He sat downstairs in the great room for a long time, feeling strangely deflated. He had wound himself up to tell her, to reason with her, to face her tears and pleas, and she had not been there to listen. She had spent the night with another man. He was being illogical and hypocritical and he knew it. But still it hurt.
Later he walked down to the landing stage and looked out towards the mooring buoys. Lady Grace and Curlew lay as though quietly asleep in the grey water. Wherever she was, she and Leo were not on the boat.
He walked back up the lane past the scene of yesterday’s debacle in the field and stopped in astonishment. The whole burial mound had been encircled with blue police ribbon, and there were two four-wheel-drive cars and a black van drawn up in the field. Someone had rolled a rough track across the furrows so they could get close to the copse. He could see several people busy in amongst the trees. Curious, he walked over the mud towards them. One of the men straightened from his examination of the ground and came to meet him. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
Ken looked past him at the undergrowth. It had all been cut back now and there were floodlights trained on the ground. In the centre of the excavated patch of earth he could see a small blue jug, incongruous anywhere but especially at the scene of so much tragedy. ‘I’m sorry. I was here yesterday when the accident happened. I live here.’ He waved across the field towards the barns. ‘I wondered what was going on. Did Rosemary – Mrs Formby – is she all right?’
‘I understand Mrs Formby is seriously ill. You would have to enquire at the hospital.’
‘So, what is all this?’ Ken stared at him suspiciously.
‘We have found a body, sir, buried in the mound.’
Ken felt a shiver run across his shoulders. ‘An Anglo-Saxon body?’
‘No, sir. The doctor said he thought it was probably far more recent than that, a hundred years or so, maybe. We still need to finish photographing the scene of yesterday’s accident, then we will hand over to the coroner’s department. They will probably bring in forensic archaeologists, then we’ll know for sure.’
There had been no reply to her letter to her father and miserably Emily had written again. This time she gave it to one of the visiting tradesmen, with a large tip to persuade him to deliver it to the post. When she had an answer, she told him, she would give him as much again.
It was the fourth time she had visited the barn. Each time it was just after dawn, before the activity of the farm started in earnest. Once she had mistimed it and seen George and Robert harnessing the two Suffolk punches to the dray. She had waited, hidden behind the smith’s cottage, until they had disappeared up the lane, perched on the high seat behind the horses, then she had gone down to the yard. There was no one there. Young Benjamin, the boy who had been training with Daniel, who had hoped one day to be a smith himself, had gone. It was one of the undermaids who had told her, breaking the rule which seemed to apply at the Hall now, that no one should speak to her. She had felt that it would be permissible in order to pass on the news, with malicious venom in her voice, that he had run away, unable to get over the trauma of finding Dan’s body. His mother was distraught and the whole countryside had turned out to search for him but they had found no trace.
Emily walked into the barn and stood there hopelessly, not even knowing why she had come. Was his spirit there, waiting for her? The living were no longer prepared to talk to her, so perhaps the dead would do so.
There was a rustling in the straw bales and she jumped back as a large rat ran across the floor.
Daniel wasn’t there. There was no one there, just a huge barn, piled high with the year’s harvest, which, in the wind which was whipping across the countryside, was creaking like a ship at sea.
She turned back towards the doors and stopped in fright. There was a figure standing in the doorway. She couldn’t see who it was. It was dark in the barn; there was no sunlight outside. A shower of rain was sweeping across the yard.
‘Dan?’ She whispered the word under her breath and felt the hammer of fright under her ribs.
The figure moved forward a couple of steps and she narrowed her eyes, trying to make out his face. It wasn’t Dan. He wasn’t tall enough to be Dan, and Dan was dead. She shook her head slightly. Her veil was thick. She couldn’t see properly.
‘Who are you?’ she called out. ‘What is your business here?’
There was another sound, behind her this time, and she spun round.
