A Baby's Bones

by Rebecca Alexander

  ‘Oh.’ Sage looked at Yousuf. ‘So there might be some injury to the mother. Possibly Isabeau if we ever see her bones.’

  ‘You have the exhumation order. I can make the calls to expedite it. In all honesty, I think I should be present anyway, since I countersigned the request.’ Yousuf opened his diary and flicked through the pages. ‘Thursday. I could do Thursday afternoon, if you and my team start the dig in the morning. How about you, Professor? I think Sage is going to need some support on this.’

  Felix nodded. ‘I was going home this evening, but, yes, I can stay. What do you think, Sage?’

  ‘I have to talk to the police tomorrow. I’ve cancelled my teaching commitments for the moment so Thursday would be fine.’ She swallowed hard. ‘The cottage is still a crime scene.’

  Felix’s voice softened. ‘Maybe exhuming the body in the woods would take your mind off Steph.’

  Lost in dark imaginings, it took Sage a few seconds to answer. ‘Yes. Let’s do it.’

  * * *

  The dean’s office was on a corner of the main building, with a view over the gardens. The dean was joined by a man looking as drawn and exhausted as Sage imagined any bereaved parent would be.

  ‘Mr Beatson, this is Dr Sage Westfield. She was supervising Stephanie through her practicum.’

  Oh, God. He was going to blame her. Sage held out a hand to Steph’s father. ‘Mr Beatson.’

  His handshake was unsteady; he clung to her as if she could hold him up. ‘I’m glad to meet you, Sage. Can I call you Sage? Steph talked about you all the time.’

  ‘Of course. She was a lovely girl. She had a real feel for the history, and was great with the public. I loved working with her.’

  She led him to a chair. The tears in his eyes spilled down his face.

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Sage couldn’t think of anything to say. Words seemed to thicken in her throat. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  Mr Beatson shook his head, wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘The police told us… it looks like murder. Someone killed our girl.’

  Sage caught the dean’s eyes. He pulled up a chair next to Mr Beatson. ‘I’m sure the truth will come out over the next few weeks,’ he said.

  ‘I was wondering,’ Steph’s dad looked up at Sage. ‘Would she have suffered? They can’t tell me anything.’

  There was a right answer somewhere, but Sage couldn’t find it. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Only, you found bones in the well, Steph told us all about it.’

  ‘I don’t know about them either. I’m sure any distress would have been very short.’

  Mr Beatson hung his head, looking at his hands. ‘I couldn’t identify her, I just couldn’t. My father-in-law had to in the end.’

  Sage sniffed back tears. ‘I saw her – just a glimpse of her – in the well.’ The pale profile was burned into her memory. ‘She looked very peaceful.’

  Mr Beatson started to cry in earnest. ‘Thank you for that,’ he managed to mumble. ‘I know this sounds odd, but will— will you tell us what you conclude in your final excavation report? We feel like we know the story so far, and it was so important to Stephanie.’

  Sage nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘They won’t release— they won’t let us plan a funeral yet.’ He looked up, his eyes red.

  Sage fumbled in her bag for a tissue. ‘I’d like to be there, if that’s OK? I know many of Steph’s fellow students will want to be there too.’ She tried to smile. ‘Steph made friends everywhere she went.’

  ‘She did, didn’t she?’ Mr Beatson nodded. ‘We just want you to know, we don’t blame you, we don’t blame any of you. I’m glad she was doing something she loved.’

  Sage couldn’t find more words, and just let him cry.

  42

  13th October 1580

  Meats and eggs to be taken to M. Isabeau six shillings and threepence

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  The house is upside down again, thanks to Mistress Agness. She spoke to Isabeau directly when she came to fit a bodice to Viola, and the Frenchwoman is thrown into anguish. The servants took the rector’s sister out and threw her from the house. Lady Banstock is distressed, the seamstress is sobbing into her apron and Viola cannot comfort her, and the servants are so busy muttering in the hall they have burnt a haunch of pork roasted for the evening meal. I start by summoning the men and ordering them to their many posts. Viola is sent to read to her lady stepmother, and I speak to Isabeau.

