A Baby's Bones

by Rebecca Alexander

  Sage grinned and placed the camera in her bag. ‘I’d like to find a way to talk to the local people about the finds. We’re hoping they’ll be less spooked about the bones if we put them in historical context.’

  ‘I’d like to come to that,’ James said, eyelids drooping. ‘Give me plenty of warning, though.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you.’

  He was already asleep.

  Sage gathered up her bag and jacket and crept towards the front door. The sound of the door creaking on its hinges made her jump as Chloe bounced in.

  ‘Oh, hello, Chloe. Feeling better about the excavation?’ Sage said. Judith followed the child indoors.

  ‘My friends want to see the haunted well.’ She took off her coat and stood on tiptoes to hang it up. ‘Where the dead baby was.’

  ‘I promise it’s not haunted. And it’s really not safe—’ Sage met Judith’s eyes. ‘Perhaps we could organise something? But you mustn’t go into the garden without a grown-up until the well is filled in.’

  ‘I won’t.’ Chloe reached out with one hand, brushing Sage’s pregnant belly, which made her flinch and smile to cover her discomfort. ‘You wouldn’t put your baby in a well, would you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And no one would steal it, would they?’ Chloe’s mouth started to tremble.

  Sage crouched down to look Chloe in the eye. ‘No one’s going to do anything bad to my baby. That was all in the past, OK?’

  Judith was holding the door open. ‘Thank you, Dr Westfield.’ The syllables clinked in the air, like ice cubes knocking together in an empty glass.

  26

  10th September 1580

  In settlement of bill presented by Michael Stratton, the baker twenty shillings

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  I sleep well, confident we can keep the news from Viola, and the Frenchwoman can be got away. The morning brings disappointment and Mistress Agness is before me with the news that a washerwoman in the laundry has noticed the seamstress’s shift has been eased to allow for her increasing girth. This is relayed to the men servants of the hall and kitchens, who tell the stable men. Overnight the whole estate and probably most of the village know that Isabeau has been a harlot with someone and is fat with child. If I guessed it must be Seabourne – for who else has the freedom and the access to Banstock’s seamstress – then so will they.

  Viola is to visit an outlying farm where one of the lads was injured by a falling wall. I step into the stableyard to see her off. I am distracted by a concern about one of the farm horse’s hocks, when I hear a screeching from the yard.

  The woman Agness Waldren has stopped Viola before she has mounted her palfrey. She is haranguing the girl, her red face lowered to Viola’s, who, though she looks afeared, stands her ground.

  ‘I shall listen to neither rumour nor lies,’ she says calmly, moving around the angry woman to step onto the mounting block.

  ‘’Tis proven truth,’ hisses the woman, her face twisted with a kind of righteous hatred. ‘The papist has seduced Master Seabourne by her wiles, and carries his bastard.’

  Viola falters, then pushes herself onto Coral’s broad saddle, hooking her knee over the pommel. ‘I am sure it is no business of yours, Mistress Waldren.’ Her voice is flat and polite, where she could have just commanded Agness be silent. ‘I am to visit one of my father’s tenants, which is my duty. You should attend to yours.’

  She kicks her pony, which breaks into a trot, and rides off through the gate. Viola’s groom follows, the fellow leaning back to listen to Agness Waldren’s outburst. Much of her ramble is muddled, and for a moment I wonder if she is cup-shotten rather than mad. But it seems the woman is incoherent with rage, and her screeches of hysteria build.

  I turn to one of the hall men and bid him fetch me a vessel of clean water. When he returns with it, Mistress Waldren is red-faced and shouting hoarsely at me about the French whore and her sluttish ways. I step forward and empty the ewer over her, stopping the screaming in a second.

  While she fights for breath, I speak sternly. ‘You will return to the rectory or I will have you taken there. Have you lost all sense of your place and duty?’

  Finally she manages to speak. ‘I have not. I see sin and condemn it, as you should. You will let your Viola sleep under the same roof as her betrothed husband’s mistress?’

