Grave Consequences (9 page)

I translated “public school,” British for “private school,” and remembered some of the horror stories of schoolboy torture with which my friend Kam had regaled me. I thought of stories—stories I just
knew
were carefully edited—about thin mattresses folded and taped around hapless sleepers into an “apple pie,” “pranks” involving homemade black powder, and horrors with snapped wet towels. Greg was right; he’d had training in how to make someone miserable, all right. “Which school? You didn’t mention the other night. A friend of mine went to Winchester.”

At first, I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. Then, “Nice quiet little place, close to London.”

“Which one is that?” I picked up my notes.

I caught sight of an irritated grimace before Greg turned away and I realized I’d missed something. Finally, staring across the site, he said, “Harrow.”

Although I’d heard of it, I couldn’t understand his reticence. As Greg stooped to tie his shoelace, I saw something
of a conflict manifesting itself across his features. His next words made it clear to me that pride had won out over—what? Self restraint? A desire not to seem boastful? “Mind you, Winchester might be older, but Harrow has certainly produced its share of prime ministers.”

Nothing brash, nothing overt, but apparently Old Harrovians were no less willing to stand up for their alma mater or get their digs in on a competing school than graduates of any other all male institution. I made a note to pay more attention to this subtle kind of behavior.

“Things should be quiet until tea,” Greg said. “I’ll just run out and get the timber for your sifter.”

“That would be great,” I said. “I’ll just carry on here, then.”

As the afternoon wore on, and the tea-break came, I noticed that a police car pulled up to the site, soon to be joined by several other civilian vehicles. A police officer in plain clothes got out of the car, shook hands with the other men who joined him, and then began to talk to Andrew, with whom he seemed very familiar, both of them looking at the burial. At one point, as Andrew showed the cop the button, they both looked over at me. Fortunately, they left me alone, and I was very pleased about that. I had absolutely no desire to become embroiled either in whatever had transpired here a hundred years ago or in what was going on in the immediate present. No desire whatsoever. They began to work on recording and then removing the skeleton with the efficiency of long practice, occasionally consulting with Andrew.

I also noticed that with as many breaks as Jane allowed, she never left the site herself. I recognized the instinct to look after the tools and the equipment myself, but I wondered what else she might be worrying about. Now she went over to the modern burial and was listening in on the discussion between Andrew and the officer in charge, whose body language suggested that she was only tolerated there.

After the last of the cars pulled away, I got up to stretch my legs and asked Andrew what had been found. I told my
self it was purely a professional interest and that Andrew’s looks were merely a nice fringe benefit.

“A few more buttons, that’s all,” he said shortly, fiddling with his clipboard. “I’d rather not draw any more conclusions at this point. And now if you don’t mind—”

“But…I was wondering, did you find any other marks on the ribs? Stab marks, or other indications of what happened?”

Andrew didn’t look up at all, but merely stroked his beard. “I assure you, Doctor Fielding, I will do a thorough examination.” He sat down and continued to write.

“Can I have a look at the police report? It’s just curiosity, but I’d like to, if I could.”

“We’ll see.” He didn’t even look up.

I stared at his back: Okay. As I walked back to my unit, I decided that when the charm wasn’t turned on or the professional connection wasn’t established, looks aside, there wasn’t really much left to recommend Mr. Freeman as a person.

By late afternoon, I’d made good progress on my work. I took an elevation to establish how far down I’d dug and determined that based on what the others were finding in their burials, I should hit mine soon. The stain persisted, even grew a little darker, the outline a little more distinct, so that I knew I definitely had a grave. I’d found no artifacts, but that only meant that no one had disturbed any earlier material when they’d dug the grave hundreds of years ago, and they hadn’t dropped anything into it, either.

Two very interesting things occurred at the end of the day. The first was a curious ritual I’d never seen on any dig in twenty-five-odd years. I watched the students pause at Andrew’s unit after they put their tools away but before they left the site. I began to realize that each one of them had a paper bag or a Styrofoam coffee cup or something and each was dumping something brown into a small plastic bag that Andrew kept with him. He thanked each of the students gravely, with a bow; most of the young women giggled.

