‘So there are more suspects. Have they contacted Lara’s old boyfriend? He used to work here.’
Trent half smiled. ‘Of course. But right in the middle of the investigation is the man who was present at both events. Alistair Chorleigh.’
* * *
Sage finished bagging up the turf by dusk, brushing the larger bugs off as she went, and headed for her mother’s home in Winchester just as it started to drizzle again. She managed to find a parking space one street over from the house, in the middle of the town. She walked through the rain, past a hotchpotch of houses from modern to medieval. It had been a bit of a bargain – a Victorian two-up two-down with a sizeable courtyard garden at the back, for less than the house Yana and her husband had sold. Sage was still getting used to her mother being single, while she struggled with her father’s new relationship.
‘Sheshe?’ She dropped her rucksack in the hall and looked down to the kitchen at the back of the house. The lights were off. On the kitchen table – the same one Sage had done her homework on as a child – was a note in big letters.
‘Salad in fridge. Love you xx’
Sage opened the large fridge, an enormous thing given that her mother was single, and found a plate with film over it. Cheese, salad, chopped fruit. Her mother was keen on healthy eating but something in the fridge caught her eye – a packet of ham, which to her knowledge her mother had never eaten. She had been vegetarian as long as Sage could remember.
Sage lifted the plate onto the table and sat down to eat. There were signs of Maxie’s occupancy – two wellington boots covered with grass and mud on the back door mat, a picture of smeared handprints on the fridge, a harness and reins hung on the back door handle. Max was barely toddling but her mother already had him out in the park every day stumbling after ducks, crawling on the grass. He loved it.
Sage had barely finished the food when she heard the key in the lock. With Max half asleep in one arm and the folded buggy in the other Yana hissed at Sage, ‘Take baby,’ as she parked the buggy under the coats. Max looked up sleepily as he was transferred then leaned his head against Sage’s collarbone. She was filled with warmth and love as she looked at his perfect lashes, fanned over his perfect cheek. God, does this feeling ever wear off?
‘He’s ready for bed,’ her mother whispered, pulling off his shoes. ‘I put his coat over his sleepsuit.’
‘Where were you?’ Sage was in no hurry, just the sensation of him sleeping in her arms was intoxicating after a day of the horror of what had happened to someone else’s child.
‘I went out to my women’s group. Mad Cows, you remember?’ She bustled about in the kitchen, putting the kettle on, clinking cups together. ‘Tea?’
Sage rocked Max in her arms. ‘God, yes.’ Max was heavy, and, as she wormed his coat off from around him, ready for bed. She took him upstairs, tucked him into his cot under the window beside her own bed and snuggled him under a quilt. ‘I love you,’ she whispered, kissing him. He squirmed, turned over and sighed into sleep again.
Yana was waiting downstairs with a large cup of chamomile tea. ‘Tough day?’
The steam was reminiscent of apples. ‘It is tough. I don’t know if I can do it, Sheshe. It’s so sad, it’s so horrible, even when she’s not there, to try and stay objective by her grave.’ She took a sip of the comforting liquid. ‘I keep seeing her.’
Her mother sat on the large sofa, put her feet up, leaving Sage the armchair. ‘Sit. Tell me.’
‘I don’t know if I can. It sounds so hard and cold. She was left in a run-down garden, just like a bit of rubbish.’ No, not like a bit of rubbish. Every element of her burial was deliberate – even tender. ‘I don’t really mean that. But she was killed, and the body – it’s just meat, it rots.’ She found she couldn’t even mention the horses.
Yana nodded. Sage sipped her tea again, the fragrance of citrus and some spice coming off the brew as well. Sage looked around the room. Yana had painted the walls beige, a colour Sage would never have predicted as she knew her mother’s passion for colour. Then Yana had covered most of it with an eclectic mix of posters, paintings, a vibrant kimono hung over the fireplace and shawls hung as curtains over the poles.
‘What about you?’ Sage asked. ‘What did you and Maxie do?’
‘I had a couple of consultations today so my friend Elaine took Max to a library session for babies.’
‘You left him with a stranger?’ Sage was shocked.
