A Baby's Bones

by Rebecca Alexander

  ‘A parallel act of violence and disrespect, then,’ said Nick. ‘So the only other obvious candidate is the rector’s sister.’

  Sage nodded. ‘Or someone of such low status that their disappearance didn’t warrant a memorial or a mention in records. But that stone in the woods puzzles me.’

  There was a knock at the front door. Nick went to answer it and returned with the police inspector. ‘Inspector Belmont has some questions for you.’

  The policeman nodded at Sage. ‘Dr Westfield. I thought you had gone home.’

  ‘Inspector Belmont.’

  Belmont nodded. ‘I’m just so sorry it’s turned out like this. Tragic.’ When Nick waved him to a chair, he sat down with a sigh of relief. ‘I’ve come to tell you we’re having difficulty retrieving the body – the young lady – from the water. We don’t think the well is stable, and the structural engineer from the council agrees.’

  ‘So what now?’ A bubble of hysteria rose up as Sage imagined Steph trapped.

  ‘We plan to fill the well with water, and the body should float up with it.’

  ‘What if she sinks?’ Sage put her hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing, though she also felt suddenly terrified. This was too real. ‘Oh, God. Has anyone told her parents?’

  ‘Of course.’ The policeman nodded. ‘We’ll have her on dry land soon. Then we’ll pump the well out again, to look for trace evidence. When you packed up on Friday, was there any water in the well?’

  Sage thought back: they took out the ladder, the drain hose and the petrol-driven pump. ‘It was starting to fill up again. A couple of feet, maybe.’

  ‘And how deep is the well?’

  ‘We found a rough rock base at almost seven metres. Twenty-two feet.’ For some reason, perhaps the serene paleness floating in the well had led her to assume Steph had fallen into the black water and drowned. She had a sudden image of Steph falling down the maw of the well to crash onto the stone slab.

  Belmont’s voice softened. ‘We need you to tell us what Miss Beatson was wearing on Friday, if you can remember.’

  ‘I don’t know… pale blue jacket, jeans, boots with heels, we teased her about them, because she’s quite short… hang on. There’s a picture of her, with my other assistant; we took it on Friday. It’s on my phone— oh. I gave it to that other officer already.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The inspector turned to Felix. ‘Professor, could I have a word outside?’

  ‘Of course.’

  When the two men left, Sage looked at Nick. ‘About yesterday: Marcus’s wife.’

  He shrugged. ‘I knew there must be a father somewhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry she… no, actually, I’m not.’ Sage put her pale hand over his. ‘She deserved her say. And now he’ll be in no doubt that it’s over.’

  ‘Was there any doubt?’

  ‘In his mind.’ She tried to smile. ‘I think I might get the lock to my flat changed. He kept a copy of the original key the estate agents had. I bet he’s still got it. He’s a bit overbearing on occasion.’

  ‘Is that how you met him?’

  She nodded. It seemed a long time ago now. ‘When I bought the flat he told me that he was recently separated, about to get a divorce. He was charming, good-looking. Then he became a bit controlling, and we split up. Quite a few times.’ She looked into Nick’s eyes. ‘I knew he was still married by then, of course, and I got pregnant during one of our… reconciliations.’

  Nick squeezed her fingers, warm and strong. ‘I was a bit shocked yesterday, but mostly worried. For you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I felt sorry for Fliss. They have kids, you know.’

  ‘Do you know how she found out?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Someone could have told her.’

  Sage thought back over the last few weeks. ‘Maybe she’s known for ages.’

  ‘I think she would have had her say before now if she had.’

  She finished her tea. ‘Who would even know? I mean, we were pretty discreet.’

  Nick took her cup. ‘Maybe someone with a grudge?’

  Someone with a grudge. Someone who called her a whore for visiting Nick late at night, someone who planted a doll with a ripped belly full of bloody cloth in her van. She remembered Steph had seen someone like Marcus at the cottage, and Sage had definitely seen him in the village. Maybe he’d been at Bramble Cottage, talking to Judith for some reason? Was he following her? God, he could have had access to the cottage keys from when he sold the place. And he would easily have recognised her voice on Nick’s phone.