  ‘That is none of your business,’ I say, ‘nor should you talk about your betters. Return to your duties as a good sister, subject to your brother’s governance, and stay away from the manor.’ I frown at her. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand well,’ she replies. ‘I know that the French witch enchanted Master Seabourne, and that the whore uses her wiles to enchant you also. Those who consort with witches will be condemned with them,’ she spits at me.

  I am perturbed, for I know how such accusations grow. ‘There is no witchcraft in Banstock.’ I turn to the grooms listening with interest to our exchange. ‘Escort Mistress Waldren to her brother’s house. I will send a letter this morning, charging him with control over you, Mistress. I can only hope that reflection and prayer will make you retract your foolish accusations.’ But I am uneasy, for once uttered, the word ‘witch’ cannot be easily retrieved.

  Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir

  27

  Tuesday 9th April

  The morning had started sunny, and Sage decided to let the students get on with work at the site while she spent a morning at her office in Newport. Elliott had offered to help but she wanted him to have as much time at the excavation as possible.

  Her room in the adapted Victorian building that housed the county archaeologist’s office was lined with bookcases full of folders, maps and blueprints. Paperwork had reached avalanche proportions, and she spent a couple of hours opening letters, returning phone calls and answering emails. She was fairly sure the weekly newspaper would lead with ‘Dead Baby Found Down Well’, since she had three phone messages from the feature editor on the office line, and one from the local TV station.

  There were more planning issues; one application for a home extension was overconfident given that the previous owner had brought in a carrier bag of Roman tesserae from his rose bed. The chance that the bungalow was at least partly built over a Roman building was high, so Sage drafted a response and included an offer to quote for a proper archaeological survey. She granted a couple of reasonable extensions, then took a few minutes to look through a late assignment. Teaching one module a semester at South Solent University had sounded like a good idea until she tried to timetable it in. Even getting on and off the Island added hours of travel time she didn’t have, and now she had to fit the dig in as well.

  Her phone beeped. Nick had sent her a text thanking her for her support the other night, and to suggest they met up one evening to talk about the situation. It didn’t sound like a date, but she could feel a flutter in her chest. She was finding herself looking out for his dark hair when she walked or drove around the village, jumping when the phone rang in case it was him. She texted back a businesslike reply, agreeing to meet and suggesting he decide when and where.

  Next she dialled the number for Banstock Manor, and recognised the cultured voice of Lady George immediately. After an exchange of how-are-yous, she asked if the Banstocks could host an information session for the village. She found herself apologising. ‘I’m afraid we wouldn’t be able to pay you anything. I don’t have a budget for that.’

  Lady George brushed her apology away. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sage. It would give the manor a terrific boost at the beginning of the season. Of course, we wouldn’t charge for the meeting itself. But if you use the great hall, we could then offer the visitors a tour around the house and grounds for our usual fee.’ She sounded enthusiastic.

  Sage sighed appreciatively. Perfect. The manor was within reasonably easy reach for the villagers, had loads of parking and would cost the county archaeology department no
thing. Her university department’s research budget for the rest of the financial year would be tight after digging out the well. ‘I can answer any questions the local people have, and reassure them that it’s a historical burial.’

  ‘You know, the Banstock Historical Society and the East Wight Genealogical Society may have information for you. About Viola and Isabeau, I mean.’

  ‘Well, that would be helpful.’ Sage felt overwhelmed by Lady George’s enthusiasm.

  ‘And my ladies will do tea and cakes. How’s that?’

  ‘I don’t have a budget for that either, I’m afraid.’

  Lady George laughed. ‘Oh, it will be their pleasure, I’m sure. You only have to ask one to make a cake and they all join in. Having a group of volunteers is all strategy and politics – they can get very competitive. We’ll cover the cost of ingredients and we can open the coffee shop, offer tea for free and charge for the cakes.’

