Dreaming of the Bones

for the day, Mummy darling. We can shop for baby things—can you believe I’ve taken up knitting? I’m currently entangled in a maze of pastel wool, and see no way out.
    Cambridge is so beautiful just now, as it always is this time of year. The crocuses bloom like jewels in the green meadows of the Backs, and beyond them the still bare trees frame the honeyed stone of King’s, and beyond that the clear blue Cambridgeshire sky. It is, I think, for that fleeting moment, the loveliest spot in the world.

    Lydia

12

    Those that I could have loved went by me;
    Cool gardened homes slept in the sun;
    I heard the whisper of water nigh me,
    Saw hands that beckoned, shone, were gone
    In the green and gold. And I went on.

    RUPERT BROOKE,
    from ”Flight ”

    The room shimmered with the aqueous green light filtering through the blinds, and when Gemma opened her eyes she thought for a moment she was still dreaming. The sharp jab to her chin from the comer of the book that lay open across her chest convinced her otherwise. She had fallen asleep reading about Rupert Brooke, and dreamed of him, golden haired in a dim and tangled garden, surrounded by white-clothed figures. When she reached out to them, the faceless wraiths glided away into the trees.
    ”Ugh,” she said aloud and sat up, closing the book with a snap. Getting up, she slipped into a dressing gown and made herself coffee, then sat at the table looking out into the garden and thought about the day ahead.
    She decided that she was suffering from an instant and severe case of flu,and would have to call in sick. Her record was exemplary; whether the Chief believed her or not, he couldn’t very well refuse her leave for illness. She’d be at loose ends without Kincaid, anyway, and she could put her detective skills to more productive use than being assigned other DCIs’ make-work.
    Gemma wanted to know more about Lydia Brooke, and there was no better place to start than public record.

    Her visit to Somerset House yielded the particulars of Lydia Brooke’s birth (in Brighton, to Mary Brooke and William John Brooke, on 16 November 1942) and her marriage (to Morgan Gabriel Ashby in Cambridge , on 29 September 1963).
    A phone call to the Yard netted her Morgan Ashby’s present address, and armed with Hazel’s Cambridge guidebook and one of Hazel’s homemade sandwiches, Gemma set off for Cambridge at lunchtime.
    All the detail available for Morgan Ashby’s address had been ”Wood Dene Farm, Comberton Road ,” and on consulting her map Gemma discovered that the Comberton Road lay west of Cambridge , not too far from Grantchester. She hoped that the farm was easily identifiable, because she didn’t want to call ahead and risk immediate rejection.
    She crept carefully along, examining every gate and farmhouse, but when she finally reached the place she had no doubt of it. Sculptures of brightly colored metal hoops occupied the space between the road and the old brick-and-beam farmhouse. To the right of the house, a series of long, low bams were painted a deep sunflower yellow with blue trim, and a sign on the side of the bam nearest the road proclaimed that this was the wood dene farm arts center .
    Gemma pulled the car up into the drive beside the farmhouse and got out. Studying the layout for a moment, she decided to try the house first, but there was no answer when she knocked. She started back towards the bams, hoping for better luck there.
    As she came round the house, she saw a woman in the back garden hanging out washing on a line. Brilliant white sheets flapped in the breeze, and the woman, clothes pegs in her mouth, struggled against the wayward fabric.
    ”Hullo,” Gemma called out, going to help, and when they had the sheet secured, the woman turned to her and smiled.
    ”Thanks for rescuing me. I know I should be glad of the wind on wash day, but it does make it a bit difficult to manage sometimes.” She was, Gemma judged, in her late forties, slightly built, with an open, friendly face bare of makeup and light brown hair drawn back in an intricate plait. ”I’m Francesca, by the way,” she said. ”Have you come about the studio space?”
    ”No, I’m afraid not. My name’s Gemma James, and I was looking for Morgan Ashby, actually.”
    Francesca’s face clouded and she said warily, ”He’s not here. Can I help you?”
    ”Are you his wife?” Gemma asked, wishing for the easy authority of her warrant card.
    ”That’s right.” Francesca