Bright Hair About the Bone

by Barbara Cleverly

  For a moment, Letty couldn’t move. Her heart was thumping; her voice was stuck in her throat.

  “Say, are you okay, Stella?”

  She snatched the card from Phil and took it to the window. With her back to the company she pretended to study it, hiding her confusion. “I’ve no idea what it’s about,” she said. “But yes, it’s very intriguing. Now, what can he be up to?”

  “May I?” said Gunning, strolling over and holding out a hand for the card. He began to laugh. “Ah, yes, I thought it sounded familiar. Surely this is a reference to an old English nursery rhyme? How does it go?…

  “The three black dogs of the Queen,

  The blackest you’ve ever seen,

  Ebony, Jet and Pitch,

  As black as the blackest witch…

  “You’re going to have to help me out, Miss St. Clair! You’re much nearer the age of nursery rhyme than I am!”

  She guessed, cynically, that he could probably have spun out the nonsense for several more verses, but she picked up his challenge to return to normality:

  “Their collars, I’m told,

  Were all of pure gold,…um…

  You couldn’t tell which was which,” she finished with a rush.

  The Americans stared from one to the other, uncomfortable with this display of English eccentricity. “But, alternatively, it could be a reference to the French folktale Les trois chiens noirs de Chinon, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yeah? And if that’s a French folktale, I’m the Gingerbread Man,” said Phil genially, holding out her jacket.

  “Well, it adds another charge to the count’s sheet,” said Letty dismissively. “To Grievous Bodily Harm and Exhibitionism you can now add Infantilism. He really should be put away in a place of safety.”

  There was no time even to flash a look of gratitude to Gunning. Phil was herding them out the door.

  “Save it for Paradee, Stella. You’re ready? Don’t want to be late on your first day. Come on now!”

  CHAPTER 13

  The church bell was tolling eight when they ducked through an archway and entered a courtyard crowded with freshly watered flower boxes.

  “That’s Mr. Paradee’s private residence,” Phil explained, pointing to the left-hand side of the medieval stone building. “And over here’s where the boss has his office…workroom…control centre.”

  The boys lined up at the carved wooden door of Paradee’s office and banged the knocker. Letty was impressed to see them unconsciously smooth down their hair and adjust their collars as they waited. What sort of martinet could their employer be? And would she pass muster herself? She’d put on an outfit that clearly announced her intention of stepping straight into a trench, trowel in hand. She was telling the world that she was not the kind of woman who would teeter on the edge of an excavation shouting out instructions and keeping her shoes and fingers clean. Freshly pressed but well worn, her khaki trousers, matching shirt, and laced desert boots had been unremarkable in Egypt but, strangely, here in France, she’d noticed a few startled looks as she ran along the street with the boys. Too bad—if the fellahin could accept her, so could the French.

  The door swung back, opened by the director himself.

  “Stella St. Clair, sir,” murmured the boys respectfully, and they slipped away around the corner, leaving her face-to-face with the talented archaeologist Daniel had written of in admiring terms.

  And her letter to Esmé that evening, she decided, would be full of fascinating detail. Esmé would expect it. An impressive man. Yes, she would say—impressive. Taller than herself by an inch or two, slim and active-looking. Light brown hair worn rather long, and narrowed brown eyes in a weathered face which seemed moulded thinly over a well-shaped skull. This was a face destined for distinction in later years. But for now, Letty thought, a severe face when his smile of welcome faded. And it seemed to her that it faded more quickly than might have been expected. A calloused hand took hers in a formal handshake. A man who evidently still did his share of trench work, then. With his well-cut tweed Norfolk jacket, linen shirt, and Charvet scarf knotted at the neck, Charles Paradee presented, all in all, an entirely proper appearance for a site director. Letty thought she might omit to mention in her letter that he was, as her friend had annoyingly predicted, somewhat elderly. About forty? Disappointing perhaps, but unsurprising. This was the age by which a man might count on having risen to a position of esteem in the archaeological world.

