Letty was sorting through the mixed bag of knowledge she had been left by girls’ school Divinity Class and yawned-through sermons in the local church. She acknowledged that she was on shaky ground and in the presence of an expert.
“But why mistranslate? Carelessness or deliberate intent, do you think?”
“Deliberately done, I’d say. Pope Gregory cast the first stone in the sixth century. He declared Magdalene to be a sinful woman, quoting the mistranslation from Luke, and calling up the evidence of the perfume pot to strengthen his argument. Only a professional harlot, the Pope surmised, would have been in possession of such an expensive substance and he could well imagine—and he proceeded to rather fervidly conjure up—the erotic uses to which it might well have been put by such a woman. Part of the age-old male struggle to keep women in their rightful place. It suited the early Church and the medieval clergy to dismiss her as a harlot whom they could despise and hold up as an awful warning and—a reformed harlot, one who repented and owed her rehabilitation to Christ—all the better! Repentance is always to be applauded.”
“Mmm…The sort of thing that goes down well in certain quarters in women’s Colleges, too. But I like this lady,” said Letty, eyes still on the fresco. “She doesn’t look repentant, does she? And can you explain the hair? If she came from the Holy Land or Egypt, she would have been dark-haired, wouldn’t she?”
“Undoubtedly. And here’s another possibly deliberate mistranslation of her name: in ancient Hebrew it can be taken to mean ‘wavy fair hair’—and, of course, the symbol in the Middle Ages for a harlot was uncoiffed, flowing golden hair. Combine that with the story of a woman drying Christ’s feet with her hair and there you are—a damning convergence.”
“Well! So you’re saying that the original, living Magdalene—assuming her to have, indeed, once lived—was a dark-eyed, dark-haired, modest Semitic girl of untarnished reputation and some consequence?”
He smiled and shook his head. “Won’t quite do, either. I think the lady was a firebrand,” he said, “whatever her appearance. In the male-dominated society of the day—and even Christ speaks dismissively of his own mother at times—Magdalene stands out. She was intelligent, determined, and resourceful. Praise is not exactly heaped on her by the men who wrote the Gospels—you wouldn’t expect it in that society—but anyone can deduce her quality purely from her behaviour and her reported words. And if her critics, some might say her enemies, who recorded events weren’t able to conceal her abilities, she must have been a remarkable woman. I’ve always been intrigued by her.”
“She does shine through,” said Letty slowly, “though never in the fire-and-brimstone sermons your profession delivers from the pulpit. Have you ever heard a vicar preach about her courage—the way she stood at the foot of the Cross with Mary and John when everyone else had run away? That’s the bit that always impressed me. What about all those tough fishermen? Where were they? In hiding. And who was first on the scene at the tomb? Who rousted out the disciples and opened their eyes to the significance of what was happening? Magdalene.”
He gave Letty a glance, a glance in which surprise was mingled with calculation. “There are those who would say, particularly amongst German Bible scholars—and with very good evidence at their disposal—that Magdalene was more influential than Peter himself. That she was the Apostle of Apostles.”
“William, where on earth do you come by your information?” She looked at him doubtfully, and as he made no reply she turned her attention again to the fresco. “That’s an astonishing claim.” She stared with fresh eyes at the portrait. “And yet I have a feeling that whoever was responsible for this picture might well have agreed with you…I know what’s different about this one! Sorry! I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, William. Let’s sit down for a moment…ease your leg a bit—and my back. Give me a chance to absorb all this.”
“So you’ve seen it at last?”
“Yes. In all the other portraits, she’s shown on her knees, looking upwards and sideways to the heavens with a beseeching look on her face. Like this…” She affected a pious pose. “But not here. Here, she’s looking straight at the camera, you could say. Is that a challenge or a question in her expression? It’s disconcerting, anyway. William! That’s what Daniel saw! He saw a girl who, whatever else she may be, is quite definitely not a saint. A girl with all the conscious seduction of a Botticelli girl—an Aphrodite, a Persephone…a goddess, anyway, with the power to do good or evil at her whim.”