‘Not stranger. Friend. Best friend.’ Yana leaned forward, topped her cup up. ‘She has two grandchildren of her own. He loves it there, they looked at books and he played with toys. Then they fed the birds in the park.’
Sage opened her mouth, shut it again, and took a breath. ‘Oh. Good.’ Questions were forming in her mind faster than she could put them away. ‘I’m glad you’re meeting new people.’
Yana glanced at her. ‘Have you spoken to Nick yet?’
‘Not yet. I thought I’d have a bath first, wash off the day.’ Yana nodded. ‘Is cold, I’ll light fire.’ She knelt by the wood-burning stove, scrunching paper and piling up sticks. ‘Don’t leave it too late.’
Sage still couldn’t pose the question about Nick’s visit to Northumberland for a possible job. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’
She soaked in a layer of bubbles, bought for Max but they brought back so many memories of childhood she couldn’t resist them. She tried to get the sadness of the excavation out of her mind. When she shut her eyes the girl’s face was still there under the leaves, the cry of the woman echoing around the forest, the centipede reaching from the turf.
Another flash intruded of Nick lying on the grass, staring at the sky with the knife in his chest. She slid under the water to wet her hair. Nothing had happened to Max and Nick; nothing was going to happen to them.
Yana’s shampoo was home-made and smelled of rosemary and lemon; it left her scalp tingling and fresh. She towelled herself down and slid, still damp, into her pyjamas. She couldn’t call Nick from the bedroom with Max asleep so she tried from Yana’s room sitting cross-legged on the bed.
It was only two days since she had seen Nick and already she was missing him. Her flat was so small, the baby was sharing her bedroom, there was no time, no privacy. But staying at the vicarage was worse. It was in the middle of the village, people knew when she was there, when she stayed, when Nick turned the lights out. The diocese had been starting to pressure Nick to set a date for the wedding, and every parishioner was a potential moral critic. It was like living in a goldfish bowl.
She dialled his mobile, waiting for him to answer. Just as she was about to hang up, the phone clicked.
‘Hello? Sage.’ He sounded cool.
‘Hi. I was just wondering how you were.’ It seemed so stilted. A week ago he was in his boxers, bouncing Maxie on her bed, laughing with her.
‘I’m fine. Did Yana pass on my message?’
‘Actually, she didn’t.’ Yana really did want Sage to talk to Nick. ‘I’ve been getting on with the case. Where exactly are you?’
‘Alnwick. I did tell you I’d be away for a few days. I came to see a rural ministry up here. I just wanted you to know I’m staying a bit longer.’
She couldn’t place it. ‘Yana said you were being interviewed?’
‘There’s an opening here. It’s a beautiful place. Just south of Scotland, north of County Durham.’
Wait, south of Scotland? Opening? She spoke slowly. ‘OK.’ He didn’t answer and she could feel something fluttering in her throat. ‘Do you want to move to Northumberland?’
‘No. I want to stay on the island and marry you and be Max’s dad. But we both know that isn’t happening.’ Maybe it was the distance, or the tinny speaker in her phone but he sounded very remote.
‘I don’t know – I don’t know what’s happening. I mean, I want those things too.’ Even as she said it, she could feel her throat close up. ‘I want you. But I’m just working out a new career and how to fit it around Max.’
>
‘I’m up here on a workshop looking at the placement,’ he said, after a long pause. ‘They have places for two rural vicars, empty posts. It’s a great team.’
‘But Maxie, Yana, my job…’ Her voice failed. ‘You didn’t even consult me, you didn’t say anything—’
His voice erupted. ‘I have tried and tried to tell you, Sage! You use Max as a reason to justify everything you want. I have a life too, I have needs, a career, a home. I wanted to share those with you.’
She was stunned. Nick was so patient with her, with Maxie. ‘I – I know I’m spoiled,’ she said slowly. ‘I know I’ve been concentrating on me. The baby, going back to work, the attack.’ The moment Nick reeled onto his back, a ten-inch carving knife stuck in his chest. Don’t give up on me now. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and started to spill down her cheeks. She sniffed. ‘I’m sorry.’
