Dreaming of the Bones

waited, still without a hint of a smile in her gray-blue eyes.
    ”I was a friend of Victoria McClellan’s, you see,” said Gemma, and was surprised to find she didn’t feel it was stretching the truth. ”And I wanted to ask Mr. Ashby a few questions about his conversations with her.”
    ”Morgan didn’t have any conversations with Dr. McClellan,” Francesca said flatly. ”And he wouldn’t be pleased to see you. He just ran her ex-husband off with his shotgun a few minutes ago. All this business has upset him dreadfully, just when I’d hope—”
    ” Duncan was here?” asked Gemma. ”Was he all right?”
    ”Of course he was all right,” said Francesca, sounding surprised. ”Morgan didn’t shoot at him. He hasn’t even any shells for the gun.” She studied Gemma, frowning. ”I take it you know Dr. McClellan’s ex-husband well enough to be concerned for his welfare.” After looking at Gemma a moment longer, she picked up her clothes basket decisively. ”I think you’d better come in and tell me what this is all about.”
    ”But what if... Mr. Ashby comes back?” asked Gemma, feeling a bit wary of the shotgun in spite of Francesca’s disclaimer.
    ”If I know Morgan, he’s taken the footpath up towards Madingley, and it usually takes him a couple of hours’ walking to simmer down enough to come home.” Francesca looked to the north, where clouds white as the blowing sheets were piling up against the horizon. ”And I think the weather will hold that long, at the least,” she added, turning away towards the house, and Gemma followed with attempted nonchalance.
    Francesca took her through the back door, into the kitchen, where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee met them like a wave.
    ”Oh, it smells lovely,” said Gemma, closing her eyes and breathing it in.
    ”I’d just put the coffee on before I took the washing out.” Francesca deposited the laundry basket beside the door. ”Would you like some? It’s a new blend I picked up in Cambridge the other day.”
    ”Please.” Gemma looked appreciatively about as Francesca filled pottery mugs and set them on a tray. It was a welcoming room, with walls the color of tomato soup and a cheerful clutter that reminded her of Hazel’s kitchen. There were even the familiar baskets of knitting wools overflowing onto the worktops and table. She’d noticed Francesca’s jumper, hand-knit chenille in shades of heather. ”Did you knit your jumper?” she asked as Francesca peeled the top from a new bottle of milk.
    ”I’m a weaver by trade,” answered Francesca. ”The knitting I do for relaxation. It’s mindless work.” Glancing at Gemma, as if afraid she might have offended her, she added, ”I don’t mean that the patterns aren’t sometimes complicated, it’s just that once you know where you’re going with it, you can put your hands on autopilot. It’s a great comfort, sometimes, and a help if you’re trying to work out a problem.” She added sugar and a milk jug to the tray, and started down a passageway towards the front of the house. ”Let’s go through to the sitting room.”
    Gemma followed her, but paused on the threshold when they reached their destination. The room first struck her as a battleground, physical evidence of personalities in conflict. The walls were pale gray, the better to showcase the framed black-and-white photographs that covered them, but before she could look closer, her eyes were drawn to the threaded loom that stood in the center of the room. She walked over to it, unable to resist touching the cloud-soft fabric forming from the intersecting wools—a loosely woven piece in the autumnal hues she loved.
    ”What is it?” she asked Francesca.
    ”A throw rug. They’re bread-and-butter pieces, really—there’s a big market for them—but I love them nonetheless.”
    ”I can tell.” There were textiles rich in color and pattern everywhere, folded on a worktable, thrown so thickly over the furniture that Francesca had to push one aside in order to sit on the sofa—like a nesting mouse, thought Gemma.
    She looked again at the photographs—stark, some of them intense as a slap across the face, some desolately severe, all beautiful and uncompromising, all made more palatable by the buffer of Francesca’s fabrics. Perhaps it was a matter of balance rather than conflict after all. ”Are the photos Morgan’s?” she asked. ”They’re rather stunning.”
    ”Of course they’re Morgan’s,”