Grave Consequences (25 page)

Julia wanted specifics; she had questions she wanted answered but wasn’t getting the responses she sought; she sounded impatient. My take on it, based on how Lucy had described it at the pub, was that Julia had gone to the psychic on a lark the first time, had gone back the second time because she thought she was getting somewhere, and was becoming disenchanted with that source by this last visit. She was a kid struggling for answers and she didn’t know how to find them.

She and I both.

I got up and rewound the tape, then recovered it from the player. Sitting back down, I realized that I felt as though I’d been messing around with the cards or a planchette myself; the air in the parlor was full of guilty curiosity.

One thing was for certain, I needed to talk to Andrew again. I frowned. Actually I needed to talk to Andrew about a lot of things, including the first, modern, burial we’d worked on. He had said, however grudgingly, that he would let me see the report he prepared for the police, and it had been a week. Of course, he hadn’t been around much, but that in and of itself was something I wanted to ask about as well. I uncurled myself from the couch and rubbed my eyes. I really wasn’t looking forward to another interview with Andrew, especially not with the questions I knew I had to ask him. Where had he been, who had distracted him from Julia…

I thought a while longer, unproductively, and eventually heard the front door open and slam shut. I looked at my watch: it was eleven o’clock. I flipped the pages of my notepad so that the night’s notes were covered up.

“Hello?” I called.

“Bugger!” came Jane’s reply.

“I beg your pardon?” I went out to the front hallway, where Jane and Greg were staring at the front page of the newspaper. They looked tired and wrung out from their long talk, but now both were frozen with shock.

“I’m sorry, not you,” Jane said. “That poxy little reporter’s gone and splashed news of Mother Beatrice all over the front page! He promised he’d wait!”

“He promised he’d try,” Greg corrected. “I believe there are things called editors and deadlines that suck away personal volition.”

“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now,” Jane said. She folded up the paper and threw it on the stand. “Everything was nice and secure when we left the site. But the crowds will be out tomorrow, that’s for sure.” She turned to her husband. “We’ll never get any work done.”

“Yes, we will. I’ll go out early tomorrow, to check on things as well. Everything will be fine, Jane.”

Jane looked very tired, but she smiled at Greg. “You’re right. Everything will be fine.”

“I’m going up. Coming?”

“Yes, in a minute.”

“Night, Emma. Sleep well.”

“Night, Greg.”

We watched Greg go up the stairs. “So how’d it go?” I said.

“I dunno.” It was strange to see Jane look uncertain about anything. “At least we’ve got to the point where we are saying out loud that there’s a problem. And I think, we’ve got it established that it’s on both of our parts—I mean, if Greg won’t speak up and tell me he’s upset or thinks I’m wrong or what have you, I have no way of knowing, right?”

“Well…”

“You know what I mean. And we’ve established that we do really know that we both want the same thing, which is good. We have a hard slog ahead of us, and the real bugger
is that we have to figure out how to get there from here, isn’t it?”

You can’t get there from here, I thought, but had the good sense to keep it to myself. “So now what?”

“Counseling, I suppose.” She traced one of the patterns on the wallpaper. “But we’ve agreed to wait until we’re done in the field. No sense piling things on, Greg says, but I can’t help wishing we could just get into it and get it over so we can move ahead, strike it off the list.”

I looked at her.

Jane nodded halfheartedly and shrugged. “All right, all right. I suppose that’s part of the problem. I’m off to bed. Good night.”

“Night, Jane.”

I barely got a lick of sleep that night, despite the late hour and the eventful day. When I did sleep, I was wracked by dreams that afforded no rest; when I wasn’t dreaming, I was staring at the clock in a decidedly wakeful fashion. Finally, around four o’clock, it was as though someone had hit me with a sledgehammer. I fell dreamlessly asleep and stayed that way until Jane pounded on my door the next morning. I fumbled into my clothing, drank Jane’s bad coffee until I could see straight—despite my protestations, she wouldn’t let me make my own (“nonsense, Emma. You’re on holiday. Let me spoil you a bit.” Spoil me a bit of coffee, I guess she meant)—and then followed her out into the gray morning.

Jane, in spite of the gloomy light and threat of a drizzle, in spite of yesterday’s events, was practically skipping to the site. When I caught her smiling at her reflection in a shop window, for no particular reason that I could see, unless it was to bestow a beam of radiance on a display of socket wrenches at the ironmonger’s, it all became dismally clear to me.

