The boy was still crouching next to the body, watching me. “You have much trouble with attacks here?” I asked him. “Maybe somebody sneaked up on him to rob him? Would he have had money on him?”
The boy shook his head. “No, sir. Nobody’s got enough money to steal, and they don’t carry it with them.”
That made sense. The workers lived pretty much hand to mouth, and they must know each other well. The small buildings were close together, and any kind of scuffle would have been overheard by a lot of people. So if this dead man wasn’t from the workers’ village, he probably wasn’t killed here. He could have been killed in the nearby town, but in that case, why would anyone have carried him all the way to the construction site? In the dark? It would have been far simpler to dump him in the river, and he most likely would never have been found. Why was he here?
And why did it matter? He was dead. Word of his death would go out, and if he had any relatives or friends around, they would come claim him, or at least identify him. If no one did, he’d be cremated and his ashes buried in the workers’ cemetery nearby, and then he would be forgotten. It wasn’t up to me to chase down anyone who knew the man or how and why he had died. My sole mission, at the moment, was to smooth the way for the opening ceremony for the new construction. Most likely the dead man had been an early arrival for the event, and had been careless enough to flash his money around. Or maybe someone had an issue with the project and wanted to make trouble. Either way, we had to get the man buried and move on, so I could finalize the party plans.
I stood up and dusted off my knees. The boy stood too. “What now, sir?” he asked.
“Who’s in charge of burials here?”
“Uh, my uncle, I guess.”
“Then let him know he should take care of this one, before he rots.”
I made for the door, and once outside, I took a deep breath of clean, cold air. Better. I’d found nothing to worry about here, and I had people to meet, places to go. As I strode away, I noticed the boy shutting the door and looping the flimsy string around a post to hold it shut.
I’d gone no more than halfway through the village when I encountered the old man I had seen earlier. “You’d be the manager for the project, sir? Mason, is it?” he asked. When I nodded, he said, “I need a word with you,” as he stood, blocking my path.
“What’s this about?” I demanded.
“That dead man back there.” He nodded toward the storage shed.
“Do you know something about him?”
“I’d rather not speak out here. Come into my place and I’ll tell you what I know.” Without waiting for an answer he turned and walked toward a small building that tilted precariously. At the low door he paused and looked at me. I felt I had no choice but to follow. He let me enter first, then entered, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed the boy had crept in after us and taken a place in a corner. At least the interior was warm, and the old man gestured toward a bench by the fire. “Sit.”
I sat. “You know who he is?” I began.
The old man sat across from me. “Not the man himself, but I know why he died.”
“Why?”
Instead of answering my question, the man launched into a wandering story. “I’ve lived here half my life. I came with my father and two brothers, when I was no more than his age.” He nodded toward the boy in the corner. “He’s my grandson. I’m one of the last who remembers the way things were, so long ago. My father told me his grandfather had worked the site as well, long before that.”
I failed to see what this old man was getting at. “What does this have to do with the death today?”
“What’s your hurry?”
I stood up. “I don’t have time to listen to stories. If you have information on why this man died, tell me now or I’m leaving.”
He didn’t move from his seat. “You younger folk are in such a hurry. He’s dead—he’s not going anywhere. He needs to stay where you found him.”
“What?” I said, incredulous.
“It’s no accident he was found where he was. We just hadn’t time to cover him up.”
Reluctantly I sat down again. “Explain.”
“This big to-do you’re planning—happens every year, right?”
“Yes. So?”
“But this time it’s bigger—you’re dedicating what’s just been finished.”
“Yes, everyone knows that. So the event is more important than usual this year. Why does that matter?”
“You’ll have your own dedication ceremony?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Why do you care, old man?”
“You’ve forgotten the old ways,” the man said softly, staring into the fire. “Like my father told me, and his father told him. There must be a sacrifice.”
I managed to keep my jaw from dropping. “You’re telling me that this man was killed deliberately as part of some ancient ritual? I find that hard to believe.”
“Do you? You’re not from around here. You ever dedicated one of these things before?”
“No.” Nobody had mentioned anything about protocols.
The man nodded, hearing what he had expected to hear. “I’m sure most of the high muckety-mucks have forgotten how it used to be, but those of us around here remember, and we respect them. The man should have been buried before the sun came up, and you would never have known.”