  She was less confident of the impression she was making on him. Had the first, hastily disguised reaction been one of astonishment? Or could it have been disapproval? His moment of consternation over, he began to speak and to speak volubly: “Come in, Miss St. Clair…Stella. We’re all glad you could get here—we’d worried we’d be starting the season short-handed. I’ve read your recommendations and you’re far too well qualified for the job you’re going to do but—what the heck!—if you’re willing to do it, I’m not going to complain.”

  He went on talking as he led her through to his office. She took a swift look around and approved the ordered efficiency of the large room. Neatly labelled filing cabinets and storage drawers covered two walls. A third displayed large-scale detailed maps of the area and a montage of photographs, some taken from the air. In the centre stood a large table and it was to this Paradee directed her attention. Her first reaction to what she saw there was one of admiration, her second one of speculation. The three-dimensional model of Fontigny and the surrounding countryside was beautiful and carefully crafted, the work of expert hands. It was showy, it was not strictly necessary, and it must have cost a good deal of money. She could imagine the tut-tutting such a flourish would have raised from her mentor, the parsimonious and perpetually cash-strapped Andrew Merriman. The aerial photography underpinning the project was at the leading edge of archaeological research and represented a considerable investment of funds. She guessed this display was calculated to dazzle the eye of whoever was behind the enterprise: See how impressively I’m spending your money! Someone in this enterprise had more money than sense, she concluded. But the model was seductive, she had to admit.

  All the details were there: the tiny river curling away through wooded slopes, ranks of vines patterning the hillsides, and, in the very centre, the snail-shell cluster of houses that was Fontigny and at the heart, a superb miniature abbey.

  Paradee stood by, noting her appreciation. He answered the questions she put to him as she walked around it, looking and learning. They fell silent for a moment, in total rapport as they contemplated this ancient part of France spread out before them, rich and welcoming, fought over and lived in from the most ancient civilisations that wandered through, hunting and fishing, on to the early farmers, the horse-breeding Celts, the Gauls killed or enslaved by the settling Romans, and then the Middle Ages rising in triumph from the welter of the Dark Ages.

  Paradee was explaining that he was hoping to make further progress in tracking and revealing traces of the original abbey so that a definitive floor plan could be drawn up.

  “But with all these layers of civilisation,” said Letty hesitantly, “I’d guess the abbey itself was constructed over the ruins of earlier buildings?”

  “That’s so,” he said with an encouraging nod for her insight. “We know an earlier church existed here before the monks arrived with their stonemasons and their grand designs. We’re finding traces. And, of course, there are written records of such a church—it too was dedicated to Mary Magdalene, like the present one in the square. We have no clear idea yet just how far back it goes, but we’ll get there.”

  “Back to Roman times?” she offered. “A shrine to Mithras, god of the soldiery? I know people tended to build time after time on a spot considered hallowed in the region.”

  “Roman!” Paradee exclaimed, in gentle reprimand. “Oh, the glamour of the Romans! Why are they always the ones that women get excited about? I don’t hear them sighing with anticipation at the idea of digging up a…a…Visigoth!�
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  “You’re not to take me for a romantic treasure-hunter, Mr. Paradee!” Letty was stung to a sharp reply by the fear of being categorised with the rest of her sex. “I’m no admirer of Schliemann and his methods. But a civilisation that left so many treasures, so much literature, that gave us our legends, our language, and our laws—surely I can be excused for finding it relevant and fascinating? I’ll dig up a boring, moustachioed old Visigoth, if that’s what’s on offer, with all due care and attention and profound respect for his culture. I’ll record and tabulate his remains to the inch and publish a learned paper on it if required, but I’ll not deny that it’s the people I can sympathise with and feel I know that spark my deeper interest.”

  “You speak deprecatingly of Schliemann—surely you admire the work he did at Troy and Mycenae?”

  A sly question. Letty was keenly aware that this overtly companionable conversation was, in reality, an interview.