The shadows were suddenly thick around her, the wind whisking at the wisps of hay, filling the place with dust. The barn was overwhelmed with the roar of the storm and the rain, slanting across the yard, rattling on the cobbles and on the roof above her head. The noise was deafening. Slowly she put her hands to her ears. As she closed her eyes to block out the chaos around her she felt the sudden vicious pressure of hands around her throat. There was no time to scream, no time to struggle. In seconds the world had gone black.
Zoë and Leo headed cautiously through the trees. Leo was carrying a canvas sail bag in which he had put the sword, carefully wrapped in newspaper. They skirted down towards the landing stage, which was deserted. There was no sign of anyone there, or on the track. They followed it towards Dead Man’s Field, keeping in the lee of the hedge, carefully peering round each bend as they approached the gate. From there they could see down to the copse.
‘The police are still there!’ Leo ducked back out of sight.
‘They can’t be!’
‘They are. There are two cars and lots of tape. We can’t bury the sword with them there.’
Zoë grabbed his hand and pulled him back down the lane. ‘Wait here with the sword. I’ll go and ask them what’s happening,’ she said.
Leo sighed unhappily. ‘I hope this doesn’t mean Rosemary has died. Would they accuse Jackson of murder? Surely not. It was a stupid accident and she was trespassing on someone else’s land.’
‘He drove straight at her, Leo.’ She turned and looked back towards the centre of the field. ‘We don’t want to be caught with the sword. They might think we looted it or something. You wait here out of sight. I’ll go and see if they’ll tell me anything.’
There were flames licking the surface of the mound. Rosemary shuddered. She hadn’t realised that there were people standing round, watching, when she had taken the sword. Shadowy people, ancient people, called from the distances to guard it. They did not want her to take it. They were angry. They had called on her to leave it but she had not heard them. She had taken it away and lost it.
Where had she put it? If she could only remember. Her head hurt. She knew that much. It was hot and that was her punishment for moving the sword. She could not move her hands or feet; she could hear nothing and her eyes wouldn’t open. Perhaps she wasn’t there at all, in her body.
Was she dead? She could see her body lying there in the bed. There were all sorts of tubes attached to her, screens beeping beside her, bandages around her head and someone sitting there, in the corner of the room. Who was it? Not Steve. No one she knew. She felt a shaft of fear run through her body. There were other people there, people from the burial mound, the guardians, still watching, but now they were watching her. They wanted the sword. She had to tell them where it was and she didn’t know, and in the meantime the mound was burning, flames licking across the soil, lightning flickering across the sky, illuminating the trees.
The Lord Egbert was angry. He couldn’t rest in peace. His burial place was an entrance to the other world, a sacred place, and it had been violated. Rosemary could see him, waiting for the sword to return. She could see the others there with him, one of them had been buried at his feet; they were waiting too, but the sword was not there and she didn’t know where it was and she was terrified.
The runes had spoken. Until it was returned she could not be free. Until it was returned it was her fate to be guilty of sin, shut up in dwelling-places of devils, bound in bonds of hell, and tormented with evil …
‘Leo!’ He
was dozing, sitting on the verge, and suddenly Zoë was there beside him. She was panting, glancing over her shoulder. ‘This way. Quickly.’
He scrambled up and followed her without pausing to question her. Bending low so they were hidden by the hedge they slipped along the field and cut across the corner, out of sight of the burial mound and the men standing round it.
She pulled him off the path and into the wood, turning away from the river and running as fast as she could ahead of him now away from the barns, along the top of the ridge to where the trees were thicker and gave better cover. Only then did she slow down and bend double, trying to regain her breath.
He slid to the ground beside her, panting. ‘What happened? Why are we running?’
They had both looked back. The woods were silent. She shook her head. ‘Ken is around here. I didn’t want him to see us. Not yet. Not like this. I’ve got to think how to talk to him. I spoke to the men and they said he had been up there only an hour ago. Rosemary is still in a coma as far as they know. They’ve found a body, Leo! A man’s body buried in the mound.’