She could hear his breathing at the end of the phone. ‘Don’t cry. Let me in, Sage. Let me help.’
‘I love you.’ It sounded contrived, but at that moment her chest was tight with love, and fear that she was losing him. ‘Don’t give up on me yet.’
He huffed, a sound she had become familiar with. She could see the frustration in her mind’s eye. ‘You drive me mad, do you know that? I’m not giving up on you, I’m exploring possibilities.’
‘I know. But I do love you and I’m trying to deal with it all – I know I’m not handling it very well.’
‘It’s called PTSD, Sage. And unless you get counselling it’s going to ruin your life, and mine and Max’s.’
She sat on the colourful quilt and let the tears fall in her lap. The urge to howl came more and more frequently now. ‘I know. I know you’re right.’
‘So you thought looking into violent crimes would help?’
She wiped her face with her towel. ‘I know you don’t understand – but this way, I can help someone, maybe the parents of that murdered girl. We felt so helpless when we were the victims, remember? Families deserve to know the truth.’
There was a long pause at the end of the phone before he spoke. ‘I’ve been on a tour of several villages, I’ve met all sorts of people and tomorrow I get my interview proper. Here I can help people, really make a difference. The landscape is stunning, and the communities are close-knit, just like the island. I’d love to work in a team ministry like this one.’
Sage put her arm across her stomach over an ache of longing for him. ‘What happens if they offer you the job?’
There was a long silence at the end of the phone. ‘There are four candidates. They might not want me.’
‘They will. You’re a brilliant vicar.’
‘We’ll talk about it then, if it happens.’ His words were calmer than his tone. ‘You do use Max and your job to make all our decisions, and we can’t go on like this. You try and keep a distance between us. I love him, we’ve bonded and I’m not threatened by his birth father. But I feel as if I have to make appointments to see him.’
‘I never stop you seeing him.’ Sage knew the moment she said the words they weren’t true. It was easy to say she was tired or Max was asleep – how many times did she push him away to stop Maxie getting dependent on him? ‘I know, you’re right.’ She caught her breath for a few moments, crushed by the thought of losing him. ‘You’re so good for him. And I love you, you know I do.’ She wasn’t sure how much of her garbled words he understood. ‘I’m just scared.’ Scared of needing you, scared of needing anyone.
‘We’ll talk when I get back. Are you still at Yana’s?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed her tears back. ‘Yes. I’m still processing the crime scene.’
‘I’ll be driving back in a few days. I’ll call Max at breakfast time, as usual.’
She took a deep breath. ‘We can talk about it when you get back. But – Northumberland? That’s like four hundred miles away.’
When he spoke, there was a little warmth in his voice, a lightness. ‘Almost. It took me eight hours.’
‘God. That’s a bit harsh for a weekend together. Max throws up after five miles in the car.’
‘We’ll talk about it. I have to go.’
‘Yes.’ Yes, they would. If that’s what it took to keep him. Maybe she should tell him that.
‘Bye, Sage.’ The phone clicked before she could say anything.
‘I love you,’ she said to no one.
14
* Buy more film from chemist, also twine and brown paper for finds. Plaster strip for blisters, pencils and drawing paper for Molly.
Journal of Edwin Masters, 2nd July 1913 (pencil in margin)
The next day Peter and I boxed up the burial urn in three large pieces, all padded with newspaper, and a number of smaller pieces of the rim in a paper bag. The human remains, I’m afraid, found a safe home in a biscuit tin.
Using the calculations of the size of the blocks and the density of limestone, we were able to estimate the weight of the stone at a hundred and fifty pounds per cubic foot. The thick slabs are about four feet by two feet, so an estimate of about six hundred pounds each, an astonishing weight! It’s certainly more than we can lift, even if there were convenient handholds. The boatyard manager, an engineer called Parkright, was called and examined the problem.
‘The weight’s no bother,’ he said, ‘but getting straps under it will require stone wedges, or wooden chocks. We have some in the yard.’
