Grave Consequences (17 page)

“Emma, I really don’t see what any of this has to do with you!” She stood up now, very angry. “Why do you persist so?”

I threw the knotted blade of grass away from me. “Come off it, Jane. All I’m trying to do is help, if not Julia, then
you,
at least. Why is that so hard to understand? What are you so scared of? Me? What am I going to do to you?”

Jane got up a little unsteadily; she hadn’t been drinking halves. “I understand, I do. Of
course
you want to help. But it’s all under control, thank you.”

I was angry now; how dared she patronize me like this? “Jane—”

“Emma, you simply don’t understand it’s not how we do things here.” She turned and headed back down the river path toward the site. I sat, really feeling the chill of the damp air now, and pulled my coat closer around me. So much for England in June; I had been hoping for the springtime the poets wrote of—blue skies, warm grass, sweet strawberries, and cool cream—but was beginning to suspect it was mythological. I hadn’t had dinner for the second night in a row and was starting to feel the effects of the night’s excitement and beer. It was a nasty feeling, being alone in an empty part of town, between two graveyards, arguing with my only friend here.

A splash and another rustling down in the tall grasses by the side of the river startled me, and I jumped up and hurried back up toward the main road. I didn’t want to run into Jane on the river path and I didn’t want to stay put. Once I got onto the road, well lit despite the creeping fog, I also began to worry about my indiscretion about talking with Jane in so open a place. Yes, it was quiet and lonely, but only this evening I’d learned that there was a lot more traffic, indeed, residence, behind the church than anyone expected. Thinking about the splash again, and now unable to recall having heard the sound of a fish or bird before or after, I hurried down Church Street, back to Jane and Greg’s house.

Where there was no one home, of course. Presumably, unless she’d gone for another one of her long, unattended, and unthinking rambles, Jane had met Greg and Simon back at the pub, where they were presently debating the virtues of Indian versus Chinese food. Confident that Jane would make some excuse for my absence, I overcame my habitual reticence about making myself at home in someone else’s house
and started looking into putting together some dinner for myself. A lump of brie—I don’t think Jane would have had anything so common as cheddar—an apple, and a piece of bread, with a nice glass of orange juice, and my spirits rose considerably. I felt much more my old self, much more where I belonged.

My spirits fell back to their pre-dinner low levels. I wasn’t back where I belonged, I was back where I fit best so far, which still meant I was as far on the outside as ever. I had no idea what was going on and needed to find out, but was confused by subtleties of culture and the complexities of someone else’s relationship problems. I was confused because Jane was my friend, and Greg too, but not the same way that I had friends at home. Even Kam, who had been raised in England, seemed a little more accessible to me, in some ways. Though to be completely fair, he wasn’t caught up in a murder investigation. That got me thinking about how much I didn’t know about Jane or anything else at all.

I glanced at my watch: eight-thirty. Brian would be at work, and I owed him a call. Hell, after tonight, I owed myself a call. It was getting expensive, all these calls home, I thought, as I dialed what seemed like an inordinate number of digits. The phone began to ring. It might be cheaper, in the end, to have Brian fly over—

“Chang,” came the abrupt answer.

“Jeez, hon, couldn’t you at least say, ‘Brian Chang,’ or even a simple hello? You wouldn’t sound quite so mean. When you say ‘Chang’ like that, it sounds like someone threw a wrench into a bucket.”

“Hey, Emma! Hang on a sec—Roddy, you get going and we’ll talk tomorrow. I saw that! Put it down. Get your own flasks buddy.”

I heard a door shut in Brian’s office. “What’s up, babe?”

“Nothing. I just thought I’d give you a call, since you said to.”

“Uh huh.”

“So how’s Quasi?”

Long silence. “You must really be homesick, if you’re asking after him.”

I wilted. “Oh, I am. I feel so lost. Every time I think I understand what’s going on, I don’t.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and I heard the tapping of computer keys. “Brian, are you listening to me?”

“Yes. You said you feel alien, foreign. I’m sorry about that.”

He didn’t sound particularly sorry, I thought sullenly. “Hey, I’m looking for a little support here! And well, you just sound like a dink.”

He laughed, music to my ears in spite of my irritation. “Emma, you
are
a foreigner. You
are
alien. You say the same thing when we visit my folks in San Diego. Did you think England would be less of a difference than California?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you think you were going to blend in? Pick up on every nuance automatically?”

“No, of course not. I just thought I had a better handle on everything than I do.”

“You probably have a better handle on things than you think. Definitely better than most people. So what do you do at conferences? Or when you’re visiting Ma and Dad?”

