A Baby's Bones

by Rebecca Alexander

  He motioned for her to join him at a computer monitor, and brought up several photographs. In close-up, the embroidery looked like a spider’s web hung with minute multi-coloured drops of dew. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Two things. The thread is English, polychrome silk, and it barely penetrates the fabric underneath. The gold thread design is what’s called couching; it is laid on the fabric and secured by almost invisible silk stitches. Bashira recognised the workmanship.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Queen Catherine de’ Medici of France had an embroideress called Marguerite Duchamp. She came to England about 1570, employed by John Parr, the queen’s embroiderer. Marguerite was employed to adapt gifts of cloth for Queen Elizabeth. Some of the silks came from Queen Mary’s wardrobe, some may even be older.’

  ‘Recycling the old?’

  ‘These clothes were priceless, even for a queen. Queen Elizabeth’s wardrobe and jewellery were her most valuable assets after her lands. Marguerite Duchamp repaired, ornamented and cared for the queen’s clothes along with several seamstresses, all under the Master of the “Broderies”, Parr. Marguerite was a young widow with a child, who grew up at court and also became a royal embroideress.’

  ‘Isabeau Duchamp.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Exactly. Except the dress was incredibly unlikely to be in the grave of a commoner.’

  ‘The headstone above the body says, “Damozel Isabeau”. We believe “damozel” is a corruption or an anglicisation of “mademoiselle”.’

  ‘It’s still unlikely. It would be like burying fifty, sixty thousand pounds in cash in a coffin today. No way would this Isabeau ever have been able to afford anything like that.’

  ‘Are there any records on Isabeau?’

  ‘She was working at the court by 1576, so born about 1550 to 1560. How old is the grave?’

  ‘We aren’t sure. We don’t know much. She’s linked in local Island legend to a man called Solomon Seabourne, who lived in the village of Banstock. He went on to become engaged to one of the daughters of the manor in 1580.’

  ‘So, why did you dig the poor girl up?’

  Sage sketched out the sequence of events.

  ‘And the body in the grave had been pregnant?’

  ‘The skeleton suggests she had been pregnant, and she appeared to have injuries that suggest a caesarean.’

  ‘Sad.’ He changed the picture on the monitor. ‘Maybe if the father was rich—’ He gazed at her over his half-glasses. ‘That helps explain the other half of the story, really, the shift. You know the petticoat was cut up the middle?’

  Sage looked at the screen. ‘We thought so.’

  ‘We found a single hole in the petticoat, about here,’ he indicated the front of his chest.

  ‘There was a cut to one of her ribs, and other injuries. We originally wondered if she’d been in an accident and someone tried to save the baby.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Titus pulled up a reconstruction diagram on the screen. ‘These are the cuts in the shift.’

  There was a slashing cut to the chest, then a rent up the front that had given access to the baby. Involuntarily, Sage touched her belly.

  ‘We photographed the shift before it fell apart. Here, under an alternative light source, you can just see the blood spatter. It’s like a crime scene, isn’t it?’ He sounded almost gleeful, but Sage felt sick. ‘It could have been a caesarean except they didn’t pull the clothes up.’

  ‘We think she was still alive when they attacked her.’ She looked at him. ‘The forensic anthropologist thinks she was killed so someone could steal her baby. There are cuts on the bones… and the baby’s bones too.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ His mouth twisted in distaste. ‘That poor girl.’ He paused for a moment, then handed Sage a folder. ‘This is Bashira’s report. She would love to chat more about it, she’s running down the patterns in the weaving. Her number’s in there. Let us know what you find out – this is fascinating.’

  ‘I will.’ Sage opened the folder, leafing through printed images of tiny details of the embroidery: gold twists, threaded with amethyst purples and white pearls. ‘These flowers are beautiful.’

  Titus leaned in. ‘They are, aren’t they? Bashira identified them as representing sweet violets. Violas.’

  * * *

  Sage checked her messages when she got back to the Island, then put a frozen dinner in the microwave. ‘Sorry, Bean,’ she murmured to her abdomen and the stretching baby inside. ‘It does say it’s a healthy version. I promise we’ll have some salad with it.’ She pulled a bag of what looked like seaweed out of the fridge. ‘OK, tomatoes, anyway.’

