Bright Hair About the Bone (13 page)

CHAPTER 13

T
he church bell was tolling eight when they ducked through an archway and entered a courtyard crowded with freshly watered flower boxes.

“That's Mr. Paradee's private residence,” Phil explained, pointing to the left-hand side of the medieval stone building. “And over here's where the boss has his office…workroom…control centre.”

The boys lined up at the carved wooden door of Paradee's office and banged the knocker. Letty was impressed to see them unconsciously smooth down their hair and adjust their collars as they waited. What sort of martinet could their employer be? And would she pass muster herself? She'd put on an outfit that clearly announced her intention of stepping straight into a trench, trowel in hand. She was telling the world that she was not the kind of woman who would teeter on the edge of an excavation shouting out instructions and keeping her shoes and fingers clean. Freshly pressed but well worn, her khaki trousers, matching shirt, and laced desert boots had been unremarkable in Egypt but, strangely, here in France, she'd noticed a few startled looks as she ran along the street with the boys. Too bad—if the
fellahin
could accept her, so could the French.

The door swung back, opened by the director himself.

“Stella St. Clair, sir,” murmured the boys respectfully, and they slipped away around the corner, leaving her face-to-face with the talented archaeologist Daniel had written of in admiring terms.

And her letter to Esmé that evening, she decided, would be full of fascinating detail. Esmé would expect it. An impressive man. Yes, she would say—impressive. Taller than herself by an inch or two, slim and active-looking. Light brown hair worn rather long, and narrowed brown eyes in a weathered face which seemed moulded thinly over a well-shaped skull. This was a face destined for distinction in later years. But for now, Letty thought, a severe face when his smile of welcome faded. And it seemed to her that it faded more quickly than might have been expected. A calloused hand took hers in a formal handshake. A man who evidently still did his share of trench work, then. With his well-cut tweed Norfolk jacket, linen shirt, and Charvet scarf knotted at the neck, Charles Paradee presented, all in all, an entirely proper appearance for a site director. Letty thought she might omit to mention in her letter that he was, as her friend had annoyingly predicted, somewhat elderly. About forty? Disappointing perhaps, but unsurprising. This was the age by which a man might count on having risen to a position of esteem in the archaeological world.

She was less confident of the impression she was making on him. Had the first, hastily disguised reaction been one of astonishment? Or could it have been disapproval? His moment of consternation over, he began to speak and to speak volubly: “Come in, Miss St. Clair…Stella. We're all glad you could get here—we'd worried we'd be starting the season short-handed. I've read your recommendations and you're far too well qualified for the job you're going to do but—what the heck!—if you're willing to do it, I'm not going to complain.”

He went on talking as he led her through to his office. She took a swift look around and approved the ordered efficiency of the large room. Neatly labelled filing cabinets and storage drawers covered two walls. A third displayed large-scale detailed maps of the area and a montage of photographs, some taken from the air. In the centre stood a large table and it was to this Paradee directed her attention. Her first reaction to what she saw there was one of admiration, her second one of speculation. The three-dimensional model of Fontigny and the surrounding countryside was beautiful and carefully crafted, the work of expert hands. It was showy, it was not strictly necessary, and it must have cost a good deal of money. She could imagine the
tut-tut
ting such a flourish would have raised from her mentor, the parsimonious and perpetually cash-strapped Andrew Merriman. The aerial photography underpinning the project was at the leading edge of archaeological research and represented a considerable investment of funds. She guessed this display was calculated to dazzle the eye of whoever was behind the enterprise:
See how impressively I'm spending your money!
Someone in this enterprise had more money than sense, she concluded. But the model was seductive, she had to admit.

All the details were there: the tiny river curling away through wooded slopes, ranks of vines patterning the hillsides, and, in the very centre, the snail-shell cluster of houses that was Fontigny and at the heart, a superb miniature abbey.

Paradee stood by, noting her appreciation. He answered the questions she put to him as she walked around it, looking and learning. They fell silent for a moment, in total rapport as they contemplated this ancient part of France spread out before them, rich and welcoming, fought over and lived in from the most ancient civilisations that wandered through, hunting and fishing, on to the early farmers, the horse-breeding Celts, the Gauls killed or enslaved by the settling Romans, and then the Middle Ages rising in triumph from the welter of the Dark Ages.

Paradee was explaining that he was hoping to make further progress in tracking and revealing traces of the original abbey so that a definitive floor plan could be drawn up.

“But with all these layers of civilisation,” said Letty hesitantly, “I'd guess the abbey itself was constructed over the ruins of earlier buildings?”

“That's so,” he said with an encouraging nod for her insight. “We know an earlier church existed here before the monks arrived with their stonemasons and their grand designs. We're finding traces. And, of course, there are written records of such a church—it too was dedicated to Mary Magdalene, like the present one in the square. We have no clear idea yet just how far back it goes, but we'll get there.”

“Back to Roman times?” she offered. “A shrine to Mithras, god of the soldiery? I know people tended to build time after time on a spot considered hallowed in the region.”

“Roman!” Paradee exclaimed, in gentle reprimand. “Oh, the glamour of the Romans! Why are they always the ones that women get excited about? I don't hear them sighing with anticipation at the idea of digging up a…a…Visigoth!”

“You're not to take me for a romantic treasure-hunter, Mr. Paradee!” Letty was stung to a sharp reply by the fear of being categorised with the rest of her sex. “I'm no admirer of Schliemann and his methods. But a civilisation that left so many treasures, so much literature, that gave us our legends, our language, and our laws—surely I can be excused for finding it relevant and fascinating? I'll dig up a boring, moustachioed old Visigoth, if that's what's on offer, with all due care and attention and profound respect for his culture. I'll record and tabulate his remains to the inch and publish a learned paper on it if required, but I'll not deny that it's the people I can sympathise with and feel I know that spark my deeper interest.”

