Grave Consequences (27 page)

“You’ve heard about Mother Beatrice,” I said.

“I was there, remember? I—what is it, Raj?”

A very natty Indian man, in his twenties and dressed in stylish 1970s retro, had poked his head through the door. “We need to talk about my design for—”

“Give me ten minutes, would you?”

“Righto.” He looked at me with frank curiosity, then departed.

Morag got up to shut the door, then she returned to her desk. “As I was saying. I’m not about to apologize to you, though I admit, I may have been out of line. I got too carried away—”

I did my best to ignore the fact that Jane had been the one to carry her away. Since Morag didn’t see the pun, I wasn’t about to advertise it.

“Your friend Jane is the one who—”

“I’m not about to apologize for Jane.” I sat without being asked. “Things got out of hand. But I’m not here about that. I mean what happened this morning, or rather, late last night.”

Morag shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what you’re going on about.” She turned to her monitor screen, losing interest in what I had to say. She tapped a few keys.

I kept my voice matter-of-fact. “The site’s been vandalized and the bones of who we think was Mother Beatrice have been stolen. Someone dug her up.”

She whirled around, her eyes wide, her mouth working. It took a moment before she could speak. “Oh, Lady, how horrible. Who wa—? Wait, you don’t think—?” She stood up, unsure of what to do with herself. “I had nothing to do with this! That is not our way!”

I didn’t get the impression that too-earnest Morag could be that good an actor, but I couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. I shrugged.

“I swear to you by all I hold holy, it wasn’t me or any of my coven!” Morag said. “You must believe me.”

“Why must I?”

“No matter what you think, witches don’t ever fool with that sort of thing. Raising the dead is just what you see in bad movies. Witches never seek power through the suffering of others and we don’t believe that we can gain power only
when someone else is denied. What you’re talking about, accusing me of, is about as far away as you can get from the tenets of love and trust that I embrace. And think about the Threefold Law.”

I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“We believe that all our actions, good and bad, are repaid threefold. There’s no way I’d so something so ugly, even if I didn’t believe in karmic repayment.”

I was silent.

She sat down and looked out the window. “We get blamed for things all the time, people make up the most outrageous stories about us, about what we do or what we will do. It’s the worst kind of prejudice, persecution. It might be kids, it might be Christians, trying to get us into trouble.”

I realized at that instant that while Morag usually puffed up with self-importance at any confrontation, there was none of that here. This was too significantly meaningful to her.

Morag turned from the window as it dawned on her: “Jane Compton thinks I’m responsible.”

“After yesterday, I’m hard pressed not to blame her. It looks very bad. You should talk with her, iron this mess out before it escalates.”

“It would be hard. She’s not an easy person to talk to. I assure you, it wasn’t me or mine.”

I thought of PC Whelton and the watchband I’d seen, the one with the pentacle on it. I suddenly realized that I had no particular reason to believe him, either. I didn’t know what his agenda might be. And there were so many agendas. “Who could it be, then?”

“Jane has made so many people prickly, both professionally and personally—” Morag said.

“Personally? Well, she is a bit driven, but—”

Morag shook her head. “I’m thinking of something else. I mean, symbolically, don’t those bones suggest anything else to you?”

“What do you mean?” I looked at her narrowly.

“Whoever dug them up really wanted to disrupt Jane’s
work, and that would be a profound hurt to Jane. The fact that it was that burial that was dug up makes it seem quite personal. I’d be thinking about Andrew, if I were you.”

I shook my head, trying to figure out how that might work out, given what I’d discovered in the osteology lab. It didn’t fit. “What? Why would he dig up those bones?”

Morag shook her head in frustration: I hadn’t understood her. “I’m not sure that he’s the one who did it, though it’s not outside the realm of possibility. I wonder if it isn’t so much a professional matter as a personal one. Andrew’s been in love with Jane for so long that she was bound to find out, eventually. Maybe she’s known all along. Anyone with a pair of eyes to see that would have known, if they wanted to. Maybe, finally, Greg Ashford’s found out too.”