  ‘I need to make an appointment to see Inspector Belmont.’

  40

  4th October 1580

  Fine hat for your daughter Mary in London ten shillings To joiner for two stools of elm wood for the dairy nine shillings

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  My Lady Flora is at ease in her chamber and Viola sits reading to her, poetry I judge from the rhythm of it, in French as well as English. Sometimes Viola is found writing poetry as well. She has not seen her prospective bridegroom for some days. My Lord Anthonie has yet to make his ruling on the wedding, and the man stays at Well House with his experiments. Still unsettled by the discovery at the abbey, I ride over to see him.

  I find him not in the house but behind it, beside the old well with Kelley. Men still labour to finish the new one at the front of the house, their shouts ringing around the hedged garden.

  ‘What do you do with the old well?’ I say. ‘It was always brackish.’

  He stands from kneeling beside the uncovered ring of stones. ‘I am constructing a circle that will summon a spirit to help me in my work.’

  I step away. ‘Is that safe?’

  He laughs up at me, looking younger in his shirtsleeves. ‘It will be when I construct a container for it.’ He stands, wipes his hands on his hose, and bows politely. I bow back.

  ‘What teachers have instructed you in summoning spirits?’

  He opens the door for me to step ahead of him, into the house. ‘I have been taught by the queen’s astrologer and adviser himself, sir, and others of his circle. Edward, fetch wine for Master Garland.’ He lifts from a shelf a tome so heavy it takes two hands, and all the sinews in his wrists stand out. It thuds onto the table. ‘This is the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum, the book of Johannus Weyer, who describes the demon Berith most vividly. He holds the key to the transmutation and elevation of base metals into precious ones.’

  ‘Daemonum? Ungodly monsters of Satan?’

  He pushes the book towards me. ‘The creatures from the lower reaches, demons as we call them, are created like by God, like all beings.’ He opens the book and begins to read. ‘Vere de præsentibus, præteritis et futuris respondet.’ He translates for me, though my Latin is rusty I can see it for myself. ‘He answers truly of things present, past, and to come.’

  Kelley enters with a tray and two fine gilded goblets.

  I read on. ‘Virtute divina per annulum magicae artis ad horam scilicet cogitur. He is compelled at a certain hour – through divine virtue, by a ring of magic arts. Mendax etiam est. In aurum cuncta metallorum genera mutat. He is also a liar, but he turns all metals into gold.’

  Seabourne looks at me, smiling, as if all is explained.

  ‘I cannot believe that summoning a demon is anything but foolhardy.’ I was torn between disbelief and a natural horror of things demonic. ‘If such creatures exist, they must be dangerous.’

  ‘I assure you, the summoning circle will contain Berith’s conscious essence if drawn correctly. I have devised a special snare should he prove worrisome. I can draw him into the well, where his energy will diffuse into the earth.’ He pulls down a parchment covered in symbols. ‘We are inscribing these symbols in a spiral path, into the stones of the old well. My men empty out the water, and Kelley and I climb down a ladder to carve the sigils within.’

  I can see the shapes are arranged in a spiral but unlike any I have see
n before. ‘And this will draw this Berith in?’

  ‘It will.’ He hands me a cup of wine. ‘We were given the power to mutate one form into another, one substance into another by Enoch’s ascent into heaven to speak to the angels. I seek the wisdom of the transmutation of base metals into gold.’

  I do not know what to say. It seems like a child’s dream. I take my satchel from my shoulder and draw out the doll the Reverend Waldren found amongst his sister’s linens. I place it upon his table. ‘Here is the doll I described.’

  Seabourne frowns as he examines it. ‘This is definitely meant to be Isabeau.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘This is witchcraft. The basest of all magics. This is the Devil’s work.’

  ‘The evil lies in the rumours and accusations that will fly from that thing if it is not destroyed,’ I say.

  He walks to the fireplace and sits upon the bench there. He rubs his hand through his hair. ‘And this was in the room of the rector’s sister?’

  ‘If Agness were not a great comfort to Lady Banstock in her distress we would banish her to a relative on the mainland.’

