by Robin Paige
"Of course," the inspector said, humoring him. "Pie."
Mr. Sheridan nodded. "But that is less important than the fact that this vehicle's wheels have iron rims, while hansom cabs have rubber tires. It is clear, sir, that this is a rather small carriage, lightweight, of the about-town variety, with a break in the iron rim of the right wheel. Further, if you will be so good as to notice the hoofprints-here, and again here-you
will observe that the vehicle was drawn by a horse lame in the left hind leg."
The inspector managed to suppress a smile, the first of the day. "And what kind of harness would you say this horse was wearin'?"
Mr. Sheridan appeared not to notice the inspector's amusement. He stacked the photographs, placing those of the corpse on top. "I have prepared these copies for you and have retained the plates," he said crisply. "If you require additional prints, you have only to ask. Should your inquiries uncover the victim's identity, please be so kind as to inform me of the particulars." He took out a gold pocket watch and looked at it. ' 'In the meantime, I shall attempt to discover the meaning of the inscription in the ring. I also plan to return to the excavation. While I fear that the area has already been tramped, the cart track may have remained undisturbed, at least sufficiently to allow me to acquire certain additional data that may be useful." He took up his empty portfolio and his hat. "Good day to you, Inspector."
The gentleman had scarcely cleared the stoop when the inspector bellowed out, "Battle!"
The sergeant appeared at the door. "Sir?"
"That gent who was just here," the inspector said urgently. "Put somebody on his back, smartish."
"But I don't have nobody to put on 'im," the sergeant protested.
"Got yourself, haven't you?" The inspector spoke icily, feeling that Battle should put forth some extra effort to atone for his sins of the day before. "Fetch your bicycle, man, and hop to it!"
"Yessir," the sergeant said, and disappeared.
The inspector went back to his table, balled Dr. Forsythe's unreadable autopsy report, and pitched it against the wall.
16
"The archaeologist must he something or a detective, in the sense that he must extract irom the site enough evidence to allow him to conclude what happened there, when it happened, and to whom. If the archaeologist is also an historian (and the best are), he weaves this inrormation into a larger narrative which allows him to conclude why it happened."
— WILLIAM ALBERT, An Introduction to Historical Archaeology
An hour later, Charles was seated in Sir Archibald Fairfax's field tent at the excavation, declining an offer of tea. "Thank you," he said, "but I just had a cup with Inspector Wain wright."
"The police!" Sir Archibald exclaimed, concerned. "My dear boy, is everything quite all right?"
"Oh, quite," Charles said. "I dropped off my photographs of yesterday's find."
"With the police?" Sir Archibald asked, puzzled. "But I fail to see-" His face cleared. "Oh, to be sure. The dead man in the dig. I'd forgotten. We made a discovery yesterday afternoon-another mosaic. Drove the miserable wretch straight out of my mind."
"It's the miserable wretch I've come about, actually," Charles said. "I've been to the excavation after more photographs, but the place is a muddle. Yesterday's police work
was altogether negligent. No attention paid to roping off the site or maintaining proper custody of evidence."
"What did y'expect?" Sir Archibald asked pettishly. "Bad mannered as bison, police. Brainless. Tramping about, never minding where they put their boots. Almost as bad as women," he added, "whisking along in their deuced skirts. Shifty as a squadron of street sweepers."
"It's hardly the fault of the police, I suppose," Charles reflected. ' 'Not much training, little education, no money for equipment or adequate staff. Not held in high regard by society."
"And not a thought in their heads for the preservation of history," Sir Archibald went on, as if Charles hadn't spoken. "Police or women."
"I suppose you can hardly expect them to have a proper scientific attitude," Charles said, half to himself. "Their outlook is dictated by tradition. Scarcely disposed to the progressive point of view."
"Puts me in mind of the way our business was done twenty years ago-still done, on most sites." Sir Archibald stood up and started to stride back and forth. "No attention to the proper documentation of artifacts, to stratigraphic records, to analysis. Does no good to dig, if carelessness results in the loss of proper in situ information. Like that great oaf Schlie-mann, you recall, the idiot who destroyed Troy while he was digging it up. Bloody treasure hunter, yanking artifacts out of the ground like turnips. Once something's dug up, it can't be put back." He raised his hand in an imperial gesture. "Our paramount responsibility is to extract every ounce of information that the ground can reveal. Without that, what's in the museum is of no more worth than bits salvaged out of the dustbin."
