Dreaming of the Bones

the pipes. They add quite the professorial touch, don’t you think?”
    ”Undoubtedly. And your students probably appreciate your not smoking them.”
    Eliot smiled. ”As did Victoria . I still indulged when she first came, and we had no end of rows about it.”
    Kincaid wondered how Vic, whom he had always thought of as disliking confrontation, had adapted to daily contact with a man who so obviously enjoyed stirring things up. ”What did you find to argue about after that?” he asked. ”Dr. Winslow said you were opposed to the biography Vic was writing.”
    ”I wasn’t opposed to Victoria’s biography in particular—although I can’t say I find poor Lydia an absorbing subject—just to the general idea of delving into the lives of poets and novelists. Are you a student of literature, Mr. Kincaid?”
    He thought of his running joke with Vic —policemen don’t read -—and decided this was one instance in which he needn’t defend himself. ”Um, not particularly,” he said, putting on a rather hesitant expression.
    Eliot hooked his thumbs a bit more firmly together over his middle and spoke in the rich tones Kincaid associated with the lecture hall. ”It’s my belief that there’s not a single example of a literary text which cannot be shown to contradict itself, therefore rendering itself meaningless. And if the text itself is meaningless, of what use is it to examine the life of its author? And, I might add, since most authors’ lives differ little from that of the common man in being merely pitiable attempts to disguise crippling inadequacies, they cannot be of interest to anyone.” He rocked back in his chair and beamed at Kincaid.
    ”Then why bother to teach something you see as inherently useless?” Kincaid asked, wondering if he’d missed something in Eliot’s argument.
    ”Well, one must do something, mustn’t one?” Eliot said, still looking pleased with himself. ”And I find it more amusing than any other occupation which springs to mind.”
    ”Do I take it that Vic didn’t subscribe to your theory?”
    Eliot shook his head, pursing his lips in an expression of regret. ” Victoria insisted on cobbling together feminist criticism with some sort of updated version of liberal humanism—producing a hideous hybrid which was illogical at best, and smacked of metaphysics at worst.” He closed his eyes in mock dismay.
    ”What you’re telling me is that Vic had the temerity to assign value to literature?” Kincaid said, raising his eyebrow.
    Eliot clapped his hands together. ”Bravo, Mr. Kincaid. Very well put. Although you’ve given yourself away in the process. I did think the vague copper bit was overdone, especially in light of your accent and your bearing—you’re obviously well educated.”
    And you’re a condescending bastard, thought Kincaid, and smiled. He did not feel inclined to share the particulars of his background with Darcy Eliot. The man must’ve given Vic a chronic case of the pip. ”Now that I understand the theoretical repercussions of Vic’s biography, Dr. Eliot, do you know of anyone who might have had a personal objection to Vic’s researching Lydia Brooke’s life?”
    ” Lydia was a minor poet whose early work was pleasantly facile, if derivative,” Eliot said tartly. ”She flirted with mental illness all her life, and her later poems combined a ‘confessional’ exploration of her illness with the most trite elements of feminism. I can think of any number of people she might have offended with her poems, but I doubt her life provided the requisite drama.”
    ”But you knew her personally,” said Kincaid. ”You were friends at Cambridge .”
    ”Do you still find yourself in sympathy with everyone you were at school with, Mr. Kincaid?” Eliot raised one massive eyebrow. ”I find that one often outgrows such relationships. Although in Lydia’s case...” He paused and gave Kincaid a considering look.
    ”Don’t hesitate to express your opinion, Dr. Eliot,” said Kincaid.
    Eliot smiled at the thinly veiled sarcasm. ”I daresay such tact would be out of character, wouldn’t it? It occurred to me that there might be one person who would prefer that not all the details of Lydia’s private life be made public. Lydia flirted with more than mental illness, and at a time when lesbianism was not considered quite as politically correct as it is these days.”
    ” Lydia had a homosexual relationship?” Kincaid asked, surprised. If Vic had been