Shadows in Scarlet (7 page)

The walls that weren't lined by tall shelves stacked with carefully labeled cardboard boxes were lined by low cabinets filled with similarly labeled drawers. Every horizontal surface was covered with books, papers, boxes, microscopes and other tools of technological necromancy, and a Noah's Ark of animal bones.

The only human bones—
his
bones—were laid out on a table in the center of the room, from the skull with its jaw properly placed down to the feet with their tiny bones in ordered rows, more tidily than they'd lain in their grave. Beneath them stretched a sheet of white paper. They were so clean only a few grains of dust dotted various pencilled remarks.

Amanda shook her head. The skeleton was nothing more than an exhibit in a museum, less personal than an old pair of slippers. James Grant had a lot more character in the flesh, no matter how insubstantial.

Bill Hewitt stood over the table holding a pair of calipers. A magnifying glass protruded from his shirt pocket. His hunched shoulders and out thrust head gave him the air of a vulture considering its prey. “Miss Witham,” he said. “Carrie."

"Hello, Dr. Hewitt,” returned Amanda. “Please, it's Amanda."

"How's it going, Bill?” Carrie asked.

"Not bad. Let me run down the checklist with you. First. Are the remains human? Yes. Any idiot can see that. Second. Do they represent a single individual or the commingled remains of several?"

Carrie and Amanda chorused, “A single individual."

"Absolutely.” Hewitt set the calipers down by the skull, where their metallic gleam emphasized the dullness of the pitted brown bone. “When did death occur? The bones are dry, cracked, and stained. Cartilage, flesh, and hair are absent. The accompanying artifacts are well decomposed. With the datable evidence of the clothing and the site of the grave I'd say our individual died about two hundred years ago."

"Revolutionary-era, then,” said Carrie.

"Sex?” Hewitt went on. “Look at the brow ridges and the shape of the pelvis. A mature male, obviously."

"Obviously,” Amanda said.

"Age?” Hewitt's forefinger indicated the skull, the pelvis, the long bones of the legs. “...symphyseal pits, iliac crest, femoral trochanter, saggital sutures,” he said, leaving Amanda far behind, and at last concluded, “Probably in his twenties."

"Nothing so far,” Carrie said, “to keep us from identifying him as a soldier in the Yorktown Campaign."

Hewitt's forefinger counseled patience. “The shape of his skull indicates European ancestry. The length of his longer bones indicated a height of about five foot eleven. Not heavily muscled, but not thin. Teeth in good condition. Right-handed. No significant anatomical anomalies. No signs of old diseases or injuries. No characteristics that are out of the ordinary. A fine male specimen of his time period."

"No diseases, no injuries, not heavily muscled. Probably from the upper classes,” suggested Carrie. “We know from the epaulette he was an officer."

"Sounds good,” Amanda said, trying to hold up her side of the discussion without offering any opinions that could all too easily turn into facts.

"Cause of death,” stated Hewitt. “A bullet in the chest."

Amanda flinched.
Ow.

The archaeologist held up a small plastic bag containing a lump of lead. “The bullet was with his ribs in the grave. It must have been lodged in his chest when he was buried. You can see the nick on the breastbone. The entrance wound."

"Shot through the heart,” Amanda said.

"Probably."

"Died instantly."

Hewitt shrugged. “It's likely."

"At least he didn't linger long enough to suffer,” said Carrie. “In those days if your wound didn't kill you and the doctors didn't kill you, the infection almost certainly would."

"Manner of death,” Hewitt went on. “Homicide."

"Homicide?” repeated Amanda. “Oh, because he was shot by someone. Well, there was a war going on. The battle of Greensprings Farm was just up the road from Melrose."

"I can't tell whether the bullet is from a musket, a rifle, or a pistol,” said Hewitt. “But yes, it's probable he was killed in battle. Carrie, take a look at these.... “He turned toward the smaller table.

Amanda stared into the eye sockets of the skull. Shot through the heart. Killed instantly. He probably never knew what hit him. That quick a switch from life to death would sure leave you disoriented—in more ways than forgetting which dialect to speak to a waitress.
Have you seen my sword?
he'd asked. Maybe the last thing he'd done in life was draw it and—well, lead a charge. Inspire his troops. Something appropriately macho.