“Anything else you notice?”
“You really want me to plod on? Very well…The countryside. The scenery. It’s here. It’s Burgundy. But you’d expect that. The artist was probably home-bred and familiar with no other. But it’s very precise, isn’t it? It’s not an idealised picture of Arcady. The outline of those hills on either side of her…that abrupt slope over there…the way that wooded valley curves down…is that a spring leaping from her right forefinger? I think it is. And those sheaves of corn at her feet? It’s an actual scene familiar to some medieval artist. He’s claiming her. Planting her firmly in the soil of Burgundy.”
“I think so, too. I was so intrigued by the artist’s view of the horizon I made a copy of it.” He searched in his pocket and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Over the centuries, forests and fields change their shape, encroach on each other’s territory, but I’d say the range of hills we see here has stayed more or less the same over the centuries.”
“May I keep this?”
“Of course. Perhaps one day in a far corner of the county you’ll look up and see this very formation. My new friend the parish priest tells me Provence doesn’t have exclusive rights to this saint. There have always been folktales which stress that her body was carried north from Provence and buried here in Burgundy.”
“Perhaps here? In Fontigny Sainte-Reine,” murmured Letty. “I had assumed the Holy Queen title referred to Mary the mother of Christ, but it could, I suppose, be honouring the Magdalene?”
“I suppose it’s possible,” he said indulgently.
She sighed. “Daniel would have known. You know, William, it’s at times like this that I really miss my godfather.”
He grimaced. “Well, ‘now you’ve got me,’ as someone once said. Not a completely satisfactory arrangement for either of us, I’ll agree, and, compared with Daniel’s certainties, my hesitations and supposings must be very irritating. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not unsympathetic, and I didn’t mean to be rude. And Doubting Thomas is my favourite saint. I’ve often wondered why he isn’t the patron saint of scientists—‘Prove it!’” She grinned. “I always back the wrong side. I support the underdog, the reprobate, the sinner. I know I’d have an easier conversation with Thomas or the Magdalene than with any of the other biblical cast of characters. ‘Subversive’ is the label they gave me at Cambridge. I’m not good company for a Man of God, you’ll find.”
He rose, smiling, to his feet and offered his hand. “I’ve had worse. You should hear what they had to say about the Lord down in the destitutes’ shelter. But that’s enough saints for one day. And, I’ll tell you what, Letty, a very unsaintly feeling is taking the place of all this intellectual curiosity—I’m hungry. And I know we’ve got ris de veau this evening.”
“Really? Shall I like that?”
Paradee had just returned from his overnight stay in Lyon, the engine of his old Citroën still steaming, and was waiting for them on site when Letty arrived for her third day’s work. Tactfully, the boys melted away, moving off in the direction of the supplies store to start getting out the equipment. The director of the dig was stern when he greeted her but Paradee was not, she thought, quite in a sacking mood.
“I hear you had a productive day, yesterday? Well done. I haven’t had time to check the work myself yet but I will. Everything okay, Stella? Everything?”
The emphasis was unmistakable. Concisely she told him that she had been unable to avoid meeting the count but had spent very lit
tle time in his company and, after a mutually disagreeable experience, had returned home and played poker with the boys and the vicar. Paradee’s eyes narrowed in disbelief and he seemed uncertain as to how to deal with her. Finally his expression melted into one of humour. “‘Of course not, Charles…Anything you say, Charles,’” he mocked, in imitation of her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth lie. “Hmm…you know I will never believe another word you say, Stella? Seeing d’Aubec was pure disobedience, and if I were paying you a wage I’d darned well dock you a day’s pay. As I’m not, I’m left a bit short of suitable punishments so we’ll have to let it go.” He scrubbed the soil with his boot, in thought, and then asked her, “I trust the villain was on his best behaviour?”
