by Sarah Maine
He made no reply, then said, “You’ve given this a lot of thought, I see.” He pulled the strap tight on his bag. “And it is a powerful legend, I grant you. But for us the central message is that Odrhan tended the wounds of a pagan sinner, like a good Christian should, then he taught Ulla to love God. And through him the son of pagans learned Christian ways, and he, a misbegotten child, returned to build the church which still serves this little community.”
A misbegotten child. Would he speak thus if he knew her mother’s history?
“But perhaps the child was Erik’s son, not Harald’s, so not misbegotten,” she said. Despite her illegitimacy, her mother knew who her own father was.
“Perhaps.”
She felt a sudden urge to provoke him. “Or Odrhan’s?”
“Does the legend tell us that?” he asked, unprovoked and gently reproving.
“No. But some people say it could be.”
“Some people like to shock.” This last was said with a smile and a light tone as he got to his feet. “The poem suggests that it was Harald’s son, although it could have been Erik’s, so perhaps you are right.” And the poem was written by a man who was an adulterer himself, she thought. “Now, tell me, what do you like to read?”
And so they left the headland together and picked their way back along the causeway, he with his satchel slung across his shoulder, she with her shawl drawn tight, and at the beach they parted.
Chapter 13
Libby
Libby overslept next morning, having lain awake for hours in the night considering what she ought to do about the cross, and thinking about the whole strange situation.
She went down to the kitchen and Rodri greeted her briefly, gesturing to where breakfast had been left out before turning to Alice at the sink. “Bring the professor through to the library when he arrives, will you, and we’ll require coffee. Full-on pitch. OK? Come through when you’ve eaten, Libby.” And with that, he disappeared in the direction of the hall.
Alice watched him go. “Right,” she said, then: “Will your prof come to the front door or the back?”
“The front.” There was little doubt of that.
“Right. I’ll find a clean pinny.”
Libby ate her breakfast. Full-on pitch? Whatever it meant, Alice was lifting down what looked like very fine china from a high cupboard. She had somehow interpreted Rodri’s requirements and was fulfilling them in her no-nonsense manner. Libby ate quickly, keen to get into the shelter of the library before Declan arrived and the storm broke.
Rodri looked up from his desk as she entered. “I imagine the police might expect some sort of formal report from you, you know, while it’s fresh in your mind.” He was more smartly dressed this morning, she noticed, more county set, and had somehow put a distance between them.
“I made some notes—”
“Yes, I saw you. Why not run up and get your notebook, and make a start? I cleared a space for you to work.” He nodded towards a side table where a laptop was open at a document headed Recovery of bones and artefacts from Ullaness: police report, and then gave his attention back to his papers. Puzzled, she went and fetched her notebook, sat at the table, and began looking through it, secretly watching him as he wrote away at the great desk, cool and detached, and wondered what had brought on this changed manner.
The long case clock in the hall had just finished chiming ten when the front-door bell sounded. Libby swung round in her chair, but Rodri continued writing, not lifting his head. She heard voices, recognising Declan’s; then there was a deferential knock at the door and Alice entered. “Professor Lockhart is here, sir,” she said, in low tones. “Shall I show them in?” She was wearing an immaculate white apron and had put her jaunty ponytail into a neat bun. It transformed her appearance.
Whatever Rodri Sturrock might be paying her, it was not enough.
“Ah. Yes, by all means.” He snapped the lid onto his fountain pen and stood, coming round to the side of the desk as Alice ushered the visitors in, and he held out his hand. “Good morning, Professor. Good morning, Mrs. Lockhart.”
“Good morning, and it’s good of you to see us. But let me—”
“A good journey, I hope?” he interrupted smoothly. “You know Libby Snow, of course.”
Libby had stayed seated outside their line of vision, but at Rodri’s gesture Declan swung round, and went white. She had never before seen him knocked off balance.
From white his face suffused with colour. “Libby—?” It was all he could manage.