  Her mobile phone beeped. Nick had texted saying that James Bassett was dying. He was talking to Pat, Judith’s mother, about how to give her granddaughter the news.

  Her shoes, always a little tight, had left white lines where her feet had swollen. Maybe it’s time to take that maternity leave. She pulled off her clothes with relief, and changed into the only garments that didn’t pull or constrict her: maternity pyjamas. The microwave meal, eaten slumped on the sofa with her feet up in front of some inane programme, was dull but warming. Soon she had fallen into a doze.

  Sage woke suddenly, not sure what had disturbed her. The television was still murmuring in the corner and she was cold. She tried to settle down again, knowing she ought to go to bed – but something was bothering her. She struggled to her feet, looking around the flat, trying to spot something different, at the same time telling herself she was still half asleep. Books piled in rambling stacks. A hairbrush left on the coffee table. Post in a tidy pile—wait. She looked at the letters one by one. A letter from her dentist, reminding her to book a check-up, had been carefully opened. For a moment she thought of her mother; she had a key, but no one else did.

  Marcus. She looked around the room more carefully. Had Marcus been snooping around, checking up on her? He had sold her the flat, that’s how they met, and it was easy enough to copy a key.

  The thought of Marcus coming into her home uninvited, looking through her stuff, reading her mail, maybe listening to her messages, made Sage feel sick. She sat on the edge of her bed, sliding a hand over Bean. She felt cold, and wrapped her arms around herself.

  There were other things that weren’t quite right. Her diary was sat squarely on her desk, on the mouse mat. Her pregnancy notes weren’t shoved on the bedside table, they were on top of the book she was reading. A note from Nick; he must have written it on Saturday morning. I like this sleepover thing. Maybe we should do it again? N x

  It was left out on the coffee table, smoothed open although there were creases where Nick must have folded it. Someone had opened it up, left it for her to find. This was today. Someone has been in the flat today.

  For one crazy moment she wondered if that someone was still in the flat, hiding in her wardrobe, lying under the bed. Her heart started thumping in her chest, skipping beats until she felt cold and shaky. She picked up her coat, still on the chair by the door, grabbed her phone and keys and fled the flat.

  She dialled Nick as she clattered down the stairs. His phone was off, of course: maybe he was at the Bassetts’. With a cold shiver that ran down her spine and made her hunch her shoulders up she realised the calls could be from Marcus. But how would he know…? Of course, the day she met Nick in the church she thought she saw Marcus going into one of the village houses. Maybe he was in Banstock doing a valuation and had seen her with Nick. Was he always that suspicious? He had always treated her diary and phone as if they were an extension of her; there was no privacy from him, no secrets. He often asked her where she was working, where she was going. God, he could be watching her right now.

  52

  8th December 1580

  By your lordship’s commandment, repairs by the carpenter to the orchard cottage for Mistress Isabeau, in planks of oak and chestnut beams twelve shillings and two pence Also fifteen bushels of straw to repair the thatch eleven pence

  Accoun
ts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  It takes a few days to make ready the cottage, as birds have filled its single chimney with sticks, and the wind has swept open the door and covered the floor with leaves. In the few days since Isabeau returned to the manor estate, she speaks little to Viola and none to anyone else. She is visited every day by one or another of her ladyship’s women, from her ladyship’s kind heart, and they sit in prayer together. We are all relieved when Isabeau is established with a woman from the village for company and to serve her, in her new house. The woman Margery, who has a reputation for being loose in her morals herself, is also the mother of many healthy children. She seems to put confidence into Isabeau, who naturally fears the birth of her first child. The midwife, though reluctant to see Isabeau at first, tells me the baby lies badly, being on his breech and not his head as is usual.

  Viola still visits, and on this cold but bright morn I walk down through the home farm with her to the river and along the path by the mill, from where we can see the cottage. Viola kicks her way through the remaining frost. The clouds gathering suggest we might see the winter’s first snow shortly. She slows as we approach the house and pauses by the tumbledown wall that edges it.

  ‘May I see Isabeau alone?’