  “Schliemann! What man hasn’t admired his attack and energy, envied the way the gods appear to have smiled on his enterprise? What woman hasn’t pictured herself decked out in the gold and jewels of Helen of Troy? Like everyone, I’ve revelled in the buccaneering way he revealed to us a Homeric past. But…well, I’ve talked with men—scholars—who have serious reservations concerning Mr. Schliemann’s methods, even his honesty. One of his own countrymen described him bluntly, and possibly slanderously, as a ‘swindler and con man.’ Another has suggested, more judiciously, that ‘he who hideth can find.’ I’ve been trained to ask questions and take nothing at face value. So—my admiration is qualified.”

  “You know the story of Schliemann’s unearthing of the gold Mask of Agamemnon?”

  Letty nodded. “‘Today I have gazed on the face of Agamemnon,’ he said in his telegram to the King of Greece. What a moment!”

  “Yes, something like that—but, did you realise that’s exactly what he meant? He’d seen the face of the old warrior? The story goes that the metal had preserved the part of the body that it covered and, the instant Schliemann lifted the mask from the earth, he saw below the actual features, thirty-two perfect teeth, half-closed eyes, moustache, and all. He bent and kissed it but the face disintegrated into dust at his touch. He was left holding no more than the gold death mask.”

  “Hail and farewell!” said Letty. “No, I hadn’t heard that story. And I’m not sure I believe it—though it’s certainly entertaining. Can you be certain of this?”

  He smiled an acknowledgement of her scepticism but persisted: “I have a question for you. Imagine yourself in that grave shaft. You uncover the mask. At your elbow is an ancient deity. She…something tells me it would be she… makes you an offer. She gives you a magical choice. You can keep either the face of the Achaean warrior himself, preserved for posterity, or the golden image. Which would you choose?”

  “Oh, the face, of course.” Letty had not hesitated. She enquired innocently, “Have I passed the test?”

  He laughed. “You made the female choice. But you’re very direct. A Merriman disciple, of course. Stands out a mile! It’s that blend of scientific rigour and romantic enthusiasm he teaches. Merriman! There are rumours about the good professor. Tell me—are the stories we hear about his exploits true?”

  Letty had learned that archaeologists revelled in a hint of scandal, usually about their fellows, and she’d been asked the same thing a hundred times. Andrew Merriman, as her father had hinted, was a man who attracted gossip, most of it undeserved. She decided to tease Paradee a little for his indiscretion and murmured in reply, “Oh, yes. I’ve heard those stories. I grew very close to Andrew in the desert—miles from civilisation and living in tents as we were, it is quite inevitable that a certain intimacy will develop—and I can tell you…his technique is amazing and the reports of his stamina are not exaggerated.”

  There was a stunned silence while Paradee digested this. Letty chided herself for falling into his trap. Encouraged by his friendly enthusiasm, she had been lured into a premature assumption of confidence. Now he would mark her down as an untrustworthy female tittle-tattle. She belatedly remembered that she was not speaking to one of her Bohemian friends who would appreciate and respond lightly to saucy innuendo of this kind. No, she had gone too far, and she hurried to finish, not with the knowing air of conspiracy she normally used when repaying the indelicate question, but with a show of girlish innocence. “The skill with which the professor handles a trowel is superb, and, do you know, he digs for twelve hours a day and then spends two more hours writing up the day’s report! And is quite deaf to Lady Merriman’s complaints and dire warnings concerning his health. Andrew’s in wonderful health for his age. He declares the hot dry climate keeps his arthritis at bay. But you were about to speak of Roman remains, I think?”

  “Ah. Yes. Romans. Well, we’re encountering traces of them—and of earlier civilisations.” Relieved by the change of tack, Paradee moved along the board and pointed to the excavation site. “We’re technically digging to reveal and define the eleventh-century abbey, but…well, if our spade should slip and go a little deeper…or wider…who knows what we might find? A forum, a theatre, a villa, a mosaic floor, a hoard of coins? Any of these would be frosting on the archaeological cake.”

  “Though in revealing them, you’d be destroying the traces of the original abbey?”

  He frowned. “Archaeology is destruction of a sort. You know that. No way around it.”

  “And Roman remains would guarantee wide interest and financial support?” she suggested.

