The Lovers (Echoes From The Past)

by Irina Shapiro

  “What about us?” John Myers demanded from the other trench.

  “Give it one more day. If you don’t come up with anything by end of day tomorrow, you may join in. There’s enough work for everyone.”

  John and his partner looked sour but nodded in acquiescence before returning to work. Quinn hoped they wouldn’t find another grave; two prone burials were more than enough. But they had to be thorough, as did she. She labeled and bagged the bones, then went back to carefully sifting through the disturbed earth in search of anything they might have missed. After nearly a whole day on her knees, trowel in hand, she found nothing. The body hadn’t been buried with any personal objects; there was nothing in the grave, not a scrap of leather or a piece of metal. Quinn breathed a sigh of relief, thankful not to have to delve into the existence of the child. She declared the grave finished with and moved on to the second grave, where the students had already unearthed and lifted out the bones.

  Rhys followed her, eager to check on the progress of the students. “Could this have been a plague pit?” he asked as he handed Quinn a cup of tea. She accepted it gratefully and stopped to consider while she took a sip of the scalding liquid that instantly warmed her. It was hard to tell how old the remains were just by looking, but they didn’t strike her as plague victims. The first wave of the plague swept through England in 1348, brought on trade ships from Europe by afflicted sailors and rats that contaminated the grain. The effect of the plague had been devastating, and townspeople all over England went from burying their dead properly to just dumping their bodies into mass graves and covering them with lye, but these graves did not fit that pattern. Quinn had never seen bodies buried facedown. The plague victims, although not properly laid out or buried in coffins, were always buried face-up and laid out side by side or atop the other bodies if there were too many. These two burials seemed deliberate and malicious.

  “No, Rhys, I really don’t think these two were plague victims,” she said, confirming Rhys’s suspicions and making him a happy man. He didn’t want plague victims—he wanted foul play and a story he could dramatize to his heart’s content.

  The second grave was much like the first. There was nothing. Whatever fabric might have gone into the earth with the body had completely rotted away, and there were no metal objects that had survived. Quinn dismissed the students, who were more than happy to be done with the gruesome task, and took one last look before giving the OK to fill in the grave. She was about to climb out of the grave when she noticed a tiny sliver of black peeking out of the soil. Quinn reached for a brush and swept aside bits of earth, not using the trowel for fear of damaging whatever was underneath. The object proved to be a cracked bit of leather. Quinn carefully dug around it until she unearthed a disintegrating thong decorated with an iron cross. The metal was brown and flaky with rust but surprisingly still intact. It must have stayed protected from the moisture in the ground somehow, perhaps having gotten trapped in the folds of the shroud, if there’d been one. Quinn carefully bagged the cross. This was her only link to the past, and she would study it carefully once she was on her own.

  The remains were labeled and sent off to Dr. Colin Scott, pathologist and bone expert, who would hopefully have some preliminary results for them in a few days’ time. The students went about filling in the graves, setting the cemetery to rights, and writing up notes about the excavation. Rhys returned to London with his people, deeply satisfied with the footage and ready to start planning the next step of the project. He even had Quinn conduct an in-depth interview with the elderly lady whose dog had found the femur. She’d been terribly flustered at first but then, seduced by the camera and the bright lights, went on and on, eager to tell her story.

  Quinn tore her gaze away from the leaping flames in the hearth and reached for the plastic bag containing the cross. She’d meant to study it earlier, but something inside her protested loudly at the thought of gazing into the past of its owner. Gabe bent over Quinn, kissed the top of her head, and gently removed the bag from her hand. “Not now, love,” he said, sensing her apprehension. “Not now.”

  Quinn had to admit that she was only too happy to set the trinket aside. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. The last case had left her feeling horrified and depressed. The brutal death of Elise—Lady Asher—and her lover, James Coleman, which Quinn had witnessed firsthand, had been worse than anything she’d ever experienced, and she fervently wished, as she had many times in the past, that she wasn’t possessed of her strange gift of seeing into the past.

