by Sarah Maine
He came back and sat opposite her. “But you’re right, though,” he said after a moment, “that bone’s been there awhile, and the boot looks old-fashioned”—where was he going with this?—“so not a missing person. A recent one, I mean.”
“No.”
“But if word gets out, we’ll have the press crawling all over us again, like it was after the theft. First that, and now a body. Great. You can imagine the headlines, can’t you? And we’ll get all sorts, trashing your site, and making my life hell.”
He sat there, brooding into middle distance, then looked back at her. “Unless . . .” She waited for whatever was coming “. . . unless we can keep it quiet.” The morning was taking a very bizarre turn. “I’m on good terms with the local police, you see, and the regional hierarchy, and I’m wondering if I might persuade them to keep this quiet and let you be involved in lifting the bones.” He paused, his eyes on her. “Under police supervision, of course. And then I can pass it off as part of your project if word gets out.” He stopped again, then asked: “How long does it take flesh to disappear in sand?”
From bizarre to macabre. “I’ve no idea—!”
“Thought perhaps you might.” He seemed lost in his own thoughts again, then shot her another of his direct looks. “So, would you do it, if the police could be persuaded?”
This man liked to have things go his way, it appeared; but, in fact, it wasn’t a bad idea. She’d do as good a job as the police in recovering the bones, better in terms of preserving the context and the integrity of the site. “Are they likely to agree?” It seemed improbable.
“We’ll find out.” He took the empty mugs over to the sink. “How’s the head doing?” he asked, over his shoulder.
It was spinning, but she could no longer distinguish between bruising, shock, and the extraordinary scheme that was evolving in the well-ordered kitchen—then suddenly the thought of Declan came into her mind. Oh God, she’d have to tell him! Panicked, she stood up: “Wait! I’ll need to ring in to work. And I ought to tell Declan, Professor Lockhart—”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell your professor.” He took in her expression. “Ring in sick, by all means, and tell them you’ve had a car accident, it’s true after all. Or better still, let me. What’s the number?”
Her head spun faster. “No. I’ll ring them.”
He didn’t like that. “I don’t want any mention of what you found to get out.” The frown was back in place. “They’ll plague you with questions, you know. You’d much better let me do it.”
Again, he was probably right. If Glenda, the departmental secretary, answered the phone, it would be a full-on interrogation and the whole department would know within minutes. “Well, alright, but tell them I’m OK and I’ll be back in work tomorrow, or the next day. If the car’s drivable.” She handed him her phone with the department’s number on it. “Do you think it is?”
“Let’s do this first.” He punched the number into the house phone, and when he got through he adopted the tone of cool authority she’d heard on Declan’s speakerphone, quite different from the one used a moment ago. He spoke quickly, describing the accident, exaggerating both the damage to the car and her injury. “Neither she nor her vehicle will be in a fit state to drive down for a day or two. No . . . she’s fine . . . We’re looking after her and I’ll get her to ring you. No . . . no . . . be sure to pass the message on, will you? Must go, we expect the police any moment . . . Yes, they’re involved, but there’s no need to alarm anyone. Thank you. Must go.” And he rang off. “And so that’s sorted too,” he said.
Well, after a fashion. “Was it a woman with a Liverpool accent?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Glenda. And she could imagine the office buzzing. “But you didn’t tell her where I was.”
“I know. And I didn’t give her the chance to ask.”
He seemed pleased about that. “Whyever not?”
“Let’s hear what Fergus says first. He’ll be here in two ticks. Least said, and all that.”
“She might try to ring back.”
“Number’s withheld.”
“Or my mobile—”
“Don’t answer it. Patchy signal.”
She stared at him. She was, in fact, cut off with no one knowing where she was. Except the police, she reminded herself. Could things get more peculiar! And Rodri Sturrock, with everything now arranged to his satisfaction, was calmly drying the two mugs on a tea-towel. He glanced across at her and took in the bemused stare. “It’s all alright, you know. We will look after you, like I said—” He broke off as another waft of cold air hit them and a young woman stepped into the kitchen, stopping at the doorway. “Alice! Bless you. Were you on time?”
