He smiled and handed her the letter. ‘I think you should read it out. It is certainly your discovery and a remarkable one.’
She read through the first few lines silently, presumably the greeting between friends. ‘Ah, here it is. “I thank you for the remarkable drawing –” oh, gosh “– of the skull recovered from the barrow known as Hound Butt. I agree it is definitely canid and not ursine—” Is that bear?’ When Conway nodded she carried on. ‘“But I agree it is not a dog. This is a wolf, I suspect similar in anatomy to Canadian timber wolves I have examined in the museum. It must have been an enormous specimen if the artist’s measurements are correct.”’ She turned the sheet over. ‘“Domestic dogs are known from ten or fifteen thousand years earlier; this does not appear to share many characteristics with those remains, of which we have a whole drawer here in the museum.” Then he sends his best wishes.’
‘Well, gentlemen, lady, what interpretation do you make now?’
I looked at Peter. ‘I suppose it is possible that the wolf attacked the man, and killed him. But why would they bury the two together?’
‘Mr Masters, have I taught you nothing?’ The prof pretended to be wounded. ‘We cannot apply the tastes and mores of the modern world to the lives of these people. There are scratches upon the man’s bones, we have all seen them. Imagine that they were caused by those canine teeth, and not spears or arrows. And the animal, mortally wounded, was despatched by some blade. What more fitting memorial for a warrior: forever battling with the creature that killed him?’
The maid, Tilly, gave a little squeak. Mr Chorleigh folded his newspaper with a snap. He spoke to the air somewhere between me and Peter. ‘The whole thing is morbid. The servants are making up all sorts of stories, curses and whatnot. By all means record your discoveries and then put the bones back where you found them.’
‘But we’ve only just started cataloguing.’ Peter stood, and I felt compelled to follow. ‘We have so much to learn.’
‘Not only is the excavation disturbing, but your mother is feeling the strain. I will not have her senses overcome again. Perhaps having visitors so soon has been bad for her.’
Peter grew red in the face. ‘That’s unfair. She’s loved having Ed here, she told me so the other day. She said it was a distraction from her sadness.’
‘Well, it is a dangerous distraction. I’m sure you understand, Mr Masters.’
I was quick to agree. ‘Of course. I’ll make arrangements.’
‘There’s no urgency,’ Mr Chorleigh said gruffly. ‘But it is time to repair the damage to the barrow and bury the bones. I shall be taking Mrs Chorleigh up to see her sister in London for a few days. I hope the excursion will be good for her.’
Peter turned to Molly. ‘Are you going?’
Molly looked at her father. ‘I would rather stay here. I know Hilda would keep me company.’
Professor Conway took another piece of toast. ‘And I can be out of your hair before you get back. I am so grateful for the visit, Chorleigh, you have a wonderful house and your family have been very kind.’
Mr Chorleigh nodded in acknowledgement, then left the room, leaving Peter and I standing awkwardly.
The professor accepted Molly’s offer of another cup of tea. ‘Goodness, your poor mother. I had a conversation with her yesterday; she says she is looking forward to doing a little shopping. The heat in London would be too oppressive for me, I must say. I only venture into hotter climes when I am sailing.’
‘We have a boat on the river, but I am the only one that sails now.’ Peter sat back down and nodded to Molly as she topped up our cups. ‘Thank you, Molls. I’m so sorry he is being so awkward, Professor.’
‘Not awkward at all. I think my remaining time might be best taken up with helping you record the remains,’ the professor said. ‘I noticed you have a camera. Why don’t we set up a tripod and document the bones for posterity?’
I took my cup from Molly. ‘Thank you. Should we just try and return the bones to the same positions we found them in?’
‘Certainly not. My own thought is that they should be better placed in a museum.’ The professor sipped his tea. ‘I suggest you gather all the bones in a bag or box and bury them where they can be easily retrieved, when your father has a change of heart, perhaps. The stones and soil can be returned to the barrow.’
Molly turned to Peter. ‘What was he talking about, the divorce case?’
‘I don’t know. Some underhand dealings I suppose.’