“Hello, Declan. Hello, Caro,” she said. Caroline Albertino was looking almost as shocked as Declan. She was, as ever, immaculately turned out in black, the leggings and a tight-fitting top showing her form to great advantage, and black provided a striking contrast to her ashen face. Libby glanced at Rodri and saw a spark in his eye which suggested he’d known damn well that the woman he’d seen with Declan wasn’t his wife. A half smile passed briefly over his face, and she began to understand.
Power games.
“Let me get you some coffee,” Rodri said, and turned an old-fashioned bell handle on the wall. “Do have a seat,” he said. Alice reappeared, and he barely glanced at her. “Coffee please, Alice, for our guests.”
“Yes, sir.” For a moment Libby thought Alice was about to bob a curtsy and spoil everything, but she resisted. This was teamwork! Libby dropped her head to hide a smile.
Rodri gestured Declan and Caro to the two armchairs beside the fire and pulled forward a worn leather winged chair for himself which gave him the advantage of several inches’ height. He then crossed his legs, and gave them a courteous smile. “Now, tell me what brings you here.” He had not, she noticed, suggested that she join them, which was fine by her. From here she could watch, fascinated.
Declan was struggling to sit up straighter in the squashy armchair. “First, let me introduce Caro Albertino, who is, in fact, my research student, not my wife—”
“I do beg your pardon,” said Rodri, nodding towards Caro, who said not a word.
“She’s a part of the project, you see—” Declan continued. Was she? This was news. He flung a glance in Libby’s direction as if reading her mind, and his face hardened. “But, forgive me, why on earth is Libby Snow here?” Then he addressed her directly. “I was told you’d rung in sick on Monday, after some sort of accident? No one knew where you were.” His eyes studied her bruised brow, which fortunately had yet to fade.
At that moment Alice pushed open the door carrying a loaded tray and upstaged them all with her fussy arrangement of little tables and enquiries about milk and sugar as she distributed cups and offered shortbreads, and took the force out of Declan’s challenge.
“Her car had the worst of it,” Rodri replied for her. “I hit her going rather fast out of the drive to get my boys to school on time. Just there will do.” This to Alice. “She got away with a bang on the head which we thought might be concussion, but she insisted she was alright, and refused to go to the hospital.” Rodri Sturrock, she was learning, handled facts robustly, and then dared them to protest. “Thank you, Alice, that will be all for now.” He turned back to Declan. “But, as I told whoever I spoke to in your department, we insisted on her staying quietly under observation here. It was the least we could do.”
Until, that was, he persuaded the police to let her excavate a body—
“We’d no idea she was here, though.” Declan sent another baleful glance in her direction.
Rodri raised his eyebrows. “Did I not say? Surely—but you see, there’s rather more to explain than a vehicle collision.” He paused, his expression severe. “But first I must ask that you both treat what I tell you as strictly confidential, in fact I must insist upon it. It’s now a police matter.”
And Libby sat back and listened as Rodri succinctly explained the events of the past two days, from her discovering the bones to excavating the skeleton, briefly referring to her role in advising the police, and to her valuable contribution, a commendation judg
ed to a nicety, neither meagre nor gushing. “I’m indebted to her as, indeed, are you, because if the police had been let loose on the mound, there’d have been little left for your students to work with this summer, don’t you think?” He waited for Declan to concur, which he did, briefly. “As it is, Libby is now compiling a report for the police, but she tells me she was also able to record some useful archaeological observations. Is that not right?”
“Yes,” she replied, and he carried on, making no reference to the possibility of the rest of the mound being cleared. Nor did he mention the cross.
When he had finished, Declan gave her a wooden smile and she watched him struggling for words. “Well. How extraordinary! And who’d have imagined . . . But it’s a Victorian body, you say?”
Rodri nodded, deferring to Libby.
“Probably,” she said. “On the basis of some cufflinks and the boots, and some scraps of textile. And a gold filling in his tooth. The police have taken everything away.” Since Rodri hadn’t mentioned the cross, neither would she. Time enough later to explore the reasons why.
Declan was just about managing not to appear hostile, and then he asked the inevitable question. “But why were you up here in the first place?”
