Grave Consequences (3 page)

“I’d be happy to.” I bit into a sandwich, pleased with myself. I surreptitiously gave Dora a little “so there” look, and she rolled her eyes back at me. “You should meet my friend, Jane Compton. It’s her project I’ll be working on at the abbey ruins, and I’m sure she’d be happy to show you
around the site, if you’re interested. And,” I continued, somewhat boldly, “I’m sure she’d be very interested to see your paintings of Marchester—they’d be incredibly informative about the way the abbey’s changed through time.”

“Well then, she must come and see them.” Jeremy took a sip of tea and looked thoughtful. “Jane Compton? Isn’t she the one always causing all sorts of rumpus in town?”

I almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s in all the papers. Never seen so many people get so worked up over a little patch of damp ground, unless you consider Belgium during the war, of course.”

I managed to swallow the rest of my tea, in spite of that last remark.

“Oh, she’s got everyone simmering,” Jeremy said. “I’m sure she’s very nice, sterling, even, but how that little thing managed to annoy the town fathers and the shopping center folks who want to develop the waterfront property—what’s that chappie’s name, Palmer?”

“Whiting, sir. An ’orrible man, if I may say so.”

“Nonsense, the man’s ambitious, is all; a bit rough about the edges, but no worse than that. As I was saying, how she can annoy both parties on opposite sides of the debate
and
stir up the New Age types, I’ll never know. Yes, I do; you simply can’t mix ley lines with saints, is all.”

Before I could ask him to explain that, he went on. “And apparently one of her students has gone missing to boot. Not that any of this is her fault, mind, but she does seem to be in the thick of it all.”

I digested this all for a moment. “And now they’ve come up with a suspicious burial as well.”

Jeremy put his cup and saucer down. “Suspicious? You mean a murder?”

I shrugged. “Something’s not right on the site. Greg didn’t tell me much about it, only that it appeared modern, and very fishy, and that the police were involved. Poor Jane.”

“Poor Jane indeed. Well, perhaps—”

“Well, perhaps we’d be getting to look at that picture you’ve been teasing me with, Pooter,” Dora interrupted. “My time here is too short to be worrying about poor Jane.”

Jeremy shot Dora an exasperated look. “You are perfectly horrible, aren’t you? Still, Mother’s party is tomorrow and if you’re going to see the thing before you bounce off to Italy, it had better be now. Perhaps Emma would also care to have a squint?”

Before I could open my mouth, Dora answered for me. “Emma’s seen Raphaels before. She’s got to be going, or so she’s been telling me all along.”

For once, I had to agree with Dora, although I would have given my eyeteeth to see a privately owned Raphael. “I’m afraid I really must be going—”

“I’ll have Palmer bring you back to town, but you must promise to come back and look at my bits of things and we’ll sneak you in to look at the picture while Mother’s asleep. She’s so deaf, dear thing, she’ll never notice. Still, she’s eighty tomorrow and that’s something.”

“Thank you so much for everything, Jeremy.” I really hadn’t expected, or wanted, to like him but I found myself charmed by his kind and frank manner. I set my teacup and plate aside with a smothered sigh of relief; despite my worst fears, they were still intact. It suddenly occurred to me that these were Jeremy’s things, though; his household stuff. He lived with them every day.

We walked out to the hall and Jeremy and I shook hands again. “Here, now,” he said suddenly. “You’re very fit, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Fit. Healthy.” He gave me an appraising look, up and down. “I suppose like so many Americans, you exercise like fury.”

“Well, I run, but I—” I stammered, not knowing what was going on.

“Dear Pooter, always thinking of sport,” Dora said.

I began to get really worried.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Jeremy announced. “You must come next hunt, you’ll do splendidly.”