“Work it. Make the most of being exotic.”

“Right.”

I traced a pattern in the straw rug with my toe. “Well, maybe.”

“Just don’t sweat it, right? And sometimes, it’s better to let other people assume you know less than you do. You can get away with more then.”

“You’re right. I hate it when you’re always right.” I punched at one of the couch cushions.

“What can I say? It’s my cross to bear.”

“So how are you?”

“Good. Lonely. And if it’s any consolation, the cushion
apparently didn’t agree with Quasi all that much. He’s been lying low since yesterday, but he managed to hark up a lot of cotton stuffing all over—”

“Please let me just assume that it will be cleaned up by the time I’m back in two weeks, okay? I need that right now.”

“Hey, speaking of which—Kam is going to be visiting his mother in a week, so I gave him Jane’s number so he could give you a call and you guys could hook up. Keep your ears peeled for that.”

“Cool! Is Marty coming too?”

“Do you think she’d let him visit London without her?”

“Ha!” I paused. “How about you? Could you come too?”

I heard a sigh. “I wish I could, but I’ve got all my vacation saved up for the trip in August. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

“You still won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope. But you’ll love it, I just know it.”

“And I should bring a bathing suit.”

“Why would I want to go anywhere cold when all I have to do is wait a couple of months?” There was another pause, and I could feel Brian’s mood shift. “Emma, you don’t know these people all that well, do you?”

“I’ve known Jane for years—”

“Yeah, from conferences. Once or twice a year you run into her in some neutral academic territory where everyone has to be nice to each other. Maybe you both had a bit too much to drink and got giggly over someone’s new article, or something. I’m just saying, be careful, okay?”

“I’ll be okay.” I hated admitting he was right about this. “I promise. I’ll just work from the known to the unknown, just like in the field. I miss you. Something awful.”

“Me too. Come home soon.”

“Just as fast as I can.”

After I hung up, I realized that tomorrow was Saturday, the day of the fox hunt. But as much as I was looking forward to seeing Jeremy and his house again, I had the sinking feeling that I’d also be seeing a lot more of Palmer as well. With that happy thought, I dragged myself up to bed.

I
WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING IN A SWIRL OF CONFUSION.
The dreams I’d been having were more intense than ever, somewhat threatening, somewhat confusing, always just beyond my ability to understand them. This was further complicated by the fact that after a moment, I realized that I smelled coffee brewing. I hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans and bolted downstairs, lest the odor prove to be a phantom.

Of course I should have remembered that no matter how often or how hard I wished it, coffee never brewed itself: Jane was downstairs waiting for me. I came to that realization just as I hit that squeaky last step, so there was no chance of fleeing back to my room. Clever trap, Jane, I thought. It was really unfair, though, to lure me into a potentially heavy conversation before I was fully human.

“Good morning.” Jane poured me a cup of coffee from the coffee press. It was a peace offering; she must have picked it up yesterday.

“Hey.”

There was a long pause hanging between us and I took the opportunity to stoke up. I honestly couldn’t decide
which of us needed to do the apologizing and suspected that I owed her at least a small one. Which was why it was such a surprise to me when just as I drew breath, Jane had already begun.

“I’m very sorry about last night. I had no right. I can only attribute it to being a little overtired and a little hungry. Possibly a mite tiddly.”

I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have been pushing you—”

“No, no, look, I’m a big girl,” she interrupted. “I am, occasionally, able to govern myself sufficiently to account for those factors. You have been a tremendous help to me, to us, and I wouldn’t want you to think otherwise. I know you’re just trying to help, and it happens to be in exactly the way that tends to scare me off, you know? So please forgive me and I’ll try to do better.”

“Sure, no problem.” I was still a little befuddled; this was all happening pretty fast. “So you and Greg will be coming with me today? To the fox hunt?”

Jane’s face darkened. “Um, I rather think not. I’ve got too much work to catch up on—especially where Bonnie’s concerned, alas—and I’m still not ready to show myself at a social gathering. I wouldn’t be any fun. But since we haven’t rung to say we won’t be attending, I’ll ask Greg to run you over, so that we don’t disrupt his lor—Jeremy’s plans—”

With that I heaved a sigh of relief. No private audience with Jane and Palmer in the same room. Something unknotted in my stomach and I realized, chagrined, just how worried I had been about that possibility.

“—And you should give us a call when you get done. All right?”

“Yes, thanks. Er. Any idea what I should wear?”