  ‘That would be great.’ Sage hesitated for a second before broaching the next subject. ‘I’ve been in contact with a leading forensic anthropologist, Dr Yousuf Sayeed. He has advised that I apply to activate an existing exhumation order for the gravestone in the woods.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘Oh. Well, I suppose that would confirm whether someone is actually buried there. It has a nasty sound, “exhumation”, but it might be good for us.’ She paused again. ‘Look, I’m sure it would be fine, but it would be… private, wouldn’t it? I would hate crowds of people turning up to gawp. Just in case there’s a body.’

  ‘It would all be very respectful.’

  ‘Then you can count on us to co-operate. You won’t mention it at the meeting, though, will you?’

  Sage smiled to herself. ‘We won’t need to. We might not get permission, anyway. I have a dozen forms to submit first.’

  ‘For this meeting, how would Sunday do? We could open the manor early, we’re nearly ready. Say, two in the afternoon?’

  ‘You can get ready that quickly?’

  ‘Easily. We’re set up for school parties out of season anyway. And we can get the local paper involved. I’m sure a lot of history buffs will want to be there.’

  Sage felt dizzy. I’m tired, I should take it easy. ‘Of course. That’s very kind of you.’

  She put the phone down and took a deep breath, closing her eyes until the light-headedness wore off. The idea of inviting Nick to the meeting crept into her brain. It gave her an excuse to call him.

  ‘Hello, vicarage.’ The voice sounded like a young woman, maybe the one she had seen on Friday morning.

  ‘Is the vicar there, please? This is Sage Westfield, the archaeologist.’

  ‘He’s rather busy at the moment. What’s it about?’

  Sage was amused by the defensive tone. ‘It’s business. Please tell him I’m calling about the irregular burial.’

  There was some muffled speech before Nick came on the line.

  ‘Hi there.’ His voice was warm and sounded like there was a smile in it. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Two things. First, I wondered if you were free on Sunday afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll probably be free after one. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I’m going to speak to the locals about the excavation. I wondered if you would be able to present the information we have from the church records and reassure people the bones are being treated with respect.’ She waited for a response, and when she didn’t get one, she added: ‘Two o’clock, at Banstock Manor.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ He sounded like he was moving to another room, and then she heard him shut the door. ‘What was the second thing?’

  ‘I was wondering when you wanted to have dinner.’

  ‘One evening this week? It would be nice to meet away from Banstock, and we could sort out some things about the burial.’

  The room suddenly seemed warmer. ‘That would be lovely.’ She could hear him breathing but he didn’t speak. ‘Nick? How are you getting on with the phone calls?’

  ‘It’s strange, it’s better now you’ve heard them too. I don’t feel like I’m exaggerating it now. They’ve slowed down, too.’

  ‘I saw Judith and James yesterday.’ She paused, not wanting to sound even more paranoid than she already felt. ‘James gave me a nanny cam he set up in the living room; he thinks there might be something on it.’ She pulled the camera out of her bag, turned it over in her hands, looking for the hard drive. She’d forgotten about it, but talking to Nick had reminded her.

  ‘Nanny cam?’

  ‘One of those hidden cameras you keep an eye on children with.’ There was a tiny hatch on one side. ‘James said he’s heard noises at night, like someone moving around, so he put it on the mantelpiece.’

  Nick’s voice sounded deeper than usual. ‘Maybe you should tell the police, they might be interested. In the meantime I’ll spread the news about the meeting on Sunday. The church team will probably have everyone from the village there.’

  ‘Could we get Maeve to come, do you think?’ Sage said. ‘She seemed so interested.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. She’s always said the house was haunted.’

  Sage fell silent, thinking of the ghost of the woman still haunting him. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, at the manor.’

  She put the phone down, then examined the camera – there, a groove that, on a bit of pressure from a fingernail, flipped up to reveal a small memory card. She plugged it into an adaptor and waited for the computer to find it, then opened the video file.