“Ah…er…” I had no idea what was transpiring, but I wasn’t at all convinced that I wanted any part of it. It sounded baroque and decadent and way out of my league. One heard stories about the jaded aristocracy, of course, but one never expected—

“We don’t actually ride to the hounds, there are no horses, no guns, and we don’t kill any foxes,” his lordship said. “I could never stand the sight of the poor things struggling, long before the animal rights people came along and made it trendy. We don’t even use a fox these days, we just send Palmer tearing off with a bit of burlap soaked in fox piss and then we just chase along, following after the dogs, baying like mad. The dogs, I mean, not us, but if you had the urge to bay, I’m sure no one would object. Dear, lovely things, the dogs, but not a spoonful of brains amongst fifty of them. It’s really good fun, fresh air, brilliant food. Say you’ll come.”

I was so relieved to understand finally what he was going on about that I thought I would collapse. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” But no horses? Ma would be devastated when I told her that I was invited to a fox hunt by a sure-enough lord and there were no horses. Running after stinky burlap just doesn’t play the same at the country club cocktail hour.

We made our farewells and I thanked Jeremy for his hospitality before Palmer escorted me back out to the car. As we left the parlor, I could hear Jeremy chewing Dora out.

“—The way you carry on sometimes, just a perfect duchess. I’m surprised you have any friends left at all.”

“Oh, Pooter,” Dora began, but by then we were too far away to hear the rest of it. It must have been funny, because I could hear them both crack up laughing.

As the car pulled back down the drive, with me the sole occupant in the backseat now, I felt a pang, wishing I could have spent a little more time at the house. It was another
world, and this became increasingly clear as we pulled into town, where things seemed foreign to me, but were on a scale that I could relate to, at least.

I could see the tower of the new church growing as we approached the site and I was interrupted in my reflections by the gruff and polite clearing of Palmer’s throat. “If I might offer a bit of advice?”

“Sure, Palmer.” So easily I fell into the habits of those around me; where was the “Mr.” now, Emma? But was Palmer his surname?

“I should be very careful about becoming involved in any of the goings on in the town. With the doings down the abbey.”

I looked up, startled. “I’m not sure I—”

“It’s local business, really,” Palmer continued matter-of-factly, “and it’s just we locals don’t appreciate when outsiders try to come in and mess about with things. We’re a close community, we don’t want a lot of outsiders—like Jane Compton—mucking things up. See what I mean?”

Surely this wasn’t some sort of threat? I thought, in a panic.

“I’m sure you understand. I wouldn’t want you walking in on something you didn’t belong in, what with your friend being in the thick of it and all, and especially seeing’s his lordship has taken such a fancy to you. A word to the wise, eh?”

Palmer’s words seemed quite friendly, but his eyes were cold as they regarded me in the rearview mirror. I noticed, for the first time, the web of scars that crisscrossed the chauffeur’s large right hand as it gripped the steering wheel.

“Uh, sure. Thanks,” I managed to stammer out.

“Ah, there you are, just to your left, Professor,” Palmer called out, suddenly jolly. “The Prince of Wales.”

“Where?” I whipped my head around, looking for my first sight of a royal.

“We’re just coming up on it now. A very pleasant pub, and a very proper place for the ladies. You might sample the local bitter while you’re here.”

“I’ll…I’ll certainly make a point of it,” I said. I frowned and rubbed my eyes. I was so tired that I could easily have been making too much of Palmer’s warning, but it was certain that I’d landed in the middle of a real mess.

We turned down off the main street—the “high street,” as Palmer called it, continuing his little tour of the local sites—and then one or two more side streets until the buildings fell away and I could see the sluggish river Mar again. We passed the new church and its tower, and as we approached the site of the ruined abbey about a half mile later, I could see a couple of police cars and the dig itself, partially cordoned off within the chain-linked enclosure.

It was the sight of blue and white police tape and backdirt piles that told me that, after a morning of adventures and seeing how the other half lived, I was back where I belonged.

G
ETTING OUT OF THE CAR
, I
HEARD RAISED VOICES
fifty or so feet away from the pavement. One of the police cars took off, leaving one left. A figure in a short dark green raincoat followed the remaining policeman back toward the car, not quite pleading, but certainly insistent.

