A Shroud of Leaves

by Rebecca Alexander

  ‘Ah, Sage,’ her mother exclaimed, then put her own finger to her lips. ‘Oh, sorry, Maxie has just gone down again. He woke – bad dream I think, poor bobek.’

  Sage came in the room. The wood burner was filled with glowing embers; it had made the room uncomfortably warm. She undid her jacket. ‘I’m sorry I was a bit longer than I thought.’

  ‘No trouble.’ Yana stood and took Sage’s jacket off her like she was five years old. ‘Sit, sit. This my friend, Elaine.’ She walked into the hall with the coat.

  Sage took the offered hand. ‘Hi. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Elaine smiled. She was striking, dark hair streaked with grey.

  ‘Likewise. And your son has won my heart. He’s adorable.’

  Sage sat in her mother’s chair. ‘He can be.’

  An awkward silence grew longer. Yana returned, carrying a large mug of hot chocolate. ‘Is cold out there,’ she said, holding it out for Sage. Elaine sat up and made room for Yana. ‘So, you meet.’ Yana smiled at them both and squeezed Elaine’s hand. ‘Two of my favourite people.’

  Sage concentrated on her hot chocolate while Elaine laughed for a moment. ‘Yana, you have to give Sage a bit of time – me too – we’ve only just met. And there’s bound to be a bit of awkwardness when your daughter meets your new partner.’

  ‘Are you? My mother’s new partner?’ Sage looked over the rim of her mug at the woman. Elaine had dark eyes, they looked black in the low light. She was too tired to be having this conversation, and she needed to see her son. ‘I’m sorry. I ought to check on Max and I have a report to write before an early meeting.’

  Yana frowned – even in this light Sage could see she was displeased. ‘There is no need to be rude.’

  ‘She isn’t being rude.’ Elaine picked up a scarf from the end of the sofa. ‘She’s being direct, I like that. She’s had a long day and you spring this on her. Yana and I are in a relationship. I don’t know where it’s going but we’re seeing a lot of each other and having fun.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Now Sage felt awkward and her mother was glowering at her. ‘You’re right, it’s been a very long day and I really do have a report to compile for tomorrow morning. I hope we get to know each other a bit while I’m over here.’

  ‘That would be great. And your son really is adorable,’ Elaine said, smiling at her, and stood up. She was tall, as tall as Sage. ‘I have two delightful but horribly spoiled grandchildren. Max makes them look naughty. Of course, he’s only young, there’s time.’

  Sage nodded. ‘A couple more weeks with my mother and he’ll be just as bad.’

  Elaine laughed, and even Yana smiled, looking from Elaine to Sage and back again.

  ‘Actually, I have paperwork to do before tomorrow’s clinic,’ Elaine said.

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Sage.

  ‘I’m a doctor, a dermatologist. You can’t imagine how many arguments about alternative therapies we get into.’

  ‘Not alternative,’ Yana broke in. ‘First therapies. Herbalism predates your medicine by thousands of years.’

  Elaine held up her hands to fend her argument off. ‘I know, I know. And most therapeutic agents are based on molecules derived from plants. But it’s too late to get into that now.’ She wound the scarf around her neck. ‘Nice to meet you, Sage.’ She leaned forward and kissed Yana on the cheek. ‘See you tomorrow?’

  ‘Stay over. Stay.’ Yana looked at Sage defiantly.

  ‘I will. Tomorrow. Good night, all.’

  Yana saw her out, and Sage finished the hot chocolate. Before Yana could say anything, Sage spoke. ‘She seems nice. Really nice.’

  Yana took the empty cup from her. ‘I like her. It seems – it seems magical, not to have to hide, you know?’

  ‘Actually, I do,’ Sage said, smiling up at her mother, remembering the sneaking about she had had to do during her affair with Max’s father, who was married. ‘It’s nice to be out in the open.’

  ‘Elaine has always been out,’ Yana said, sitting opposite Sage. ‘Even when she had her daughter. It’s different for her.’

  ‘Mum, I’m OK with it. I’ve just had a shitty day.’