She’d rehearsed for this one. “I’d a free weekend and thought I’d come and have a look at the site and do some planning.”
“But everything was planned, and agreed!”
“That’s exactly what I said myself when I came across her in the dunes,” said Rodri. “I assumed, of course, that she’d come up in advance of your own visit today, but she said not.” He regarded Declan politely, his crossed leg bouncing gently. “Which brings us nicely to the point of it?”
It was masterfully done, and she watched Declan calculating quickly. He’d had no time to recover from the morning’s quick-fire shocks, and now he had no choice but to explain his intentions with her sitting there listening. And if Caro had been brought up to charm Rodri into cooperating, then she wasn’t playing her part. Libby watched her colleague re-evaluating his approach while Rodri sat there and let the silence lengthen.
Declan made another attempt to sit up straight. “All this has driven everything from my head. So, yes, to business! I brought Ms. Albertino up to meet you because her current research is very relevant to the Ullaness project.” He looked at Caro, but she showed no sign of contributing beyond a tight smile, so Declan continued. “It involves gathering data on the use of space in these early churches, and investigating how function changes through time.” Rodri glanced briefly at Caro too. “Internal divisions within churches have, of course, inevitably been modified over time as buildings were extended, or liturgical practices altered, or as interiors were used for elite burials. Small chapels get carved out of larger spaces, and then re-absorbed, and so forth.” Rodri remained silent as Declan continued, his face expressionless, and Libby wondered fleetingly what he made of it. “New ground-penetrating techniques mean that there is no longer a requirement to disturb deposits at all, other than inserting short probes which—”
“May I stop you there, Professor.”
“Please call me Declan.”
“Thank you. But are you thinking that the estate might change its mind regarding work in the church?”
Declan hesitated, foiled by the direct question. “It would very usefully complement the survey work, and the excavation, and in no way impact upon deposits inside the church. I realised that I hadn’t previously explained what we want to do, so I wondered if Sir Hector might consider the more detailed proposal that Caro has put together.” He turned at that point to Caro, who pulled a thin file out of her elegant handbag and handed it to him, confirming to Libby’s mind that it had been intended that she would do the pitch. Declan passed the file to Rodri, who glanced at it, read the cover, and then placed it on his desk.
“Thank you. I will draw it to his attention,” he said, and folded his hands.
Declan looked briefly annoyed and made one final assault. “I quite understand that, as his agent, you act on his behalf, and are very much in his confidence.” Then he seemed to change tack and gave a laugh. “And given that, I thought that if, by carrying out a little trial, we can convince you that we will in no way compromise the church, then—”
“—then maybe I’ll persuade my brother?”
“Your brother?”
“Why, yes.” Rodri looked surprised. “I’m Sir Hector’s agent, but I’m also his brother. Had I not made that clear?”
It simply wasn’t Declan’s day. Rodri swiftly and smoothly drew the interview to a close, offering more coffee which he knew would be refused, assuring Declan that he would certainly consult his brother while expressing his concern that he and Caro might well have made a wasted journey. “And I’d suggest that you take Libby Snow back with you now, but she has this report to complete, and I think her car repairs will be another day. Monday should see her back at her desk, though, assuming her head is alright.” He barely glanced in her direction as he said this. “But may I stress the complete embargo on publicity concerning last week’s discoveries?” He included Caro in a stern look. “So far very few people are in the loop, and the police will not release information until they’re ready to do so. I feel sure you can persuade whoever needs persuasion that Libby’s absence is due entirely to the accident. Nothing else.”
He rose, giving his guests no option but to do likewise. Libby also stood but remained where she was as Rodri ushered them to the door. “Have you thought of doing your trial work on St. Brides’s Church, Carrie?” she heard him say. “It’s much the same date and size. Just outside Brindsay, about twenty-five miles southwest of here. Tell them I sent you.” Caro murmured some inaudible response. “So, we have an interesting summer ahead, Professor, and all being well you’ll see Libby back with you on Monday.”
