Quinn pulled out the plastic bag and showed Dr. Scott the cross. “I found this beneath the woman’s body. Can you tell anything just by at looking 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.”
Quinn accepted a manila folder, collected the cross, then said her goodbyes and left. It was time to begin her research and glimpse into the past, in more ways than one. She now had one more link to the victims. She never sent the necklace John Myers found at the site to a lab. There was no need. She’d taken it home and cleaned it carefully, stripping away centuries of dirt to reveal the serene faces of Madonna and child. The necklace was made of silver, and must have been an object of value in the Middle Ages, especially since it came with a medal of the Virgin. Someone had placed that necklace there for a reason, and having finally found the courage to hold it in her bare hands, Quinn knew exactly who it had been, except that she didn’t yet understand the context.
On first contact, the necklace yielded confusing results. Quinn normally saw visions of the owner of an object, but the necklace seemed to carry more than one set of images. She’d use it later, after the cross, which was a direct line to the adult skeleton and would hopefully tell her story in a sequential manner. For now, it was Quinn’s little secret.
Quinn dialed Rhys to give him the preliminary results of Dr. Scott’s tests, but that wasn’t the real reason for her call, which was why she called him on his mobile instead of trying his office. Rhys answered on the first ring.
“Quinn, I hoped you’d ring today. Anything from Colin?”
“Yes, I’m just at the mortuary now,” Quinn replied as she found a quiet corner and perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair. “He needs a bit more time, but our skeletons date just around the beginning of the fourteenth century and were most likely victims of a violent crime.”
“Excellent,” Rhys gushed. Quinn could almost hear the gears shifting in his head. He was already planning the episode.
“Rhys, actually there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you,” Quinn began, her heart rate increasing in proportion to the topic she was about to broach.
“Oh yes?”
“Rhys, I’d like you to arrange a meeting with Robert Chatham and Seth Besson. I need to know which one of them is my biological father,” Quinn said. Her voice sounded flat, but she was trembling. The idea of meeting her father face to face was as exciting as it was terrifying.
“Quinn, darling, please don’t ask that of me. I haven’t seen either Robert or Seth since uni. To suddenly look them up and broach the subject of that night…” Rhys allowed the sentence to trail off, hoping that Quinn would appreciate his dilemma, but Quinn wasn’t about to back down.
“Rhys, you owe me this much.”
“And I’d like to help you out, but you’re asking the impossible. You know I’d love to help, but there must be another way.”
Quinn considered this for a moment. She supposed it would be terribly awkward for Rhys to do what she asked of him. Perhaps he could help her in some other way.
“Can you track them down for me? Friend them on social media perhaps? I’d like to learn as much as I can before I approach them in person.”
Rhys sighed audibly. For thirty years, he thought he was off the hook for what he’d done the night Sylvia Wyatt was raped, but the past was coming to collect its debt, and he had to pay up. “All right. I will do what I can.”
“Thanks,” Quinn replied and rang off before Rhys could say any more. She had no intention of making this easy for him.
Chapter 5
October 1346
Dunwich, Suffolk
A chill wind blew off the North Sea, bringing with it the smell of brine and wood smoke, coming from somewhere downwind. The needles of a sprawling yew tree moved like tiny fingers in the breeze, the red berries swaying mournfully. Petra lowered her eyes from the ruddy face of Father Oswald and fixated on the tips of her shoes, trying desperately not to smile. She had to play the grieving widow, at least until after the burial. She supposed God saw everything and would take her happiness at the passing of her husband into account, but she’d paid with twelve years of her life for one foolish mistake; she’d served her time.
Petra stole a glance at Edwin, who stood next to his sisters and grandmother, his head bowed in prayer. No, she could never call him a mistake. Edwin was the child of her heart, her reason for being, and the only reminder of the man she’d given her heart to twelve years ago. How different her life might have been had they been allowed to marry. They’d have been a family, and loving parents to the boy who now shed tears for a man who not only hadn’t been his father, but who had been cruel and indifferent to the child he believed to be his son.
But now Cyril was dead, killed by the job he so feared losing, and she was glad of it. Petra still bore the scars of his belt on her back, the fresh welts covering the old, faded ones. Tonight, she would lie by herself in a bed that had been the altar of her sacrifice, which led to years of marital abuse. She nearly giggled at the thought of never having to endure Cyril’s attentions again, thrusting into her as she lay still as a corpse, praying for it to be over so that she could enjoy a few hours of respite before having to deal with him again come morning.
Father Oswald finally finished the service, and the diggers began to fill in the grave, eager to get the job done and repair to the inn for a well-deserved jar of ale. Petra put a hand on each of her daughters’ shoulders and walked from the cemetery, followed by her mother, who was supported by Edwin.
“Are you sad, Mama?” Ora asked, gazing up at Petra with an expression of interest. At eight, there was little she missed, so Petra tried to always be as honest as she could.
