by Ellery Adams
“Er, what?” he said only after she touched his arm. “Sorry, Jane. It’s just that there’s something unusual about this bone. See the dramatic curvature? If I didn’t know better, I’d say this person—an adult, judging by the size of this femur—suffered from rickets.”
“Crickets?” asked Hem from the other end of the table.
Doc Lydgate chuckled. “No, young sir. Rickets with an R. It’s a bone disease resulting from a lack of vitamin D. Do either of you boys know where you get your daily dose of vitamin D?”
Fitz raised his hand. “From our Flintstones.”
It took the doctor a second to comprehend the reference. “Ah, your chewable vitamins. Yes, that’s correct. But you also get vitamin D from playing outside in the sunshine and eating foods like eggs, tuna fish, salmon, and Swiss cheese.”
“I hate Swiss cheese,” Hem said.
Doc Lydgate pointed to the end of the bone, which was missing part of its hip joint, and invited his audience to lean in. “The round hip joint, or femoral head, is incomplete on our mystery skeleton. This allows us a clear look at the quality of this fellow’s bone. And the quality isn’t good, my friends. Whoever was buried in the yard had soft, weak bones. My guess would be that the skeleton’s other bones will have the same spongy appearance. A result of rickets.”
Jane glanced from the femur to the doctor’s animated face. “That disease was eradicated, so that means this skeleton was buried a long time ago, right? As in the nineteenth century.”
Sinclair answered before the doctor could. “To the contrary, rickets hasn’t been eradicated. A number of Victorian era diseases have begun reemerging in first-world nations. Hospitals have reported cases of scurvy, gout, tuberculosis, and rickets. Some of these diseases are making a comeback.”
Doc Lydgate stroked his beard. “Sadly, Mr. Sinclair is correct. In most of the cases cited in my medical journals, the patients were subsisting on very imbalanced diets. Luckily, the parents of most of my patients know what to feed their children. There are a few, and they shall remain nameless, who insist that soda is an acceptable substitution for milk or water at mealtimes, but you can’t convince folks of facts they don’t want to believe.”
Sheriff Evans, sensing that Doc Lydgate might go off on a tangent, cleared his throat. “We might determine the skeleton’s age by cleaning the muck off this coin. Mr. Sterling? Any suggestions?”
“We’ll probably need something stronger than water. I’ll grab some supplies,” Sterling said. “Be right back.”
Sterling vanished through a doorway marked STAFF ONLY, and Jane guessed that he’d entered his private chemistry lab to collect some exotic solution to use on the coin. She was surprised when he returned with a bottle of vinegar and a box of table salt.
Upon seeing these household items, Butterworth grunted in disapproval. “I would ask, Mr. Sterling, that you only use these agents out of desperation.”
The sheriff cocked his head at Butterworth. “Is something wrong?”
“Most numismatists would advise against cleaning a coin with anything but water,” Butterworth said. “The agents Mr. Sterling has selected could damage the coin on a chemical level and should be avoided. Unless such cleaning is required for identification purposes, of course.”
“I’ll do my best with the water first,” Sterling assured the head butler, who was a passionate coin collector. “Unless you’d like the honors, Sheriff.”
“You go ahead. I’ll watch,” the sheriff said, shooting Butterworth a nervous glance before moving to stand next to Sterling.
There wasn’t enough room around the sink for everyone to observe the cleaning process, so the rest of the group had to wait while Sterling passed the coin under the water multiple times while rubbing at layers of grime with the pad of his thumb.
Jane found it difficult to be patient, but Butterworth and Sinclair were using the lull as a teaching opportunity. Both men had selected an evidence bag and were pointing at bone fragments and holding a quiet exchange with the twins. Doc Lydgate had returned to examining the femur and Deputy Phelps was scrolling through text messages on his cell phone.
Involuntarily, Jane met the skull’s gaze. She experienced a fresh pang of pity for this nameless soul—this individual who hadn’t eaten a balanced diet. What sort of life had this person led? And why had he or she come to Storyton Hall in the first place?