The eye sockets were empty. Nobody home. Amanda did an about-face and joined the others beside a counter spread with flattened swatches of decayed cloth, something that looked like a moth eaten fur muff, and a tidy display of metal bits, some partially-cleaned and gleaming dully, some still tarnished into charcoal. Again Amanda thought how a man's stuff outlived him.

"...red jacket with embroidered buttonholes, and wool material in a tartan pattern,” the archaeologist was saying. With a dental pick he lifted a scrap of cloth. The pattern was mottled and dark but discernible—green and blue squares overlaid with a red stripe. “He was not only British but a Highlander."

"The 71st Regiment of Foot,” said Carrie, with half a glance at Amanda. “They were at Williamsburg in July of 1781. Some of them were billeted at Melrose."

"And this particular officer left his calling card.” Hewitt pointed to several small discs.

Carrie groped in her purse for her glasses. “Pewter buttons, each with an incised ‘71.’ Most obliging of the man. And that's—a buckle?"

"From a shoulder belt, I'd say."

Carrie and Amanda bumped heads over the buckle. It was crisply cast, a thistle and a crown over a disk engraved with another ‘71.’ Along the bottom bar of the buckle ran the words,
Nemo me impune lacessit.
“The motto on the arms of Scotland,” said Carrie. “'No one pushes me around and gets away with it,’ more or less."

"Or, informally, ‘Wha daur meddle wi’ me.'” Amanda hadn't been digging around in Scottish history for nothing, although she probably didn't have the accent right. She pointed to the letters carved along the top bar of the buckle. “And that?"

"Quicquid aut facere aut pati,"
read Hewitt. “The regimental motto."

"Something about everyone either performing or suffering,” Carrie translated with a frown of uncertainty. “Between ‘do or die’ and ‘all for one and one for all,’ I guess. I'll look it up. Oddly enough, Amanda was already researching the 71st Highlanders."

Amanda opened her mouth and shut it again—nothing she could say was going to bail her out now. The lackluster sheen of the metal fittings was no way like the subtle shine that had illuminated James Grant's ghost, but it was bright enough.

"And this.” Hewitt lifted a long cardboard box from the end of the cabinet and opened it. Inside, on a bed of cotton wool, lay the scabbard. It gleamed a dull gray, its surface pocked with corrosion, its length bent into an obtuse angle. “Thirty-five inches long. Steel, not leather, fortunately, or it wouldn't be in this good a shape. It was excellent quality in its day. Presumably the sword was, too, but we didn't find that. It could have been lost or looted in the battle."

"A wealthy man, to carry such a weapon.... “Again Carrie glanced at Amanda, and murmured, “Naw."

The faint chemical smell of the lab was mingling uneasily with the chocolate in the back of Amanda's throat. She remembered to breathe through her nose before she started hyperventilating.

"There's a badge,” said Hewitt. He pointed to the open end of the scabbard. A bronze ellipse was fixed just below the rim, its surface raised in a design.

Amanda leaned closer. “It looks like a pyramid with grass growing out of it. Are those words curving over the top, or smoke?"

"Oh boy.” Carrie took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh boy. It can't be...” She put her glasses back on, plucked the magnifying glass from Hewitt's pocket, and peered intently at the badge.

Amanda braced herself.
Incoming.

"I looked that up this morning,” said Carrie, slightly strangled. “It's the crest of clan Grant. A burning mountain—Craigellachie, in Strathspey. The words say ‘Stand Fast.’ Bill, these bones might belong to James Grant."

"Not
the
James Grant,” Hewitt said warily.

"Yes, the British officer from Melrose Hall. In the miniature portrait reproduced on the front of the brochure. The one Sally Armstrong had a crush on. The one who ran up the stairs with his sword.... Wait a minute. Amanda said there were two Grants in the 71st. This might be the other one. Since they didn't have rank insignia then, I don't know."

Amanda realized she was biting her lip. She released it.

"How about this?” Hewitt produced one more cotton-filled box. “A snuffbox. It was in his sporran. That fur pouch there. Probably badger."

On the cotton rested a small brass box, its lid a bas-relief of a battlemented building. In the harsh light of the lab Amanda could see every incised stone. Beneath the—the castle—a word was etched in flowing script:
Dundreggan.

Nothing to do now, she informed herself, but take the bullet. A metaphorical bullet. But this was what she wanted, to give the man his name back again. It was what he wanted, wasn't it?

Carrie turned, her eyes bulging. “It is him! James Grant of Dundreggan! Jesus, what a coincidence!"

