Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  I stopped again, this time to readjust the strap of my backpack, and, just as Palmer had indicated, realized that it was Jane who was arguing with the policeman. I recognized her right away, in spite of her harassed expression. Perhaps it was because of this look; Jane has always struck me as being one of those efficient women, always right there with the answer, or a pencil, or a map, or a flashlight, or whatever happened to be needed at the moment. From conferences, I remembered that her nose was small and to the point, her mouth generally pursed, her brown eyes always focused on the task at hand, yet ever aware of what was going on in the periphery. The swing of her dark hair was almost impatient, and somehow she managed to make a chin-length blunt cut look elegant at the same time it was easy to maintain. There was something feline about her alertness, her focus, as if she were always waiting to pounce. She was the soul of organization, but now I could see there was little calm won from all of that productivity. I got the impression that even when she wasn’t at work, Jane was always on red alert, and woe betide anyone who couldn’t keep up with her.

  After I looked both ways and crossed, I watched as Jane threw up her hands. The policeman closed his notebook with finality, spoke again briefly, got into the last car, and left.

  I noticed another man approach her; she didn’t even look up when he put his hand on her shoulder and began to speak to her. He was wearing a dark green jacket identical to hers—in fact, they were both wearing jeans and rubber Wellington boots—but although he was of a similar height to Jane’s, about medium for a man, his appearance was far less tidy. He had longish, wiry ginger hair that, when the wind blew, gave me the impression of ruffled fur, and his face was unremarkable, a domestic face, vaguely oval, nose a bit snub, eyes perhaps widened by glasses that gave the impression of being mildly interested and friendly. He slouched a bit, and when he went to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket, several other items fell out along with it. He retrieved them almost out of habit, and replaced his hand on Jane’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off with annoyance, and I decided that I ought to make myself known before things got awkward.

  I didn’t quite make it. As I approached, I heard part of Jane’s side of the conversation.

  Her syllables were carefully pronounced and crisp to the point of staccato, like pebbles dropped in rapid succession onto gravel. “—Entirely well qualified to do my own excavating, thank you very much. Of all the fascist—”

  The man interrupted casually. “You’re making too much of it, Jane, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s entirely a matter of procedure, and when Andrew gets back—”

  That confirmed it: I recognized the voice on the telephone from that morning. The man was Greg Ashford, Jane’s husband. Jane interrupted him right back.

  “When Andrew gets back?” she said bitterly. “Why isn’t he here now? The last thing I need is for my staff to go wandering off, especially now. He should know better than that. This is the last straw, I promise you. Any more of these antics and I will kill him one day—”

  More than time to make my presence known, I decided. “Umm. Hi, Jane?” I picked up my pace. “I finally made it!”

  They turned to see me; I watched Jane’s peaches and cream complexion go scarlet. The couple hurried over and Greg, reaching for my bag, said, “Here, please allow me.”

  “Oh, God, Emma! I can’t tell you what a morning we’ve had!” Jane said. “I’m so sorry about missing you, but things have been an absolute shambles here! A complete nightmare. Still, I should have known you’d be all right—Emma’s the sort who’s always on top of things, Greg—but you shouldn’t have had to find your own way.”

  I knew enough to anticipate Jane’s kiss on my cheek—so much for British reserve—and I turned to shake hands with Greg.

  “Welcome to Marchester Abbey,” Greg said, a little lazier about his words than his wife, occasionally lopping the ends of them, blurring other letters together. He’d said “March’ster,” while Jane had pronounced every bit of it; Jane was a geometry of angles and a mass of precisely directed energies, Greg was a little more blurred about the edges, more laid back. He hefted my bag. “The rest of your stuff going to follow?”

  “No, this is everything,” I said.

  He exchanged a glance with his wife. “I see what you mean. Well, come have a look round. We’re rather shorthanded at the moment—” here he exchanged another look with Jane—“But we should be able to give you a taste of how we do things.”