“Aye, more or less. Are you alright?” she asked, addressing Libby, taking in the sweatshirt and leggings. “The boys told me what happened, and I saw your car. That’s a cracking bump you’ve got.”
“It looks worse than it is.”
“I should hope so!” She was probably about Libby’s age, late twenties, with fair hair pulled back into a high ponytail which swung jauntily as she came over to peer at Libby’s brow. “Ice,” she said, going over to the freezer.
“We’ve done ice,” said Rodri.
“Well, let’s do it again. Have you taken painkillers?”
“No.”
“I’ll get some. And that cut needs covering.” But as she pulled open a high cupboard, there was a knock at the door. “Now, who’ll that be,” she said, “knocking . . . ?”
“I’ll go,” said Rodri.
“. . . no one knocks! I’m Alice, by the way. Purple suits you.”
“I’m Libby. Are they yours? I hope you don’t mind.”
“Don’t be daft.” The girl dabbed Libby’s cut forehead with something which stung, and covered it with a dressing. “That’s better.” There was no time for more as Rodri ushered a middle-aged policeman through the door.
His aura of calm officialdom was very welcome. Rodri introduced him as Fergus McAdam and the man shook Libby’s hand, enquiring about the accident and her injuries with a fatherly concern before accepting a cup of tea from Alice. He drank it as Libby explained about the planned excavation and what the storm had uncovered.
“Dear God!” she heard Alice exclaim behind her.
The policeman listened attentively as she spoke but made no comment. “I’ll need to take a statement from you,” he said, when she had finished, “but just now I’ll go and have a wee look. And I’d like you to come and show me what you did, clearing the sand away and such, if you can manage it?”
“Are you fit?” Rodri asked.
It was actually the last thing Libby wanted to do, but she had to say yes if the plan Rodri was hatching was to succeed.
Alice, who had been spreading her wet things on the rack above the Aga, stopped. “She’s not, and she’ll get all wet again.”
“She says she is, and we’ve got more dry things,” Rodri countered, guiding Libby towards the door, from where he looked back at Alice. “And not a word about all this to anyone, alright?”
“Angus?”
“I’ll tell him myself.”
“Maddy?”
He nodded. “Aye, but nothing to the boys. And I’ll string up the pair of you if a whisper of it gets about.”
“Right,” Alice replied, apparently unconcerned by both threat and tone as she turned back to the wet clothes, leaving Libby wondering at the cut and thrust of their domestic bliss. The policeman, she noticed, was grinning.
In the passage Rodri tossed aside her still-dripping jacket and held out a waxed coat for her. “Wear this,” he said. It was warm and must belong to Alice, but he was in the courtyard with the policeman before Libby could protest.
“Libby’s in charge of the excavations this summer,” he was saying as she joined them. “And she’ll be running the show.” Technically, that was true, though Declan would take issue with the
statement. She had the sensation of being carried along on a tidal wave.
It had stopped raining by the time they reached the mound, and Rodri brushed away the sand to expose the toe of the boot again, then stood back to allow Fergus to examine it. Now that the shock of discovery had passed, Libby was able to consider things more calmly, and she looked at it again. It was certainly not ancient, and was in fact very distinctive, a sturdy style with a low heel, and a strip of decorative tooling across the width of the toe. The sole, once attached by nails and stitching, had dried out and sprung away from the upper, and the layers of the composite heel had begun to separate. But what distinguished it was the fastening, an off-centre row of holes opposite where there had once been buttons, one or two of which remained in place.
Rodri was watching her. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It looks Victorian to me. And it’s a man’s boot, obviously.”
“So, what? A hundred years old?” Fergus asked.
“Maybe more.”