“I can’t see the last two numbers, but the coin was minted in the eighteen hundreds,” Sterling suddenly announced over the sound of the running water.
All other conversation ceased.
Sterling squinted down at the coin and then looked across the room and grinned. “I believe this individual is a countryman of yours, Mr. Butterworth. The profile on this coin isn’t one of our presidents.”
Butterworth marched over to the sink and, keeping his hands clasped firmly behind his back, leaned forward. “That is most definitely not an American president. It is Her Royal Highness, Queen Victoria. You hold a farthing, Mr. Sterling. A coin minted of copper until 1860. At that point, the coins were made of bronze. This coin is of the copper variety.”
“How can you tell?” Sheriff Evans asked, joining the men at the sink.
“The queen gives it away,” Butterworth said, straightening to his full height again. “When the coins were produced of bronze, Her Majesty’s bust was also changed to include a laureate and a draped robe over her shoulders. In later years, there were other alterations. However, this is not the time for a history lesson on British coinage.”
Everyone in the room now turned to face the skull.
“Whoever this person is, he or she has probably been in the ground for well over a century,” Jane said. “But why were they buried at Storyton Hall? It wasn’t a hotel then. It was Walter Steward’s home.”
Sheriff Evans sighed. “I know you don’t want to hear this, Ms. Steward, what with your construction project and all, but this case is out of my league. I’ll have to call the state and request the assistance of a forensic anthropologist. It’ll be up to them to decide what happens next.”
Fitz and Hem started a bout of animated whispering. Jane thought she caught the name “Indiana Jones,” and tried not to be annoyed with her sons. After all, it wasn’t their fault that a skeleton had surfaced and threatened to ruin her dream of building a world-class spa.
“How long do you think the anthropologist will take to conduct an investigation?” Jane asked, already fearful of the answer.
“I hate to say this, Ms. Steward, but the real question is how long will it take to get an anthropologist,” the sheriff replied glumly. “The state isn’t exactly teeming with them, and the ones we have are already overworked.”
Jane felt despondent. As she watched Sterling hand the evidence bag containing the farthing to Sheriff Evans, she considered mentioning what the twins had told her about the driver of the earthmover and their belief that he’d taken something from the grave site. Seeing as her sons weren’t reliable witnesses, she decided that it could wait. Unfortunately, if she were to take what the sheriff had said to heart, the wait could be quite long.
“What about the box?” she asked instead. “I know you need to call in certain people, but is there harm in seeing what’s inside?”
The sheriff shrugged. “I suppose not. Besides, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to open it.”
As if he’d been expecting the request, Sterling produced a pair of bolt cutters and held them out to Sheriff Evans.
The sheriff easily snapped off the old lock and placed it inside an evidence bag. He then popped open the box latch and attempted to lift the lid. After several seconds, it became obvious that the lid was stuck fast. “Phelps? Can you get the other side?”
Together, the two men worked their gloved fingers under the lid and pulled upward. Without warning, there was a sigh of escaping air and the lid sprang open.
Jane stood right behind the sheriff’s shoulder as he removed bits of cloth so tatte
red and stained that it was impossible to determine their original color. Under the cloth was a rectangular object. An object made of paper and bound in leather.
Releasing the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding, Jane whispered, “Oh my. It’s a book.”
Chapter Three
Sinclair was at Jane’s side in a flash. “The remains of a book, at least.”
“If you say so,” the sheriff said, tilting his head. He stared down at the time-ravaged object, which was barely recognizable as a book, and peered intently at its cover of threadbare forest-green cloth. He then glanced at Jane, clearly confounded by all the excitement. “Isn’t it ruined?”
“Most likely,” Sinclair said. “Unfortunately, the box wasn’t air tight. The damp crept in and ate away at the paper, spine, boards, and cloth. Grain cloth, to be specific.”
Sheriff Evans looked from Sinclair to Jane. “I see that you two would like to investigate this part of the mystery, but I’d better close this up and hand the book over to the forensic anthropologist in an undisturbed state. I cut the padlock and opened the box and will take full responsibility for those actions, but I don’t want to compromise the anthropologist’s work any more than we already have.”