  Rain hit the window and Yana pulled the damper open on the stove to burn out the embers. ‘It’s been really wet, on and off. Trees are down on the main road. I hope she gets home OK.’

  ‘It’s not too bad out there. Have you heard from Nick?’

  ‘He called for Max,’ Yana said. ‘Spoke to us for a few minutes. I know Maxie doesn’t say words but he understands loads. They were both laughing.’

  Sage struggled to get out of the armchair. ‘I’m shattered, I’d better get on with these notes. I have a very early meeting.’

  ‘You will speak to Nick, won’t you?’

  Sage faltered at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Tomorrow, Sheshe. I promise I’ll call him. But it’s too late now.’

  Too late. After scribbling two pages of notes she lay in bed but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead she thought about Nick, looking for a job in Northumberland. Just south of Scotland; she’d looked it up on the internet. Wild, stark, beautiful. Another world from the island.

  18

  ‘My dearest Edwin, The sunshine has done wonders for my health. Your aunt and I are now walking to the church every day, which as you remember, is quite half a mile each way. I look forward to your letters and such a tale! I should probably be quite squeamish about handling human bones but I’m sure you have become accustomed…’

  Letter held in the cover of the journal of Edwin Masters, 5th July 1913, signed ‘Mother’

  It was hazy sunshine before breakfast so I stole outside with my camera to get some shots of the earthwork in the good light. Two days of excavation have revealed much of the skeletons. I got some good views of the human and animal remains, intertwined in the grave with what looks like ceremony. Several bones in the arms show deep scratches, and I puzzled over whether some animal attack had killed the man or he had held his arms up against a weapon.

  My mother has written to tell me she is much better, which is such a relief. I have thought so often about these last months, about how our funds have been spent on my education while she manages on shillings in a house my father would not have kept a dog in. The doctor’s bills are all paid and with a little economy we shall manage until I find a permanent position. I am promised three evenings a week in my house library while I study for my master’s degree. Thank goodness my fees are already paid from the trust fund established by my father, and I have a bursary to live on from his old college. I know he always hoped I would take orders, but I have not been drawn to the church.

  Peter came and found me on the terrace and took me into breakfast. He says his father will not be offended that I had come down so early, before the family, and that I must treat the place exactly as my own home.

  What kindness his mother has shown me, unlike Mr Chorleigh who, I fear, thinks me a very feeble fellow. I was thrashed at tennis yesterday evening by Hilda Chorleigh. She is a jolly girl but a bit inclined to flirt in a way I find distasteful. The court runs downhill at one corner, and Mr McNally the gardener is building it up with the extra soil from the dig, so no more tennis for the rest of my stay.

  We prepared to excavate more bones today. They rested under an area of silt which needed careful removal. Peter and I had our plans drawn in a systematic manner, and laid out the schedule for the rest of the guests to help. I suspected their enthusiasm would soon pass, except for Molly. We assembled some buckets and trowels, a couple of mattocks and spades and some old sheets to put out any more finds. Peter put up a tent to sieve the spoil in the shade. I rolled up the sides and it made a very pleasant space with an old table in it. Cook provided jugs of lemonade and water for us, all covered in pretty lace hats.

  Two hours later, the eye socket of a great hound stared at the sky over a row of the sharpest teeth I have ever seen. The burial itself was almost in the middle of the barrow, as we had predicted. Our volunteers were d
rawn in by the finds – none left us until late in the afternoon. Even Mr Chorleigh himself came and looked at the massive head, larger I am sure than any living hound today. Molly sat on the unexcavated part of the barrow, sketching under a huge straw hat. She claimed it was to prevent freckles, but I told her I liked them. Both she and Peter were covered; their fair skin was reddened by the sun, their hair growing sandier every day.

  ‘Look, Ed,’ Peter called me, crouching awkwardly on the edge of the hole, scraping carefully with his trowel. ‘I think this is the man’s collarbone. Here, under the edge of the animal jaw.’

  We had wondered if the man and his hound had been buried together since finding the kneecap of a human next to the back leg of the dog. We could see the ghostly edges and curves of the skeletons, the dog laid along the man’s bones, almost the same height from back feet to snout. The man had been tall too, as tall as Peter anyway as I am no great height. I imagined him as fair, the distant ancestor of the Chorleighs, a giant like Peter’s father.