M
ORAG WALKED ME OUT, ON HER WAY DOWN TO THE
Greek place. I was glad she did, because I was somewhat in a daze. I walked along the street, trying to reconcile Morag’s suspicions with what I’d been considering. Somewhere through the fog in my brain, somewhere out in the fog of the real world, I heard honking behind me. I ignored it—it wasn’t for me this time, I wasn’t anywhere near a zebra crosswalk—but then heard a familiar and presently unwelcome voice call out behind me. “Emma! Get in, I’ll give you a lift!”

I was quickly running out of space on my “would rather not run into” list, but Greg was right at the bottom of that list, at the moment. I didn’t know how I could look him in the eye, knowing that his best friend was in love with his wife, and not knowing whether he knew and might have done something about it. At least he was still acting nominally friendly toward me. I waved and got into the car, a little surprised at just how very wet I had become; water streamed off my coat and hat and I soon created puddles on the floor.

Greg saw me looking at the wet footprints. “Don’t worry about it; the dear old Landcrab don’t mind the wet. A motor for all British seasons, she is.” He patted the dashboard, then, turning back to me, frowned. “If you don’t mind a quick stop, I’m going to knock up Aunty Mads—”

He just means visit, I reminded myself hastily.

“—As I’m really worried about her. When I called this morning, her neighbor was in and said she’s really gone into a decline.”

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” I said.

“Thank you. I’ve been calling around social services this morning to see if I can find a visiting nurse to come round. I don’t want to drag her to hospital if…if it’s not going to do her any good.”

We drove in silence for a moment.

“So I’m just going to meet the nurse, make sure that Aunty’s settled in as comfortably as possible. Are you in a hurry to get back home?”

“Not really. I’m happy to go…only, do you think Mads would mind?”

Greg frowned again. “If she’s feeling fit for company, then it’s no problem. If she’s low, and not feeling fit to be seen, you can sit in the parlor. It won’t take long, only I want to make sure that I meet the nurse and get things settled.”

“Oh, of course, no problem at all. Please, don’t worry about me.”

We pulled up to a little row of houses, and I recognized that we were just a few blocks from the cafe. Greg got out and reached into the back. “Give me a hand, would you?”

He handed me a couple of plastic grocery bags marked “Sainsbury’s,” and I followed him up the front stairs. He let us in with his own key; in the hallway, an aroma of long-lived-in house swept over me, scrubbed linoleum and old varnish, sachet, milky tea, and boiled vegetables.

“Hallo?”

A voice called, “In here, Greg.” A stout middle-aged woman met us at the door to the kitchen.

“Mrs. Haywood, this is my friend Emma Fielding. Emma, this is Mrs. Haywood, Aunty’s neighbor and very good friend.”

“Very old friend, at least.” We shook hands.

“How is the patient, then?” Greg said, as cheerily as he could.

“Well, not very well, I’m afraid. I won’t lie to you, Greg,”—she lowered her voice—“I just helped her to the loo and it’s completely wrung her out. She’s in bed again. I don’t think she’s been up since before I got here this morning. She’s very bad off, I think.”

We all stood around for a minute. “Well,” Greg said.

“She’s very old and very tired. I think she’s had enough,” Mrs. Haywood whispered, nodding solemnly. “Is the nurse coming?”

“Yes, I was able to track one down this morning. She’ll be here on the hour.”

“Well, that’s good, at any rate. A nurse’ll be able to make her comfortable. She’s not doing very well, you know, recognizing people. She kept calling me Moira, which was her sister’s name, I think. I’ve just put the kettle on, but if you don’t mind, I need to get to work. Are you all right here, for a bit?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Greg looked distractedly down the hallway. “We’re not working today. You’ve been so kind, Mrs. Haywood.”

“No, no. Only, it’s a bit sad, to see her so,” she turned to me, “with her being so much a part of the town, do you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“Still. Well, I must be off, but I’ll stop in after I’ve done at work.” She picked up her coat and umbrella. “Still raining out, I see.”

“Probably a bit longer. It will clear up tonight, be nice and hot tomorrow.”

“So it will. Ta-ra, Greg.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Haywood. Thanks again.” He closed the door behind her.

“Do you want me to make the tea? You could go check on her,” I offered.