Jane cocked her head, considering. “I’ve never been to one of these affairs, but I understand they’re not terribly formal. You won’t need hunting pinks or anything like that. I should dress, well, as one should dress for running through fields and woods. Trainers, I suppose, trousers, of course. A good warm jumper, at least—I mean, you know, a sweater,
cardie, whatever you call them. It will be cool again today, I think. Coldest spring we’ve had in ages.”

She put away the dishes she’d just washed; apparently she and Greg had already eaten. “Anyway, I’m going to get up to work. Just call out when you’re ready to go.”

After worrying too long about what I should wear, I settled for jeans, sneakers, and a colored T-shirt that I wouldn’t mind sweating in too much, with a sweater vest to go under my barn coat. And since I am not a fashion plate by any stretch of the imagination, I simply confined myself to figuring out how to look as presentable as possible before and after a good run. Finally, as a sop to my new resolution not to worry about blending in, I dug through my suitcase and pulled out my new hat, a broad-brimmed canvas hat that would have been better at home fishing on the other side of the Atlantic, but which would be just the thing here if the skies opened up.

Greg was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when I came down. He looked me up and down and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Mentally I stuck out my tongue.

“Very smart. I haven’t a clue as to what to tell you to expect, but I’m sure that Lord Hyde-Spofford will look after you. He means it all to be fun, so I am sure it will be. Shall we?”

Greg’s car was vintage, dark burgundy, and meticulously maintained, and reminded me of a small rounded station wagon. The way he behaved around it—pausing to inspect a stain that might have been a scratch, picking a leaf off the fender with a frown—suggested that it was not only vintage but much beloved. The logo on the grille showed some wavy lines and a stylized quadruped.

“Morris 1800,” he said, as if I should recognize the reason for his pride in that fact.

“Oh. Very nice.”

As we drove along, Greg craned his head past the steering wheel, peering up at the sky. “Those clouds don’t look good. We’ll have rain before the end of the day.”

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “Lived here all my life.”

We drove on a bit farther.

“What are you up to today?” I asked. “Working, like Jane?”

Greg frowned. “No, Jane hadn’t said anything about that to me. I’m off to visit Aunty Mads. She’s been very poorly lately.”

“Oh?” I recalled not having seen her at the cafe the last morning I’d been there, where she was clearly so much a fixture.

“I suppose at that age, you’re bound to have a setback now and then, but she’s always been right at the top of her form, so we’re all a bit concerned about the past couple of weeks, of course. So I’ll run over and check up on her.”

“I know she’ll appreciate that. She seems terribly fond of you.”

“She’d do anything, she’s always said, for me or Gran either. We thought we’d lose her when my Gran died, but she just seemed to transfer all her attentions to me and she rallied.”

I began to recognize the surroundings from the last time I’d been here, detoured by Dora. The hills were rolling, unbelievably green, and dotted with sheep; occasionally we passed a field of brilliant yellow, which Greg explained was rape bloom or
Brassica napus.
We traveled along in companionable silence.

“Any news from Andrew?” I said. “Has he finished his report on the modern skeleton yet? I’m sort of surprised that he hasn’t been more forthcoming with his conclusions about it; I mean, it really did look like evidence of a murder to me.”

“No, I haven’t seen anything yet,” Greg said. “Have you asked Jane? He’d probably hand it over to her first, as the project director.”

“I asked Jane; she said she wasn’t worried about it, it was Andrew’s responsibility—” I began. Some of my impatience with this laxity was seeping through, and Greg cut me off.

“Well, there you are. You do understand, Emma, that in Britain, we usually leave the specialists to their work. Not the same degree of hands-on oversight as in America, you see; we find that those in charge can’t be taxed with every detail and so we don’t try. Everyone has his or her own job. It works out very well.”

“I understand the system is different,” I said, a little stung by the implied criticism, “but you can’t tell me that you’re not personally curious about this skeleton, can you?”

“Of course, curious, but it honestly has nothing to do with me, professionally or personally. So there’s no point in getting worked up over it, is there?”

I didn’t answer.

“You know, Jane’s told me what a help you’ve been to her. To us, really,” Greg said abruptly. “I really think we’re—Jane and I, I mean—going to pull through all this horrible mess, and that’s in part thanks to you. I can’t tell you what it means to me. To us.”

I had the strangest sensation that I was being dismissed rather than thanked; surely Greg couldn’t believe that everything was really all right? “Well, I’m glad if I did anything to help, but we won’t really know everything’s okay until Jane’s been cleared, right?”

