Dreaming of the Bones

a page here and there out of the manuscript?” Kincaid suggested.
    ”Well, I suppose so,” said Ralph, looking nonplussed. ”But why on earth would anyone want to do that?”
    ”We don’t know. We only have Vic’s assertion that something was wrong.” Kincaid blinked, as if that would erase the image of Vic’s animated face as she waved the sheaf of poems at them.
    ”Dr. McClellan was certainly the expert on Lydia’s work, but if she suspected that the manuscript had been tampered with, why didn’t she discuss it with me?” asked Ralph. The man had an intelligent face, Kincaid thought as he watched him, accentuated by alert, dark eyes and the high forehead exposed by his receding hairline. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him.
    ”She only discovered this a few days before she died,” said Gemma. ”I doubt she had the chance to consult you.”
    ”Have you any idea who might have had access to Lydia’s manuscript before you yourself read it?” Kincaid asked.
    Ralph glanced round at a profusion of books and papers equaling that of the front room and shrugged eloquently. ”You can see how things are. I feel like Sisyphus trying to keep up with all the projects, and my assistant only keeps the stone from backsliding a bit. There are always a fair amount of people tramping through here, as well, but we’ve never seen any need to be security conscious.” He tilted his wrist and glanced unobtrusively at his watch. ”Surely it’s just as possible that Lydia herself decided to remove the poems for some reason. And I can’t imagine what bearing this has on Dr. McClellan’s death. This all seems a bit farfetched, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    ”Not only might it have something to do with Dr. McClellan’s death, it may be connected with Lydia’s death as well.” Kincaid, watching Ralph carefully, saw the speed with which he drew a conclusion from the vague statement.
    ” Lydia ? What do you mean?” Ralph sounded genuinely surprised, and he glanced from Kincaid to Gemma as if seeking confirmation.
    ”We think it quite possible Lydia Brooke may have been murdered,” Kincaid said.
    Ralph stared at him. ”Murdered? But... that’s just not possible. Lydia was a middle-aged poet of moderate success, with a history of depression. Why would anyone want to murder her?”
    ”That’s what we were hoping you might tell us, actually,” said Gemma, with a smile. ”We thought you might have a more objective view of her, since yours was primarily a working relationship. And you had been together a long time.”
    ”Yes,” Ralph said slowly. ”We had. Lydia was one of the first authors I took on, and we grew up together, so to speak. We were incredibly naive about the publishing business in the beginning, both of us, but Lydia was forgiving of my mistakes. I was very fond of her.” He pinched the bridge of his nose again, and when he dropped his hand Kincaid could see the red marks left by the spectacles’ nose pads.
    Looking quizzically at the wire frames dangling from his thumb and index finger, Ralph said, ”I’ve a habit of sitting on them. I’m afraid.” Again, he gave a barely perceptible glance at his watch, and added, ”Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else I can tell you. Lydia was opinionated, more so as she got older, and sometimes inclined to get on a bit of a soapbox about things. But since when are those reasons to kill someone? She was also generous with her time and advice—she often helped younger poets—and must have had people in her debt.”
    ”And in her personal life?” prompted Kincaid.
    ” Lydia didn’t share details of her personal life with me, other than the usual chitchat about creeping damp and leaks in the roof.”
    ”What about Morgan Ashby?”
    ”I met him, of course, when Lydia and I first began working together. But I don’t think he particularly cared for me, and we never made it a social relationship. I invited them for dinner once, I remember, near the end of their marriage, but it wasn’t a success.” This time the glance at his watch was overt. ”Look, if you don’t mind. I’ve an appointment—”
    They heard the sound of the anteroom’s outer door opening and closing, then a woman’s voice called, ”Sorry, I’m early, Ralph darling.” The inner door swung open. ”Oh. Do forgive me, Ralph,” said the voice, silvery and breathless. ”I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll just—”
    ”No, come in, Margery,