“No, you won’t know where anything is, and I must put this lot away before it spoils. Let me just look in on her.”

He hurried upstairs and was down a moment later, looking concerned. “I think she’s almost asleep, but not quite yet. She is a bit out of it. I don’t like to leave her alone…”

“Well, I can sit with her for a minute, if you don’t think it will bother her.”

“No, and I’ll only be a minute.” Greg was relieved to have a plan. “I want to keep an eye out for the nurse as well.”

I crept upstairs and peered into the room, which looked as though it hadn’t changed much since the 1950s. Large cabbage roses formed stripes on the wallpaper and the furniture was a mixture of cheaply manufactured goods from the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. Aunty Mads was in the middle of a narrow bed, a faded and much washed cotton nightgown on her thin shoulders showed above the covers. The varnish and sachet smell was very strong in here, the place where she was most herself. There was something else too, though I hesitate to give it a concrete name: it was really more of a state. It was the absolute quiet of a room in which someone had given up.

I had to overcome a tremendous sense that I was intruding before I could step over the jamb, but Mads stirred and opened her eyes and called, “Jane? Is that you?”

I sat down in a chair set next to the bed; the linoleum beneath the rag rug creaked in protest. “No, it’s Emma. Her friend. Can I get you something?”

“No, ta very much.” She reached for my hand and I gave it to her, because you don’t not give someone your hand in a room like that, at a time like that. I could feel the slight bones of her hand beneath the fading envelope of flesh, her
skin, dry and warm and papery, slid loosely as she grasped my hand tightly.

“Greg’s here, too,” I said, hoping that familiar and loved name would stir a little more recognition from her. “He’s in the kitchen—”

“No, dearie, I don’t want my boy now. Leave him be, for a moment. I want to talk to you, Jane.”

I tried once again, reluctantly, as gently as I could.

“I’m Emma…Aunty Mads.”

“I know you are, dear. But I want to talk to you. It’s about my boy and what’s going to happen to him.”

My stomach contracted.

“I want you to look after him the way I’ve always looked after him. You can be hard, Jane, but I know you love him. He worships the ground you walk on, which ought to be enough for me, but he’s always been so precious to us. So precious. When his parents died, back in 1974 now, it killed his grandfather just a year later. They can call it a heart attack, if you like, but what’s the difference between that and a broken heart, I ask you?”

She sighed. “When that happened, I thought that his gran Caroline was sure to follow and I couldn’t let that happen, now, could I? After all we been through. So I told her, ‘Caroline, you take hold of yourself! You have to, for Greg’s sake, poor lad, and I’ll help you.’ And she let me and we raised our boy.”

Time was compressing for Mads, expanding and contracting between the immediate and more distant pasts. But she never let go of my hand. I could hear Greg in the kitchen, closing cabinets and fussing with the tea things now.

“That’s how it was between us, you see,” she insisted, as if I had gainsaid her. “We was always there for each other. She was there for me, when my young man died in France and Greg’s granddad Scotty was off in Africa. I thought it would kill me when I got the news, but she kept me going. And now I was able to do the same for her. Return the favor, you see, but neither of us would ever say that. We didn’t talk
about it, not like you people today talk about everything. It was just what you did for a friend as good as that and we both knew it. We would have done anything for each other. And oh, Jane, we did.”

I tried to imagine for a moment that nothing worse would follow, that this was just the way she had of saying good-bye, but I couldn’t maintain the illusion. Little weak tears began to run down her cheeks, getting lost in the wrinkles and making her face damp.

“Shh, shh,” I said.

“Jane, give us the little tin there on the nightstand.” She gestured to it, my hand still in hers. “The toffee tin.”

I picked up and handed it to her. Something heavy and loose rattled in it. She took it in both hands and tried to pry the lid off. She handed it back to me without a word and I opened it for her. She took it and reached inside; then handed what was in the box to me.

I looked down in my hand. It was a large gold ring, a man’s ring with a big blue stone, square cut, in the middle. It was real, there was no doubt of that, but it was showy, a thing made to grab the eye and hold it. Its vulgarity was its only purpose.

