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Dreaming of the Bones

Dreaming of the Bones

Titel: Dreaming of the Bones Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Deborah Crombie
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towards the front of the house, he said, ”Who’d have thought old Adam had such a domestic streak? Vegetable hot pots, of all the bloody things.” Then he stopped with his hand on the door and met Kincaid’s eyes. ”You’re talking about cold-blooded murder when you say someone deliberately poisoned Vic, you know, and that’s just not possible. I don’t believe it.”
    ”I know,” Kincaid said. ”But you will.”
    Nathan opened the door, but before Kincaid could turn away said, ”Tomorrow... you’ll be there?”
    ”Yes.” Kincaid grasped Nathan’s hand, then walked away. When he looked back, the door had closed and the cottage looked picture-book perfect, impervious to pain or misfortune.
    He trusted his instincts, he thought as he walked back along the road towards the pub car park, and he was inclined to think that both men were genuinely grieved as well as shocked by the news that Vic had been poisoned. Then why, he asked himself, did he have the feeling that they knew more than they were telling him?
    He reached in his pocket for his keys, and felt the wilted petals of the forget-me-not.

    Cambridge
    21 April 1964

    Dear Mummy,

    I know it sounds perfectly dreadful of me to crow over someone’s death, but Morgan’s grandfather passed away last night and I’m so excited I can hardly sit still this morning.
    There, now that I’ve admitted how vulgar I am, perhaps I can go partway towards excusing myself. It’s his paternal grandfather, you see, who lived in Cardiff and was some sort of wealthy industrialist. He’d been ill for a long time with cancer, so it seems it’s somewhat of a relief to the family, and Morgan hardly knew him anyway. The rumor flying about is that he’s left an equal legacy directly to all his grandchildren, but of course the will won’t be read for a few days yet.
    If it’s true, it certainly won’t be a fortune by any means, but it would be enough for Morgan to start his own studio, and for us to put something towards a house. You can imagine what a relief this would be to me. Our little flat did well enough for just the two of us, but with the baby on the way I’ve been fretting a good deal about the arrangements. If we’re going to be a real family we need a proper house, with a room for the baby when he’s old enough.
    I say he with great conviction, don’t I? This is actually a bit of reverse psychology, although I’d never admit it to anyone but you. Of course I give lip service to the ”I just want a healthy baby” refrain, and I suppose I mean it up to a point. But the truth is, I desperately want a little girl, so I tell myself it’s a boy so that I won’t be disappointed if that should turn out to be the case. Silly and convoluted , I know.
    Did you want me to be a girt, Mummy darling? Or did you have dreams of a sturdy little boy in short trousers and braces, who would remind you of his father? Did you want children by the houseful, noisy and raucous as a flock of blackbirds, instead of one solitary little girl who was better at books than games?
    Not that you’ve ever made me feel a disappointment, and I admire you for always making the best of whatever circumstance fate chose to send your way. But you’ve never passed on the secret, you’ve never told me how you did it. Is one born with an accepting nature, and if not, how does one go about acquiring one?
    Pregnancy seems to be making me wax philosophical, as you can see. I’m not managing to write much , though, as every time I sit down and try to think I go to sleep, just like a contented cow. I’ve been told that in a few months this lethargy will pass, and I’ll feel a tremendous burst of energy, so I suppose I can make it up a bit then. Thanks for the advice about the morning sickness, but nothing seems to help much. I’ve lost some weight as I still can’t keep anything down, but the doctor says not to worry.
    I met Daphne for lunch at Brown’s yesterday. She’s swotting away for her third-year examinations, and is pea green jealous of my wedded and fertile state. I have to admit there are days when I miss the university life, though how one could miss working oneself to a miserable nub, I don’t know. But they’ are rare, and I find I love being able to set my own schedule. I’ve had two poems accepted by The New Spectator, by the way. That was meant to be my big news, and I got so carried away by bourgeois greed that I almost forgot.
    You’ll have to pop up on the train

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