I caught the eye of a baby-faced blonde with bangs as she went past. “Excuse, me but what’s going on over there, er—?”

“I’m Lucy.” She nodded over at Andrew. “That? It’s worm day.”

“Come again?”

She giggled. “Andrew found out that Hildegard—you know, Greg’s tortoise—eats worms occasionally, so every once and a while he’ll collect the earthworms that we dig up for her. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Um, sure.”

Lucy leaned in conspiratorially. “You mustn’t say anything, of course, but we all fancy him like mad. So smart, so dishy, and so…oh, I don’t know. Rather mysterious. Don’t you think he’s scrummy?”

I thought Andrew’s charm was entirely a matter of his own convenience, and his scrumminess, while undeniable, was something he exploited on an epic scale. “I guess he’s not my type. Was Hildegard Greg’s grandmother’s name or something?”

“Oh, no, I don’t know what that was. Hildegard was named for Hildegard of Bingen, wasn’t she?” She caught my blank look. “You know, the saint? Lived from 1098 to 1179 in Germany? Known for her theological studies and her church music?”

“Oh. So the turtle sings?” I grinned; my students thought I was a riot.

“No, not that I know of.” Lucy gave me a strange look, as if she were afraid that I might be serious. “Jane sings though. Like a dream. And she’s a tortoise, not a turtle, a Russian or Horsfield’s, I think. Hildegard, I mean, not Professor Compton. Well, I’ve got to be going. It’s time for the walk-around.”

I soon found out what that was. It was obvious enough: Jane took the entire crew around the site and reviewed what each had done over the day. The thing that I really found fas
cinating, though, was what she managed to accomplish with it. It was in part a review of what to expect, what to look for when encountering a burial. It was also a way for Jane to praise or encourage the students publicly, which left everyone feeling pleased with himself and visibly built up morale in the crew. Even Bonnie, who was obviously trying, in spite of Will’s and Nicola’s harsh observations, looked like she was ready to try again tomorrow. Jane simply summarized Trevor’s work and no one seemed to think any less of her for not struggling bravely to find a few charitable words.

I did notice that Jane’s criticism became more particular and her praise harder to win when she was examining the work of the more advanced graduate students. I could almost tell by the way she questioned them who was close to completing a degree: The more advanced they were, the harder she pushed them. None of them seemed to mind her exacting comments, though; indeed, they reacted as if they had earned the right to sharper scrutiny and would have found any ordinary encouragement debased currency. The younger or less experienced ones, though markedly pleased with her attention to them, seemed to think that level of expectation was something to aim for. It was an impressive display of team-building, something that most directors aim for but seldom achieve with quite as much artistry as Jane. Spirits were quite high when she dismissed them.

“Ready for a pint?” Greg asked, when we finished, about five o’clock. Jane was with him.

I nodded. “I felt a little lagged, earlier in the afternoon, but I’ve got a second wind now.”

“They won’t mind us in our work clothes,” Jane said, “so we’ll just go straight there, once we’ve closed up for the night.” She looked up at the sky to gauge the weather.

Like most crews, this one was speeded along by the promise of a beer, and as we departed, they were hastily covering their work with plywood and tarps. Jane, Greg, and I walked down the street toward the Prince of Wales.

“You been keeping up with your running, Emma?” Jane inquired. She and I often found each other in the gym at conference hotels.

What was this fascination with my exercise habits? I wondered. First Pooter, now Jane. “Yes.”

“Well, I go to the university athletics club a couple of times a week and I’m going tomorrow before work. I didn’t know whether you’d care to join me?”

“I don’t usually bother when I’m in the field,” I said, “but it would probably do me good. Clear out the cobwebs. Thanks.”

“And we’ll stop by the cafe on our way,” Jane promised.

The last little bit of hesitation melted away from me. “Better and better.”

“Here we are,” Greg announced, and held the door open for us.

I hadn’t even had time to adjust my eyes to the dim light when I heard a voice greet my friends. “Missed you last night, Professors! Wasn’t the same without you. Usual for you both?”

“Yes, please, Ian,” Greg answered. “And for you, Emma?”

“Whatever you’re having,” I said, a little confused. I’d had the impression that the pub was a treat, a big deal for Jane and Greg. They looked at me, barely suppressing their mirth.