“You speak deprecatingly of Schliemann—surely you admire the work he did at Troy and Mycenae?”

A sly question. Letty was keenly aware that this overtly companionable conversation was, in reality, an interview.

“Schliemann! What man hasn't admired his attack and energy, envied the way the gods appear to have smiled on his enterprise? What woman hasn't pictured herself decked out in the gold and jewels of Helen of Troy? Like everyone, I've revelled in the buccaneering way he revealed to us a Homeric past. But…well, I've talked with men—scholars—who have serious reservations concerning Mr. Schliemann's methods, even his honesty. One of his own countrymen described him bluntly, and possibly slanderously, as a ‘swindler and con man.' Another has suggested, more judiciously, that ‘he who hideth can find.' I've been trained to ask questions and take nothing at face value. So—my admiration is qualified.”

“You know the story of Schliemann's unearthing of the gold Mask of Agamemnon?”

Letty nodded. “‘Today I have gazed on the face of Agamemnon,' he said in his telegram to the King of Greece. What a moment!”

“Yes, something like that—but, did you realise that's exactly what he meant? He'd seen the
face
of the old warrior? The story goes that the metal had preserved the part of the body that it covered and, the instant Schliemann lifted the mask from the earth, he saw below the actual features, thirty-two perfect teeth, half-closed eyes, moustache, and all. He bent and kissed it but the face disintegrated into dust at his touch. He was left holding no more than the gold death mask.”

“Hail and farewell!” said Letty. “No, I hadn't heard that story. And I'm not sure I believe it—though it's certainly entertaining. Can you be certain of this?”

He smiled an acknowledgement of her scepticism but persisted: “I have a question for you. Imagine yourself in that grave shaft. You uncover the mask. At your elbow is an ancient deity. She…something tells me it would be
she…
makes you an offer. She gives you a magical choice. You can keep either the face of the Achaean warrior himself, preserved for posterity, or the golden image. Which would you choose?”

“Oh, the face, of course.” Letty had not hesitated. She enquired innocently, “Have I passed the test?”

He laughed. “You made the female choice. But you're very direct. A Merriman disciple, of course. Stands out a mile! It's that blend of scientific rigour and romantic enthusiasm he teaches. Merriman! There are rumours about the good professor. Tell me—are the stories we hear about his exploits true?”

Letty had learned that archaeologists revelled in a hint of scandal, usually about their fellows, and she'd been asked the same thing a hundred times. Andrew Merriman, as her father had hinted, was a man who attracted gossip, most of it undeserved. She decided to tease Paradee a little for his indiscretion and murmured in reply, “Oh, yes. I've heard those stories. I grew very close to Andrew in the desert—miles from civilisation and living in tents as we were, it is quite inevitable that a certain intimacy will develop—and I can tell you…his technique is amazing and the reports of his stamina are not exaggerated.”

There was a stunned silence while Paradee digested this. Letty chided herself for falling into his trap. Encouraged by his friendly enthusiasm, she had been lured into a premature assumption of confidence. Now he would mark her down as an untrustworthy female tittle-tattle. She belatedly remembered that she was not speaking to one of her Bohemian friends who would appreciate and respond lightly to saucy innuendo of this kind. No, she had gone too far, and she hurried to finish, not with the knowing air of conspiracy she normally used when repaying the indelicate question, but with a show of girlish innocence. “The skill with which the professor handles a trowel is superb, and, do you know, he digs for twelve hours a day and then spends two more hours writing up the day's report! And is quite deaf to Lady Merriman's complaints and dire warnings concerning his health. Andrew's in wonderful health for his age. He declares the hot dry climate keeps his arthritis at bay. But you were about to speak of Roman remains, I think?”

“Ah. Yes. Romans. Well, we're encountering traces of them—and of earlier civilisations.” Relieved by the change of tack, Paradee moved along the board and pointed to the excavation site. “We're technically digging to reveal and define the eleventh-century abbey, but…well, if our spade should slip and go a little deeper…or wider…who knows what we might find? A forum, a theatre, a villa, a mosaic floor, a hoard of coins? Any of these would be frosting on the archaeological cake.”

“Though in revealing them, you'd be destroying the traces of the original abbey?”

He frowned. “Archaeology is destruction of a sort. You know that. No way around it.”

“And Roman remains would guarantee wide interest and financial support?” she suggested.

His face creased in a very pleasant way into a grin. “Straight to the heart of our problem, Stella!” he said, again approving her perception. “Funding is vital, of course. We're all seeking our own Lord Carnarvon. And, you're right—in this game money follows glory.” His mouth narrowed in—distaste? determination? “We're concerned to reveal the language we can learn from the layers of earth we uncover…the broken lug of a pot, a dark patch of charcoal staining, a glittering gold coin, a dull halfpenny—they all have their equal and exact place in the context of a dig. They are our grammar. But it's not always immediately comprehensible or attractive to the general public.”

“A general public that enjoys screaming headlines of the
Revenge of the Pharaoh! Fabulous Treasure Revealed in Egyptian Desert, Ten Archaeologists Die Hideously, Victims of an Ancient Curse!
type?”

“You've got it! Certainly beats
Further Six Feet of Monastery Wall Uncovered in Deepest France. All Excavators Healthy and Well.
”