  “Bloody Andrew, pissing off like this!” Jane inserted vehemently, as though she’d forgotten that I was present. She gave every indication of resuming her tirade.

  Greg looked horrified. “Er, Jane, surely…not in front of the…not in front of company.”

  Jane heaved a tremendous sigh. “Pardon my language, Emma, but our osteologist has done a runner. We’ve no idea where he’s got to—”

  Before I could stop myself, the incredulous words were out. “What? You’ve lost another one?”

  Both Jane and Greg stopped dead to gape at me. “Well,” I said, shrugging uneasily, “Greg said ‘Julia’ to me on the phone, so I’m assuming that she’s your student who’s disappeared. Andrew must be someone else.”

  “I didn’t say anything more…more than Julia was gone,” Greg stammered.

  Jane gave me a long look. “Gregory,” she said slowly, “when I said that Emma was the sort who was always on top of things, I didn’t actually mean clairvoyant, but apparently she’s that too. How on earth did you find out—?”

  “Oh, it’s no trick,” I assured her. “My friend Dora and Mr. Palmer were talking about town, and I heard a little of that, but then Jeremy filled some more for me.”

  “Jeremy?” Jane was puzzled and a little annoyed, I could tell, not to know immediately who I was talking about. Greg raised his eyebrows, which were just dark enough to give his face definition and the general appearance of good-natured curiosity.

  “Or maybe you call him ‘Pooter’? He’s got a terrific collection of views of the abbey and said you should come have a look—”

  “She’s talking about Lord Hyde-Spofford,” Greg said quietly to his wife. “I suspect ‘Pooter’ is an unfortunate relic of his school days.”

  Jane bristled. “I most certainly do not call him ‘Pooter.’”

  And then she was no longer addressing me, or even Greg, for that matter. “As for Julia, she’s over twenty-one, she can do what she likes. Andrew, on the other hand, has a professional obligation to—”

  Her husband interrupted mildly. “Julia had a professional obligation; Andrew’s also over eighteen—”

  “I’m not talking about an obligation to me, Greg,” Jane said curtly, bright spots of color growing on her cheeks, “though I’m not convinced that isn’t an issue. I’m talking about his responsibility to the police.”

  “What? How on earth was he supposed to know what we’d come across today?”

  “He should have been here,” Jane said stubbornly. “He hasn’t been on site since Friday morning and he’s holding up work.”

  “We can work somewhere else and let the police get on—”

  This was ridiculous, I thought, as I watched them go back and forth. “Perhaps I can help fill in for Andrew. Where was he supposed to be working?”

  Jane remembered I was there again, and composed herself quickly. “He was supposed to be working on one of the burials,” she explained, “but this is rather a dodgy case. It looks suspicious, you see. The shaft now appears to manifest itself too shallowly for a medieval burial—it’s too near the modern surface and it’s not terribly regular. There’s a button that looks decidedly recent to me and the grave cuts through the edge of several other burials that are definitely known to be medieval, so stratigraphically, it has to be later, otherwise, it couldn’t intrude into the burials that were already there. How much later, we can’t say yet. It could be seventeenth-or eighteenth-century, or even—”

  “Jane, I’m sure Emma understands this sort of
thing,” Greg said gently.

  Jane sighed and rubbed at her eye. “Oh, Emma, I’m sorry. I’ve been behaving badly, haven’t I?”

  I was starting to feel a little impatient with her remedial lecture, but managed a smile. “You’ve had a rough day.”

  “Speaking of which.” Greg gave Jane a meaningful look.

  She turned to where the crew was working, some watching her expectantly. “Ah yes. Emma, could you oblige me with one of your absolutely excruciating whistles?”

  I smiled for real this time, and put my pinkies to my lips just as Jane warned Greg to cover his ears. I let loose with a shrill whistle that got the attention of the entire crew.

  “She did that at a conference once, when the person doing the slides was talking and didn’t mind the focus,” Jane told Greg. “I wish I could do that.” She turned and called out to the crew of about fifteen or so, who looked up at this rude interruption. They gathered, a little warily, waiting for her announcement.