"James Grant.” Hewitt nodded, slowly, as though rolling his individual brain cells into their proper holes.

Amanda deflated, sagging backward against the table that held the bones. They stirred behind her, making quick dry rustles on the paper. Cold fingers touched her neck—the draft from the air conditioning duct above her head. Somewhere a door slammed. She repeated, “What a coincidence.” Bless Carrie for saying the words first.

"It's circumstantial evidence, but that's what archaeology is,” said Hewitt. “Odder things have happened. We turned up what might have been Thomas Jefferson's toothbrush several years ago. The context was right. The content was right. Why not?"

"The triumph of curiosity over chance?” Amanda suggested.

Shaking her head, Carrie handed Hewitt his magnifying glass. He turned it thoughtfully in his hand. “Why were you already researching James Grant, Amanda?"

"Carrie and I were talking about romantic illusions, about the story of James and Sally. Then I knocked over the miniature portrait. It was like he threw himself at me.” She grimaced. That sounded so lame.

But Carrie was chuckling. “Can't resist a handsome face, huh?"

Amanda grabbed the bait. “Or a man in a uniform. Clothing as an indicator of class, that sort of thing. And with the oral tradition at Melrose—I mean, stories are artifacts, too."

"True enough,” Hewitt said with a nod.

Maybe not quite true enough,
Amanda thought, but she quit while she was if not ahead, at least not behind.

"But why was he buried in the garden?” asked Carrie. “The record, what record we have, indicates he died in the battle at Greensprings Farm. He could have been wounded, I guess, and returned to Melrose."

"Killed instantly,” Hewitt reminded her. “Maybe he was ambushed by local partisans just before or after the battle. They buried him secretly so his compatriots wouldn't come looking for revenge."

"And the other British assumed he was killed in battle,” offered Amanda. “Seems kind of sloppy to lose an officer like that, though. A peasant, maybe, cannon fodder, but an officer?"

"A wealthy man,” Carrie added. “Good family connections, no doubt, to secure his commission. Proud enough of his name and his ancestral estates to carry mementos of both around with him. Not the man you'd expect to end up in an obscure, unmarked grave."

"We'll probably never know the truth.” Hewitt lifted his magnifying glass and turned from the badges back to the bones. He peered so intently at them Amanda expected them to disintegrate before his eyes. “If we could find living relatives we might be able to do a DNA test, confirm his identity. Then let them decide what to do with the bones. Carrie, will you ask for Grant's military records from England, please? Time to move from the forensic evidence to the historiography."

"Amanda already has, Bill. I'll let you know the minute they come in."

"Good, good. Very efficient."

"Thank you,” Amanda told him, although efficiency had nothing to do with it.

Carrie put her glasses back into her purse. “This has been absolutely fascinating, Bill, but I have to get back to the library."

"Thank you, Dr. Hewitt,” Amanda said. “It's all just too cool for words."

He waved vaguely in their direction. The women showed themselves the door.

Carrie burbled about Grant and Melrose, probability and congruence, as they walked across to the library. Amanda didn't have the chance to respond with more than the odd monosyllable, which suited her just fine.

"Thanks,” Carrie said outside the door. “That was the best lunch break I've had in years. I'll write up another new spiel for the tourists—properly larded with ‘it is believed’ and ‘the evidence points to', of course—and bring it with me tomorrow. I hope London answers your query soon. I can't wait for the next chapter in the Grant saga."

"There may never be another chapter,” Amanda pointed out, as much to herself as to Carrie.

"Curiosity over chance, remember?” Waving, Carrie hurried into the building.

Amanda unlocked her car, waited a minute while the heat dissipated, and then drove away on automatic pilot, only a tenth of her mind noticing such petty details as traffic lights.

The rest of her mind rocked and rolled.
All right!
Hewitt had named James Grant's bones sooner than she'd dared hope, thanks partly to the tips she herself had given Carrie. But she'd gone way overboard worrying about her supernatural source.

Why shouldn't she already be on the trail? She was a grad student in one of the historical disciplines, wasn't she? If Williamsburg archaeologists could find Jefferson's toothbrush in a place he was known to have lived, in a stratum dated to the time he'd lived there, then nothing was all that weird about finding Grant's bones under similar conditions. So they hadn't been looking for the toothbrush or for the bones. That only legitimized the discovery.