“You know, you might want to tone it down a bit, or
everyone will know you didn’t go right to sleep last night,” I suggested grumpily.

“God, I hope we didn’t bother you. Something—stress, catharsis, something—just lit us up. Shagged ourselves stupid, we did.” Jane giggled, and I resisted the urge to slug her. “It was magic.”

“And on a school night, yet—”

But the look on Jane’s face stopped me. I followed her horrified glance to the site itself, where a police car was parked, blue lights swirling.

“Oh, my God, Greg!” Jane began to sprint toward the gate, the door of which was hanging open. “Greg!”

I took off after her and we arrived at the gate at almost the same time.

Greg was talking to a cop, his face ashen. Jane threw herself at him. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, but…Jane. When I got here, the gate was opened—” Greg swallowed. “I’m fine, but someone’s dug up the site…and they…”

“They what?”

“They took Mother Beatrice’s bones.”

J
ANE SEIZED
G
REG BY THE SHOULDERS
. “W
HAT DO YOU
mean they took her bones?
Who
took the bones?”

“We don’t know yet.” Greg ran a hand through his hair. “When I got here about seven o’clock, I found the chain had been cut clean through and the gate was open. As soon as I got in, I could see that there was some disturbance by Emma’s unit, burial nineteen. And when I got over there…”

He shook his head in amazement. “It was just a mess. It was just torn apart, like a bomb had gone off there.”

That image actually reminded me of something, but I had no time to concentrate on that. Jane had already decided who was responsible. She paced back and forth, and finally pounded her fist into her hand.

“It was that bloody Morag! She must have—”

“Morag didn’t do it,” I said.

She whirled on me. “Of course she did, Emma! It was to get back at me, for yesterday. And plus, her sort, she was probably just dying to get her hands on some human bone—”

“Jane, hang on a second, it doesn’t make sense,” I interrupted. “Greg said it looked like a bomb went off. For one thing, you know Morag’s feelings about Mother Beatrice are reverent, more than anything else. Do you think she would have torn things up like this?”

She stopped in her tracks, staring in disbelief. “Emma, she’s a
witch
!”

“Come on, Jane, listen to yourself. From the little that I know about neopagans and witches, they don’t mess around with necromancy or anything like that. It’s just not what they do, it’s more of a worship of nature and its order—”

“Bollocks!”

“Pardon me.” The youthful-looking PC interrupted us for the first time, his slight form filled out by the strict lines of his uniform. “I’m PC Whelton. Am I correct in assuming that you are talking about Morag Traeger?”

I nodded.

“Yes, we bloody well are!” Jane said.

He scratched the tip of his nose with his pen and I was again struck by the idea that the constable resembled a schoolboy. “Well, I can assure you that she wasn’t involved in this in any way. Can you suggest anyone else who—”

“What do you mean, she wasn’t involved?” Jane demanded. “How the hell can you tell?”

“For one thing, your friend is right.” He nodded toward me. “Wicca is an ancient matriarchal earth-based religion worshiping the Goddess in her three aspects of maiden, mother, and crone. Some also worship her Consort, the Triple God, to maintain an idea of balance in all things. The principle tenet of Wicca is, ‘An you harm none, do what you will.’”

I noted that PC Whelton was very well informed, reciting these facts with considerable ease.

“Since Wiccans believe that every action you take, good and bad, affects you and others on many levels, they are very careful and very thoughtful not to do harm. So when you get
down to it, I’d say it was a lot more restrictive than some of your more better-known religions.”

He pursed his lips like a disapproving teacher. “And as for the sort of thing you’re suggesting, well, it’s as dirty a notion, as bad an insult as accusing a Christian of eating babies. The worst sort of misguided prejudice, you might say.”

Jane wasn’t convinced; she looked like she was one breath away in search of Morag herself. “Whatever, I don’t really care. Morag has plenty of reason to—”

Oh, Jane, stop, I thought, all of a sudden. Don’t go there. “Jane, I think—”

She didn’t even hear me. “—Want to get back at me.”

PC Whelton clicked the top of his pen, ready to write. “Oh? And what might that be?”

Jane, too late, realized what she’d gotten herself into. “We…ah, we had a disagreement yesterday. Got a bit tetchy.”

“Did you indeed?” the PC said with polite interest. “How tetchy?”

Jane was silent.

“I see.” He tapped the notebook thoughtfully. “Since there were no official complaints, I’ll just suggest that you both mind your manners a bit better.”

