“But surely that’s an impossible task,” argued Adam. “Because the biographer brings his or her perceptions to it as well, so that it’s never possible to create a true representation of the subject.”
“Vic knew that,” said Nathan. “But the truth is relative, and even a portrait colored by the biographer has its uses. It can enhance our understanding of the artist’s work, as well as our understanding of ourselves.”
Vic
. He could hear her speaking in Nathan’s words, hear her intensity, her dedication, and he was caught unawares by the spasm of loss that seized him.
“Truth is not always relative,” he said slowly. “I’ll give you an irrefutable truth, if you like.” Both Nathan and Adam stared at him, as if compelled by something in his voice. “Vic died of heart failure, but not from an unexpectedly weak heart. She was poisoned.”
He watched their eyes, searching for that unmistakable flicker of knowledge, but all he saw was wide and uncomprehending shock.
“You’re not bloody serious,” said Nathan, finally. “That’s not poss—”
“I think Nathan’s been through enough already without this—whatever game this is you’re playing at,” interrupted Adam. His hand had moved to Nathan’s arm in a protective gesture.
“I’m sorry,” Kincaid said. “I wish it weren’t true. But I’ve just come from the police station. The postmortem revealed a lethal amount of digitalis in her body.”
Nathan stood up, knocking the table so that their teacups rattled precariously. He walked unsteadily to the French windows and stood looking out. Beyond him Kincaid could see the garden, designed in a palette of soft grays and greens rather than the bright color Nathan had used in the front. Near the house, a low bed had been formed into the old-fashioned shape of an intricate knot.
When Nathan turned back to them after a moment, his face was ashen. “Could she have taken it accidentally?”
Kincaid shook his head. “That hardly seems likely. She’d never been prescribed any sort of digitalis, nor did she live with someone who might have substituted medications by mistake.”
“But why? Why would anyone do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Kincaid said. “All I can tell you is that I intend to find out. And it seemed to me that the logical place to start is with Morgan Ashby.”
“Morgan?” Adam frowned. “Why Morgan?”
“We never got back to the question I asked earlier, did we? Why did Lydia leave her estate to a man she’d been divorced from for more than twenty years?”
“How should I know?” Nathan asked. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his corduroys and started to pace. “Maybe she felt she owed him. They bought the house together, after all. Maybe there was no one else.”
“Or maybe she still loved him,” said Adam quietly. “Their divorce so devastated her that she tried to take her own life.”
“What does it matter?” Nathan said, almost shouting. “And what the bloody hell has it to do with Vic?”
Kincaid pushed his chair back so that he could watch Nathan’s agitated roaming of the room. “Vic told me that when she tried to interview Morgan about Lydia, he was abusive.”
“So?” said Adam. “Morgan was always a bit of a lout. And he hated us especially.”
“Why?” Kincaid asked.
“He was jealous, of course.”
“Jealous of all of you?” Kincaid asked, surprised. “Not just you, Adam?”
Adam glanced at Nathan before he answered. “Well, it was mostly me, I suppose. But he didn’t like any of Lydia’s friends from before … Look, Mr. Kincaid, this has all been a bit much to take in.” He made a slight gesture towards Nathan, who had turned to stare out into the garden again. “Would you mind …”
“I’m sorry.” Kincaid rose. “Before I go, could you tell me how to find Morgan Ashby?”
“He and his wife have an arts studio out west of Cambridge,” said Nathan, without turning round. “Past Barton on the Comberton Road. You can’t miss it. There’s a farmhouse, and next to it a complex of barns painted blazing yellow.”
“You’re well informed for someone not on friendly terms with him.”
“I didn’t say I’d been in the place.” Nathan swung round to face him. “I only know it by reputation, and I’ve passed by visiting friends out that way.”
“Oh, the stew,” Adam said suddenly and rose. “I forgot all about it.”
“I won’t keep you any longer,” said Kincaid. “Thank you both for seeing me.”
“I’ll show you out.” Adam moved towards the door.
“It’s all right, Adam, I’m perfectly capable,” said Nathan. “Go see to the home fires.”
Adam shook Kincaid’s hand again. “If you need me for anything, Mr. Kincaid, it’s St. Michael’s Church, Cambridge.”
As Nathan led Kincaid 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 girl, 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 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
CHAPTER
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.
R
UPERT
B
ROOKE
,
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 corner 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 barns were painted a deep sunflower yellow with blue trim, and a sign on the side of the barn 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 barns, 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.