"Just so," Charles said hastily, remembering that Sir Archibald's animosity toward Heinrich Schliemann could lead to an hour's impassioned discourse. And while Sir Archibald's remarks opened several intriguing parallels between archaeology and criminal detection, he needed to get on with the business.
"I have a question for you, Sir Archibald," he said, "regarding vehicular access to the dig. Specifically, the cart track behind the spot where the body was found. What vehicles might be expected to use that track?"
"None, sir," Sir Archibald said firmly. "Horses are as destructive as police-worse, when one considers the size of the beast. Once when I was working at Mycenae, a horse went berserk and crashed into a field tent, smashing a grand lot of urns, not to mention two fine young archaeologists. No, no, horses won't do at all. Debris is removed to the spoil heaps by barrow."
"I see," Charles said. "So any hoofprints-"
"Don't tell me that you have found hoofprints!"
"I'm afraid so. Along the cart track."
Sir Archibald shook his head. "Patrols," he muttered. "There will have to be patrols, day and night. And a cordon, and-"
Charles stood up. "I leave it to you, Sir Archibald," he said. "I am confident that you will take every measure in your power to protect the site from intrusion."
"Oh, I shall, sir," Sir Archibald said, with great fervor. "You can depend upon it." He sat down heavily. "Police," he muttered. "Horses." He dropped his head into his hands. "Next thing you know, it'll be women."
"Excuse me, sir." Charles did not rum, but he recognized the voice from the doorway behind him. It belonged to the student archaeologist who had started the whole thing.
Sir Archibald looked up. "What is it?" he asked testily. "Well, well, speak up. Not another dead man, I hope?"
"No," the student said. "Actually, it's a woman."
Sir Archibald leaped to his feet, his face filled with horror. "A dead woman?" he cried.
"Oh, no, sir," the student said hastily. "She's very much alive."
Charles glanced over his shoulder. The first thing he saw was a pair of ankle-high black boots and a dark serge divided skirt, almost like full-cut trousers, so short as to show an inch of black stocking. Startled, his gaze traveled upward-past
slim dark jacket, white shirt, manly tie-and came to rest on the woman's face, topped by a mound of undisciplined auburn hair.
It was Kathryn Ardleigh.
17
"O let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations."
— CHARLES DICKENS, "The Chimes, 2nd Quarter"
An' bless this food to our use an' us in Thy service," Mudd said. "Amen."
" 'men," chorused the servants obediently, from benches — arranged along both sides of the staff dining table.
From her place at the foot of the table, opposite Mudd, Cook saw Pocket slip a boiled egg under his jersey. "Pocket," she remarked, "if yer'll be so good as t' put that egg on yer plate, Mr. Mudd'll ladle th' soup."
Reddening, Pocket-at sev
enteen, he served as groom, doubled as footman and coachman, and did a great deal of the garden work beside-placed the egg on his plate. "Thought I'd 'ave a bit o' snack a'ter," he muttered. "Didn't mean nothin', Mrs. Pratt."
"That's all right, Pocket," Amelia comforted him. "Th'
times is long t' tea. I gets hungry m'self, and I don't have yer heavy work."
Cook looked down the table. The household staff was gathered for the midday meal in the servants' hall, a damp room lacking the comforts of fire and carpet, with a patch of mildew the very shape of Ireland on the wall beside the door. Cook blackly credited the room's cheerlessness to Jaggers, who, when she ordered the carpet removed and the fireplace blocked up, had had the gall to read the explanation to Cook out of one of her household manuals. From Kitchen to Garret, Cook remembered with some bitterness, by a Mrs. Panton. "Carpets should not be installed in the servants' hall nor fires laid" (Mrs. Panton wrote and Jaggers concurred), because such luxuries might induce the servants to loiter instead of getting on with their tasks. Mrs. Panton also permitted the installation of a discarded sofa or armchair, but grudgingly. "If the servants are young, heedless, or have not lived any time in the establishment, these little additions to their comfort are not necessary." It was Jaggers's opinion that one side chair was sufficient and a sofa superfluous.