“You take it now, Jane. I wore it on a chain, hidden like, a long time, until it started to bruise me when I got old—never get old, Jane, it’s horrible thing to get old when you don’t feel old yet. But you take it now, because I don’t need to worry about where it come from anymore.”

I started to go cold, afraid I knew exactly where it had come from.

“I never felt guilty about it, not when I done it and not since then. Not until you started to dig last month and I began to worry that you’d find him. Sebastian Hall, I mean. It was only then, years after anyone should care, that I began to feel scared, like. Like we’d done something wrong. Like I was a murderer. And I couldn’t think why, except that me and Caroline were always very careful never to mention it, even in passing, like. You’d think I was beyond caring what
happened to me, but I worried what Greg would think if he found out. Not that he’d ever think any harm of anyone, dear boy, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of him not understanding about me and his gran killing someone.”

I could hear the doorbell and prayed Greg wouldn’t come in. That the nurse wouldn’t come in. Not yet.

“It sounds horrible to say it, ‘kill someone,’ but we knew we was right to do what we done. I never thought twice about it and I don’t think Caroline did neither. She never told her husband, Scotty, I don’t think. Men don’t always understand about women who are attacked, do they? I mean to say, Scotty was a lovely boy, but if you heard that another bloke—a rich one, a powerful one—tried to force your girl, well, with you being so far away and him being there and rich and all, you might wonder if she’d started something herself, know what I mean?”

I nodded, though she wasn’t really paying attention to me.

“They get ideas in their heads about things, so it’s best not to say sometimes, no matter what the truth is. I was staying with Caroline then, I couldn’t bear to be on my own after the news, and since I didn’t want to lose my job, I stayed with her instead of going back to my people after the news about my own poor young man.

“It was during a raid. I heard her scream, bloodcurdling it was. I run downstairs and there he was with her on the front room floor, her skirt all up around her waist.”

She paused, and I needed the break almost as much as Mads did. She kept shaking her head, like she couldn’t quite believe the memory was as terrible as it was. She took a deep breath and continued.

“I could barely think, the noise outside was that bad. Sebastian Hall’d been a nuisance before, he was always after Caroline to take things from him, sugar, eggs, tins of fruit—filthy stuff, off the black market—but she never did. We were good girls and we never dared guess where he might have stolen the things. He always had enough petrol to drive, and that game foot of his, what kept him from serving, never
seemed to slow him down, did it? It did not! But he never came round the house before that night.

“Caroline was a big girl, made me look like a little bird, and she couldn’t shift him, no matter what she did: He was too strong. I didn’t stop to think. I ran into the kitchen, picked up the big carving knife, and stuck it in his back. He turned around—it didn’t stop him—and Caroline bit him, scrabbled away as best she could. I stuck him again, in the front this time, and then he started to go wobbly in the knees, staggering about. The last time, I stuck him hard, and that’s when the knife stayed in him. I could feel how hard it hit the bone, how it felt like it does when you stick a chicken the wrong way and get caught up on the backbone.”

I smothered a gasp; it was exactly the analogy Andrew had so callously made.

“There was an awful lot of blood and he just went over. We took his wallet off him and hid his papers in a jar of preserves down in the cellar. We decided we couldn’t dump him in the river—too many bodies washed up from further upstream, and we didn’t want to run the risk—and so we decided to bury him down by the old abbey walls. Everyone gave out it was haunted and we figured it was wasteland now, anywise. What with all the rubble from the bombings, we hoped he might be taken by someone caught in the bombing if he was found.

“The only problem was his ring. Everyone knew it, he was always flashing it around. Only it was stuck on his hand, we couldn’t get it off. Imagine the shame of it: getting that fat during rationing! And it was Caroline came up with the answer. ‘We cut it off him, joint him like a beef.’ That was easier than we thought, in spite of all the blood that was already all over the place, slippery like, but what to do with the ring?”

She breathed laboriously. “It was too valuable to throw away, too well known to sell. So we decided to keep it, in case the need should ever come, we’d have it and take it into London. And I kept it, because I hadn’t a man going to come
home and ask about it. I never did marry. It just wasn’t in me, after my young man died. I’d had enough of worry and loss.