“A bit. Are you?” she asked the child.
“No,” Ora answered truthfully. “Is that very wicked of me?”
Cyril had spared the girls when they were little, but over the past year, both Ora and Elia had felt the sting of his slap more than once. In time, Cyril would have taken a belt to them for disobeying him, or simply because he could. He took pleasure in punishing them, and went far beyond what was necessary to get his point across.
“No, it isn’t. We all deal with death in different ways. It’s all right not to feel bereft.” Petra noted Elia’s look of surprise, but said nothing. Of the three children, she’d been closest to Cyril, and he forgave her more than he would ever forgive the other two. He always remarked that Elia resembled his dear departed mother, so perhaps he even loved her. He hadn’t loved Edwin, and made that clear, especially once Edwin’s affliction became apparent. Cyril said it was a curse. Edwin was a cursed boy born in a cursed place.
Dunwich had been a prosperous place once, a city that went back to the times of the Anglo-Saxons, known then as Dommoc. It was a place of commerce and trade, a place to which merchants flocked and fortunes were made. It boasted one of the biggest ports in England, with as many as e
ighty ships at its zenith, and a population of thousands. The town’s decline began long before Edwin’s birth, even before her own, but Petra heard stories of the great storms that came in 1287 and 1328. They eroded the coastline and destroyed houses and part of the harbor, engulfing it in water, which never receded all the way. The priests said that it was a punishment from God on the wicked people of Dunwich, a pestilence brought on by their greed, but there were those who said that the fault lay not with the people, but with the land. The cliff on which Dunwich had been built was made of sandy soil, easily washed away by the pounding waves and strong currents of the North Sea.
And, of course, there were those who attributed the wrath of the sea to a local legend. Eva, a heartbroken young maiden, had cut out her heart and threw it into the sea after being forsaken by the man who’d taken advantage of her. According to the tale, Eva failed to die and haunted the sea from that day on, wreaking havoc on the place that witnessed her disgrace. Petra’s mother had told her of the legend when she was a little girl, and Petra wept for Eva, heartbroken at the thought of a young woman being so ill-used by a man she trusted.
Petra hadn’t fared much better than Eva. There was a man who’d made false promises and a child conceived in sin. There had been no time to waste, no chance to find a kind and gentle suitor. Petra had to marry in haste to hide her condition, and the man she married, although kind enough at first, turned out to be a cruel and domineering master. He made Petra’s life a living purgatory, especially once Edwin’s fits began, and Petra realized that there was something terribly wrong with her precious boy. Perhaps it was a punishment from God, a cross to bear as the wage of her sin. She’d gone against the teachings of the Church, had lied to her husband, and had protected the man responsible for her situation, rather than holding him accountable. She deserved to suffer, and she bore it silently, but why Edwin? Were the sins of the father, or in this case the mother, always visited upon the son?
Petra’s labor with Edwin had been difficult. It lasted for several days, with the child lodged in the birth canal for nearly a full day before being forcibly dragged out of Petra’s womb by her mother, who feared for her only daughter’s life. Edwin had been blue, his heartbeat faint, and his eyes closed to the light of an overcast winter morning. He made no sound, even after being slapped on the rump by his grandmother. Edwin clearly wasn’t meant for this world, but Petra cried and cried, and begged to hold her baby. After an hour in the arms of his weeping mother, Edwin rallied, letting out a thin wail that pierced Petra’s heart. He lived, and she would do anything to see him thrive. Edwin was never hale and hearty, but he survived, and that was all that mattered.
Edwin grew up to be a kind-hearted boy, who felt deeply for others, especially for the mother who always interjected herself between father and son to protect him from the former’s wrath. Fear and anxiety brought the fits on, more often than not, and Petra did everything in her power to shield her son and keep him safe. The fits began when Edwin was only two. They passed as quickly as they came, but the shaking was so violent that Edwin often bit his tongue and nearly choked on the saliva that foamed at his mouth. He usually fell into a heavy sleep after a fit, his body desperate for a period of quiet needed for him to recover. Petra prayed that the fits would stop as Edwin grew, but they only got worse, lasting longer and sometimes resulting in injury. Once, when he was eight, Edwin thrashed so violently that he broke his arm and had to wear a wooden splint for nearly two months. Petra strongly suspected that Cyril was glad of the injury. He would have happily inflicted it himself had Petra not begged him to let the boy be.
“What’s to become of him?” Cyril roared as Edwin cowered in the corner, frightened out of his wits. “Who will take him on? Who in their right mind would want an apprentice who’s so afflicted?”