‘The owner of the sword.’
She shook her head. ‘They think it’s Victorian. They are waiting for someone to come and look at it officially, but the police photographer said it had had its neck broken. It’s Dan! It must be. The man I saw hanging. The man from the séance!’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do. Who else could it be? How many Victorian men round here were murdered?’ She realised her hands were shaking. ‘I am sure it’s him. It’s all coming together, don’t you see? That’s why he appeared. He knew people were poking round his grave. We have to do something, Leo. He wants us to find out what happened.’
Leo shook his head slowly. Then he looked up, staring up into the branches of the great pine above their heads. ‘First things first. Are they keeping watch over the site?’
‘They must be. There is tape everywhere and a tent over the diggings so we can’t rebury the sword. Even if we managed to get it into the grave, they will find it straight away. The man I spoke to was talking about archaeologists digging up the mound, taking the body away and then searching to see if it was originally an Anglo-Saxon burial. Apparently the local historians are very excited. They have always known about the site, it’s even on some maps, but this has reawakened interest in it, and it is now considered endangered because of Rosemary’s demand that it be recognised as a public footpath.’
Leo sighed. ‘So does that mean we can’t bury the sword even if we wanted to?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It changes our options. We could still take it to the museum. I would have to explain where I found it but I’ve nothing to hide. It wasn’t me that stole it in the first place. Or you keep it after all and do your own research.’ She shook her head. ‘They are going to dig up this whole place now; the poor man whose grave it is will be stuck in a museum! I think that is awful. Leo!’ She hesitated, then she went on, suddenly certain that she was right. ‘I am probably being stupid and romantic and unscientific, but I think in some ways it would almost be better to give it to the ancient gods than let it go to a museum; we could send it to a watery grave. In the river!’
‘No!’ The scream echoed through Rosemary’s head. ‘No, you have to put it back. You have to! Until you put it back, I am in hell!’
There was no one to hear her scream. A nurse noted a sudden irregularity in her pulse, visible on one of the screens, that was all. It lasted a fraction of a second, and was gone.
19
Henry Crosby had hired a trap to bring him from the station and sent it away at the front door. He walked into the hall and, putting down his valise, stared round. He put his hat and gloves onto the hall stand and frowned. There were no servants to answer the doorbell. No one there at all. He walked towards the morning room and threw open the door. Despite the coldness of the morning no one had lit a fire in the grate and the room had an unlived-in feel. He strode across to the fireplace and rang the bell. He could hear it jangling in the depths of the house.
For a long time no one came, then at last he heard the scurry of feet. A flustered parlour maid appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh, sir, oh, sir, I’m sorry, sir!’ She bobbed a curtsey. ‘We didn’t know you was here, sir.’
He turned and looked at her. ‘No matter. Make up the fire and tell Beaton to come here.’
The girl hesitated, as though unable to decide which to do first. He sighed impatiently. ‘Call Beaton, girl. Now.’
He stood staring down at the rent table in the centre of the room as he waited. The magazines laid out on it were out of date and there was dust on the surface.
Beaton arrived at last, as flustered as the girl had been. ‘Mr Henry, sir. I’m sorry. I received no word that you were returning.’
‘I shouldn’t need to send word,’ Henry retorted. ‘What in the world has been going on here, man? The place is a mess.’ He ran a critical finger through the dust and left a straight line across the inlaid leather centre of the table. ‘See to it that the fires are lit and the place is cleaned. And tell my wife I want to speak to her in here.’
Beaton shuffled his feet uncomfortably. ‘Lady Emily hasn’t been home, sir, for several days.’
Henry spun to face him. ‘What do you mean she hasn’t been home?’
‘Her ladyship was in the habit of going for walks in the morning, sir. She was unable to ride as the cob is lame, so she walked a little before breakfast each day.’
‘And?’