  There was grainy black and white footage of Judith, half in frame, doing some ironing. Pressing the forward button brought stills every few seconds, making a jerky animation out of the chore. Chloe came in, bounced on the sofa, Judith turned… It was such an invasion of their privacy that Sage fast-forwarded. Skipping through the evening in blocks of images, the recorder was only activated by movement so many hours were unaccounted for.

  The figure of a man came as a shock. A dark shadow, filling the whole screen as it walked past the camera, the time stamp 00:06. The next footage was at 00:26, a hooded shape distorting as it moved, as if there was a dark cloud around the man, like smoke. The figure paused in front of the camera, dense darkness coalescing into the shape of a nose and a mouth, but no more. There was definitely someone in the house.

  28

  11th September 1580

  Money to almshouses fifteen shillings

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  I could not keep my concerns from my brother, Lord Anthonie. His anger at hearing of Seabourne’s behaviour is great. He is the first to declare that Viola should be free of him, and the betrothal shall be broken.

  I remind him of the advantages of the match, and that Viola herself wishes the marriage, but his concerns for Viola are more than simply the sin of adultery, which commandment he has many times broken. They are compounded by unease at the association with sorcery in the man’s study of science. He summons Viola, who is almost ready for her bed, her hair already braided, her feet in felt slippers.

  ‘My father?’ she asks, sleepy-eyed.

  He looks at me, as if I can say the heavy words in such a way that they will not wound our dear child. I am unable to find them, faced with her inquiring look.

  He blunders on. ‘I am of a mind to break this betrothal to Seabourne,’ he says, and Viola stares at me.

  ‘How can this be?’ she asks.

  Her father raises his voice. ‘’Twas I who made this betrothal, and having come to know the man Seabourne, it is for me to break it.’

  Viola stands her ground, and addresses us both. ‘I took my betrothal vows in good faith, and will not break them. We are already man and wife in the eyes of God.’

  Her father looks at me, his face becoming redder.

  ‘It is for a good child,’ I say, ‘to obey her father.’

  ‘When I took the vows of betrothal I left childhood and became a woman, Master Vincent,’ she says, though her voice is trembling and she mov
es a step closer to me. ‘I have plighted my troth to Master Seabourne and I wish to be his wife.’

  For a few moments, my brother breathes like a bull, huffing, the words choked from him.

  I turn to her and hold out my hand. After a moment, she places her cold fingers in mine. ‘My dear Viola, who will always be a child to me.’ I smile at her uncertainty. ‘There are things about Seabourne… things he has done.’

  ‘I do not wish to know them.’ Her voice is very decided, and she pulls her hand from my grasp. ‘When I cross his threshold as a bride we are reborn, and our past is past.’

  ‘But he has lied to all of us, behaved badly,’ her father rages, ‘and is a sorcerer to boot. What kind of father would I be—’

  She interrupts him with a quiet voice I find more convincing. ‘He has not lied to me.’

  As her father gapes I ask her, ‘He has told you about Isabeau Duchamp?’

  ‘He fell in love with her in the spring, when he came here for the betrothal to Elizabeth. His family coerced him into marriage with my sister, for the connections we have with the Earl of Leicester and Lord Burghley.’ Her little slippers are tight together on the cold stone, and her hands are clasped together at her breast. ‘He told me all. How they had met, discussed marriage which was impossible, and how they had lain together in sin in the old abbey.’

  I shake my head at her, amazed that she had kept so much from her father and uncle.

  She turns to me. ‘He is truly repentant. He says he will be a good and loving husband, and that the time with Isabeau is past.’

  ‘But the time cannot be past,’ her father says, in his gruffest voice. ‘She admits she bears his child. You have heard the story from his own lips.’

  The light outside has almost gone, the light from the candles flickering over her face in the draught from the empty fireplace. Swallows have been replaced by bats that cross the windows in the pink and purple sky. Viola stares at me for a long moment, her face first hurt, then defiant.