The professor put his knife down on his plate. ‘I’m afraid it’s quite common for relationships outside of marriage to force a divorce, if discovered. It happened to a friend of mine.’
‘But if there’s adultery, that’s not a crime any more, is it?’ Molly looked up from the table. ‘I mean, it’s immoral, and I know people speak of criminal conversation but it isn’t actually a crime?’
The professor looked at her. ‘Miss Molly, it is clear your father does not wish this discussed with you.’
‘But I’m not a child. I hate it when I get sent out of the room.’ She stared at him. ‘I nursed my sister through her final illness, Professor. I want to understand the world, I don’t want to be unprepared.’
‘Very well, but this must go no further, yes?’ He waited for Molly to nod. ‘Some men fall in love with people outside of their marriage. They can fall in love with someone they are forbidden to show affection to.’
Molly looked at me. ‘Forbidden? Who can forbid love?’
‘The law, my dear, prohibits physical love between two men.’
Molly froze. The silence was broken by the maid, Tilly, bustling in again with a fresh teapot.
‘Thank you, Tilly,’ Peter said, then waited until she left the room. ‘Why would a man of that disposition marry a woman in the first place?’
The professor smiled at us all. ‘“A man of that disposition” is like all men, he may find his earliest affections, or perhaps later ones, will fall upon a woman. He is not so abnormal that he does not enjoy the company of females. And our society demands that a young man is soon married to a young woman. There his natural affections will find a home. But if such a married man meets another man, and falls in love…’
‘Like the Greeks,’ I suggested. ‘Many fell in love with men, it was allowed.’
‘But now it is not,’ the professor said. ‘And people like your father are committed to judging and punishing such men.’
‘That is his responsibility,’ Peter said. ‘I think Father is right, Molls. This is not a suitable conversation for young ladies.’ His voice was graver than usual.
‘I never really understood,’ she said. She looked down at her plate, moved her cutlery around. ‘What about women? Do they sometimes fall in love with other women?’
The professor patted his napkin to his lips. ‘I’m quite sure they do, and have to conceal their love for propriety’s sake, but they are not committing a crime.’
Peter lifted his eyebrows. ‘My father would say: except against nature.’
The professor smiled, sadly I thought. ‘I’m sure he would.’
33
Wednesday 27th March, this year, forensic lab
The local morning news showed an unshaven Owen Sloane arrested and driven off to the police station the day before. When Sage phoned Lenham to offer her congratulations she got a terse answer back. ‘We’re not there yet. There’s a team briefing at two, make sure you’re there.’
‘Did you get a match to the DNA we found?’
‘We’re waiting for confirmation that it’s his blood on the leaves, and there’s a strong link to the plastic strip. But he’s not talking. We’re interviewing his family again.’
‘You got my message about the animals visiting Chorleigh House at night? Also, George Chorleigh may have had a motive to kill Lara.’
She could hear his sigh on the phone. ‘I don’t see how we can prove it after all these years. I still think Alistair Chorleigh knows something. I know when
I’m being lied to.’
‘He hated his father, he might talk if he knows he’s not the suspect.’
He huffed a breath. ‘Bloody hell, that opens about a dozen new lines of inquiry for us. I’ll put it to Chorleigh when I have time, see what we can get.’ Since Felix was still in Hampshire, Lenham asked Sage to request the professor attend the police station later.
Sage had a couple of hours to concentrate on the journal while she waited to receive answers to her inquiries about water sources on the Chorleigh property.
She placed the book on the examination table at the lab, under a large light. She knew from half-remembered lectures that it was possible to unstick pages, but the method partly depended on what materials had stuck. The ink would require one technique, the paper or glue another. She didn’t think cold would do any harm, so had left it overnight wrapped in plastic in her mother’s freezer.
There, the first stuck page started to yield to a carefully inserted thin spatula. It was less fixed than the back of the book and she could pry it loose. His journal immediately talked about the actual excavation, his enthusiasm coming off the page. Mixed in were observations of Peter – his affectionate focus. Another page sprung free, then a few more, just stuck at the edge. A folded piece of paper dropped out onto the bench as they did.