  Gabe threw another log on the fire and took a seat, beckoning for Quinn to come and sit on his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, making her feel a little less anxious, and moved his lips along the column of her neck. A pleasant shiver ran down Quinn’s spine, helping her to put the remains and the artifact from her mind. They would return home tomorrow morning, and her research would begin in earnest, but for tonight, she wanted nothing more than to spend a few peaceful hours with her gorgeous fiancé and forget all about the past.

  Quinn leaned against Gabe as he slid his hands beneath her jersey, cupping her breasts. She eagerly surrendered to his touch, enjoying the sensations that began to course through her body. She felt his arousal against her back and felt an answering desire.

  “Come to bed,” Quinn murmured as she slid off his lap and pulled him toward the antique four-poster.

  Chapter 3

  Quinn wrapped a scarf about her neck, grabbed her purse, and followed Gabe out the door into the frigid January morning. At least the sun was out, which was something, given the weather they’d had over the past few days. It had been dreary and cold, the damp seeping into the bones, the chill radiating from the inside out. Gabe would drop her off at the mortuary on his way to the office, and they would meet up later at Gabe’s flat.

  “Did you take your mobile?” Quinn asked, amused by Gabe’s absent-mindedness. A week without his phone nearly undid him, despite the fact that she had hers, and there was a telephone in their room at the inn.

  “Got it,” Gabe replied, patting his pocket. “I’ve had a dozen missed calls from Scotland and a message from an attorney in Edinburgh. He said it’s urgent that I return his call.”

  “Do you know anyone in Edinburgh?” Quinn asked as she settled into the Jag and turned up the heat.

  Gabe shrugged. “I know a few other academics but no one who’d call me on my mobile. They would contact me through the institute or via e-mail. I can’t imagine what this is about. I’ll ring him when I get to the office. Perhaps he has the wrong Gabriel Russell.”

  “Well, I’ve had a message from Sylvia,” Quinn confessed, noting Gabe’s askance look. “She said that Jude is just about finished with his tour and will be in London after the twentieth. She’d like to have me round for dinner so that I can finally meet the boys.”

  “You don’t seem pleased,” Gabe remarked as he swung the car out of the drive.

  “I’ve dreamed of having siblings since I was a little girl, but siblings have things in common, having grown up in the same household. Even if they are as different as night and day, they still share childhood experiences and memories. Logan and Jude never even heard of me until about a month ago. They’re strangers to me, as I am to them. I’m a little nervous about meeting them. They might resent my intrusion into their lives.”

  “I’m sure they’ll love you,” Gabe said, giving her hand a squeeze.

  “But what if I don’t love them? What if we have nothing in common and sit there in awkward silence? That’s worse than having no siblings at all.”

  “Quinn, no family is perfect, and few siblings have the close, uncomplicated relationship that you envision. There’s always resentment, rivalry, long-festering hurts, and ongoing arguments.”

  “How would you know? You’re an only child.” Quinn chuckled.

  “But my mum is one of five. Not a single family gathering goes by without someone exhuming the past and rehashing their grievances ad nauseum. I think my mu
m and Aunt Sybil enjoy bickering. It’s the bedrock of their relationship.”

  “Do her brothers join in?” Quinn asked, curious about the family dynamic.

  “They have their own established pattern, but they goad each other just as much as their sisters.”

  “Will you come with me to meet my brothers?” Quinn asked, feeling slightly more optimistic.

  “Of course. I’m curious to meet them myself. Will you be inviting the Wyatts to our wedding?”

  “Oh Lord, I haven’t thought of that. I can’t imagine that my mum and dad will feel comfortable knowing that Sylvia will be there. They are less than thrilled with this unexpected reunion.”

  “So, you’ve finally told them?” Gabe asked. Quinn had picked up the phone a dozen times to call her parents and tell them about finding her birth mother, but every time she set the phone back down, unprepared for the conversation that was to follow. She knew it would hurt her parents, and she wished to spare them the pain, despite knowing that at some point she’d finally have to tell them the truth, especially since they would be coming for the wedding. It was easy to hold off since her parents had retired to Spain a few years ago and were happily living in Marbella, but Quinn couldn’t stall forever.

