Dreaming of the Bones

faith in myself. If it weren’t for your vision and determination I’d probably be standing behind the chemist’s counter today, dispensing cough syrup and milk of magnesia, instead of here, in this most glorious of places. I’ll write in a day or two and give you my schedule. I want to share this with you.

    Your loving... Lydia

4

    My restless blood now lies a-quiver,
    Knowing that always, exquisitely,
    This April twilight on the river
    Stirs anguish in the heart of me.

    RUPERT BROOKE,
    from ”Blue Evening”

    Kincaid had kept his word to Vie, ringing his friend, Chief Inspector Alec Byrne, first thing Monday morning, but it wasn’t until midday Wednesday that he found the time to go to Cambridge . Having decided he’d put enough wear and tear on the Midget for one week, he took the train, stretching his legs out in the empty compartment and dozing between stations. A little more than an hour after leaving King’s Cross, he paid off a taxi in front of the cinder-block building on Parkside Road that housed the Cambridge police.
    A blond constable with traffic-stopping legs escorted him to Byrne’s office, ushering him in with a smile and the merest suggestion of a wink.
    ”Watch out for our Mandy,” Byrne said with a grin as the door closed. He stood and came round his desk. ”She’s been through every man in the department once, and now she’s starting on the second round.”
    ”I’ll exercise proper caution,” Kincaid assured him. ”It’s good to see you, Alec. They seem to be treating you well, if the accommodations are anything to go by.” He raised an eyebrow at the furniture and carpeting, a definite step up from Scotland Yard standard issue.
    ”I can’t complain. Executive loo and three squares a day.”
    Something nagged at Kincaid, and after a moment he realized what it was. Alec Byrne had quit smoking. His desk no longer held ashtrays, and the hand he’d held out for Kincaid to shake was scrubbed pink, only the nails of his thumb and forefinger still showing faint yellow stains. When they’d been fledgling detective constables together, his friend had seldom been seen without a cigarette adhering to his lip or dangling from his fingers. Kincaid had always found it odd, as Byrne was a most fastidious man in other ways.
    ”I see you’ve given it up,” he said as he settled into the visitor’s chair.
    ”Had to, I’m afraid. Developed a bit of a spot on my lung.” Byrne shrugged a bony shoulder beneath an exquisitely tailored suit jacket. ”Decided it wasn’t worth dying for.”
    ”You look well.” Kincaid meant it sincerely. A tall man, still as thin as he’d been when Kincaid had first known him, Byrne looked whippet fit. His reddish fair hair had receded above the temples, leaving him a pronounced and rather distinguished widow’s peak.
    ”I’m not too stubborn to admit that I feel better.” Byrne smiled. ”I knew becoming a fanatic was the only way I could do it, so I changed my diet and I started exercising— I’m rowing again, can you believe it? Joined a club.”
    Byrne had been nonchalant concerning his Cambridge blue, but he’d also made sure it got about among his fellow rookies, and his athletic prowess had done much to alleviate their distrust of his upper-class background. The suspicion Byrne’s Cambridge degree had aroused seemed odd now, in this new era of educated policing, but it seemed to Kincaid that the man had always had an instinct for being ahead of his time.
    ”Thanks for seeing me, Alec. I know how busy you must be.”
    ”You know all too well, I’d imagine—and of course that makes me wonder what you’re doing here, but I’ll try’ to keep my curiosity in check. I’ve had the file you asked for brought up from the dungeon. I’d suggest you take it to the canteen and look at it while you have a cuppa.” Byrne handed a folder across his desk to Kincaid. ”But you owe me, old chap.”
    ”I’m sure you’ll find some suitable revenge.” Kincaid accepted the fat file and realigned the errant papers.
    ”You can buy me a pint when you’ve finished. I’m sure they’ll never miss me.”
    ”Privilege of rank?” Kincaid suggested.
    Byrne answered in his most sardonic drawl. ”Hardly worth it, otherwise, I daresay.”

    ”I see you didn’t handle Lydia Brooke’s case,” Kincaid said as he set two foaming pints of bitter on the table at The Free Press. The pub was tucked away in a residential street behind the station, and