“What?” Jane struggled with this, but finally had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. “Well, yes, of course.”

Greg and I both sighed with relief, but Jane didn’t keep her mouth shut for long.

“But how can you possibly tell that she wasn’t here?”

PC Whelton continued calmly. “Mr. Ashford says that the break-in happened between eleven
PM
and seven
AM
. I can assure you that Ms. Traeger was nowhere near here. So why don’t you tell me who else might be interested in causing you trouble?” He shot his cuffs, preparing to take down Jane’s statement, and I got a look at his watchband, which startled me.

Jane briefly mentioned George Whiting. I thought of Palmer.

“So just how can you claim that Morag wasn’t responsible for this?”

Oh, Jane, I thought. For heaven’s sake, think about what you’ve just heard!

“I give you my word, she was not involved.”

Jane was frustrated, but realized she wasn’t going to get any further. After the rather subdued end of the interview, the PC, typically, assured us that everything that was possible would be done, but then reminded us that it was unlikely he would be able to find anything out, given the lack of clues. “If we do find anything,” he said, closing his notebook, “it will be because someone else comes up with some information.”

I decided it wouldn’t do Jane any good to tell her that I’d seen a pentacle worked into the design of PC Whelton’s watchband. What good would it have done?

By this time, the crew had arrived and were informed of what had happened in the night. Jane told them that if they knew of anything, they should come to her immediately, but none came forth. Then she said, if they should hear of anything, she would be happy to take the bones back, no questions asked. The crew shuffled and looked at one another, but there was still no response. They had just enough time to get their equipment and notes from the shed when the dark sky opened up and it began to pour. After thirty minutes, Jane, thoroughly dispirited, dismissed the crew for the day and as they repacked the shed, Greg put the finishing touches on a makeshift tent of tarps and probes. The three of us squatted under the clear plastic, supported by my mammoth screen, Kong, and surveyed the damage to the vandalized grave shaft.

“Well, that was money well spent,” Greg said, trying to sound cheery. “I believe we could weather a hurricane with your screen here, Emma. Let’s see what’s here.”

It was every bit as bad as it looked. The rain buffeted the
plastic, finding in every little tear an opportunity to funnel into the unit and make mud pies of what was left of my careful excavation. We scraped away the loose dirt as well as we could, and found a few small bones and teeth that had been overlooked. There were a few unidentifiable fragments of copper, possibly clothing fasteners that had been destroyed during the robbery.

“It was dark,” I said. “Whoever was here wasn’t very organized.”

“Right,” Jane said. “It wasn’t the bones they wanted so much as to confound me.”

“I’m not so sure of that, pet,” Greg said. “I had a look around with PC Whelton. This was the only burial that was bothered.”

“So?”

“Well, if it was meant as sabotage, would they have bothered with removing the bones? Why not just trash them, tip the loo over, collapse the other shafts? So I don’t think it was personal. I’m betting—and the PC agrees—that it was either kids who wanted the bones, or some nutter. They didn’t stay long, that’s for sure. So I don’t think it was personal. For some reason, they came straight here, to burial nineteen.”

Jane rested her head on her knees. “It sure as hell feels personal,” came her muffled reply.

Here was the point where I should have pointed out the fine old truism: Archaeologists aren’t interested in things, they’re interested in stratigraphy. We had the notes and the photographs, all we were really losing, really, was the information that would have been a part of the demographics—how many males, females, age at death, general health and diet, cause of death, that sort of thing. The fact of having found Mother Beatrice was really much less significant—technically. Emotionally, well, that was another matter. I was too depressed myself to trot out platitudes. It had been exciting to be on the trail of an individual, someone who’d had a local reputation. A woman of power and impact from a time when women were meant to go unnoticed.

Then Jane surprised me by trotting them out herself. “It’s only one burial, really, when you get right down to it. The rest of the site is in good shape.” She paused. “I just feel completely done in, that’s all. Absolutely knackered. It’s all been too much.”

We sat under the plastic, feeling thoroughly worn out and beaten, and listened to the rain pour down and turn the site into a minor imitation of the Somme. Then Jane giggled to herself. Greg and I exchanged a worried look.

“Picts and Romans,” she said.

I looked at Greg for an explanation, but now he was grinning too.

