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.
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 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.
“That’s right.” Francesca 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 hoped-”
“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.