  As Peter and I lifted the dog skull, still packed with earth, a housemaid trotted up to give me a letter. She screamed when she saw it and dropped the missive. She was comically shocked by the remains, talking of the haunting of the barrow, an old story told to frighten children in the forest.

  ‘That’s the devil’s own hound,’ she told me, refusing to come closer. ‘And a sinner beside him.’

  ‘There’s nothing supernatural, Evie,’ said Peter, climbing up the side of the excavation. ‘Just a warrior chieftain being buried with honour with his faithful hound.’

  She dared to lean over to see the skull laid upon its canvas. ‘No dog was ever that big, sir.’

  I laughed at her, perhaps unkindly, given her lack of education. But she turned and looked at me as if I was the deluded one.

  ‘They tell of a black dog, Black Shug is his name. He runs so fast he flies over the forest, even over the trees. He swallows people whole.’

  ‘Well, this dog can’t harm you,’ I said, to reassure, but she trotted away faster than she had arrived. The letter was from the professor and I put it away to read before dinner.

  Molly, who had been sitting above us, on the edge of the dig, looked troubled.

  ‘What is it, Molls?’ Peter asked, pulling himself up to sit beside her.

  ‘I know there’s no such thing as ghosts…’

  ‘None at all.’ He looked at me. ‘Come on, Edwin, back me up.’

  ‘I don’t think there is a ghostly dog that eats people,’ I promised.

  * * *

  Letter from Professor R. Conway, Balliol College, Oxford, 4th July 1913

  My dear Edwin,

  You have come across a remarkable find. I remember reading of a burial of a man and a dog once before in Germany, but none in England. You must write it up for your master’s thesis, it will make an excellent demonstration of your scholarship.

  I have further examined your excellent drawing (your friend’s sister has a fine eye for scale and detail) and the intact burial will tell us a lot about the rituals of these people. I agree that the burial chamber was likely not filled in. The soil in the New Forest is known to be largely acid; I suspect few remains would have survived had they been buried below the water table without the protection of the stone cavity (also beautifully drawn by your young artist). I am returning your finds but retaining a piece of corroded metal. I believe it might be possible to use the chemistry department’s fluoroscope to determine its original composition.

  As to the coincidence of the name of the barrow relating to its contents, well, we have seen that before in place names. Such research into folk memory and lore can be useful if not slavishly followed. I should certainly look into local legends.

  The teeth you sent me are indubitably human.

  Yours affectionately,

  R. Conway

  19

  Saturday 23rd March, this year

  Sage and Felix were early for the briefing at the police station. They were offered coffee and pastries from a large box courtesy of DCI Lenham. They found chairs towards the back of the room, surrounded by over a dozen police officers and a couple of the forensic specialists Sage recognised from Chorleigh House. Megan Levy, the pathologist, was there too and Trent was standing at the back. Sage had a few minutes to review the necropsy report from the Home Office veterinary surgeon, who had examined the horse carcasses.

  She read through quickly, pausing at the photographs of the small cuts she had found in the mummified skin. ‘… Evidence of a deep cut to the left external carotid artery. The animals were found in a passive resting position; it is unlikely that they would stay down for the fatal injury unless already impaired. Normal field despatch would need a blade at least 130 millimetres long to sever both carotids and the windpipe, and death would ensue within one minute. From this I can suggest that they were incapacitated in some way from sedatives or illness, or posed in this way after death.’

  She skipped down to the end of the report to find cause of death. ‘Both horses bled to death from a deep injury to the carotid, just under the right side of each animal’s jaw. The incision was made with a blade with a width of approximately thirty to thirty-five millimetres. Muscle fibres drawn out of the wounds suggests the knife was imperfect, and the one found in the stables had the tip bent over by four millimetres.’

  There was a highlighted line. ‘A similar defect was seen in wounds in the bodies of horses and cattle in the Hampshire area from January 1990 to September 1992, where sadistic assaults on horses and cattle were associated with sexual abuse. The author of these attacks was never discovered. DNA was not archived. Comparisons are being made with a folding knife found at the scene.’ Sage looked up as the briefing started.