  “Before you dig out your tea things, could I have your attention please?” she called to them. “This is Emma Fielding, PhD, of Caldwell College in Maine, in the United States—”

  “Oh, so does that make you a maniac, then?” a youthful voice called out, in a Scots accent. There was playful shoving, and a young man with shaggy brown hair fell out of ranks, picked himself up, and waved at me, unapologetic. Although the rest of the crew was wearing the usual range of jeans or army surplus trousers, this student was wearing sweat pants, which were weighted down with caked mud and heading south, exposing an alarming proportion of some colorfully striped underpants.

  Titters ran through the group and I saw Jane flush. Before she could say anything, I shot back, “No, I live in Massachusetts; that makes me a Masshole. Next question?”

  There was a moment of quiet shock, followed by laughter; the crew relaxed noticeably. Jane continued.

  “Now then, Gareth. Her postgraduate degrees are from Coolidge University and her work on early European–Native American contact sites took the ASAA dissertation prize. Those of you who had my material culture class will remember her articles on European pottery on early American colonial sites, others of you might have read her new monograph on the artifacts of Fort Providence. Recently she’s been conducting work on several projects, including—”

  God, I thought. Jane was really spreading it thick. I curbed my urge to stare at my shoes, smiling benignly as she continued to run down my résumé.

  “—She’s going to be working with us for the next fortnight or so, so please answer any questions she might have, and don’t be afraid to make the most of her expertise while she’s here. Perhaps she’ll favor us with a lecture or two on her work?”

  Jane raised her eyebrows enquiringly; we hadn’t discussed this, but of course I’d brought some things along with me, just in case. “I’ve got the slides, if you’ve got the projector.”

  “And the beer?” A small brown-haired woman called.

  Jane nodded, as much to acknowledge my favorable response as to the question. “Of course, of course. If we have an evening lecture, I wouldn’t want it to cut into your valuable drinking time, Nicola—”

  “I should think not,” came the cheery response.

  “Go get your tea, then.” She dismissed them and I watched the crew amble over to a pile of backpacks from which they retrieved thermoses.

  “Did you make any sarnies today, Jane?” This was the young Scot with a sense of humor.

  “I’ll get my rucksack, Gareth,” she answered. “Back in a second, Emma.”

  Two voices piped up next to my elbow. “Could I get you to sign this for me, Professor?”

  “And mine, please?”

  Two of the students had pushed forward to me while the others were sorting through their bags. They both held copies of my Fort Providence book. This was still a relatively new thrill for me, so I was happy to oblige.

  “And your name is…?” I asked the red-haired lad with an embarrassing number of freckles.

  “Will, please. Jane spent a lot of time on your work in class. I thought your book was brilliant.”

  “Jane’s introduction was a bit much—” I began, a little put off by his bald flattery, and trying to concentrate on writing on the book with no surface to rest on.

  “Oh, if Jane says something is so, it is. You can rely on it.”

  I handed him his book.

  The young woman, the petite brunette with a pointy, foxy face, nodded in agreement, and held out hers. “I’m Nicola, with a C. Will’s right, Jane always does her homework. There’s always a reason for everything she says.”

  “I imagine she’s a tough instructor,” I said, scratching away on Nicola’s book.

  “Oh, well, yes, but, not…er—”

  Will paused and I realized that he was trying not to say anything bad about Jane at the same time he was trying not to contradict me.

  Nicola jumped in. “She is, she’s very demanding, but she always knows how to explain something if you don’t get it. That’s the thing. You know, everyone has a different way of learning things and she always figures out where you’re getting caught up and is able to explain it in a way that you’ll understand. She asks a lot of us, but she’s very patient that way, so we know it’s well worth the effort. With Jane, you always know you’ll learn something.”

  “Unless you’re Bonnie,” Will said.

