Dreaming of the Bones

until recently?”
    ”She spoke of you, though—oh, not at first, of course, but as we came to know one another better. She thought well of you.”
    And he had let her down.
    Dr. Winslow meant it as a comfort, he knew, and misunderstood his silence. ”This has been too much for all of us,” she said, looking away from him, out the window that overlooked the graveled car park. ”Vic’s death was shock enough, but then the police, this morning, saying she’d been murdered...” She shook her head slightly.
    ”I know it’s difficult—”
    ”No, it’s not just that. No one finds such news easy to accept under any circumstances. But for me, it’s tipped the scale. I’m tired, and I suddenly find I can’t cope with things in the way I always took for granted. I’ve decided to take early retirement.” She turned back to him and added, with a hint of amusement in her voice, ”I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I haven’t said a word to anyone else.”
    ”I’m outside the loop,” he offered. ”I can’t pass judgment or demand an accounting of the consequences.”
    Dr. Winslow smiled. ”Or perhaps I only think you’re too polite to do so.” She touched her forehead briefly, as if brushing at a gnat, and her brow creased. ”Or perhaps it’s because you were close to Vic, and because of that I think you might understand. I saw something of myself in her, you see, and I suppose I had some unacknowledged wish that she might follow in my footsteps. And now it all seems rather pointless.”
    ”I can understand that,” he said, wondering if in Iris Winslow Vic had found a woman capable of giving her the sort of support and encouragement she’d never had from her own mother. He sensed that Iris’s loss was real and deep, not manufactured for the sake of drawing attention to herself.
    ”But your confidence does give me the right to express concern, Professor,” he continued. ”And it seems to me that you’ve not even begun to get over the shock of Vic’s death, much less deal with the aftermath. Are you sure this isn’t a hasty decision?”
    She adjusted one of the silver frames on her desk, but it faced away from him and he couldn’t see the photo it contained. ”I’ve been thinking of it for quite some time,” she said. ”And it’s ironic that Vic’s death has removed one of the reasons for my hesitation.” Giving the edge of the frame a final touch, almost a pat, Dr. Winslow looked up at him. ”There’s no doubt that Darcy Eliot will be asked to take over my position—it’s well deserved and none too soon. Bit Vic and Darcy were always squabbling like naughty children, and I have to admit I feared for her position without my intervention. Now there’s no need.”
    ”Why didn’t they get along?” Kincaid remembered Vic’s veiled comments about problems with her colleagues.
    ”Oh, it’s quite silly, really.” Dr. Winslow made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ”But university faculties are like any closed microcosm—the least little conflict or difference of opinion gets blown all out of proportion. Darcy didn’t approve of Vic writing a biography intended for popular consumption. He thought it didn’t reflect well on the department, which is more than a bit hypocritical of him, considering the success of his popular criticism.”
    ‘That’s why his name sounded familiar,” said Kincaid. ”I’d been trying to place it. My mother’s quite fond of his books, but I’ve never read one myself.”
    ”They’re very enjoyable—witty and well informed, if not always kind. And I personally have never been able to see why anything which encourages people to read, be it biography or criticism couched in terms a layman can understand, should be considered an embarrassment to the study of English literature.” For a moment, as Iris Winslow spoke, he had seen the truth of the resemblance between this large, plain woman and his former wife.
    Then Dr. Winslow rubbed at her forehead with blunt fingers and added wearily, ”But the battle against elitism is a losing proposition, and I’m hanging up my sword. I’m going to sit in my garden and learn to enjoy books again— that was, after all, what brought me here in the first place.”
    ”Are you feeling all right, Professor?” asked Kincaid, as she grimaced and continued to apply pressure to her forehead.
    ”It’s just this damnable headache.” She lowered her hand and gave him a strained smile. ”Since Tuesday.