The idea was to raise the edges with levers and put wooden blocks under it, so we could pass lifting straps or ropes underneath. Having scratched his head and examined the stones minutely, Mr Parkright made a couple of quick sketches and prepared to retire to the boatyard to fetch equipment and half a dozen men.
‘What can we do?’ Peter asked.
‘Clear as much of that soft soil away as you can so we have a firm base for a tripod,’ he said. ‘We can use a block and tackle to lift each stone separately. And you need to clear a space to put them, we won’t be able to carry them far.’
While he was away, Peter and I moved the spoil heap he had indicated to a location at the end of the large barrow. It had been getting hotter and more humid for the last several days; the work made us uncomfortably sweaty. Since Molly was keeping her mother company in the house, we stripped down to short trousers and worked as fast as we could. The head gardener came and watched us for a minute.
‘I could use some of that fine soil,’ he said, before Peter had a chance to ask him to help. ‘It’s the far end of the tennis court, the young ladies have been complaining it runs downhill towards the river.’
I looked at the enormous pile still facing us. ‘It’s all been sieved,’ I said. Once it had been excavated, it could never be replaced in the places it had been removed from exactly, but I was still uncertain and said so. The proper procedure was to replace it.
‘I understand that, but it’s only going a few hundred yards, and the tennis court does run down in the corner. Very well, McNally,’ Peter said. ‘Only, please take the soil from the pile we’re trying to move. We need the ground level ready for Mr Parkright to set up his lifting rig.’
McNally was a whiz with a wheelbarrow; he worked fast and we soon cleared the ground to the hard-packed surface of the excavation, level with the base of the tomb. Then we created a space for the two slabs to lie separately, and finally walked down to the river for a swim and to wash off the mud.
By the time we got back to the house to change into something decent, I was given a letter that had come in the morning post, having crossed the note I had sent to Prof Conway.
* * *
Letter from Robert Conway to Edwin Masters, 1st July 1913
Dear Edwin,
A little research has uncovered an interesting map of the area, circa 1772 (see my scrawled copy). As you see, the whole area belonged to Blazeden Farm, the home of Mr Adam Blazeden at the time, who also owned properties up to and including a street in Fairfield Village. You will notice the mounds are marked side by side, not end to end
as you found them, so I assume the mapmaker had not seen them for himself. Beside the mounds runs a waterway called ‘Brock Water’ which appears to meander along a field boundary. I notice on your site plan there is a ditch, perhaps this has been adapted. But the main thing I can see is that Brock Water appears to arise at the barrows, as if it is a natural spring. Perhaps your second earthwork is arranged around the spring head. I enclose a most rudimentary tracing of the original plan, for which I apologise, but I believe the main features are represented correctly except the earthworks. I look forward to further information as it is exposed.
Yours affectionately,
R. Conway
The afternoon brought fresher weather, and equipment and men from the boatyard. They quickly assembled a large tripod from poles, and we helped them lever up the edges of one of the stones on top, slipping large wedges under each side. Peter was tasked with the job of sliding straps underneath, which were fastened about it at each end. Finally, a block and tackle took the weight and we started to take up the slack.
The first slab was truly heavy. It was also stuck with mud at points, and when it finally yielded we could see the black soil of the interior. Over millennia, worms and other creatures had brought soil into the tomb, along with rain washing into the narrow spaces between the stones. Only a few inches of void remained, dank and earthy in smell. We swung the whole slab, perhaps a quarter of a ton in total, and lowered it onto the prepared ground.
We rested before we tackled the second slab, smoking and drinking beer provided by the kitchen. One of the gardener’s boys was helping, and he soon entertained us with stories of the barrows.
‘Fairy mounds, they call ’em,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows it. My grandfer used to tell me stories of fairy horsemen leading ponies into the barrows to live underground.’
Peter swigged his beer straight from the bottle. ‘I love these stories. My mother’s family used to believe their ancestor was a changeling.’ He grinned at me. ‘There’s a picture of Great-Uncle Harold over the stairs. He’s the ugly one. I can see why they called him a changeling, he looks nothing like the rest of the family.’
A Shroud of Leaves Page 12