The policeman looked relieved. She suggested that she clear away a little more of the sand from the bone, just enough to see if they could glimpse the other leg lying beneath it, and he agreed. She worked carefully but it was an easy job, the damp sand just fell away. And then it hit her, in a sickening wave. Not nausea exactly, but an awful sensation, and she stopped, still crouching over the sand, remembering what her grandmother had said. Ellen, in her fragile later years, had wept, saying that murder had been done.
Odrhan
In answer to his question Ulla told a dreadful tale of summer raids and desecration, and in a red mist of fury Odrhan bid the woman go. “And take that defiler with you.”
She stared steadily back at him. “If we move him, he will die.”
“Then it is I who will leave.”
She said a word and his escape was barred by her followers. Blades flashed in the firelight. “Stay, holy man,” she said, “and attend to Harald’s wounds and I will make you a vow. If he lives, I will pray to your god and seek forgiveness for my sins, and for his.”
He sensed the tension in the men behind him in the blackness. They would slay him at a word, as they had doubtless slain the gentle monks at the white monastery, his erstwhile companions. And he felt a great fury swell within him. Ungodly, unforgiving. “You will truly repent?” he asked, and she nodded, her eyes not leaving his. “And give your soul to God?” She nodded again, but he knew that she would agree to anything to achieve her purpose. “Then I will cleanse the wound again,” he said.
He prepared another poultice under their watchful eyes, but so intent were they on what his right hand was doing that they did not see how with his left he scratched at a grey-white patch left on the basket by a passing gull. It was easy then to transfer the guano to the cloth, wipe the wound, and repeat the process.
Within hours the man passed from quiescence to a burning fever, and he tossed in writhing delirium while Odrhan prayed for the souls of the murdered monks. From there the man sank into a deep coma.
By dawn he was dead.
Libby
“That’s fine,” said the policeman. “Let’s cover it back up again. Do you get many visitors coming down here, Mr. Sturrock?” he asked. “Dog-walkers and the like?”
But Rodri was looking at her. “Are you alright?”
“Fine. Just the head,” she said.
He crouched beside her and helped her to cover the exposed remains, answering the policeman over his shoulder. “Not at this time of year. And not in this weather.” He glanced at her again. “Job done,” he said, and they both straightened. The sand would dry fast now that the rain had stopped and the patch of disturbed ground would soon be indistinguishable from the rest of the mound.
Rodri led them off towards the house, talking intently to Fergus, and Libby turned to look back at the mound, then quickened her step to catch up, half wishing that she’d driven straight home this morning as she listened to Rodri planting his scheme in the policeman’s mind. “She’ll have to stay over while the car gets fixed anyway. The work here could be all done and dusted tomorrow if the weather improves. She’s a professional after all.” But Fergus wasn’t a pushover and courteously, but firmly, refused to make any commitment until he had discussed matters with his superiors. Rodri nodded, agreeing that of course he’d have to do that. “But why not talk to Dougie first though, see what he says? If it’s more than a century old, then the chances of making an arrest are a bit thin, don’t you think?”
“Aye, maybe.” And that was as far as Fergus was willing to go.
Back in the kitchen, Alice was ironing. “The kettle’s on,” she said. It seemed that it always was, and Libby went to huddle close to the warmth of the Aga.
“Fantastic,” Rodri replied. “Come through to the library, Fergus, you can use the phone in there. Will it be Dougie you’ll be talking to, or Jenkins? I never know who deals with what these days.” The policeman was given no time to resist as Rodri ushered him through the door, calling over his shoulder: “Bring some tea through to us, Alice, there’s a love. And look after Libby.”
Alice turned the iron off. “Oh God, he’s in one of those force-of-nature moods,” she said as she filled the teapot, then carried two mugs through to the men. On her return she stopped in the doorway and looked across at Libby. “God, you look awful! White as a sheet. Let me pull a chair up to the Aga. There now, sit.” And for the second time that day she was given a mug of tea so sweet she could hear her teeth howling. It was accompanied by an insistent offer of shortbread. “Men. Honestly. I should never have let them take you.”