  His face creased in a very pleasant way into a grin. “Straight to the heart of our problem, Stella!” he said, again approving her perception. “Funding is vital, of course. We’re all seeking our own Lord Carnarvon. And, you’re right—in this game money follows glory.” His mouth narrowed in—distaste? determination? “We’re concerned to reveal the language we can learn from the layers of earth we uncover…the broken lug of a pot, a dark patch of charcoal staining, a glittering gold coin, a dull halfpenny—they all have their equal and exact place in the context of a dig. They are our grammar. But it’s not always immediately comprehensible or attractive to the general public.”

  “A general public that enjoys screaming headlines of the Revenge of the Pharaoh! Fabulous Treasure Revealed in Egyptian Desert, Ten Archaeologists Die Hideously, Victims of an Ancient Curse! type?”

  “You’ve got it! Certainly beats Further Six Feet of Monastery Wall Uncovered in Deepest France. All Excavators Healthy and Well.”

  She turned again to the model. “And where, Mr. Paradee…very well, Charles…given a clear area, would you have placed your villa, had you been a colonising Roman?”

  “It wouldn’t have been exactly clear even in the first century. As a colonising Roman, let’s say a soldier being pensioned off with a parcel of land here in the Burgundy hills, I’d have thanked the gods and the emperor for their generosity and I’d have set about clearing my land of indigenous and, no doubt, unfriendly tribesmen. Probably some of my old army buddies would have come along to help me. Anyway, I’d have been pleased with what I found here. Good river providing links to Provence, which was already Romanised, and beyond to the sea. Good rolling land that would produce better wine than the old vineyards back home, as well as grain and fruit. Plenty of wood and easily worked local stone for building. Game in the forest, fish in the river. No shortage of Celtic slaves to do the hard labour. Time, at last, to marry, perhaps the daughter of a good friend back home, perhaps a local woman…time to settle down and raise a family. Sons to continue the line…”

  Into Letty’s mind flashed, unwelcome, the memory of the aggressive stranger of the previous evening. She remembered his dark looks, his springing black hair, his aquiline nose, its majesty somewhat reduced by the trail of green liquid dripping from the tip. Did Edmond d’Aubec trace his aristocratic blood-line back through the centuries to some energetic and prolific Roman settler now no longer even a race memory?

  Paradee was tal
king on with enthusiasm. “There. That’s where I’d have settled,” he said, pointing. “It’s perfect. It has everything—a high promontory of a site…easily defensible…commands a view down two valleys. Fresh water and grazing.”

  “But there is a building there,” said Letty, leaning over the model. “It’s a castle, isn’t it? Thirteenth century, by the look of it.” She took in the tiny but detailed keep surrounded by a double curtain wall; she could even make out a formal garden in the courtyard.

  “That’s right. Thirteenth century and still impregnable, I’m afraid,” said Paradee. “We’ve tried. What wouldn’t I give to be able to do a little digging around up there! But that’s Brancy le Château, ancient seat of the Counts of Brancy. They were almost as rich and powerful as the Black Monks of Fontigny for centuries, but they’ve weathered somewhat better than the monks. The castle is more or less intact and remains the stronghold of the latest in the line, who lives there with his old hag of a mother and a small army of retainers. Edmond d’Aubec.”

  “D’Aubec? Ah, yes…I believe I may have caught a glimpse of him last night.”

  Paradee allowed her half-truth to hang in the air. “So I heard. Now listen, Stella—you keep away from that man. You’re part of my team now and my team has strict orders to stay clear of him. D’Aubec’s trouble.”

  “He’s an arrogant bully and a very suitable subject for a study by Herr Freud,” she countered lightly.

  “He’s not a man you can dismiss like that. His cavalier style may seem outrageous and from another age, but this is no worn-out aristocrat pathetically hanging on to the shreds of his pedigree. He’s got the clout to back up his pretensions. He’s got a lot of money—not an inherited fortune, but new money, money he’s made himself. He’s a businessman with a finger in every pie in Burgundy—and beyond. And he’s in my way.”