That, Cook thought resentfully, was only one of the wretched Jaggers's opinions, on a par with her strict economies with the servants' food. The joint that Cook roasted for the dining room, for instance, was expected to reappear on the servants' table for at least five midday meals, variously incarnated until it concluded in a hash that was mostly cabbage and potato. As to tea and cakes, as there'd been in cheerful abundance until the coming of Jaggers four years ago- Well, such treats now were had only on high holy days, such as Christmas and Boxing Day, and even then, the quantity was stinting.
And where, Cook asked herself with a tightening of the jaw, were her perquisites-the drippings she'd sold to the candlemaker, the cony wool that had gone for seven shillings a pound to the hatter and the muff maker, the old tea leaves- all the valuable salvage that she had been permitted by the old Mrs. Ardleigh and by Miss Sabrina Ardleigh after? Why, they'd been sacrificed with the fire and the carpet, of course, on the altar of Jaggers's ha'penny economies.
In her mind, Cook could not pay Miss Ardleigh's sister the compliment of calling her Mrs. She was Jaggers, like any other servant, for that's what she was-a servant gotten above herself. And a younger sister gotten above an elder, too, which was most mysterious. Cook couldn't for the life of her fathom how Miss Ardleigh had allowed it to happen, or what mysterious hold the younger sister had over the elder.
Waiting for her bowl of steaming oxtail soup to be relayed hand to hand down the table, Cook frowned. In her experience, penny soul never amounted to tuppence, and Jaggers would sooner or later get what was coming to her, if she had to see to it herself. Then Miss Ardleigh would resume her proper authority abovestairs, and belowstairs would be left to Cook (which was her natural right, seeing as Mudd was young and a come-lately with a great lot to learn). And when that happened, Cook intended to have not only a carpet and a sofa, but a fire as well-not for herself, either, but for the young ones, seeing that their lives were so bleak and work-filled.
Cook received her soup, scowling. And so it should be, shouldn't it? She was senior in this house, wasn't she? She thought back to the day, twenty-one years ago next month, when the shy and awkward young Sarah Perkins, as she had been called before her marriage to the unfortunate Mr. Pratt, was hired as scullery maid by the late Mrs. Ardleigh. Sarah had grown in skill, had prospered in her perquisites and tradesmen's commissions, and had kept her place through the various comings and goings of maids, butlers, drunken cooks, and careless housekeepers-comings and goings that, since Jaggers, had picked up speed like a runaway cart on a steep downhill grade. Harriet and Nettie were only the latest in a long line of kitchen maids and tweenies, while Mudd at twenty-six was the third butler in four years. Impressed by himself, Mudd was; he had been hired from a London agency, and in his previous place had been only a footman. And Amelia at barely eighteen was the fourth parlor maid coming directly after poor Jenny.
Jenny. Cook could still not think of her without a black hatred boiling in her heart toward Jaggers. Not that the girl hadn't been foolish, but most girls were, now and again, and were forgiven and welcomed back into the fold. No, Jaggers's
sin was by far the worst, and she'd be damned to bloody hell for it. Cook tore a piece of bread into her soup, her scowl darkening. If Miss Ardleigh had done what was proper when she was told about the situation, instead of shirking it onto her sister, what had happened would never have happened. Cook was sure of it.
Amelia turned to Nettie, worried. "Ain't yer found it yet?"
"I've looked ever'where, truly I 'ave," said Nettie. Her thin face was frightened. "I can't think where it's got to. 'Twas there afore this mornin' an' now 'tis gone. When she finds it missin', I'll be blamed, sure."
Cook pushed away the thought of Jenny and gave Nettie a reproachful look. "I've told yer a dozen times, child, yer must have extra diligence 'n her rooms. Clean th' grate an' black it, make up th' fire, empty th' slops, dust th' shelves, sweep th' carpet wi' damp tea leaves t' keep down th' dust, an' scrub yer hands afore yer change th' linen."
"But I do!" Nettie wailed. She was a few months shy of fourteen, lonely and heartsick, Cook knew, in her first place. "I'm ever so careful when I dusts, an' she always looks at my fingernails t' be sure they're clean afore I makes up th' bed. But there's so many lit'le pieces o' everythin', so many bits o' china an' glass an'-"
"P'rhaps she won't miss it," put in Pocket hopefully, fishing in his soup with a spoon for a bit of meat. He was a great tease. Only now, he was as concerned as the others.