“Why can’t he work with you?” Petra pleaded, hoping that Cyril would teach Edwin the shipbuilding trade once the boy got older. It was a valuable skill in a port city where new ships were built and damaged ships limped in for repair. But Petra knew the answer before Cyril even had a chance to reply. Edwin couldn’t work with his father. He had to be taken on as an apprentice and complete his seven years before applying to be accepted into the Guild, of which Cyril was a member. But just because Cyril was a journeyman, a master craftsman paid a daily wage, didn’t mean that the son would get admitted, even if he managed to complete his training. The Church and the guilds ruled the town, as they did every town in England. Edwin was freeborn, the son of a freeborn man, but he might as well have been a serf for all the choices he had open to him. At least as a serf, he wouldn’t starve, and be put to work doing a job that would put food on the table, meager as it might be.
“Are you mad, woman?” Cyril carried on. “What do you think he’ll do to himself if he’s holding an ax in his hand and a fit comes on? He’s broken bones without so much as leaving home, and you want to allow him to wield sharp tools in the vicinity of other men? Out of the question. I’d send him to the priory, but even the monks won’t take him if they find out about this curse he’s been born with. It’s the Leper Hospital for him once he’s of age. I’d happily take him there now. Why waste good food and clothing on someone who can never repay it?”
“Cyril, you can’t mean that,” Petra wailed, terrified that her son would become one of the hideously disfigured unfortunates who resided at the St. James Leper Hospital on the outskirts of Dunwich, looked after only by a master who saw to their needs at great risk to his own life. There was no other place for an afflicted person to go. The cripples of the town received alms from the monks, but Petra and Cyril had kept Edwin’s affliction a secret, hoping and praying that he would grow out of it in time. Besides, he was of sound mind and body most of the time, so the monks might not see fit to dispense alms to someone who was capable of earning a wage. The alms went to those who were missing a limb or were soft in the head.
“Cyril, please. Surely there’s something Edwin can do that isn’t dangerous. There’s nothing wrong with his mind.”
“And what good is a mind?” Cyril taunted her. “He’s the son of a shipbuilder, a man destined to work with his hands. Perhaps you’d like to spend all our savings to educate the idiot? Teach him to read and write? Much good it would do him.” Cyril had stormed from the house, leaving Petra in tears and Edwin in a comatose sleep. Petra hated Cyril for his cruelty, but deep down she knew he was right. Edwin needed to learn a trade, and most trades involved the handling of dangerous tools and performing under the sharp eyes of master craftsmen who’d not keep Edwin on once they learned of his affliction.
Petra put Edwin’s future from her mind as she went about setting out pies and platters of sliced pork for the mourners and refilling their cups with beer or hippocras. She tried to keep the cost of the wake to a minimum, but many of Cyril’s guild-mates had come to the funeral, and Petra could hardly keep them from coming to the house. She’d hoped that there’d be some food left over for the following day, but by the time everyone departed, there was hardly a crumb left. She’d have to go to the market tomorrow for supplies. Petra went about clearing and washing the crockery and sweeping the dirt floor, eager to get to bed. The children had retired to their bed in an alcove behind a curtain. They still slept together, despite the fact that the girls were on the cusp of womanhood. Unless Edwin slept on the floor, there was nowhere else for him to bed down.
“Petra, come sit,” her mother said as Petra set aside the broom and surveyed the small space.
“I’m for my bed, Mother. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Maude nodded and rose to her feet. “Goodnight, child,” she said and shuffled toward her own pallet by the fire. Her old bones couldn’t take the cold, even on warmer nights. Now that Cyril was gone, Maude could share Petra’s bed, but she couldn’t climb the ladder to the loft, so had to sleep downstairs.
“Goodnight, Mother.”
Petra climbed the ladder and kept her head down as she walked toward the bed. The roof wasn�
��t high enough to accommodate a person at full height, but she only went up there to sleep. Her day was spent either downstairs or outdoors, performing the chores that took up most of her time. Petra removed her barbet, unpinned her hair, and stared at her reflection in the square of beaten metal that served as a mirror and hung on the wall. With her hair down, and by candlelight, she almost looked like the girl she’d been. She knew what her mother wanted to talk to her about, but she wouldn’t think of that today. Tonight was her first night of freedom in twelve years, and she would enjoy it as much as she could, since it wouldn’t last long.
Chapter 6
November 1346
Dunwich, Suffolk
Petra considered throwing another log on the fire, then changed her mind. She needed to keep the fire going during the day for cooking, baking, and heating water for laundry, but in the evening, she let the fire burn down, huddling under woolen blankets to keep out the cold. She’d always been mindful of practical matters, but over the past month, the need for economy had become more urgent. Cyril had left a bit of money upon his death, but after paying for the burial and the stone cross to mark his final resting place, the wake, and buying some necessary supplies, Petra’s funds were greatly diminished. She’d cut down portions and allowed the children only one slice of bread smeared with fat when they broke their fast in the morning, but the savings wouldn’t last much longer.
Petra checked on the children, who were fast asleep, and sat at the table across from her mother, glad to be off her feet at last. She was weary, but not quite ready for bed.
The Forgotten (Echoes from the Past Book 2) Page 3