Dreaming of the Bones

tarmac.
    ”We could try the garden,” Kincaid suggested, stepping back from the porch and looking to either side. ”There seems to be a path round to the right.”
    He started in that direction and Gemma followed. As she stepped carefully on the spaced flagstones, a sweet smell rose from beneath her feet. She stopped and knelt, picking some of the tiny green stems growing in the crevices of the walk. She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, then held them close to her nose. The headiness of the scent made her close her eyes for a moment. ”Thyme, isn’t it?” she said to Kincaid, who had stopped to watch her. ”Look, there’s all different varieties.”
    ”Like Prince Charles’s Thyme Walk at Highgrove? That’s a bit grand for a village cottage, don’t you think?”
    ”I think it’s lovely.” Gemma stood and brushed at the knee of her trousers. ”Makes me want to roll in it, like a cat in catnip.”
    ”Feel free,” he said, with an amused lift of his eyebrow. They had come to a stone wall with a white gate set in it. He reached over its curved top to unfasten the latch, and once through the gate they found themselves in a tunnellike passage formed by arching yews. Gemma felt the drop in temperature and shivered a little at the cool, dank smell, then they came out the far end into the back garden. Patches of sunlight skittered across the grass, dappling Nathan Winter as he knelt beside a knot-shaped bed.
    He was digging furiously in the earth with a hand trowel, and they watched him for a moment before he looked up and saw them. The wind ruffled his fine white hair, but he wore only an old jumper that looked as though it had been in intimate contact with the compost heap, and dirty canvas trousers. Bright dots of color flamed in each cheek, and Gemma thought that in spite of the physical activity he looked less well than he had the day before. As they walked across the lawn towards him, he sat back on his heels. A half-dozen small green plants littered the ground beside him, their roots exposed.
    ”Did you like the tunnel?” he asked as they reached him. ”Kit liked to play in it. He was still young enough for imaginary games of soldier or explorer—another couple of years he’d have been smoking cigarettes and kissing girls under the yews.”
    Gemma felt a little chill, for Nathan spoke as if Kit were dead, too, or at least as lost to him as Vic. She glanced at Kincaid, but his face was closed, unreadable. He hadn’t spoken of Kit since the evening before, and she had no idea what he must be feeling.
    Since Nathan showed no sign of getting up, Gemma lowered herself to the grass. Hoping to turn the conversation, she touched one of the wilting plants and asked, ”What are you digging up?”
    ”Bloody lovage.” He jabbed savagely at the earth with the trowel. ”I planted them for Vic, but there’s not much point now, is there?”
    ”Vic’s teas, of course,” Kincaid said suddenly, shaking his head. ”How stupid of me.” Sinking to one knee, he looked Nathan in the eye. ”You made Vic’s teas, didn’t you, Nathan? I remember Laura saying it was lovage she drank.”
    Nathan stared at him. ”Who else do you think would’ve mixed them? But lovage makes a broth, really, not a tea. It tastes a bit like celery.”
    ”Do you grow foxglove in your garden?”
    ”Of course there’s foxglove, just back of the lavender, along the walk.” He started to point in the direction of the flagged path that led from the tunnel’s exit to the patio, then looked back at Kincaid.
    His face paled, so that the spots of color on his cheekbones stood out as if they’d been painted on. ”You don’t think I put foxglove in Vic’s tea? What kind of an idiot do you think I am?” He lurched to his feet and staggered slightly.
    For a moment, Gemma wondered if he were drunk, but thought she would have smelled the alcohol on his breath.
    Kincaid, who’d stood as well, reached out a hand to steady him. ”Could someone else have put it in Vic’s teas?”
    ”I picked the leaves myself and hand-dried them in the kitchen. Then I put them in little zip-top bags for her.”
    The pain in her neck made Gemma realize she was still kneeling. Pushing herself to her feet, she said, ”What about after she took the bags to school, Nathan? Could someone have added foxglove then? Would she have tasted it?”
    ”I don’t know. Foxglove’s very toxic—it wouldn’t take much. And the taste of the lovage might be