  It is a strange request, and I am reluctant, given the woman’s lewd connections. ‘Why, child?’

  Her cheeks grow pinker. ‘I would like to ask her a question. A woman’s question.’ She looks away, across the fields with their trails of mist dissolving before the thin sun.

  ‘Can you not ask your stepmother?’ I have an idea what she wishes to ask, but cannot think of a way to broach the subject.

  ‘I could but… Isabeau is easier to talk to.’

  ‘I would be derelict in my duty to your father if I agree,’ I answer. She nods, and steps to the door, where the servant Margery is waiting.

  We are greeted with mulled ale as a reward for walking from the manor, with a spoonful of butter melted onto the top, and Isabeau has floated a slice of spicy apple on each. She gives me the one chair, takes the stool for herself and Viola sits on the window seat.

  Isabeau greets Viola and me with grave courtesy, but Viola answers in French. I see immediately here is a way for Viola to ask those questions that any maid asks of her mother, without embarrassing me, or my leaving them alone. I understand a little of her queries. Isabeau seems mortified, though, her colour rising, and I chuckle into my beard at the strangeness of the situation: a girl asking a woman about marriage when the man they discuss is the same for each. I decide it is quite appropriate to step outside and stretch my legs in the garden. Margery, wringing out linens over a half-barrel of soapy water, tells me of her mistress.

  ‘She’s right finicky,’ the woman says, in her Island accent. ‘’As to ’ave ’ot water every day, powders and scents and whatnot, all to smell good. And the time she spends on her hair. It’s pretty brushed out, but who’s to see it? She covers it up like a nun.’

  ‘But she lives quietly, and is no trouble?’

  ‘Trouble over her food, certainly; doesn’t like plain broths but they must be fresh and have no bones in. But she’s good enough, waiting for her baby.’

  ‘Do you think it will come soon?’

  Margery shakes her head. ‘I think a few weeks yet; first babes keep their mothers waiting. Maybe he’ll have time to turn. The midwife’s got her eating sorrel from the hedge, and scrubbing the floor. Which,’ she pauses, ‘she does do, every day, like it was a feast day. Funny, these Frenchies.’

  ‘And no trouble from them?’ I nod in the direction of the village.

  ‘She’s no witch, I’ll tell you that and I’ll tell any of them that asks. Wouldn’t be in so much trouble if she was, would she? If she were a witch she could magic the young man to marry her. Or magic away her baby. They say there’s a woman in Newchurch can just charm a baby out of its mother’s womb.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ I say, misliking this talk. ‘We do not allow such things at Banstock.’

  She gives me a look as if she knows otherwise, but bows, just the same. ‘Yes, your honour.’

  * * *

  It is late evening at the manor, and I am in a mood to sleep, when Viola disturbs me getting ready for my bed.

  ‘Master Vincent!’ she says, in a loud whisper through the door. ‘There is someone in the apple store.’

  ‘What?’ I say, rubbing my head and yawning. ‘It is late, child…’ I open the door.

  ‘I saw a light from the roof. Between the slates, a light.’ She is anxious, clutching at my sleeve. ‘Please, come and see.’

  ‘I should send a man over,’ I grumble, but I am already lacing my boots. ‘’Tis probably a thief. The cook will say it is elves stealing apples.’

  ‘Or a priest,’ whispers Viola. ‘Maybe here to help Isabeau.’

  That is a sobering thought. For a priest to be caught on Banstock land… I pull on the rough jacket I use for visiting the farms. ‘I will go alone, then,’ I say, but Viola is already ahead of me.

  The moonlight is as bright as dawn, and we set out into the chill air. Many a clear night precedes a frost, and I shiver as the cold air reaches down my collar. ‘It’s a fool’s errand,’ I grumble, but my young lady is a dozen paces ahead.

  I can see what she has spotted: the glow of a lantern shining between the ramshackle slates on the apple shed. I hiss at Viola and she turns, her hair and eyes silvered by the cold light.

  ‘Wait! Let me go first. If it is robbers—’ I say. What thieves would want with apples I could not imagine; the harvest has been such a good one we have given bushels away for cider.