  “Yes, I called them just before we left Dunwich. It wasn’t a very long conversation.”

  “What did they say?” Gabe asked as he eased off the gas. Traffic was building up as they got closer to London proper.

  “Not much, which is exactly how I know they are upset. Normally, they would ask a million questions and savor every detail, but they both got quiet and then said they had to go; they were meeting someone for lunch. Mum said she was happy for me, which, in essence, means that she’s not happy for herself.”

  “They are just feeling a bit insecure. They’ve had you all to themselves for thirty years, and now your biological mother is a part of your life. They can’t help wondering if your feelings toward them might change.”

  Quinn threw Gabe a look of pure incredulity. “You seriously think that I will love my parents less because I finally met Sylvia?”

  “I don’t think that, but they might. They feel threatened, especially since she’s an unknown quantity. Give them time. They’ll come round.”

  “I hope so,” Quinn mumbled as she tried to picture a meeting between her mother and Sylvia Wyatt. The two women were so different. Quinn hadn’t thought of it before, but now that she imagined both her mothers in the same room, an unbidden thought popped into her head: Sylvia is not the type of woman you trust with your husband.

  Chapter 4

  Quinn’s heels clicked on the linoleum floor as she walked down the corridor toward the mortuary. The strong smell of disinfectant was still there, but this time it didn’t hit Quinn as hard, possibly because she was prepared for it. A young Asian woman caught up with her, smiling in recognition. Quinn had met her last time, when she worked on the case of Elise de Lesseps. Sarita Dhawan was Dr. Scott’s assistant and a very competent pathologist in her own right.

  “Dr. Allenby, nice to see you again. Dr. Scott is expecting you,” Sarita said. “He performed most of the tests himself this time since these remains are older and more fragile, but he allowed me to assist,” she added, clearly displeased at not being allowed to perform the tests on her own.

  “I can’t wait to hear what you two have discovered,” Quinn replied, hoping to mollify Dr. Dhawan’s professional pride.

  Dr. Scott rose from his seat behind a computer and came to greet Quinn. “Quinn, lovely to see you. We really must stop meeting over decaying bones and have a cup of coffee one day.”

  “I’d love that,” Quinn said and meant it. She genuinely liked Dr. Scott and would enjoy chatting with him about something other than death. Colin Scott looked as trendy as ever with his sandy hair pulled into an artistic bun. Not many men could pull off a man-bun, but Dr. Scott was one of them, his chiseled bone structure accentuated by the lack of hair around his face to distract from its perfect symmetry. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he offered Quinn a pair of latex gloves and invited her to walk over to the twin slabs where the skeletons were laid out, illuminated by harsh, fluorescent lights. Sarita Dhawan hung back, waiting to be included, but Dr. Scott took no notice of her. Quinn tried to suppress a smile as she suddenly realized that Sarita Dhawan had a bit of a crush on her boss and was desperate for his attention, which, at this moment, was completely focused on the remains.

  “Dr. Dhawan and I have performed a series of tests, including carbon-14 dating, a CT scan, and DNA sequencing. The results of the DNA sequencing take some time, but here’s what I can share with you right now: what we have here are the skeletal remains of a prepubescent boy, aged somewhere between ten and thirteen, who died approximately seven hundred and fifty years ago, which would bring his date of death to somewhere in the late-thirteenth or early-fourteenth century.”

  “I thought he’d be younger,” Quinn interjected, surprised that the boy might have been as old as thirteen.

  “He was small for his age,” Dr. Scott explained. “And people of that time were generally shorter and slighter due to lack of proper nutrition and a less-than-varied diet.”

  “Please, go on,” Quinn invited, eager to hear what the doctor had discovered.

