Dreaming of the Bones

”What did you say the author’s name was?”
    ”Edward Marsh,” Gemma said helpfully, but Vic was shaking her head.
    ”No, no, it was poems, drafts of Lydia’s poems. Let me show you.” She went quickly from the room, returning a moment later with some folded papers and wearing her tortoiseshell glasses. Sitting across from them again, she held the pages up for their inspection. ” Lydia still used a typewriter rather than a computer. She was stubborn about it—she said she needed to feel some sort of physical connection between herself and the words and the paper. Sometimes she wrote first drafts in longhand, but when she typed she always made carbons.”
    Gemma could see that the paper was tissue-thin copy paper, and the typescript had the smudgy look of carbon ink.
    ”Some of these poems were published in her last book,” Vic said, folding the pages in half again and smoothing them across her knees. ”But there are others I’ve never even seen drafts of before.”
    ”Student poems she didn’t think worth saving?” suggested Kincaid. ”If she’d had the book since she was at college.”
    ”No. These are better than her best—polished and mature. And they explore the same themes as many of the poems in her last book.” Vic paused as if weighing her words, then she said deliberately, patting the sheets on her knees, ”These were meant to be read with the ones in the book, I’m sure of it.”
    Kincaid glanced at Gemma before he said, ”Maybe she was dissatisfied with them.”
    ”No. Lydia was unfailingly honest with herself about her writing. She recognized crap, and she knew when she’d done good work.”
    ”So what are you suggesting?”
    Palms up in a helpless gesture, Vic shrugged. ”I don’t know.”
    ”Could she have decided not to publish them for some other reason?” Gemma asked.
    ”I don’t know what it could have been,” Vic said, then added thoughtfully, ”One of the things I admired most about Lydia was her utter disregard for whether or not she offended people.”
    Kincaid reached for the teapot and poured a little cold tea into his cup. ”Would these”—he nodded at the sheets in Vic’s lap—”have offended anyone?”
    ”Some men. In a series of metaphors, she equates sex with death. It’s couched in symbolic terms, but there are men who are incapable of dealing with ideas about gender roles except in a personal way.”
    ”God forbid I should be one of them,” Kincaid said in mock horror.
    Vic rolled her eyes at Gemma. ”Is he as liberated as he thinks he is?”
    ”Not half.” Gemma smiled at her and a spark of understanding passed between them.
    ”If you ladies have finished amusing yourselves at my expense... perhaps we could get on with things.” Kincaid sipped at his cold tea and grimaced. ”Vic—”
    ”Let me make another pot,” Vic said, reaching for the teapot, but he glanced at his watch and shook his head.
    ”We’d better be getting back. Toby will have worn out his welcome at Gemma’s parents’, I’m afraid.”
    Vic sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap, like a child awaiting bad news.
    Kincaid cleared his throat. ”Vic, I’ll agree with you that there are things about Lydia Brooke’s death that seem odd, but I simply don’t know what we can do about it at this point. It’s all supposition, and the police won’t even consider reopening the case without some sort of hard evidence.”
    When she didn’t respond, he said, ”One of the things I’ve learned over the years in police work is that sometimes we just can’t know all the answers—life doesn’t always tidy itself into neat little compartments. It’s frustrating and infuriating, but if you don’t learn when to let go, you can’t stay in the job.”
    ”Is that what you’re saying I should do? Let it go?”
    He nodded. ”Write a good book about Lydia and about her work. It’s the story that counts, not how it ends.” Shrugging apologetically, he added, ”I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint you, but I don’t know what else to suggest.”
    Vic sat quite still, her face blank with disbelief. After a moment she seemed to collect herself. ”I don’t know what I expected,” she said, and gave him a brittle smile. ”It was kind of you to listen to me, and to take as much trouble as you have.”
    ”Vic—”
    ”Don’t worry, Duncan . I know you mean well. You’ve been a great help, really. Not to mention the fact that your visit to the