‘My dear Edwin…’ The writing was difficult to read; the ink hadn’t fared as well as Edwin’s own, which was probably one of the indelible inks. She wished she had paid more attention in the few classes she had taken about documents. They were mostly about the conservation of vellum and other ancient materials, rather than modern paper. This blue ink had faded in places, but minute traces showed up under alternative light sources. She photographed both sides. Whoever this R. Conway was, he was obviously fond of Edwin and an expert of the finds. ‘…quite correct as to date, although I think earlier rather than later, say 1800–1200 BC. What was so interesting is that this type of pot is Germanic in origin…’
She turned back to the pages, lifting each free as she went. Some were persistently stuck towards the spine, but she could still read them so didn’t worry. She took pictures as she went, noting pale pencil notes in the margins. She wondered how the family had got the journal, if it was so badly water damaged.
‘Sage?’ She jumped, but it was Jazz, the assistant. ‘I got your message.’
‘Thank you, Jazz. I was wondering if you got round to looking into water sources in the grounds of Chorleigh House.’
Jazz nodded. ‘You’re thinking about the water in the film case, aren’t you? There were two wells marked on the original map for the house. I’m waiting to hear back from the librarian at the New Forest Library archive, but they aren’t held digitally. She can get them for you if you want to view the originals, but I asked her to have a look for us.’ She turned her head to look at the pages. ‘Wow. Is that from the original excavation?’
‘It is.’ Sage showed her the clearest page, filled with Edwin’s enthusiastic description of the dig.
‘That’s fantastic. Can you get to all the pages?’
‘Not yet. You can give me a hand if you like.’ Sage showed her how to peel the pages apart, tugging in different places to loosen it, not forcing it. Some pages were harder to reveal, each one a gem of information on both sides. More letters fell out, some almost illegible with dark mould. Sage photographed each page as they were revealed. A few snippets from newspapers were pasted with glue, adding to the problem, sticking more pages together.
‘I can hardly make out the notes in the margin.’ Jazz tried to read the next page, a few notes then a scribbled sketch. ‘This is a voice from the past. I mean, no one’s read this since it was written. How did it get so wet?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sage said. ‘This isn’t like the damp you get from leaving it in a wet environment, this is the result of a soaking and then being left to dry. We can’t be sure when it got wet, but this level of mould damage suggests it was a long time ago.’
Jazz made a face. ‘I like to think it was from 1913.’
Sage grinned back. ‘Actually, Alistair Chorleigh said it has been like this as long as he can remember so it could date back that far. Did the police get back about the bloodstains on the leaves yet? Lenham mentioned they were waiting for results.’
‘Oh, shit, yes, you distracted me. It’s a definite match for River’s stepfather. He works at the plastics factory doing quality control on – guess what?’
‘Dental floss?’
Jazz took another photograph, squinting down the lens. ‘Exactly. And I’ve finished looking through the leaves, thank God. They’re charging him with the illegal burial but they’ve held back on the murder.’ She slid another fragment of a letter out and squinted at it. ‘So who’s this Conway guy, and why are there so many notes from him?’
Sage read on. ‘I think he was Edwin’s tutor at Oxford. He seemed excited to be studying under him next year, from what I’ve been able to read so far. He was planning to do a master’s degree in archaeology and antiquities. Shame he never got to do it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Didn’t I tell you? He disappeared.’ Sage teased another page but it started to tear and she went back to nudging other areas until it came free. ‘He vanished, leaving everything behind, including some drawings. He even left his wallet and glasses.’
‘Didn’t the drawings get wet, too?’
‘No, which is odd. I don’t even know where they found the journal. The sketches were OK, I think they never left the house. They were wrapped up in this very fine paper. I haven’t seen anything like it, it’s like tissue paper but much stronger.’
‘It could be onionskin paper, the sort of thing they separated photographs with.’ Jazz grinned. ‘My major was forensics, but I did a bit of historical criminology as well.’