  ‘Master Seabourne hopes you are well, Mistress,’ I say sternly, for I do not wish to give comfort to her sins. ‘He has arranged a pension so that you and the child might live safe on one of his family’s estates.’

  ‘My husband will find me before then,’ she says. She is very pale these days, and I wonder if the life she carries is draining her. Her hands tremble for a moment, then still as she bends to her embroidery. ‘All this talk of me will bring him here.’

  It is stitching such as I have never seen before, the cloth the green-blue of the sea upon a bright day, each line of thread laid upon the silk as if ’tis woven there, a line of gold. She stitches it onto the cloth in a lattice so fine I fear for her eyes, yet her movements are almost as if she need not look, but simply strokes it onto the cloth. Jewels glint from golden clasps in clusters like tiny flowers.

  I am filled with compassion for her, even as I know her sins. On occasion I have spoken to husbands on the estate who are too rough with their wives or children, but her terror is so strong she quivers like a hart whenever I move. I sit upon the bench by the door, and shiver in the draught. The winter is racing upon us.

  ‘Mistress Duchamp, Lord Seabourne is minded to give you the name of one of his own cooks, a Frenchwoman who made sweetmeats at one of his brother’s manors and is lately died. You shall take her name.’ I laid out Seabourne’s father’s plans, and her eyes, always large, seemed huge in the fading light. Her fingers never stilled in their work, needing only a glance down occasionally.

  ‘I—’ She sets the cloth aside before a tear stains it, and holds a linen kerchief to her eyes. ‘I seem to cry from joy as well as pain,’ she says, and dabs at her eyes. She smiles at me, and I see the beauty again that still astonishes me.

  I point at the turquoise silk with a finger. ‘This cloth, madam.’ I did not recognise it, and I know all the cloths we have ordered. I dare not touch it with dirty hands from my horse, and she holds it carefully up to the last light.

  ‘This was given to my mother by the queen,’ she says, smoothing tiny creases from the skirt, the bodice stiff with decoration. ‘Not her Majesty Elizabeth, you know, but Queen Catherine.’ She drapes it over the linen cloth she covers her worktable with. ‘It is silk from Venice, given to the queen by the Holy Roman Emperor. She misliked his religious policies, and gave the bolt to her ladies.’ She smiles, looking at me sideways. ‘I am glad to give it to Viola with her other bride clothes.’

  The silk, though probably five and twenty years old, glows with colour and smells sweet. It is worth… I cannot imagine what it is worth.

  Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir

  43

  Wednesday 17th April

  The chair in Inspector Belmont’s office was surprisingly comfortable, for which Sage was grateful. She hadn’t slept well since Steph’s body was discovered, and her neck and back ached. ‘I don’t really have anything to add. I got there and we found her.’

  ‘Well there are always three people we really need to talk to. The boyfriend, the last person to see her alive, and the person who discovered the body.’

  ‘What motive would I have for hurting—’ Sage closed her eyes for a moment ‘—or killing Steph?’

  ‘You aren’t a suspect. It’s just that you do have a lot of knowledge of both the excavation of the well and all the people concerned. For example…’ he looked at his notes. ‘Tell me about Mrs Bassett.’

 
; ‘Judith? She’s under a terrible strain, of course. Her husband is so ill.’

  ‘I believe Reverend Haydon told you about the nuisance calls he has been receiving?’

  Sage shifted. ‘I’ve heard some of them. They sound like a man’s voice, and the abuse was aimed at the vicar. Although…’

  ‘Although?’

  ‘Well, when I answered the phone, the caller told me to get out. As if they recognised my voice.’

  ‘Did you recognise their voice?’

  Sage shook her head. ‘It was just an angry voice, but the anger was aimed at Nick and me, not Steph.’ She looked at her hands. ‘I know this sounds odd, but the father of my baby… has been a little difficult.’ She told Belmont about Marcus, both about their relationship and the possibility that Steph had seen him at Bramble Cottage, about the meeting at Banstock Manor and Fliss’s outburst.

