The Unforgiven

by Irina Shapiro

  “I won’t.”

  Phoebe nodded and walked away, going to see what Emma and Buster were up to. Quinn looked after her for a long moment. Why would Phoebe think she’d hurt Gabe?

  Chapter 4

  The following morning, with Emma safely out of the way, Gabe and Quinn made their way down to the kitchen, tools of their trade in hand. The hole in the floor wasn’t as large as Quinn had expected, nor was it possible to see the complete skeleton. She supposed the coroner had seen enough to declare it a non-recent burial and left it at that. It would take several days to fully unearth the remains and label and bag all the bones and artefacts found with the body. Quinn settled herself in a kitchen chair with a cup of tea while Gabe went to work. He would use a trowel and brushes once he got closer to the actual bones, but for the moment, he had to remove the portion of the floor that still covered the grave and the layer of earth on top of the skelly.

  “Are you sure I can’t help?” Quinn asked as she peered into the dank hole.

  “Positive,” Gabe replied as he reached for a crowbar, sporting the look of a man determined to leave no tile intact. “You can make me a cuppa,” he added with a smile. “Demolition is thirsty work. And after you make the tea, you should go take a walk. It’s a beautiful day out, and you can use a bit of fresh air and exercise after sitting in the car all day yesterday.”

  “Yes, Dr. Russell,” Quinn replied with a chuckle. Gabe really was becoming a dictator since the incident in New Orleans, but she secretly liked it. He did it because he loved her and their baby, and worried about them incessantly, although, at times, his high-and-mighty attitude grated on her nerves.

  “All right, I will take a walk before lunch, but for now, I will sit here and ooze moral support.”

  “Don’t ooze too hard. I have hours to go before I get to anything even remotely interesting.”

  Quinn took a walk, as promised, and then had a lovely nap before returning downstairs in time for dinner. She couldn’t cook anything, since the kitchen was out of bounds, but Cecily had invited them to dinner at her cottage as a thank you for taking her out the night before, and they both missed Emma. Gabe was shoulder-deep in the kitchen floor, his tools laid out on the remaining tiles at the edge of the opening. Quinn could see the gleam of bone as he used a brush to clear dirt from the skull. Most of the skeleton was already exposed, including the folded hands clasped around the hilt of a sword.

  “A warrior,” Quinn said as she bent to get a closer look. “An ancestor of yours?”

  Gabe shrugged. “I don’t know. Might be. He must have been very young, a teenager perhaps.”

  Quinn nodded in agreement. The skull didn’t appear to be that of a grown man and the wrist bones indicated that he had been quite delicate. “I can’t imagine someone with such fragile hands wielding that sword.”

  Gabe carefully extracted the sword. “It’s not as heavy as you might think. It’s a common misconception that medieval swords were weighty and cumbersome, but in truth, they were rather elegant and weighed no more than four pounds, on average.”

  “Let me see.” Quinn pulled on cotton gloves and held out her hands. Whatever story the sword had to tell, she wasn’t ready to hear it now.

  Gabe passed her the sword. He was right, it wasn’t as heavy as it had first appeared to be, and looked to be a fine piece of craftsmanship. This was a sword made for a warrior, a prized possession and a family heirloom. The hilt appeared too thick to fit into the hand that lay exposed in the dirt, but perhaps this boy had inherited his father’s sword and had taken it into battle to honor the fallen.

  “Do you think the skelly might be a squire?” Quinn asked, but Gabe shook his head.

  “Why would a squire be buried with his master’s sword beneath the kitchen floor? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. A son, perhaps?”

  “That’s more likely, but why bury him here instead of in consecrated ground?”

  “How long do you think he’s been there?” Quinn asked. If the sword was anything to go on—centuries.

  “If he was buried before the new house was built, then definitely several centuries. If he was buried after the new house went up, then considerably less. Just because he’s holding a sword doesn’t mean the sword belonged to him. Perhaps it was an antique that he was particularly fond of and wished to be buried with,” Gabe speculated.

  “Is there anything else?” Quinn carefully set the sword on the kitchen table and peered into the hole.

  “Yes, actually. Because the grave was concealed beneath the floor, less moisture permeated the ground, since it wasn’t exposed to the elements. There are bits of fabric, shriveled-up leather, strands of hair, and this!”

  Gabe held up a rosary. The amber beads glowed in the late afternoon light, the amber still translucent and not a bit damaged by centuries underground. The links were tarnished but intact, holding the beads together as they had done since the rosary had been crafted.

  “The cross must be solid gold to have lasted all this time without oxidizing.” Gabe used the bottom of his T-shirt to carefully rub away the dirt. The crucifix shone in the sunlight as if it were newly minted, the figure of Christ delicate and intricately rendered.

  Quinn accepted the rosary from Gabe and held it up to the light. “It doesn’t look like a man’s rosary,” she said, admiring the craftsmanship and the honey-gold glimmer of the amber.

  “Men used prayer beads,” Gabe argued. “It’s an expensive one, to be sure, not the rosary of a peasant.”

  Quinn shook her head. “I see a woman using this rosary—a wealthy woman.”

  “Perhaps. The fabric looks like it might be velvet. Either a man or a woman could have worn velvet and leather.”

  “Any jewelry? That would tell us for sure before we even send the bones to Colin.”

  “I don’t see any.” Gabe set down his brush and climbed out of the hole. “I’ll have to finish up tomorrow. It’s getting late.” He picked up the sword and held out his hand for the rosary. “I’m going to lock these in Dad’s study,” he said.

  “Are you afraid that I will sneak downstairs in the middle of the night to get a head start?” Quinn asked, annoyed that Gabe wanted to lock up the artefacts.

  “The doctor said you must avoid stress. This”—Gabe held up the sword—“is not an object devoid of stress.”

  “Leave out the rosary then,” Quinn insisted. “How distressing can a rosary be?”

  Gabe’s eyebrows shot up, making Quinn laugh. “Are you joking?”

  “Gabe, come on, you know I won’t rest until I know what happened to this boy. Please. I’ll set the rosary aside if I start becoming upset.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I promise,” Quinn pleaded. She had to know more. Already she was involved, and she wouldn’t rest until she found out what had happened to this poor boy and how he had come to be buried beneath the kitchen floor with an object of war and a symbol of faith.

  “I will let you have the rosary on one condition,” Gabe said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  “Which is?”

  “You will only handle it in front of me, and if I see you getting worked up, I will take it from you. Agreed?”

  “Dictator!”

  “I prefer ‘loving husband’,” Gabe replied with a charming smile.

  “All right. Agreed.”