Declan nodded her a curt good-bye. “Come and see me when you get back, won’t you?” he said, and the tone did not augur well. And then they were in the hall, where she did not follow, and she heard the front door open. A moment later it closed behind them and voices faded as Rodri, now all courtesy and attention, escorted them to their car.
She sat back feeling as if she had been under the wheels of the Land Rover, rolled out flat, impressed by Rodri’s performance and not a little amused, although Declan, out-manoeuvred, would now be impossible to work with.
A moment later Rodri returned. “Why’s he so keen to work in the church?” he demanded from the doorway, that distinctive frown on his brow.
“I’ve no idea.”
“He had another go at me in the courtyard. Even the bait weighed in at that point.”
“The bait?”
“Well, she was, wasn’t she? I’m not a fool.” He picked up his cup from the desk and swallowed the last of his coffee. “And she’s not Italian.”
“No.”
“But her husband is?”
Libby hesitated. “Yes.” Caro had, after all, been wearing a wedding ring.
“Hmmm.” He began gathering up the cups. “I didn’t think she looked like a wife. Well, not his, anyway.”
“Aren’t you rather leaping to conclusions?”
“They checked into a double room.” His tone boded ill for the work in the church, and he began collecting the dirty cups.
“Oh, let me do that, sir,” Alice simpered as she came through the door with a tray.
He laughed. “Alice! You were wonderful.”
“It’ll cost ye.”
“Don’t I know it,” he said as she piled the tray high and backed out of the door.
“Full-on pitch?” Libby asked when she had gone.
He had picked up the file Declan and Caro had left and was thumbing through it, the frown still on his face, but he looked up at her words and gave a grin. “It’s a technique we developed for the more pretentious of our clients: playing to their vanity. Some like the idea of dilettante landowners indulging themselves in the food business, and we let them think
it’s just that. They’d screw us if they knew how desperate we are for orders.” He went back to the file, pausing once or twice to absorb particular pages. “And it took the wind out of your professor’s sails a bit, don’t you think?”
“But why did you want to, particularly?” Rodri Sturrock was difficult to read, but intriguing.
“He’s been as persistent as a wasp, and I don’t like the type. Nor do I like faithless women.”
“It was unforgivable to call her Carrie, though.”
A little smile appeared and he tossed the report aside. “Shall we go and see if your car’s ready?”
“You just said it’d be another day—”
“Did I?”
“And shouldn’t I finish this report for the police?”
He looked at the table as if he had forgotten what she’d been doing. “Do you know, Libby Snow,” he said, with a lilt and a smile, “it was just an idea I had, but if they’d wanted a report from you, they’d have said, don’t you think?”
In the Land Rover she looked across at him as he drove, still trying to fathom the man. His moods were as changeable as the weather, a blaze of sunshine one minute, storm clouds the next, and behind those intelligent eyes that persistent tension. And a determination that things would go his way, every move purposeful. Not, perhaps, a man to cross. But gone now were both the lordly manner and the laughter, and he seemed to have retreated into himself.
He became conscious of her scrutiny and glanced across at her. “That went alright, didn’t it? From your point of view?”
After a fashion. “Yes, but he’ll be hell to work with now.”
He looked at her again. “Hadn’t thought of that. Sorry! Bit of a prima donna, is he?”
“He’s a showman, and the project’s his show.”
“His, or his and the bait’s?”
“She’s new on the scene.”
“Thought so.” They drove on, climbing away from the coast. “So how did you get hitched up with him?”
She turned her face to the window. There’d never been any danger of getting “hitched up” with Declan, and his efforts in that direction had scarred their professional relationship. When she had first joined the department she’d found him supportive, giving her free rein to go for funding and allowing her the responsibility of planning for the summer. Soon, however, she’d realised that he was simply idle and had just offloaded the donkey work to her, limiting his own input to dealing with the Sturrock estate and signing off as director of the project. And then he had made a pass at her at a party, pulling her outside ostensibly to discuss the application. Declan Lockhart was not used to rejection and their relationship had plummeted. If the paperwork had not already been sent in, he would probably have struck her name from it, and now the summer seemed blighted.