My head was beginning to spin. “How many people knew about this?”
“Half the village, maybe more.”
I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “How did he die?”
“He was a stranger, alone. We killed him, but we ran out of darkness to bury him.”
I launched a few choice curses of my own. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because we need to get him into the ground before this thing of yours goes forward, or there’ll be trouble.”
“Trouble?” Did he mean from whatever gods he answered to?
“From the village. You want your big party to go on? Then you’d better let our people put this man in the ground, in that ditch. Otherwise they won’t come near the place and you’ll never get it finished. Or find anyone to help with the dedication.”
My mind whirled. A man was dead—sacrificed, apparently. No one knew him, no one would miss him. The ditch had already been completed, and no one would notice a fresh hole. And if I didn’t go along with this mad scheme? I’d be disgraced. I would have failed my sole mission here, and made a giant public mess of one very important event. Did I really have a choice?
“You’ll bury him tonight?”
The man nodded. “I’ll round up some men. Won’t take long. We’ll bury him deep, so the animals won’t get to him.”
I nodded my consent. “If anything goes wrong with the ceremony, you can be sure I will point my finger at your lot, and you’ll never work construction in this country again.”
“I think we understand each other, sir.”
The Winter Solstice Feast went off without a hitch. Too many people to count gathered to watch the sunset on the day. They came from all over, and, gods be thanked, they brought food and drink with them, so no one went hungry, and few stayed sober. The weather was fair, and the setting sun on the day split the towering stones to the sound of a thousand voices cheering.
And no one noticed the freshly dug hole in the outer ditch that circled the great monument, nor mourned the anonymous man who had given his life to it.
In 1978 Richard Atkinson and John G. Evans discovered the body of a Bronze Age man buried in the outer ditch of Stonehenge. Unlike most burials in the Stonehenge Landscape, his body was not in a barrow, although it did appear to have been deliberately and carefully buried in the ditch. Examination of the skeleton indicated that the man was local to the area and aged about thirty when he died. Radiocarbon dating suggests that he died around 2300 BCE. He came to be known as the Stonehenge Archer because of the stone wrist-guard and a number of flint arrowheads buried with him. I
n fact, several of the arrowheads’ tips were located in the skeleton’s bones, suggesting that the man had been killed by them.
The Relatively Dead Series
Be sure to look for all the books
in the Relatively Dead Series
by Sheila Connolly!
Relatively Dead
Abby Kimball has just moved to New England with her boyfriend and is trying to settle in, but the experience is proving to be quite unsettling, to say the least. While on a tour of local historic homes, Abby witnesses a family scene that leaves her gasping for breath—because the family has been dead for nearly a century. Another haunting episode follows, and another, until it seems to Abby that everything she touches is drawing her in, calling to her from the past.
Abby would doubt her sanity if it weren’t for Ned Newhall, the kind and knowledgeable guide on that disturbing house tour. Rather than telling her she’s hallucinating, Ned takes an interest in Abby’s strange encounters and encourages her to figure out what’s going on, starting with investigating the story of the family she saw . . . and exploring her own past.
But as Abby begins to piece together a history that’s as moving as it is shocking and unravels a long-ago mystery that nearly tore her family apart, she also begins to suspect that Ned’s got secrets of his own, and that his interest may be driven as much by a taste for romance as a love for history.
Seeing the Dead
Ever since her first ghostly sighting, Abby Kimball has been trying to unravel the mystery of her newly discovered ability. So when she sees the apparition of a Revolutionary War soldier in the middle of the town green—just days before the annual Patriot’s Day celebration, no less—she’s determined to figure out her connection to the man.
The ethereal soldier is not the only mystery in Abby’s life. She’s also trying to sort out her connection to Ned Newhall, the man who shares her ability and is playing a more serious romantic role in her life every day. But with plans for the celebration ramping up and her job becoming more chaotic by the minute, Abby’s finding it hard to catch her breath, much less come to grips with all the new turns her life has taken.
And when another eerie episode is followed by the appearance of a very curious young girl who seems wise beyond her years, Abby discovers she and Ned may have only scratched the surface of their special ability, and that Ned may hold the biggest surprise yet.