She hovered as Libby smiled her thanks and bit into the shortbread. “He said you win prizes for these,” she said.
“Aye, I do.” There was a kindness and concern in the girl’s eyes, and Libby decided that Rodri Sturrock was a lucky man. “And for other stuff too. We’re a good team here. Foodies. . . .” She went back to her ironing, saying nothing more, but when Libby looked up a moment later she found herself once again under scrutiny. “There, you look better already. I was waiting for you to keel over.”
“It’s just the cold, I think.”
“And the shock! Finding that, and then hitting the Land Rover. Not great, eh? The boys told me all about the dig this summer, but that sort of body wasn’t on the cards, was it? Though I suppose you’re used to bones.” She continued to regard Libby, but now with curiosity rather than concern. “Or is it different if they’re recent ones?” Libby had sometimes considered that point as she scratched away at ancient soils, intruding into times long past. “Still a dead person, though. You mustn’t let Rodri do his overbearing bit, you know, and he really should’ve taken you to the hospital with that head of yours.”
The men reappeared at that moment and Libby saw that the two mugs had been augmented by a couple of glasses, now empty. Alice repeated her remark, adding: “She was as white as a sheet just now.”
Rodri gave Libby a sharp look. “I’ll take you in if you like. Of course I will.”
“I’m fine, really,” she replied.
“You’ve only to say. But take it easy the rest of the day, maybe have a nap, and you’ll need an early night.” So an agreement had been reached, had it? His next words confirmed it. “Fergus and his superiors feel it would be helpful if you could stay on for a bit,” he said, and gave her one of his direct looks. “Could you do that? They’re going to send a man over in the morning to take charge of things, and they’ll take the bones away along with anything else that turns up. But they’d like you to expose the remains and they’ll lift them.” Things moved fast with a force of nature behind them. “Is that alright with you?”
And what could she say? It was, in fact, a good idea. She would notice things that they might miss, changes in soil colour and texture which could be vital, and she didn’t want to think of anyone else doing it. “Of course,” she said.
Behind her Alice made a quiet hrmph noise, which Rodri ignored. “Well, tha
t’s settled then. And we’ll see you in the morning, Fergus,” he said, and escorted the policeman to the back door.
Alice watched them go. “You mustn’t let him bully you,” she said. “You can just say no. He can be a juggernaut when he—”
“Defamation of character, Alice, m’dear,” he said, returning in time to catch the last remark but seemingly unmoved by it. “And of course you can say no. Think about it, and if there’s anything you don’t like about the arrangement, that’s fine. Alright?” Libby nodded, remembering that sudden sense of horror and wondering at it; it had never happened to her before. Maybe tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep, things would feel different.
“Good thing you decided to go and take a look,” Rodri continued. “Imagine if some walker had found it! I’ll have your car sorted out for you, by the way, to return the favour.”
“Thanks, but it is insured—”
“I wouldn’t bother with that, we’ll just get on with the repairs. And I’ll make it right with your work. Your professor’s coming up on Wednesday anyway, isn’t he?” Oh God, Declan. She’d forgotten again. “Will he keep quiet if I ask him? The show’ll be over by then anyway, and if we get any snoopers tomorrow we can say it’s preparation for the dig in the summer.” She could almost see his brain constructing a narrative which was broadly truthful, and which suited him. “That’s what you came up for, after all, wasn’t it? And the police were there just in case—” Alice was folding a sheet behind him, and she made another little hrmph sound. He swung round to her, an eyebrow raised. “Was there something?” he asked.
Alice simply snapped together the two corners of the sheet by way of response, and Libby said: “That’s all fine, but I’ll handle Professor Lockhart.”
“Just as you like.”
“He’ll find it all very odd, though, as he didn’t know I was up here this weekend, and then all this.” In fact he’d be livid, upstaged and out of the loop. “But first I need to ring the pub and get my room back.” Presumably the Sturrock estate would pick up the tab.