Palmer set my bag on the sidewalk and shut the trunk with a solid-sounding
whomp.
“There you are, Professor. And, if I’m not mistaken, that should be la Compton over there, harrying the local constabulary—”

I might not buy into all of the niceties of class distinction here, or understand exactly what the social mores were, but I did know when it was time for me to speak up. “Mr. Palmer, Jane Compton is a good friend of mine. I don’t appreciate your comments.”

He stared at me, his grin fading instantly. “Of course, I beg your pardon,” he said woodenly. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way.”

“Well…thanks again,” I said uncertainly.

He nodded and the car glided off; the people I saw were too busy arguing to pay it or me any attention. In the dis
tance, I could see a crew working, digging neatly delineated squares and rectangles within the larger excavation, occasionally putting their finds into flat little trays, but then I started to look at the excavations like a digger and not a director, and realized I didn’t see anyone using screens to sift their dirt. Filing this disturbing tidbit away for later consideration, I juggled my suitcase into a comfortable position, for what I hoped would be nearly the last time today, and began to walk over to the opened gate in the tall fence surrounding the entire site.

I admit it, I was tired and distracted by the day’s events. That’s why the car sneaking up on me from the right hand side had to honk suddenly, waking me up and forcing me back to the curb. I’d have to pay more attention to the traffic, if I didn’t want to end up a smear on the road.

I stopped again, this time to readjust the strap of my backpack, and, just as Palmer had indicated, realized that it was Jane who was arguing with the policeman. I recognized her right away, in spite of her harassed expression. Perhaps it was because of this look; Jane has always struck me as being one of those efficient women, always right there with the answer, or a pencil, or a map, or a flashlight, or whatever happened to be needed at the moment. From conferences, I remembered that her nose was small and to the point, her mouth generally pursed, her brown eyes always focused on the task at hand, yet ever aware of what was going on in the periphery. The swing of her dark hair was almost impatient, and somehow she managed to make a chin-length blunt cut look elegant at the same time it was easy to maintain. There was something feline about her alertness, her focus, as if she were always waiting to pounce. She was the soul of organization, but now I could see there was little calm won from all of that productivity. I got the impression that even when she wasn’t at work, Jane was always on red alert, and woe betide anyone who couldn’t keep up with her.

After I looked both ways and crossed, I watched as Jane
threw up her hands. The policeman closed his notebook with finality, spoke again briefly, got into the last car, and left.

I noticed another man approach her; she didn’t even look up when he put his hand on her shoulder and began to speak to her. He was wearing a dark green jacket identical to hers—in fact, they were both wearing jeans and rubber Wellington boots—but although he was of a similar height to Jane’s, about medium for a man, his appearance was far less tidy. He had longish, wiry ginger hair that, when the wind blew, gave me the impression of ruffled fur, and his face was unremarkable, a domestic face, vaguely oval, nose a bit snub, eyes perhaps widened by glasses that gave the impression of being mildly interested and friendly. He slouched a bit, and when he went to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket, several other items fell out along with it. He retrieved them almost out of habit, and replaced his hand on Jane’s shoulder, but she shrugged it off with annoyance, and I decided that I ought to make myself known before things got awkward.

I didn’t quite make it. As I approached, I heard part of Jane’s side of the conversation.

Her syllables were carefully pronounced and crisp to the point of staccato, like pebbles dropped in rapid succession onto gravel. “—Entirely well qualified to do my own excavating, thank you very much. Of all the fascist—”

The man interrupted casually. “You’re making too much of it, Jane, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s entirely a matter of procedure, and when Andrew gets back—”

That confirmed it: I recognized the voice on the telephone from that morning. The man was Greg Ashford, Jane’s husband. Jane interrupted him right back.

“
When
Andrew gets back?” she said bitterly. “Why isn’t he here
now
? The last thing I need is for my staff to go wandering off, especially now. He should know better than that. This is the last straw, I promise you. Any more of these antics and I
will
kill him one day—”

More than time to make my presence known, I decided. “Umm. Hi, Jane?” I picked up my pace. “I finally made it!”