“Quite so,” Doc Lydgate agreed. “When you speak with the fellow, please let him know that I’d be glad to help reassemble the skeletal remains. I have a great deal of experience repairing bones.”
“Because of Broken Arm Bend?” Hem asked.
The doc chuckled. “Mostly. People have accidents in other parts of the village, but that piece of road has brought me quite a few patients over the years.”
Jane, who’d been gazing fixedly at the book cover, saw that the sheriff was on the verge of closing the box lid. Instinctively, her hand shot out to stop him.
“Could I take a photo of the cover?” she asked. “I’d like to research this book while we wait on the anthropologist. Like Doc Lydgate’s experience with bones, our expertise with old books might produce quicker results.”
The sheriff had no objection, so Jane used her cell phone to capture images of an embossed shape that might have once been covered by gold. Though it had lost its shiny decoration, Jane hoped to identify the mystery book by this design.
Sinclair understood why Jane was zooming in on one section of the cover and shone a flashlight on the area. The sheriff gave them a solid five minutes before he announced that it was time for Phelps to return to the station with the box and collection of evidence bags.
“Ms. Steward, I’ll call this in from your office, if that’s all right,” Sheriff Evans went on to say. “I’d like to know how the anthropologist wants us to handle these bones. The skull seems pretty fragile.” He turned to Sterling. “Can we cover this table with another piece of sheeting and move it to a safe place until I get an answer?”
“Of course.” Sterling moved off to gather the necessary supplies.
The sheriff was making it clear that their involvement in the case was now at an end. Taking the hint, Lachlan ushered the twins toward one of the John Deere utility vehicles. Jane heard Lachlan say something about feeding the birds and flashed him a grateful smile, for the boys could spend hours at the mews. Next to the kitchens, it was their favorite place on earth.
Phelps slid the metal box into a plastic bag and carried it back to his car, taking care not to jostle its contents. Butterworth escorted the sheriff to the main building while Jane and Sinclair followed at a distance.
“The book shouldn’t deteriorate any farther,” Sinclair said in an attempt to console her.
“I really wanted to examine it,” Jane said. “I know you did as well. My disappointment isn’t just about the book either. After all, the box was buried with a dead Englishman from another century—I’m going to refer to the body as ‘him’ until we learn otherwise—who literally went to his grave with that book. Why? Was it so valuable that the man couldn’t part with it, even in death?”
Sinclair scrunched his lips. “Valuable? Or dangerous? He could have been protecting others by hiding it where no one would find it. His grave.”
“In the old rose garden?” Jane asked wryly. “That site was never a cemetery, not even for family plots, and that man wasn’t given a proper burial. There’s no coffin. Unless it was made of wood and completely decomposed, which seems unlikely.”
“At least you had the foresight to photograph the cover. Somehow, we’ll identify the book,” Sinclair said, unfazed by Jane’s tone.
Jane looped her arm through Sinclair’s. “I’m sorry. I’m just crushed by the idea that the spa could be delayed for weeks. Or, heaven forbid, for months! I’m also a bit unnerved over the thought of someone being buried on Storyton’s grounds while Walter Steward lived in the manor house. There are countless rumors about his mental state.”
“Which began circulating only after he dismantled Storyton Hall and had it shipped, brick by brick, from his seat in the English countryside to a remote valley in western Virginia,” Sinclair said in Walter’s defense. “Prior to that, he was known for his learnedness and charity. My personal opinion is that his British countrymen were affronted by his decision to immigrate to America and chose to blacken his name because of that decision.”
Though this made sense, Jane still wasn’t at ease. As she and Sinclair headed for the herb garden, a thick knot of clouds blanketed the sun. The bright marigolds Mrs. Hubbard had planted around the garden’s perimeter looked wilted and dull, as if they’d suddenly aged.