  The room had a hum which quietened when Lenham started talking.

  ‘Thank you for giving up your weekend, not that we gave you much choice. I’m especially sorry for anyone who had tickets to see Southampton play, particularly me.’ After a ripple of laughter, he introduced Sage and Felix to the room and went around announcing the forensic team as well as senior officers.

  ‘Dr Levy has established our timeline. Time of death is estimated at eight p.m. Saturday to midnight Sunday morning with a plus or minus of two hours. She was attacked some time before that, possibly as early as lunchtime. River Sloane was reported missing by her biological mother, who she lived with, at three-forty on Saturday afternoon. She had last been seen at about twelve-forty. This was some hours before she died. Obviously,’ he continued, ‘we are looking at Alistair Chorleigh because River was found in his garden. But we have a large pool of potential suspects. We have identified one of River’s classmates at school who bullied her online over two years and an ex-boyfriend, Ryan Wellans, eighteen. They broke up over her passion for cruelty-free research. His new girlfriend, Soraya Brown, alibied him but she also bullied River online. Ryan has a car, so had the means to move the body. River had a current boyfriend, Jake Murdoch, who is nineteen and also has a car. Both vehicles have been searched for trace evidence but we found nothing. Neither car matches the tyre tracks we recorded, but we can’t link that decisively to the burial. We have a biological mother, a stepfather, a biological father and a stepmother who, thank God, we can rule out as she was away in Aberdeen. There’s a fourteen-year-old stepsister, Melissa, but I think we can rule out the six-year-old half-brother. We must also keep in mind that unknown party or parties might be involved. Keep working.’

  ‘Anyone standing out?’ asked another officer.

  ‘The boyfriend isn’t that convincing. He’s acting guilty about something, even if he’s upset about River’s death. But we’ve seen lots of murderers crying crocodile tears. We’re applying to extend his interview. Meanwhile, we’re widening the search to other family.’

  ‘Grandparents, sir?’ asked a young officer.

  ‘Two deceased, one in Canada, one has dementia and is in care.’ He pulled out a note. ‘We also looked at River’s step-grandfathe
r, Owen Sloane’s dad. He’s sixty-nine-year-old Dave Macintosh, has a record for breaking and entering from thirty years ago. He’s a reformed alcoholic. I’m not seriously looking at him at the moment. He works weekends, twelve-hour days as a security guard at a shopping centre in Reading, and was on shift all day Saturday.’

  An officer put up her hand. ‘Sloane’s father is called Macintosh?’

  ‘Exactly. Perhaps you could have a dig around and find out why they don’t have the same surname. There are a number of friends and Patel is looking at social media. Any updates?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ PC Patel stood. ‘We’ve been looking at the memorial sites and various platforms she used. There’s a lot of sympathy and support for her family, which is mum, stepdad, his daughter Melissa who lives with them, and her six-year-old half-brother, Henry.’

  ‘It is a bit of an unusual setup.’ Lenham looked around the room. ‘Can family liaison provide some background?’

  A tall man stood up. ‘The girls didn’t get on well. Melissa moved into River’s family home three years ago so she could attend a better school. Also, her biological mother was having discipline issues and had just had twins with her second husband. Melissa, known as Lissa, spends some weekends with her mum but not this one—’

  Patel interrupted. ‘Melissa’s received a lot of sympathy, from both her own friends and River’s. I’ve noticed something that might be significant: River’s boyfriend Jake Murdoch has been spending a lot of time with her, and she seems to be clinging to him.’

  The liaison officer nodded. ‘Mum says Melissa was naturally jealous of River’s popularity and used to flirt with Jake when he came over.’

  Lenham nodded. ‘Probably not significant but keep an eye on the situation. Stewart, what about the tyre evidence?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The track parallel to the verge was checked against the database. It’s a common brand, KV69, used mostly on small vans but also some cars. It doesn’t have much wear, so might be quite new. There’s nothing distinctive about it and the tracks weren’t detailed enough to be able to match it to a particular vehicle. We’ve excluded our vans and the press.’