They turned to see me; I watched Jane’s peaches and cream complexion go scarlet. The couple hurried over and Greg, reaching for my bag, said, “Here, please allow me.”

“Oh, God, Emma! I can’t tell you what a morning we’ve had!” Jane said. “I’m so sorry about missing you, but things have been an absolute shambles here! A complete nightmare. Still, I should have known you’d be all right—Emma’s the sort who’s always on top of things, Greg—but you shouldn’t have had to find your own way.”

I knew enough to anticipate Jane’s kiss on my cheek—so much for British reserve—and I turned to shake hands with Greg.

“Welcome to Marchester Abbey,” Greg said, a little lazier about his words than his wife, occasionally lopping the ends of them, blurring other letters together. He’d said “March’ster,” while Jane had pronounced every bit of it; Jane was a geometry of angles and a mass of precisely directed energies, Greg was a little more blurred about the edges, more laid back. He hefted my bag. “The rest of your stuff going to follow?”

“No, this is everything,” I said.

He exchanged a glance with his wife. “I see what you mean. Well, come have a look round. We’re rather shorthanded at the moment—” here he exchanged another look with Jane—“But we should be able to give you a taste of how we do things.”

“Bloody Andrew, pissing off like this!” Jane inserted vehemently, as though she’d forgotten that I was present. She gave every indication of resuming her tirade.

Greg looked horrified. “Er, Jane, surely…not in front of the…not in front of company.”

Jane heaved a tremendous sigh. “Pardon my language, Emma, but our osteologist has done a runner. We’ve no idea where he’s got to—”

Before I could stop myself, the incredulous words were out. “What? You’ve lost
another
one?”

Both Jane and Greg stopped dead to gape at me. “Well,” I
said, shrugging uneasily, “Greg said ‘Julia’ to me on the phone, so I’m assuming that she’s your student who’s disappeared. Andrew must be someone else.”

“I didn’t say anything more…more than Julia was gone,” Greg stammered.

Jane gave me a long look. “Gregory,” she said slowly, “when I said that Emma was the sort who was always on top of things, I didn’t actually mean clairvoyant, but apparently she’s that too. How on earth did you find out—?”

“Oh, it’s no trick,” I assured her. “My friend Dora and Mr. Palmer were talking about town, and I heard a little of that, but then Jeremy filled some more for me.”

“Jeremy?” Jane was puzzled and a little annoyed, I could tell, not to know immediately who I was talking about. Greg raised his eyebrows, which were just dark enough to give his face definition and the general appearance of good-natured curiosity.

“Or maybe you call him ‘Pooter’? He’s got a terrific collection of views of the abbey and said you should come have a look—”

“She’s talking about Lord Hyde-Spofford,” Greg said quietly to his wife. “I suspect ‘Pooter’ is an unfortunate relic of his school days.”

Jane bristled. “I most certainly do
not
call him ‘Pooter.’”

And then she was no longer addressing me, or even Greg, for that matter. “As for Julia, she’s over twenty-one, she can do what she likes. Andrew, on the other hand, has a professional obligation to—”

Her husband interrupted mildly. “Julia had a professional obligation; Andrew’s also over eighteen—”

“I’m not talking about an obligation to me, Greg,” Jane said curtly, bright spots of color growing on her cheeks, “though I’m not convinced that isn’t an issue. I’m talking about his responsibility to the police.”

“What? How on earth was he supposed to know what we’d come across today?”

“He should have been here,” Jane said stubbornly. “He
hasn’t been on site since Friday morning and he’s holding up work.”

“We can work somewhere else and let the police get on—”

This was ridiculous, I thought, as I watched them go back and forth. “Perhaps I can help fill in for Andrew. Where was he supposed to be working?”