Jane felt like something was lurking just beyond her field of vision—that something from the past had been woken the moment the earthmover had raised those bones from the ground. She knew she was being fanciful, but that didn’t stop her from glancing back at the orange construction fence.
“What if someone followed Walter from England?” she asked quietly. “A person with bad intentions. Maybe Walter’s Fins had to take this person out, and this man, this threat to Walter and to the secret library, had to be buried swiftly and covertly before anyone learned that he’d been here.”
Sinclair tightened his hold on Jane’s arm. “Beware of creating fiction, Miss Jane. We may enjoy reading it, but we’re not writers. I’m a Fin and you’re a Guardian. We must work with facts or risk being led astray.”
At the door to the kitchens, Jane froze. “I know one fact. Mrs. Hubbard will be bereft when I tell her that I’m canceling the Groundbreaking Ceremony. She already started baking for the event. What will we do with all the extra goodies?”
“We’ll have to serve them to the rare book convention attendees,” Sinclair said. “After all, if we can’t identify the mystery book from your photos, then a member of the Robert Harley Rare Book Society might recognize it.”
“That’s true.” Jane brightened at the thought. However, when she entered the kitchens to find Mrs. Hubbard assembling a tiered cake, her bubble of optimism popped.
Mrs. Hubbard lowered the top tier onto a set of plastic supports and released a grunt of satisfaction. As she wiped her hands on her apron, she spied Jane. “This cake will be one for the scrapbook, my dear. I’m planning on fondant lotion bottles, a robe made fuzzy with finishing sugar, candied cucumber slices, and edible flowers. It’ll be so colorful. So inviting. Just like the future spa!”
There was no avoiding telling Mrs. Hubbard that the official Groundbreaking Ceremony had to be canceled. However, sharing details about the discovery of old bones was tantamount to taking out an advertisement in the local paper. Mrs. Hubbard was one of the most famed gossips in all of Storyton. The other was Ms. Eugenia Pratt, Jane’s friend and a member of the Cover Girls Book Club. Between Mrs. Hubbard and Mrs. Pratt, the news of the mysterious skeleton would be known by everyone in the village before Sheriff Evans hung his hat that evening.
“Can you freeze that cake?” Jane hurriedly said. “And could you use the fondant to create colorful books instead of towels or lotion bottles?”
Mrs. Hubbard twisted a corner of her apron—so
mething she did when she was unnerved. “Why? What’s happened?”
Jane told her.
“A skeleton?” Mrs. Hubbard’s round, apple-cheeked face glowed with interest. She would dine on this tale for days, and Jane knew that her head cook would mete out the details of the discovery like a commissary officer distributing wartime rations.
“That’s all I can share with you for now,” Jane said. “Until Sheriff Evans can find a forensic anthropologist to continue the investigation, the spa construction is at a standstill and the skeleton will have to wait a little longer to introduce himself to us.”
Mrs. Hubbard gave Jane’s hand a pat. “What you need is comfort food. You’ve had a shock and a major disappointment at the same time, you poor dear. I know you were worried about my feelings, but I can change my cake design like that.” She snapped her fingers. “It’s not quite so easy for you. You have bank loans and deadlines and such. I should be fretting about you.”
Jane squared her shoulders. “I’m sure everything will work out.”
“Always putting on a brave face. That’s our Miss Jane.”
Jane suddenly found herself enfolded in Mrs. Hubbard’s warm embrace. Mrs. Hubbard’s hair smelled like oranges and cinnamon and Jane closed her eyes and breathed in the cook’s familiar scent of fresh-baked dough and love.
“I know I’m not Edwin,” Mrs. Hubbard murmured. “No one can comfort you the way your man can. And he really should be here to hold you. He should cook you dinner and rub your sore feet. Where is that good-looking devil, anyway?”
Jane gently disengaged. “Abroad” was all she could say because she honestly didn’t know. Her last communication with Edwin had been two weeks ago. He’d called from “the road,” and hadn’t explained where he was heading, or which rare scroll, document, incunabula, or other priceless artifact he was pursuing or what he’d do with it once it was acquired.