The term was unfamiliar. Sage looked it up on the open computer, and it looked very similar. ‘That looks like it. The sketches were on good white paper, heavy, like cartridge paper.’ She had transferred the pictures she had taken at Chorleigh House to the computer. ‘These are my quick photos of the sketches but the light wasn’t good. I’ll try and scan them properly when Mr Chorleigh is feeling less defensive. Hopefully he’ll be more friendly when he realises he’s out of the frame for River’s murder.’
Jazz started looking through them. ‘You can see his point of view. They interviewed him twice, and they were pretty hard on him. Of course, at that point they thought he probably did it.’
‘It still wouldn’t have made any sense to bury her in his own garden under six inches of leaves,’ Sage said, leaning forward to see the images. They hadn’t come out well, but the sketches of Molly and Edwin were still very good.
‘Is that him, Edwin Masters?’ Jazz blew the image up until they could get a better view. She sharpened the contrast and brightness and the picture became easier to see. ‘He looks so young. Who drew this, the girl?’
‘Peter Chorleigh. There’s a tiny signature, there.’
Jazz sat back and looked at Sage. ‘What happened to him?’
‘I don’t know much but he survived the First World War. Alistair Chorleigh said he was sent away to Scotland with Molly after Edwin disappeared. I wondered… His picture of Edwin is so flattering and Edwin talks about Peter a lot in the journal, I wondered if they had a relationship. He does talk about Molly, something about his feelings being brotherly towards her. I can’t wait to read it all, but the second half is in a very bad state.’
‘It sounds intriguing.’
Sage nodded. ‘I want to get the whole picture. We know Molly was a nurse in the First World War, and died in 1918. Her drawings are in an archive at the Imperial War Museum.’
‘But it’s still a bit odd. Edwin going missing, I mean, just like Lara Black did.’ Her phone beeped. ‘Oh, great. The librarian.’ She listened, made a few scribbled notes. ‘OK, thanks, that’s very helpful. I’ll let her know. Bye.’
‘Water sources?’
&nb
sp; Jazz waved her phone. ‘Two. There’s an old well to the side of the property. And the house has its own borehole, but I think it’s capped.’
The word ‘well’ still gave Sage the shivers. ‘Where?’
Jazz sat on one of the stools. ‘At the end of the house itself. There’s a boiler room or an outbuilding, it’s in there.’
‘I would like to find out more,’ Sage said. ‘Maybe there’s a natural explanation, a connection to Lara and Edwin’s disappearance. A sinkhole or old mine working that they both fell into, or a cave or something they got trapped in.’ Sage smiled at Jazz. ‘The briefing is at two o’clock, so I’ve got time to collect water samples around the Chorleigh grounds. Maybe I can find something similar to the film case sample. Felix sent me photographs of microscope examinations for comparison.’
‘Do you want me to go with you?’
‘No, I’ll be in and out,’ Sage said, rewrapping the journal and packing it into a case. ‘I’ll just grab a couple of bottles and maybe a field microscope. I should be able to rule them out in minutes. I’ll see you at the briefing at two, OK? Thanks for your help.’
* * *
The sketchy notes from Jazz included the site of a well, marked as disused. That didn’t necessarily mean it was filled in, however, but she had scribbled down its general position. The borehole should be easier to find as it was covered by a small building, probably the old kitchen from the original cottage. She hadn’t noticed it on the ground next to the main structure, although it was probably only thirty or forty metres from where River’s body had been left. She checked the downloaded pictures from the drone survey. She could see something vaguely rectangular; maybe that was the building over the borehole. But it looked as if the roof was falling in. It didn’t appear on any of the crime-scene photographs that she’d taken, but then she hadn’t been looking for an outbuilding. The huge pile of ivy and brambles in some of the pictures, that could be it.
She checked if Felix was available but he was at the police station observing the interview with Owen Sloane, who still wasn’t talking. During the drive through the forest, she took time to relax, focusing on drawing the threads together. Alistair Chorleigh was a strange man, both pathetic and somehow broodingly threatening, but he hadn’t killed River Sloane. Everyone knew where Sage was; he wouldn’t harm her.
A Shroud of Leaves Page 27