“I have no complaint,” she said, “except that he wasted my evening.”
“Ah? You weren’t exactly swept away by his charms, then? He has the reputation of being a charmer.”
“He wasn’t practising his skills on me. Merely attempting to make a public restitution for his display of bad behaviour the previous night. I don’t think we exchanged a civil word the whole evening. And I never did find out what I really wanted to know.”
“Yes? Which was…?”
“Why he was beating that poor boy.”
“He wouldn’t want to discuss that. The boy is one of his stable lads, I hear, so d’Aubec probably thinks he has the right. Now, if you’re ready, you can get to work.” He looked at his watch. “Where on earth is everyone? Patrick! Phil! Fabrice! Perhaps I should go out and get myself a riding crop,” he grumbled. “That’s the way to get attention around here!”
A concerned Phil hurried over to them with bad news: the trench that they had been working on the previous week had collapsed. “We didn’t shore it—didn’t see the need. It’s not particularly friable soil and it’s not that deep. Should have been okay, but there’s just a pile of rubble and soil in there,” he reported, dismayed. “Right at the point where the corner of the colonnade was turning. There’s a half hour of digging to be done before I can get on with the reveal.”
They all trooped over to have a look. “The tarpaulin?” said Paradee, in a voice laced with suspicion.
“Over there. Neatly folded. I thought I’d put it in place before we packed up,” said Phil. He exchanged a concerned look with Paradee. “In fact, I know I did. The warning markers are all, as you see, where they should be.”
“Any sign of interference? I hope to goodness we’re not looking at a recurrence of last year’s trouble.” Paradee turned to Letty. “When we first got started here and folk didn’t understand what in blazes we were up to, digging around in the square, some of them resented our presence…a child crawled under a tarpaulin and scared himself silly…and there was a little sabotage as a result. No problems since then. The curé, bless him, had a few words in the right ears. And we’re meticulous about public safety. We put up barricades…I even employ a night watchman. So where was he last night?”
“In his shelter in the main square,” said Phil, “where he always is. I had a word with him before he left. Nothing to report, apparently. This alley is way off his sight line. But judging by the empty brandy bottle in his shelter, he might well not have noticed a great deal, sir.”
Paradee sighed. “Drunk again? Well, it’s the last time he pulls that trick. Tell him to see me when he reports for duty tonight.”
“Of course. Look, I’ll get in there and move this mess.” Phil’s shoulders slumped at the prospect. “Barrow it away and see if I can find out what caused the collapse.”
Paradee was turning to Letty with a question or an order when she spoke quickly: “Shall I help him? We could take an end each?” She heard herself volunteering for this boring task and was not eager to examine her motives for offering. With nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to atone for, perhaps she simply wanted to impress Paradee? She chose to think her motive was to repay Phil for his kindness the day before.
“Well, I reckon that would be a kind act.” Paradee rewarded her with a broad smile. “I’ll stop by and take over in a minute when I’ve dropped off my bags.” He peered resentfully at the crumbling earth filling the trench and the gaping hole in the side from which it had slipped. “What a waste of time! Look, you two—keep an eye open, will you? Not quite sure what for, but…well, there’s something wrong here…Looks to me as if there’s far too much soil down there for an accidental slippage. And it’s been churned up. Some fool’s been messing around.”
Phil leapt into the trench and took up the shovel lying ready by the pile. Letty, similarly equipped, jumped down and started at the other end. Someone obligingly wheeled barrows to the side of the trench and they began, good-humouredly, to clear up.
Letty had filled a barrow with earth from her end when the rhythm of her swing broke. She stopped digging and uttered a gasp of surprise. She looked up and hailed a passing student. “Léon! Lend me your trowel for a minute, will you?”
