming of the Bones

they came to a halt at the intersection of St. John’s and a tiny lane. Remembering that she’d told him she’d done a recce day before yesterday, he followed her without question. They passed a shop selling English cheeses, and olives in an array of colors ranging from pale green to deep aubergine. Beyond that, a shop displayed handmade chocolates, and then, just before they reached Sidney Street , they saw an unobtrusive door bearing a brass nameplate with the Peregrine Press logo.
    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, riffling 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