Greg shrugged and pretended to listen to the engine carefully, speeding up a little, then slowing down, as if trying to locate the source of an imaginary noise. “The police will find that out soon enough. There’s no way that Jane will remain their prime suspect.”

“But what about Trevor? Doesn’t his absence—and his nose—suggest that something’s up at the site?”

“You must be joking.” Greg seemed quite genuinely surprised. “I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve wanted to have a go at him. And no, in case you’re wondering; it wasn’t my doing. Though I’d like to shake the hand of whoever is responsible.”

“And what about Andrew? He’s been missing for—”

“Andrew? Andrew came home last night, late, and I’m
sure I’m not telling tales out of school, the worse for wear. He does that, sometimes, and every time we take him back. He’s just too good with the bones to show him the door.” Greg said all this with the blandness one uses to gloss over a suspect fact.

I sat, puzzled and fuming over this, but Greg wasn’t about to let me think of another objection: As far as he was concerned, everything was hunky-dory. His complacency about Andrew’s lack of report and Julia’s murder bothered me. Worse than that, it made me question why I was getting myself involved in any of this.

“And now you’ll be able to focus all your energies on Mother Beatrice, won’t you?” He looked at me hopefully and downshifted. “I see that that burial nineteen is shaping up very nicely and we have great hopes it is indeed she. You mustn’t worry about Morag and the other sillies, either, they’re just looking for a bit of attention, you see.”

I shrugged. “It’s hard to please everyone, or even try to take everyone’s ideas into consideration, isn’t it? A site is a complicated thing, in the public sphere.”

“I don’t see why that’s so important, though,” he replied curtly. “We have the license, our plan has been approved, and that should be that, shouldn’t it? Everything else is just catering to special interests and I really think work will grind to a standstill if every crackpot has to be treated as though his ideas are equally valid, don’t you? We have to face facts, that there is one right way, and that’s that.”

“But how do you know that? I honestly don’t know,” I replied, looking out the window. Hello, sheep. “I think we have to consider the public, the audience, but I think you draw the line differently, every time, on every site. And I’m not sure how you can tell what’s right, when you’re right.”

“Rubbish,” he said. “Science is science.”

We pulled up in front of Jeremy’s house, which was even more imposing than I remembered. “Call if you want a ride home,” Greg said. “We should be in.”

There were several other cars of every stripe ranging
from another, very tiny, Morris to a Range Rover to a Mercedes sedan. As I stepped up to the open door, I noticed a bottle-green Jaguar pulling up the drive; I hurried inside. I had no desire to find out if George Whiting was driving that particular car.

Palmer was waiting for me there in the entryway. I all but skidded to a halt, but the threatening presence that had so intimidated me in the Fig and Thistle was nowhere to be seen. Palmer approached me with the strict disinterest of a well-trained servant.

“If you’d be so kind, his lordship would like a moment of your time. In the library.” Palmer indicated a room at the far end of the hall and I scuttled off away from him. I was curious about Palmer’s language and posture. His words were a little forced and I knew from my previous visit, and everyone’s opinion, that Jeremy didn’t require that sort of formality. For some reason entirely his own, Palmer had decided that this was the way someone employed in a great house ought to behave. And why was he still playing the role of butler? Surely there ought to be more staff. I tucked that question away for later consideration and entered the open door to the library.

“Ah, good morning, Emma!” Jeremy was dressed even more outlandishly than I was. He was actually better suited to the occasion in a raspberry pink track suit and very technical running shoes, bright acid green, no laces, and held on the foot with elasticized panels. “Ah, you see how effectively I’m kitted out for our event today. No one should ever lose me, no matter how thick the fog gets. I do believe we’ll have time for at least one good run through, however, before we get the rain.”

He spoke of the coming rain with as much assurance as did Greg, I noticed. “I’m looking forward to whatever chance we get.”

“There you are, American optimism,” Jeremy said, nodding authoritatively. “I love it.”

I never thought of myself as an optimist, but perhaps, culturally speaking, I was. Something else to think about.

He gestured to my head. “And I adore your hat—do you fish? If you do, you must come and try my little stretch of river. Even if we don’t catch anything, there’s no spot prettier on the whole estate—but I’m getting off track again! I have something for you.”

He took an envelope from the desk and handed it to me. I looked down at the florid handwriting on the envelope and immediately recognized it as Dora’s.

“Please go ahead and read it.” Jeremy nodded. He busied himself with some papers on his desk.

The hand inside was equally elaborate, but perfectly clear. That was the thing about Dora, I thought: She might do things extravagantly, but you always understood that it was done to a specific end. The trick was to discover her purpose.