“And another bitter, as well, Ian.” Greg looked at his wife, who nodded. “Pint, please. And one for yourself.”

“Ta very much. I’ll bring them right over.”

We’d no sooner sat down then the bartender brought over our drinks. “Kev got his new guitar today,” he said to Jane.

“Good for him! He’s had his eye on it forever—”

But the bartender cut her off, other plans on his mind. “He said he’ll try it out for us, if you promise to sing.”

“Oh, I don’t think—” Jane began, but the bartender waved her off.

“Course you will. And the next round’s on me, to seal the bargain.” And he was off before she could reply.

“What do I owe you?” I asked Greg.

“My round,” he said, shaking his head.

I wasn’t quite certain what that meant, but said, “Thanks,” and raised my glass.

Greg and Jane beat me to it. “Cheers,” they both said.

And with that, they drained off more than half their respective drinks in a single draught. I blinked; clearly I was in the company of heavyweights and any talk about the pub as an event was utter leg-pulling. I did my best to catch up.

The students came in and waved to us. I moved over instinctively to make room for them, but they congregated at a table just out of earshot of our own. Jane caught the eye of the bartender, who nodded, and after a moment, brought a tray of foaming beer glasses over for the students, who in turn, thanked her. Andrew then entered, and without a word, pushed a low stool over from the next table with his foot and joined us. Without even asking us, he called out, “Same again, here, Ian,” to the bartender, busy now with the growing crowd of after-work drinkers.

“You’d better drink up, Emma,” Jane said, finishing her glass.

I suddenly realized what was going on. If each drinker at our table took a turn buying a round, as seemed to be the custom, by the end of the evening, I would have consumed four pints, well beyond my usual weeknight’s consumption. Five, if the bartender kept his word. Six, if I were to buy a round as well, as it seemed I ought. How could I honorably refuse so many drinks?

I was in deep, deep trouble here.

We drank off the next beer, now shouting a little to be heard over the noise, but it was clear that drinking and not conversation was the real order of the day. Suddenly, the bartender brought over the promised round and said, “You’re on, Jane, Kevin’s ready. Time to sing for your supper.”

The change that came over Jane—indeed, the rest of the pub—was remarkable. Suddenly, all was quiet, except for a few calls of “Now, then, Kev,” and “Quiet, Jane Compton’s going to sing.” Jane conferred with Kevin, a young kid who’d been working behind the bar washing glasses, as he pulled out a beautiful acoustic guitar from a brand new case and began to tune it reverently. She nodded, and I could hear her say, “Rockville.” As Kevin began to play the introduction—a rock tune with country overtones—the crowd quieted instantly. All the tension drained out of Jane’s face, her shoulders relaxed for the first time since I’d seen her, and then she began to sing.

Her voice was not sweet, but rather aching with soul and remorse. I don’t listen to modern rock, but I recognized the tune from the REM tapes I had stolen from my sister’s collection and soon I realized that she was blowing the doors off the way the song had originally been sung. Her voice was clean and controlled and she worked it—and the crowd—for everything it was worth. I’d never seen Jane like that before, passionate, relaxed, and effortlessly powerful: I’d never suspected she was capable of that range of emotion and mastery.

She and Kevin didn’t even notice the applause at the end of the song, but, so eager to begin again, started right in on the next one. I recognized this one right away; Annie Lennox’s “Why.” The guitar player was very good, easily translating the super-orchestrated ballad into a simple guitar solo, but we hardly noticed because Jane was singing.

I looked around, amazed, and saw that the others were equally transfixed: Greg had a look of unparalleled adoration on his face, as if recognizing the girl he married for the first time in a long time; the snotty Trevor was awestruck, I thought, perhaps perceiving that this was something that he would never be able to imagine, never be able convey to another mortal soul; the rest of the crew was rapt, some with concentration, some with wonder. This was how she bound them together, I realized; her focus, her ardor, sometimes
slipping beneath the surface of her all-too-present nerves, were crystal clear at the moment. She set high standards that she expected them to achieve because she met the high standards she set for herself, and they knew it. The only one who wasn’t entirely focused on Jane was Andrew.