Paradee, strolling towards them, heard her exclamation and saw that Letty was looking intently at something buried at her knee level. She had exchanged her spade for a trowel to remove earth more delicately from the object she had her eye on: the unmistakable sequence of gestures an archaeologist will pick up and interpret as a find in the offing. He quickened his stride.
“Stella?” he said eagerly. And asked the inevitable question: “What’ve we got?”
She looked up at him. “Feet,” she said. “We’ve got feet.”
CHAPTER 17
Suddenly the sky above her head was almost blotted out by faces lining the trench, startled, eager, curious faces.
“Get another spade and help, will someone?” Letty said urgently, beginning to dig again. “It’s not ancient. It’s not a skeleton. It’s a body—a man. He’s wearing size eight boots.”
“Get the girl out of there!” Paradee’s voice rapped out, concerned and decisive.
She impatiently dashed aside the hands that reached down to her. “No! Charles, come down and help me.”
The director lowered himself into the hole. In a moment he was grasping her arm, moving her gently aside, picking up the shovel, and attacking the layers of earth above the body. He threw up instructions with every shovelful of earth. “Léon, run for the doctor. Alain, fetch the police—report an accident. Keep digging! He may not be dead, whoever this is. Fabrice—see if you can find the curé.”
“Well, if ever I’m caught in a landslide at the bottom of a trench,” Letty decided, fighting down a touch of hysteria, “I’ll count myself very lucky if there just happen to be six trained archaeologists on hand.”
Phil made inroads from the other side and in minutes the body had been dug free. They stood looking down with pity and fascination at the young man revealed. He was lying on his side in a foetal position, which reminded her sickeningly of Iron Age burials she had seen. He was caked in earth, and was ominously still. The leather jacket he was wearing was a size too large for the skinny body and much scuffed. The fists were clenched in a pathetic show of retaliation. Paradee bent over him and listened for a heartbeat. Then he pulled back the jacket sleeve to check for a pulse. Paradee glanced up at the anxious faces and slowly shook his head, stricken. “He’s dead. Poor feller—he’s been dead for some time, I’d say. Hours rather than days, probably.”
Letty was standing rigid with shock, glad that all eyes were riveted on the dead man. She hoped that anyone taking notice of her—which seemed unlikely—would dismiss her pale face and staring eyes as no more than the girlish reaction to a grisly discovery. When she could find her voice, she said, “I know who this is. And so do you, Phil.” Phil nodded, clearly shaken. “It’s the young man d’Aubec was beating two nights ago. His groom, I think you said. As for time…” She pointed to the wrist Paradee had revealed when he pulled up the sleeve. “Look! His watch has been smashed. It may tell us at what hour he died, don’t you think?”
Before he could stop her, she had knelt by the body and with quick fing
ers unfastened the watch and, after a glance, held it out to Paradee.
He took it gingerly and peered at the face. “It says twelve-thirty. Half past midnight, do you think? Last night? The night before?” he said, then recollecting himself, “For goodness’ sake, Stella! Why d’you do that? We should leave everything as we found it. This may be the scene of a crime.”
“Oh, gosh! Yes, you’re right, Charles. I’ll put it back. Though it does tell us he was messing about here after dark. Long after the team had packed up. What was he doing? Looking for something?”
“Having a pee?” suggested someone above. “Vomiting? Drunk? Lost his balance and fell in?”
“No…er…physical evidence of the evacuation of bodily fluids immediately visible,” said Paradee delicately. “And his clothing is all intact and buttoned up. And are we to suppose that the side of the trench obligingly fell in on top of him? Hmm…Look—let’s leave this speculation to the police when they get here, okay?”
Letty noticed that his eyes were taking in every detail. He was doing a good job of hiding his distress under a layer of calm authority, until he instinctively rubbed his damp forehead with a hand, leaving a smear of earth which suddenly made him look harassed and vulnerable. She took a handkerchief from her pocket and with a muttered “Let’s posh you up a bit for the officers of the Law, shall we?” she managed to repair the damage.
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