  ‘OK. I’ll look into that. Is there anything else you can think of that might be significant?’

  Sage considered mentioning the doll, but she felt silly suggesting that she was being targeted by someone trying to put a curse on her. ‘You know about the nanny-cam footage of someone in the Bassetts’ living room? They reported it to the police. Mr Bassett was certain it wasn’t him, and didn’t recognise the man on the video.’

  Belmont checked back through his notes. ‘Yes, but I think we’ll look into that in more detail. How about you, Dr Westfield? Anyone in your field that might resent your work in this case, for example?’

  ‘No one I can think of. And Elliott and Steph were volunteers.’

  ‘Mr Robinson is a postgraduate student. What does that entail, exactly?’

  ‘Elliott is studying for a PhD in archaeology. He’s a hard worker, and I trust him. He and Steph were always friendly; there was a little banter perhaps, but Ell takes the work very seriously.’ She met his gaze. ‘They both did. They knew they were involved in a fantastic puzzle, and would get their names on the research paper. It was a tremendous opportunity.’

  Belmont nodded. ‘You appreciate that we don’t think this was an accident. The well was covered up after Miss Beatson fell in, and no one has come forward to say they did replace the cover, and it would have taken considerable strength.’

  ‘When do you think it happened?’ Sage asked.

  ‘Based on the condition of the body, we believe she entered the well some time between five and eight o’clock on Friday evening.’

  Sage’s heart lurched in her chest at the thought of Steph’s body. ‘I was there until five-fifteen.’

  ‘And Mr Robinson claims to have left shortly afterwards, leaving Miss Beatson.’

  ‘She was setting up to draw a site plan when I left.’ Sage leaned forward. ‘Was she killed before she went into the well, or did the fall kill her?’

  ‘I can’t disclose that. That’s for the coroner to discuss at the inquest when all the evidence is in.’ Belmont’s dark eyes seemed full of sympathy. ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘I think I should be.’

  ‘Then prepare yourself for bad news.’

  It popped into her mind. Maybe she drowned. Terribly hurt, and terrified, she died in the cold, dark water. Sage closed her eyes. The thought was like a physical pain.

  * * *

  Sage walked back to her car and sat inside for a moment. There were messages on her phone: one from Nick, one from Felix. ‘Call me, I have information about the doll.’

  ‘Hi, Felix,’ she said, resting her head back and closing her eyes.

  ‘Sage. I’ve got good news. At least, I think it’s better news than some curse on you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The doll. It’s not a curse at all; it could be a kind of crude love spell.’

  ‘Who would even think like that?’ she said, trying to imagine someone playing around with a doll. Trying to make her fall in love with him. ‘Someone deluded.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, it’s not working.’ She could hear the waspish tone in her own voice. ‘I don’t believe in all this crap, you know that.’

  ‘But it is working. You are attracted to someone.’

  The silence stretched out between them as she absorbed his words. ‘I’m attracted to Nick, but that happened before anyone created a doll in my image and stuffed it with bloody rags.’

  ‘That’s the bit I’m worried about.’ His voice had a reasonable, fatherly tone that made her want to shout at him.

  ‘But the cut in the body of the doll, the cloth, the blood,’ she said. ‘It’s so violent.’

  ‘It’s true, love spells are usually benign, but there are some voudun spells that are raw like this.’ Felix shook his head. ‘But I think whoever made the doll is disordered in their thinking.’

  He had a point. She didn’t like to even guess what the doll’s maker was thinking.

  ‘I’m not buying into any of this, but is there a way of neutralising…’ God, I’m as mad as he is. ‘I suppose we ought to show it to the police.’

  ‘What would they do?’ Felix’s voice was calm, with no humour or ridicule in it. ‘You may not believe in such things, but I’ve still seen people suffer ill effects from them. Anyway, I’ve already got rid of it.’

  Sage felt oddly relieved. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure. Be careful, Sage.’