Defending the Dead
Abby Kimball has slowly accepted her recently discovered ability to see the dead, but none of the harmless sightings she’s experienced could have prepared her for the startling apparition of a centuries-old courtroom scene—where she locks eyes with a wicked and gleeful accuser. Thrown back more than three hundred years, Abby realizes she’s been plunged into a mystery that has fascinated people throughout American history: the Salem witch trials.
With her boyfriend Ned at her side, Abby digs into the history of the events, researching the people and possible causes of that terrible time and her own connection to them—all the while going more deeply into her connection to Ned, both extraordinary and romantic.
As Abby witnesses more fragments from the events in Salem and struggles with the question of how such a nightmare could have come about, she’s suddenly confronted with a pressing personal question: Were one or more of her ancestors among the accused? Unraveling the puzzling clues behind that question just might give Abby and Ned the answer to a very modern mystery of their own.
Watch for the Dead
Looking to take a break from busy home renovations, Abby and boyfriend Ned Newhall jump at the chance to vacation on Cape Cod. Not only do they plan to get away from the dust and grime, but since Abby has no known ancestors in the area, the trip promises to be free of the unsettling ghostly appearances that have darkened her recent days.
Dreams of a relaxing vacation are soon dashed, however, when a storm blows in and brings with it a scene from the past more disturbing than any Abby has ever experienced. The long-dead woman who appears to Abby is someone she’s met before, but this time her presence defies any explanation at all.
Determined to unravel the mystery of the woman’s recurring appearances, Abby follows a trail of family history and upheaval that spans generations and may yield the biggest revelation of all, not just about Abby’s ancestors but about her living relatives as well.
Books by Sheila Connolly
All of Sheila Connolly’s books
are available now at Kobo!
Once She Knew
“The Rising of the Moon”
Reunion with Death
“Under the Hill”
“A Necessary Death”
Relatively Dead Mysteries
Relatively Dead
Seeing the Dead
Defending the Dead
Watch for the Dead
Orchard Mysteries
One Bad Apple
Rotten to the Core
Red Delicious Death
A Killer Crop
Bitter Harvest
Sour Apples
“Called Home”
Golden Malicious
Picked to Die
A Gala Event
Museum Mysteries
Fundraising the Dead
Let’s Play Dead
Fire Engine Dead
“Dead Letters”
Monument to the Dead
Razing the Dead
Privy to the Dead
County Cork Mysteries
Buried in a Bog
Scandal in Skibbereen
An Early Wake
A Turn for the Bad
Writing as Sarah Atwell
Glassblowing Mysteries
Through a Glass, Deadly
Pane of Death
Snake in the Glass
About the Author
After collecting too many degrees and exploring careers ranging from art historian to investment banker to professional genealogist, Sheila Connolly began writing mysteries in 2001 and is now a full-time writer.
She wrote her first mystery series for Berkley Prime Crime under the name Sarah Atwell, and the first book, Through a Glass, Deadly, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel; Pane of Death followed, and then Snake in the Glass.
Under her own name, her Orchard Mystery Series (Berkley Prime Crime) debuted with One Bad Apple, followed by Rotten to the Core, Red Delicious Death, A Killer Crop, Bitter Harvest, Sour Apples, Golden Malicious, Picked to Die, and A Gala Event.
Her Museum Mysteries (Berkley Prime Crime), set in the Philadelphia museum community, opened with Fundraising the Dead, followed by Let’s Play Dead, Fire Engine Dead, “Dead Letters,” Monument to the Dead, Razing the Dead, and Privy to the Dead.
Her new series, the County Cork Mysteries (Berkley Prime Crime), debuted with Buried in a Bog and was followed by Scandal in Skibbereen, An Early Wake, and A Turn for the Bad.
She has also published ten original ebooks with Beyond the Page: the novels Once She Knew, Reunion with Death, Relatively Dead, Seeing the Dead, Defending the Dead, and Watch for the Dead; and the short stories “Sour Apples,” “The Rising of the Moon,” “Under the Hill,” and “A Necessary Death.”
Sheila is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and Romance Writers of America. She is a former President of Sisters in Crime New England, and was cochair for the 2011 New England Crime Bake conference.
A Necessary Death Page 2