  ‘At first I thought her a servant. It seems the sin is in this woman, Agness. I cannot see that Isabeau would have had much opportunity to so offend her.’

  I shake my head, sitting heavily in his good chair, my knees stiff. ‘She has never caused any concern before. This year has brought much disruption to Banstock, and much misfortune.’ The dead heir, I think, and sweet Elizabeth sleeping in her tomb. ‘Perhaps it is madness. I have no doubt she desecrated the abbey to cast suspicion on Isabeau. I shall speak to her myself, and ask the rector to have his sister supervised at all times.’

  ‘No one should suspect Isabeau of witchcraft,’ Seabourne says, his gaze lowered. ‘She has been almost under guard since the summer. I myself have not been able to get word to her, nor see her. Beside that, she is devout. In her own way.’

  ‘I know that.’ I pity the man, in a mire of his own creation. ‘But rumour is inclined to be more interesting than truth.’

  ‘Viola has spoken to her,’ he says. ‘I must advise that she does not speak further, lest she too is tainted by unfounded suspicions.’

  I sigh heavily, remembering Viola’s words. ‘She wishes for the marriage, still.’

  ‘I am glad.’ Some of the tension seems to ease from his body. ‘I would be honoured to husband her.’

  ‘What of your love for the seamstress?’

  He spreads his fingers out and stares at them. ‘That was spring madness, Master Vincent. I was newly betrothed to a woman I did not know, though she seemed a gentle, kind girl. But Elizabeth did not look kindly upon me, either, so much her senior, and I the youngest son.’

  ‘So, Isabeau—?’

  ‘You have seen her.’ He shrugged. ‘She was there, and like sunlight she drowned out the stars.’

  ‘But you no longer love her.’ I pressed for an answer, for Viola’s sake.

  ‘I love her as a dream, a fairy princess that I can never have. My love for Viola is that of a man who takes a woman to wife.’

  ‘She is young, still,’ I say. He looks back at me.

  ‘She is intelligent, she thinks like a scholar. She understands my books, nay, she takes them further than I have. She writes elegantly and maturely. She is young, yes, and perhaps unready for the full duties of a wife, but a woman withal.’ He smiles a little sadly. ‘Perhaps she loves Isabeau too, as the heroine of a story.’

  ‘A sordid tale, perhaps.’ I stand, and he stands also. ‘I shall speak to my brother, but I doubt he will consent to a marriage until Isabeau has borne the child and gone away to the mainland.’

  ‘Can you tell him I beg to be allowed to speak with Viola? I am happy to be chaperoned.’

  ‘I will ask. And will you destroy this… thing?’ I nudge the doll forward.

  ‘I shall.’

  I sigh, and stretch my aching knees. ‘In my turn I shall confine Agness to her duties.’

  ‘I know she is an enemy to Isabeau, and would accuse her of witchcraft. If she condemns—’

  ‘There are always those who will say there is no smoke without fire,’ I say, remembering that I thought that myself. A plague upon clucking tattlers.

  Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir

  41

  Tuesday 16th April

  Sage and Felix travelled over the Solent to her office at the South Solent University, after she’d given him the strange doll. Reminders of Steph were everywhere, and Sage was stopped several times by other students, shocked and upset but also curious. Felix fielded the worst of the questions. She sent him to find Professor Yousuf Sayeed while she went to the facial reconstruction laboratory.

  Sage studied the computer-modelled face of the adult skull. It had a strong profile, and as Dr Cally Reynolds swept her fingers over the mouse pad the image swivelled from side to side. Her office was decorated with printouts of the reconstructed skulls she had worked on.

  ‘Here it is with hair—’ another sweep, and brown hair appeared.

  ‘She’s plain.’ Sage leant in, to see the heavy jaw and large nose more clearly. ‘A strong face.’

  ‘She looks a little masculine, to be honest. Are you sure it’s female?’ Cally seemed to be only half joking. ‘Good solid supraorbitals and masculine jaw muscle attachments. The jaw itself is quite square, too, with biggish teeth. We don’t have the whole nasal bone, but we know it would be a good size.’