  “I performed the CT scan before cleaning the bones in the hope that we might find something that is not obvious to the naked eye and might have been washed off during the cleaning, but nothing, save a few stray fibers, were revealed. If you take a look here,” Dr. Scott said, pointing to a jagged crack in the frontal bone, “you’ll see a crack. This is the cause of death—blunt force trauma, which probably resulted in a subdural hematoma. The child had several broken bones, but they appear to have been old injuries that had healed or were in the process of healing. Either our lad was accident-prone, or someone hurt him intentionally and on a regular basis. Given the time period, I’d go with the latter.”

  Dr. Scott patted Quinn on the shoulder as she blanched at the thought of the child being regularly beaten. “I’m sorry if this is upsetting,” he said, his look of amusement alerting Quinn to the fact that the remains on the slab were nothing more than a puzzle to him, not what was left of a human being.

  “And the fibers?” Quinn asked, eager to move away from the subject of child abuse.

  “I believe that the fibers come from a burial shroud. The fabric had been coarse and undyed, consistent with the type of cloth that might be used in a burial. I think that the child was buried naked, which would explain a complete lack of any other fibers or objects.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?” Quinn asked, surprised by the lack of information.

  Dr. Scott smiled apologetically. “Unfortunately, we were unable to find any hair follicles or bits of nail which might have yielded his DNA. Sarita extracted two teeth, which she ground to a powder and will use for a DNA reconstruction, but that takes months, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. And what can you tell me about the second set of remains?” Quinn asked as she moved toward the adjoining slab where the adult skeleton was laid out.

  “This skelly belongs to a woman who was in her mid-twenties to early thirties. She was in reasonably good health when she died and had given birth vaginally to at least one child.”

  “How can you tell?” Quinn asked, staring at the skeleton’s pelvis with interest. She knew that the female pelvis was generally wider to allow for the birth canal and the sciatic nerve, but she couldn’t imagine how Dr. Scott could confirm that the woman had given birth just by looking at the bones.

  “See these pockmarks on the inside of the pelvic bone?” Dr. Scott asked, pointing to the pellet-size marks. “These are caused by the tearing of the ligaments during childbirth.”

  “Is there a way to find out how many times she’d given birth?”

  “No. We can only speculate. By the number of marks, I’d say more than once, but that’s just an educated guess.”

  Quinn nodded, waiting
for Dr. Scott to continue.

  “The cause of death is also blunt force trauma. She was hit right here,” Dr. Scott said, pointing to the temporal bone.

  “Can you tell what they’d been assaulted with?” Quinn asked.

  “I can’t say for certain, but I think it might have been with something that had jagged edges. Definitely not an ax or a cudgel. As it happens, death might have been accidental, given that blunt force trauma is more common than you imagine. It could have been the result of a fall or being kicked in the head by a mule or some such creature. Given that both were buried facedown, I’d say that you’re probably right, and they’d been interfered with. I suppose we’ll never know for sure.”

  Quinn pulled out the plastic bag and showed Dr. Scott the cross. “I found this beneath the woman’s body. Can you tell anything from it?”

  “Let’s have a look.” Dr. Scott carefully took the piece of metal from the bag and placed it on the mechanical stage of a microscope. “I’m amazed that it hasn’t crumbled into dust, having been in the ground for nearly eight hundred years,” he muttered as he studied the object, adjusting the magnification to get a better look.

  “I think it might have gotten caught in the folds of the shroud, but then the fabric would have rotted away after a few years anyway,” Quinn said, realizing it wasn’t a reasonable scientific explanation.

  “No, my dear Quinn, not the shroud, the hair. Hair takes a lot longer to disintegrate, and I think that we are lucky enough to say that we have a strand right here.” He reached for a pair of tweezers and lifted a tiny fragment of hair off the knot in the leather. “This little fellow will tell us more than you think. I’ll run some tests and ring you as soon as I find anything out.”

  “I’d be most grateful. Perhaps we can have that cup of coffee to discuss the results.”

  “You’re on. Sarita, please give Dr. Allenby a copy of the results. I’m sure you’ll need to refer to the data again before this is over.”