"Oh, she'll miss it, all right," Mudd said with a grim look.
"Eyes like a bloody 'awk, that one 'as. Greedy as a 'awk, too," he added. "Always first to the tea cakes."
Cook nodded. She and Mudd did not agree on everything, but on this subject, they were in total harmony.
"Anyway," Harriet said, patting Nettie's hand, " 'tis only a pincushion." Harriet was two years younger than Nettie, but her commonsensical cheerfulness often made her seem older.
"But th' queen's pincushion!" Nettie cried, stricken. "Wi* th' queen's pichur ringed round in pearls. Worth a year's wage, at least!"
"Come now, Nettie," Cook admonished, "hold yer
tongue. We'll 'ave no more loose talk." She looked down the table at Mudd. "How's th' young miss settlin' in?"
"That one?" The butler arched an expressive eyebrow. "She's not so young, Mrs. P., truth be told. But nosy. Asks too many questions." He gave the parlor maid a stern glance. "Amelia nearly gave us away th' other mornin'."
Cook glared at Amelia. "Ain't yer bin told not t' talk?" she demanded roughly.
"I din't talk," Amelia replied, lifting her chin with a pert defiance. "Not really. She took me by surprise. She's sly, that one. Talks back, too. I heard her tellin' Mrs. Jaggers that she wouldn't mind th' rules."
"Garn!" Harriet exclaimed enviously. "Wish /could do that!"
Cook frowned at Harriet until she squirmed and dropped her bread. "An' just how did yer happen to hear her talk back, I wonder?'' she inquired of Amelia, her voice rich with sarcasm.
The girl's fair face flushed. "I was dustin' th' table in th' hall outside Mrs. Jaggers's sittin' room. Th' young miss an' Mrs. Jaggers was talkin' loud, they was, over th' clatter o' that barmy-brained parrot." She scraped bacon drippings on her bread. "T'were my parrot, th' wretched bird'ud be in th' stewpot aready."
Amelia had to clean the parrot's cage because Jaggers did not trust Nettie with the task. The bird had belonged to Jaggers's dead husband, and the silly woman had been daft enough to keep it. Cook snorted under her breath. Any husband of hers who had died possessed of a parrot would find it dead in the dustbin before the last clod fell onto his co
ffin.
"She reads, too, the young miss does," Nettie said, putting her fright over the pincushion behind her. "Shillin'-shockers. She's got one called The Mummy's Curse layin' on her table, like, in plain sight."
"Garn!" Harriet's brown eyes were saucerlike. "Wish I could read it." She looked at Cook. "No, I don't," she amended quickly. "I'd be too a-scared. Mrs. Jaggers 'ud beat me. Anyways, I can't read that good."
"She beats yer," Cook said fiercely, "yer tell me. She's
not t' lay a hand on th' staff-Miss Ardleigh give orders." That much Miss Ardleigh had done, although it was after the fact. Little enough, too, but Cook meant to see that Jaggers obeyed.
"There's more." Nettie dropped her voice. "The young miss reads th' newspaper. There's a copy o' th' Colchester Exchange on her dressin' table, wi' a circle drawn round a story 'bout a murder. Some for'n gent wi' a knife in his heart, heaved int' a hole."
Nettie could read, and did so, much to Cook's chagrin. In this regard, Cook subscribed to the same moral principle as did Jaggers: that women, and particularly girls, should not fill their minds with what appeared in the newspaper.
At this intelligence, Harriet was speechless, and even Pocket looked impressed. "Better not let Mrs. Jaggers catch her readin' 'bout murders," he remarked.
"Nor you, Nettie," Mudd put in sternly, mindful of his place of authority over the servants. "Rule's a rule. No newspaper readin'. Mrs. Jaggers'll flog you, sure as soot."
"She'll flog me first," Cook muttered.
"She can't flog th' young miss," Nettie reflected. "That'un belongs t' Miss Ardleigh."
"Anyway, she's fam'ly," Amelia said, resentful. "She's not like us. She don't have t' do as told."