  Sage took in the jutting teeth and heavy chin. ‘Actually, we’re not all that sure. The pelvis is more likely to be female but it’s ambiguous. She was tall, too, about five-nine.’

  Cally pressed a button, and the printer began to hum. ‘On your advice we gave her long hair. Have you thought that she might be older? Post-menopausal women often develop changes in the pelvis.’

  Sage was drawn by the drama of the face; even with a blank expression, it seemed filled with purpose. ‘We put her at over thirty by the fusion of the skull sutures and the clavicle, but with a wide margin. There are no obvious pathological changes so I think she’s probably in her middle years. Thirty to forty-five, maybe. Did you have any more luck with the teeth?’

  ‘Given a mid-range quality diet, wear and decay suggests about the same. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Officially, no. But a woman called Agness Waldren went missing about the right time, and was thirty-seven.’

  ‘Agness. Good name. It means chaste, I think, from the Greek.’ Cally stood and fetched the printout for Sage. On paper the woman’s face was even more striking, if hard. ‘Not someone you would have wanted to cross.’

  ‘We know a bit about her brother. He was the rector of the parish church, and she kept house for him.’

  Cally screwed up her face. ‘Dogsbody for her brother.’

  ‘It wasn’t a bad life for a woman of that era. She had more freedom, more choice than a married woman. And not burdened with endless babies.’ Sage read the data on the side of the screen. ‘I see what you mean, she’s borderline on several markers.’

  Cally clicked a few more buttons. ‘I’ve sent you the file. Oh, just one other thing.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Sage was fascinated by the face, trying to imagine what the woman was like as a person. Warm, funny? Clever, stupid?

  ‘I know you said it wasn’t worth doing the baby, but we did find out a lot.’

  Sage suddenly felt an irrational shiver sweep through her. She really didn’t want to see the face of a butchered, abandoned child.

  ‘I don’t want to see it. Is that daft?’

  Cally looked at Sage’s belly and smiled. ‘Not daft at all. Let me give you the highlights. The baby has a small jaw and poorly ossified long bones, even for a newborn. Our best guess is the baby was just a few weeks short of full term, maybe thirty-six weeks gestation. I wasn’t sure it would be useful to see our reconstruction, anyway. It’s a very imprecise science – babies all look quite similar.’ When Sage didn’t answer for
a moment, Cally turned back to the screen. ‘I’ve emailed you the images and the report anyway. The community always loves reconstructions, so they might come in useful.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She swallowed, feeling a bit absurd. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  Cally leaned forward, and touched Sage’s hand. ‘How are you holding up? About Steph, I mean. We were all so shocked. Lovely girl, promising student.’

  Sage looked at her hands. ‘I don’t think it seems real, even now. I’m meeting with the dean later. The police say we weren’t negligent, the site was well secured, but that means… maybe someone killed her.’

  ‘I heard they interviewed Elliott Robinson all last evening.’

  Sage rocked back in her seat. ‘What? No. Why?’

  Cally shrugged. ‘He was the last person to see her, and apparently he had a bit of a thing for her.’

  ‘I can’t believe Elliott—’ Sage paused. Who knows what went on inside people’s private thoughts? ‘They worked well together, they were a good team. But I don’t think he was really interested in her. She gave him enough encouragement, but he was a bit shy. Anyway, thanks, Cally.’

  Sage walked along the corridor to Yousuf’s office, where she found him sitting with Felix.

  ‘Ah, there she is. Sit down, my dear. I’ve just been sharing a theory with Felix on the injuries to the bones.’

  ‘Oh?’ She sank into the chair with some relief. Her neck was aching since the short ride on the ferry, and the spring sunshine made her feel too hot.

  Yousuf was holding a photograph of the baby’s bones. ‘The baby’s jawbone was cut, and its clavicle and humerus.’

  ‘Yes. We did speculate that perhaps the baby was born by caesarean after its mother died. Maybe the knife caught the baby.’

  Yousuf patted her clenched hands. ‘Certainly the baby, if it were in the breech position, might receive such injury from a vertical incision. In an emergency situation, an unskilled person might attempt to save a baby from a dying mother.’