Jane remembered I was there again, and composed herself quickly. “He was supposed to be working on one of the burials,” she explained, “but this is rather a dodgy case. It looks suspicious, you see. The shaft now appears to manifest itself too shallowly for a medieval burial—it’s too near the modern surface and it’s not terribly regular. There’s a button that looks decidedly recent to me and the grave cuts through the edge of several other burials that are definitely known to be medieval, so stratigraphically, it
has
to be later, otherwise, it couldn’t intrude into the burials that were already there. How much later, we can’t say yet. It could be seventeenth-or eighteenth-century, or even—”

“Jane, I’m sure Emma understands this sort of thing,” Greg said gently.

Jane sighed and rubbed at her eye. “Oh, Emma, I’m sorry. I’ve been behaving badly, haven’t I?”

I was starting to feel a little impatient with her remedial lecture, but managed a smile. “You’ve had a rough day.”

“Speaking of which.” Greg gave Jane a meaningful look.

She turned to where the crew was working, some watching her expectantly. “Ah yes. Emma, could you oblige me with one of your absolutely excruciating whistles?”

I smiled for real this time, and put my pinkies to my lips just as Jane warned Greg to cover his ears. I let loose with a shrill whistle that got the attention of the entire crew.

“She did that at a conference once, when the person doing the slides was talking and didn’t mind the focus,” Jane told Greg. “I wish I could do that.” She turned and called out to the crew of about fifteen or so, who looked up at this rude
interruption. They gathered, a little warily, waiting for her announcement.

“Before you dig out your tea things, could I have your attention please?” she called to them. “This is Emma Fielding, PhD, of Caldwell College in Maine, in the United States—”

“Oh, so does that make you a maniac, then?” a youthful voice called out, in a Scots accent. There was playful shoving, and a young man with shaggy brown hair fell out of ranks, picked himself up, and waved at me, unapologetic. Although the rest of the crew was wearing the usual range of jeans or army surplus trousers, this student was wearing sweat pants, which were weighted down with caked mud and heading south, exposing an alarming proportion of some colorfully striped underpants.

Titters ran through the group and I saw Jane flush. Before she could say anything, I shot back, “No, I live in Massachusetts; that makes me a Masshole. Next question?”

There was a moment of quiet shock, followed by laughter; the crew relaxed noticeably. Jane continued.

“Now then, Gareth. Her postgraduate degrees are from Coolidge University and her work on early European–Native American contact sites took the ASAA dissertation prize. Those of you who had my material culture class will remember her articles on European pottery on early American colonial sites, others of you might have read her new monograph on the artifacts of Fort Providence. Recently she’s been conducting work on several projects, including—”

God, I thought. Jane was really spreading it thick. I curbed my urge to stare at my shoes, smiling benignly as she continued to run down my résumé.

“—She’s going to be working with us for the next fortnight or so, so please answer any questions she might have, and don’t be afraid to make the most of her expertise while she’s here. Perhaps she’ll favor us with a lecture or two on her work?”

Jane raised her eyebrows enquiringly; we hadn’t dis
cussed this, but of course I’d brought some things along with me, just in case. “I’ve got the slides, if you’ve got the projector.”

“And the beer?” A small brown-haired woman called.

Jane nodded, as much to acknowledge my favorable response as to the question. “Of course, of course. If we have an evening lecture, I wouldn’t want it to cut into your valuable drinking time, Nicola—”

“I should think not,” came the cheery response.

“Go get your tea, then.” She dismissed them and I watched the crew amble over to a pile of backpacks from which they retrieved thermoses.

“Did you make any sarnies today, Jane?” This was the young Scot with a sense of humor.

“I’ll get my rucksack, Gareth,” she answered. “Back in a second, Emma.”

Two voices piped up next to my elbow. “Could I get you to sign this for me, Professor?”

“And mine, please?”

Two of the students had pushed forward to me while the others were sorting through their bags. They both held copies of my Fort Providence book. This was still a relatively new thrill for me, so I was happy to oblige.

“And your name is…?” I asked the red-haired lad with an embarrassing number of freckles.

“Will, please. Jane spent a lot of time on your work in class. I thought your book was brilliant.”

“Jane’s introduction was a bit much—” I began, a little put off by his bald flattery, and trying to concentrate on writing on the book with no surface to rest on.