  * * *

  When Sage got back to her flat there was a note from Marcus. It was angry, demanding she meet him, come to her senses, let him look after her. He had always been so genial and persuasive, it came as a shock to see him be so forceful. Three months ago she might even have been flattered, but now it was just unpleasant. Maybe Fliss had confronted him too.

  She put her bag down and started to tidy the piles of papers and books that were scattered around the living room. She couldn’t keep up with housework at the best of times. She started putting books back on the shelves as she went. Life in Tudor Times, Osteology in Archaeology, Pregnancy: A Guide were all on the floor at the end of the sofa. She swept a few bits of underwear off the radiator – what if Nick came over? She sat down and read the note again. It seemed so angry, the way the pen had been pressed into the paper, cutting it in places. She turned the paper over and realised there was more writing.

  And tell the police to fuck off. You know I would never hurt anyone let alone that silly little bitch at Bramble Cottage.

  44

  20th October 1580

  Two ells of taffety at nine shillings an ell eighteen shillings

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  I was resolved to get Agness away from the manor and its lands. Discussion with her brother informed me that she has an older sister in Southampton town, much afflicted with agues and four sickly children. There Agness’s talent for nursing the sick should be appreciated. Perhaps after a year or two she might return, after Isabeau has left and when Solomon and Viola are married. The Reverend Waldren spoke to her but she raged and fought with him, until he was forced to strike her. The next day she was fled from his house and he tells me, in much agitation, that he fears for her safety. No one at the manor has seen her, and Waldren fears that she might harm herself. I set men to watch for her on the manor lands as she is certain to return.

  It seems a good time to take Viola from her duties reading to Lady Banstock, who lies almost insensible, and take her for a ride over the Island to visit the lawyer in Newport to consider her marriage settlement. We take the groom Elias Courtney, who carries a sturdy stick in case of brigands, but in honesty the Island roads have become safer since Her Majesty came to the throne.

  Viola looks much more her old self since her father has allowed her to write letters to Seabourne, and he is permitted to reply. I have been tasked with reading them, but they are mostly stilted politenesses or their shared passion for science. Master Seabourne says he is planning to raise the demon to give him the clues he needs to make gold. God’s speed, I jest, since the rents this year are low and much of the harvest is poor. I allow such talk,
since there is no such possibility. It gives them something to converse about.

  Viola has taken to her sister’s horse, a fine grey, much more spirited than her old pony but her seat is secure. We get a few good canters on the roads that remain dry though the sky is clouded.

  ‘Come, Master Vincent,’ she cries, and sets spur to flank. Elias and I can keep up, but both of us are blowing hard when she pulls rein. Then I see what she sees. A group of men surround a woman, standing upon a bench outside the Hawk and Hare Inn beyond Arreton.

  I hear her words, the familiar cracked stridence, before my old eyes make out her face.

  ‘Witchcraft at Banstock, and does Lord Anthonie prevent it? His own babe, dead in its mother’s womb, and they do not care that they harbour witches? They that give shelter to witches shall be condemned with them.’

  I catch at Viola’s bridle and pull her alongside me.

  ‘Here come some of her followers,’ cries Agness. ‘They shelter and even pay her as she weaves vile spells at the old abbey and bewitches good men!’

  I stand in the stirrups to shout over her ravings. ‘Mistress Waldren is unwell; her own brother seeks to send her away. She is gone a little mad.’

  I can see from their faces that I have not convinced the men. Elias calls out to one of them. ‘James Trotter, you know me. Would I encourage witches? This is all women’s foolishness. A bit of milk sours and they call it spiteful fairies or witches.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Elias, but they say there are black masses and such up at the old abbey.’

  ‘A dead cat, no more, my master tells me. Probably caught by a fox,’ Elias adds, catching my eye. ‘There in’t no witchcraft on this side of the Island. I can’t speak for them folk in the West Wight.’ There is general laughter, but Agness has not finished.

  ‘How can you say that, Elias Courtney, when everyone knows that cat was tied to a cross and left on the altar,’ she shouts.