‘And on Tuesday the new girl, Sally, told me that her mistress had not returned by lunchtime. I was concerned, sir, and sent the servants out to look for her, but no trace of her was found and I decided, that is, we decided,’ he hesitated, ‘that she had walked into the village, sir, and from there obtained a lift to the railway station. I understand she had been unhappy here on her own for so long, Mr Henry,’ Beaton raised his chin a little, ‘and had written to ask her father to send for her.’
Henry met his eye thoughtfully. ‘I see. Then we should contact her father and make sure she arrived safely. I will write at once. Send Mayhew to me, if you will, and make sure the servants see to the house.’
Bill Turtill was standing looking down into the grave. The call had come early in the morning and he had met the coroner’s car at the corner of the field. The two men strode across the muddy furrows, both wearing boots and thick jackets against the wind and rain. A tent had been erected over most of the mound and inside it was lit by high-powered lamps. Two men and a woman were working on the site, sifting through the soil with small brushes and implements that looked like scalpels.
‘Another body, you say?’ Bill scratched his head.
‘Lying near the original fellow.’ One of the archaeologists, Colin Hall, adjusted one of the lamps slightly. ‘This one is female and I am hopeful we will get an identification. There is jewellery and the remnants of her boots.’
‘Lady Emily Crosby,’ Bill said slowly. ‘It must be. She lived up at the Hall in the mid-nineteenth century. My great-great-however-many greats grandfather was farm manager here at the time and the story was handed down. She disappeared without trace and was never seen again. There was a hell of a stink about it. Rewards offered, accusations. Tremendous scandal. I understand she had been having an affair with one of the farm labourers and he disappeared around the same time. The theory was they had run away together.’
‘So you think this chap here,’ David Swinburne, the coroner, waved in the direction of the other skeleton, ‘is her lover?’ He had pulled out a notebook and scribbled down the name. The presence of the coroner in person was, he had explained, the result of the exceptional historical interest of this case.
Bill was silent for several seconds. ‘Might be.’
‘So, who killed them?’ Swinburne asked.
‘You don’t think it was a suicide pact?’
‘Not unless they buried themselves first.’
‘Look at her finger bones he
re.’ Mel Parker, the second archaeologist looked up. ‘She’s wearing a wedding ring, two other small diamond rings, a gold bracelet, and there, round her neck, a gold chain with a locket on it. So, it wasn’t a robbery.’
There was a patter of rain against the sides of the tent. Bill shivered. ‘I remember my grandfather talking about this when I was a nipper. I wish I had listened more carefully. Her husband lived here for years and years on his own after she disappeared. I don’t think he ever remarried. He was the last of the Crosbys. After that the Hall passed to some distant relation, if I remember right. It’s in some history book Penny’s got at home. I’ll see if I can find it. Or Lesley Inworth might know. She lives at the Hall and she’s taken a bit of an interest in the history of the place.’
He squatted down on his haunches and looked more closely at the skeleton in the grave in front of him. ‘So, is there no Anglo-Saxon king, then?’
Colin shook his head. ‘Oh, I think this is originally an Anglo-Saxon burial; we’ve found one or two artefacts to substantiate that story.’ He waved behind him where a makeshift table displayed some muddy lumps of metal and pottery. ‘But I doubt if he’ll turn out to be a king. And if Sutton Hoo is anything to go by there won’t be much left of the body after so long. We’ve got to get these two out first, then we’ll work our way into the site. He may have been cremated, in which case he’ll be in a pot. Or there may be more grave goods. That will tell us more about him.’
‘And no one can insist on a footpath crossing over the top of this place?’
The man laughed grimly. ‘I doubt it. How is the lady who was hurt, do you know?’
‘She’s had an operation to remove a blood clot on the brain. I understand they are keeping her unconscious for the time being.’
‘Nasty business.’ David Swinburne frowned unhappily. ‘These bloody people who insist on rights of way for no reason at all! Who in God’s name would want to walk across here anyway?’ He gave a theatrical shudder as another gust of wind rattled the walls of the tent.
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