“Romans and Saxons,” he said back. He caught my eye and tapped at the tarp over our heads, which promptly dumped a pint of water down into one end of the destroyed unit. “Or sometimes, when we were very ambitious and had something we could burn, Britons and Vikings.”

“Ah,” I said. “Cowboys and Indians. Oscar made me arrowheads, spears, everything.” Now I grinned, remembering. “Mother hated it.”

“So what’s the plan now, Jane?” Greg nudged her.

“Oh, I’m going to sulk in my lab and wash sherds,” she said. “You lot can do whatever. I need a chance to regroup.”

“Where’s Andrew today?” I asked.

Jane frowned. “He had some work to do in his lab on the bones from that modern skeleton. You’d think he’d have finished by now. We expected him on site later today.”

So now Jane was interested in the report, I thought. “Where’s the lab? I had a notion I’d like to run past him. About the stratigraphy.” And the modern skeleton, I added to myself.

“Over at the U.,” she said. “That’s where I’m headed, if you want to join me.”

“Sure.”

We drove over to the University in Jane’s tiny cramped car and soon saw a modern looking campus of concrete geometry, the only color came from flyers advertising stu
dent activities, protests, and flat shares. Even these were tattered and drooping from the rain, hanging limply from the staples that held them to the notice board. Very few people were here during the summer term, and those who were out were hurrying from building to building. Jane parked and led me toward the science building, but instead of heading to the front door, she went around to the back, selected a key, and opened a basement door. It seemed to me that it was the same in England as it was at home: Archaeologists always got the basement spaces.

The rain ran down the steps and into a drain, but that being partially blocked, water ran under the basement door. Jane didn’t seem to notice, and I saw that there was another, newer drain just inside the door, which most of the water traveled into. The lowest shelf in the metal shelving in the storage section was fairly high off the ground however, I noticed, to prevent any damage from more disastrous flooding. Apart from that, the lab was actually pretty nice: lots of neatly marked acid-free boxes from previous jobs, and still room left for the current one. There were six tables spread out with artifacts in various stages of being cleaned and labeled, in two rows of three butted up end to end. At the head of these were a desk and bookshelf—Jane’s, presumably—like the royal table overseeing the lesser guests at a banquet. Everything was in immaculate order. There were two sinks fitted up with heavy-duty screens to the far side, and a fume hood, which, by the look of the disconnected plugs and conduits, probably wasn’t operational. The walls were festooned with posters showing various types of pottery, the regions of the different tribes in Britain before the Romans, and a tattered poster for British Heritage showing a stately home and its grounds—it reminded me a bit of Jeremy’s place. This last poster had been further defaced by generations of hopeful young archaeologists, who’d drawn, in various levels of accuracy and believability, sketches of excavations on the grounds of the place. One discovered a pile of gold, another an intact Viking ship; the Eiffel tower
poked out of another unit, and in another area, a perfectly executed section of stratigraphy, complete with roots and rocks, and at the very bottom of the pit, what looked like a crumpled sports jersey in maroon and blue. A tiny caption read “West Ham’s Hope.” I shrugged, not understanding, and turned away.

Jane dumped her rucksack onto her desk, flopped into her chair, and landed her feet on her desk before she rolled away too far. She hit a button on a battered radio and Stravinsky began to pour out at high volume. I wrinkled my nose—I prefer my classical stuff to predate 1850—and she obligingly turned the radio down. She leaned back and rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.

“I really am just going to sit here and think a while, Emma. If you want to see if Andrew’s in, his space is on the fourth floor on the left hand side. Take the lift up, you can’t miss it. Just knock before you go in—he’s a bit dodgy about visitors. And if you would tell him about our plans for the day, I’d appreciate it.”

“What time are you going to leave?”

Jane shrugged. “I don’t know. When a thought hits me, I guess. If you get bored before then, just catch the 257 bus—it leaves right from the front gate—and it will drop you off on Church Street, by the bridge, not too far from the site. I’ll come up and look for you, and if you’re not there, I’ll assume you’ve gone.”

“Okay. See you.”

I found my way through a dimly lit corridor to the lift, which, when I pressed the button, seemed to make more noise than necessary. When the fourth floor light went off and the doors opened, I saw that the rest of the building was cleaner, but still trapped in a funk of 1970s industrial utility, a nonaesthetic. Clearly, Marchester was one of the “redbrick universities.” I found the door on the left that said “Human Osteology Lab” and knocked twice. Hearing a grunt that might well have been Andrew’s version of a welcome, I pushed the door open and went in.