Dreaming of the Bones

you’d fallen in the Cam .” He stepped back and gestured them inside.
    ”I’m afraid I was sight-seeing along the way,” said Gemma, with an apologetic wave of her map.
    ”And I can’t blame you. All Saints’ is rather a jewel— small enough to be accessible, don’t you think?” Eliot considered them curiously. ”It’s rather refreshing to find anyone interested in architecture these days. The world is full of Philistines.” He wore a large cashmere pullover in a robin’s egg shade of blue, and looked considerably more rumpled, and more human, than when Gemma had seen him at the memorial service. ”Do sit down,” he added, indicating a sofa upholstered in a velvet almost the same shade of blue as his sweater.
    But Gemma was already crossing the room as he spoke, drawn by the windows in their deep stone embrasures. The men followed and stood on either side of her as she gazed out.
    ”That’s St. John’s you can see across the bend in the river,” said Darcy, pointing. ”It’s quite lovely, isn’t it? I never tire of my view.”
    One of the casements was cranked open a few inches, and Gemma felt the air move against her face, cool and fresh. ”Yes, I can see that,” she said, with a glance at Kincaid beside her, still silent.
    She was accustomed to a consistency on his part that allowed her to function as the volatile half of the partnership, but his behavior over the past few days had been unpredictable. He seemed to ricochet from a forced, feverish pleasantness, to a sharp-tongued sarcasm, to the withdrawn silence he exhibited now.
    In that moment, she realized how much she had come to depend on him, even when she argued with him and questioned his decisions. The sense that she might no longer be able to count on his strength frightened her.
    Well, I’ll carry us both, she resolved, but she had the feeling it was going to take all her wits. She turned to Darcy Eliot and smiled.
    ”You must feel king of the castle up here,” she said, looking about her as she let him lead her back to the sofa. The room was comfortably opulent, with much gilt in evidence on picture frames and mirrors, and a coordination of color and fabric that spoke of a professional hand in the designing. In the center of the wall opposite the windows, an ornate mahogany bookcase displayed multiple copies of Darcy Eliot’s books—some with the now-familiar Peregrine logo—and Gemma found the little vanity rather endearing.
    Darcy seated himself at the other end of the sofa, carefully crossed one ankle over the other knee, revealing a colorful argyle sock, and said, ”To what do I owe this visit, other than the attractions of my college?”
    This had been Vic’s college, too, Gemma remembered with a quick glance at Kincaid.
    He turned but didn’t come to join them. ”We’ve just had a very pleasant visit with your mother,” he said. ”I hadn’t met her before.”
    ”Please don’t tell me my mother inflicted the damage to your face.” Darcy stared with frank curiosity at Kincaid’s swollen lip and purpling cheekbone. ”Her manners are usually exemplary.”
    ”Her manners were exemplary.” Kincaid smiled and ignored the probe. ”We seem to have interrupted her meeting at the Peregrine Press, but she was quite gracious.” He crossed to the sitting area and sat in the armchair opposite Darcy.
    ”Ah, my mother’s other child,” said Darcy, sounding faintly amused. When Kincaid raised a questioning eyebrow, he went on. ”Did she not mention she was on the board of directors?”
    ”She only said she’d been helping Peregrine with Henry Whitecliff’s manuscript.”
    ”Henry was on the board as well,” said Darcy. ”Both of them from the beginning. But Peregrine Press would never have seen the light of day without my mother’s considerable assistance, financial and otherwise. She and Ralph have had a long and productive relationship.” He smiled, and Gemma felt a bit shocked, wondering if he could possibly mean what she thought he meant. Dame Margery must be at least twenty-five years older than Ralph Peregrine, if not more. Surely...
    ”...Vic tell you that she thought some poems might have been removed from Lydia’s last manuscript?” Kincaid was saying as she picked up the conversation again.
    ”You’re not serious.” Darcy looked from Kincaid to Gemma, his smile fading. ”You are serious. Surely you don’t think Ralph had anything to do with it? He’s as honest a chap as you could ever