  Nicola snorted. “Bonnie’s not a real archaeologist. She’s an undergraduate who only signed up for an archaeology degree because she heard there were a lot of men. Thanks, Professor Fielding.” She took her book back.

  “You’re welcome, but call me Emma, okay?”

  Will just about wriggled. “Thanks, Emma.”

  “Yes, thanks.” They hurried over to their tea, comparing what I’d written on their title pages. I’d written the same on both of them, “Pleased to meet you at Marchester Abbey, best wishes,” etc. Not very imaginative, but at least personalized.

  Jane returned, emptied rucksack in hand. “I hope Will hasn’t been annoying you. He tends to be a bit of a creep, but he’s not a bad sort. Have you eaten anything? I did actually bring extra for you today; I didn’t plan on being a wretched hostess.”

  My stomach growled alarmingly. “I could do with a bite, but I don’t want to keep you from work.”

  “Not a bit; we always have our tea break about this time. Have a sandwich, I made them in your honor.” Greg brought over his backpack and a thermos. “Cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, taking both the offered sandwich and the cup. My head was still feeling achy, but I attributed that to jet lag. I bit into the sandwich, and my surprise must have been evident on my face, because both Jane and Greg laughed.

  “It’s peanut butter and…what?” I said, crunching my mouthful cautiously.

  “Cucumber. I thought you’d like a little taste of home,” Jane said.

  “It’s very nice,” I said, and it was, once I got used to the idea. It really wasn’t bad, only curious and nothing I’d ever eaten in New England. I had been hoping for some of the much vaunted cheese sandwiches I’d recently heard about.

  “Look, I’ll show you around a bit today, and we’ll meet up with everyone tonight at the pub, introduce you properly.”

  I could feel my shoulders sag. I couldn’t face any more visiting today.

  “It’s just around the corner, very nice sort of place. Unless you’re feeling tired,” Greg guessed shrewdly.

  Jane and Greg had looked so pleased with themselves and their plan that I hated to disappoint them. “Oh, that is so sweet of you, but I just can’t. I’m beat and I honestly don’t think that I would be very good company.”

  Greg turned to Jane, worried. “I thought you said that Emma drank beer?”

  “Oh, I do, I’m definitely a fan!” I hastened to assure him. “But I just couldn’t tonight.”

  I began to worry about etiquette; the way they were acting, an invitation to the pub sounded l
ike an important gesture. I tried to staunch any social breach by suggesting tentatively, “Maybe tomorrow night? Would that be okay?”

  My hosts exchanged a doubtful look. “Well, maybe this once,” Jane said slowly.

  Greg nodded more decisively. “No, no, we can do that.” He took out a small pocket diary—along with a piece of flagging tape, which fluttered to the ground—and noted, “Tuesday, Emma, pub.” He underlined the notation carefully, closed the calendar, and smiled broadly, as he tucked it back into his pocket. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Nothing simpler.” He stooped to pick up the flagging and returned it to its place as well.

  Jane turned away and coughed, probably embarrassed for me.

  “I really appreciate it,” I said, standing up and brushing the crumbs from my lap. Jane and Greg watched me, puzzled.

  “Er, the facilities are located just over there,” Jane offered. “There’s a porta-loo, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  Porta-loo? Probably British English for porta-potty. “Maybe later; I was just finished with my sandwich and thought we could get to work.”

  Jane looked at her watch. “There’s another fifteen minutes, Emma, no rush.”

  My mouth twitched. It seemed a very loose way of running things, especially when there was daylight burning. Everyone just lying around, drinking tea, eating the pile of sandwiches that Jane had provided; my palms itched at the thought of all those students lazing about. It wasn’t right.

  I surveyed the site. It was big for an urban site, nearly half the size of a football field. Within the ten-foot-tall chain-link fence it was open, save for a couple of stands of trees and the low remains of a wall, less than half a meter high, by the river’s edge, suggesting the original location of the abbey. The ground had been mechanically graded into a nearly level, roughly rectangular shape, punctuated by neater, more regular rectangles: the excavated burials.