  As we creep up to the door, we hear the sound of a low voice, praying. I know then that I have not surprised a papist priest: the words are in English. Nor, in fact, is it a man at all. I recognise the voice immediately, as does Viola, and I open the door.

  ‘Come down, Mistress Waldren!’ called Viola, anger in her voice. ‘Your brother has been afeared for your safety! He has even sent men to the shore to look for you, and has mourned you as dead these many weeks.’

  The woman’s face appears through the loft hatch. Her voice is cracked with emotion, though I cannot divine whether she is angry or frightened, or perhaps both.

  ‘Demons stalk us in the night, because we harbour a witch.’ Her voice is harsh. She turns to climb down the rude ladder, awkward in her skirts and cloak. She wears man’s boots. ‘And my brother colludes with her.’

  I attempt reason. ‘Mistress, your brother is concerned for your health – we all are. He will be greatly relieved that you are alive. Come to the rectory and talk to him.’

  ‘He would have me locked up in a Bethlem house.’ She stands in front of me, swaying.

  ‘He only seeks your safety, madam.’ I stand between her and the door, but truly, I am not sure I can stop her.

  ‘My brother is enchanted, cursed by that French succubus, like the rest of you men.’

  I am aware of Viola’s young ears as I continue to argue with the woman, her arguments as rabid and incomprehensible as a radical. Some of her speech is of men lying with demons, and Satan coming to Banstock to take back his child from his leman, his paramour. Viola stands against the wall watching the harpy screeching at us both, her fingers stabbing at my chest to hammer home her points.

  ‘Enough,’ I cry, and hold up my hand. The woman at last pauses for breath. ‘If you will not come quietly, I shall have men come from the manor and restrain you. Perhaps a night spent locked in the dairy will bring you to your senses.’ Before she starts again, I take a deep breath. ‘Now, Mistress, come with me and the Lady Viola to the care and love of your brother. We will examine your accusations in the morning.’ When whatever madness you suffer has worn off, I think.

  ‘Tomorrow may be too late.’ She is hoarse, pleading with me now, her hands held in supplication. ‘Tomorrow he may already be here. With all his demons, to take his child.’

  ‘Who, madam?’ Viola reaches a hand towar
ds the woman, who stares at her.

  Agness speaks as if terrified. ‘The Devil himself,’ she says.

  I shiver a little at the tone of her voice. I wonder that the Devil would come here, to Banstock, but the woman’s conviction chills my back.

  ‘Then seek shelter within the church,’ says Viola, her hand outstretched. ‘Let your brother offer you sanctuary there.’

  The woman springs away as if Viola was cursed. ‘You,’ she splutters at her. ‘You who seek to marry him.’

  ‘If her father arranges it—’ I say, but the woman throws herself past me, and I can only snatch at an arm, spinning us both around. She tears herself out of my grasp and stands, shaking, her face twisted like a gargoyle with her rage.

  ‘He shall see the truth,’ she shouts. ‘Rather he is dead than married to any but his true wife.’ She bounds into the night, her cloak flapping like a bat as she disappears into the shadows of the trees.

  Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir

  53

  Monday 22nd April

  Sage flattened her hand against the heavy wooden door of the vicarage, banging again with some force, until her palm was stinging.

  ‘Please be there, please…’

  A light yellowed the semi-circular window above the door, and she could hear Nick calling. ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ The door was pulled open so fast she stumbled forward a step.

  She was only conscious of his arms reaching for her, pulling her against him, his warmth and strength. ‘Oh, thank God you were here,’ she said, into his chest.

  ‘Are you— you’re frozen. Sage, come in.’

  ‘I’m all right, I’m just cold.’ She shut the door behind her. ‘Is the phone on? I mean, have you had any calls?’

  ‘Not one. For two days.’

  A noise from the darkened living room made her jump. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, grabbing his dressing gown with both hands.

  ‘It’s Felix, he’s staying here. He wants to find out more about the carvings in the well.’ Nick reached for her again, deliberately, and she rested her forehead against his shoulder. His smell was already familiar, somewhere between his spicy soap and fresh bread, with a hint of minty toothpaste. ‘What happened?’