by Leo McNeir
Hugh seized her by the elbow and dropped the skull. Looking down, they saw where Celia had trodden. Beside her foot another skull lay in the dust, another goat skull. She frowned in disgust.
“What’s been going on here? Is this some weird camp or something?”
Hugh studied the ground carefully. “Weird is the word.”
Celia stepped back again, distancing herself from the skulls that now lay side by side on the dusty ground. Looking up, she saw that Hugh was staring, his eyes roaming around the place where they stood. A sense of uneasiness came over her.
“What is it, Hugh? You’re making me nervous.”
“What’s the date today?”
“The date? What’s that got to do with it?”
He spoke as if talking to himself. “Mid-summer is around the twenty-second to the twenty-fourth …”
“Mid-summer? What are you –”
“That would be the second half of last week. It figures. Yes.”
Celia struggled to comprehend. “What figures? I wish you’d stop talking in riddles. It’s like being out with Yoda.”
“Well, mid-summer’s day was last week. So I was just wondering …”
“What? Tell me!”
“Look around.” He pointed. “Over there, that’s another goat skull. There, and there. You see? Things made of sticks plaited together, like corn dollies. And that’s a piece of candle. Not something you’d expect to find in the woods.”
Celia followed where he pointed. “What does it mean?”
“My guess is, there might have been a sort of mid-summer festival, you know, a kind of pagan thing.”
Celia’s mouth fell open. “Here? You mean on this spot?”
“Seems like it to me. See? Those objects were laid out in a pattern. Yes. They form a ring.” Enlightenment dawned. “I know what this is. I think it’s a witches’ circle.”
Celia was aghast. “A what?”
Hugh pointed at Celia’s feet. “Yes, I’m sure of it. It is a witches’ circle. Can’t you see? Look, you’re standing right in the middle of it.”
Celia’s scream startled two wood pigeons from a tree at the edge of the clearing. They took off noisily and carried her cry away with them, down the slope and off through the woods.
*
Marnie walked with Rob Cardew back to his Land Rover, standing in sunlight in the field by the end of the track. He pulled open the door; heat from inside the cab billowed out. Rob winced, hesitating to climb in. He turned to Marnie and shook hands.
“Lunch was an unexpected surprise. Thank you.”
“What do you normally do?”
An owlish smile. “Forget … don’t notice the time … go without.”
“Doesn’t your wife tell you to be sensible?”
Rob looked at his wedding ring. “You have an eye for detail. Actually, my wife’s as bad as I am. She’s an archaeologist, too. We get carried away by our enthusiasm.”
“Will she be involved in your dig here?”
“It depends what we find. She’s an osteoarchaeologist, specialises in bones, as the name implies. If we come across any interesting remains …”
Marnie had a sudden impulse. “What about the remains in the grave, Sarah Anne Day’s grave, the extra occupant?”
“Ah, you know about that. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You originally found the grave, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Do you know if there have been any results back from Oxford?”
“There I was, trying to be discreet, Marnie, and you probably know more about what’s going on than I do.”
“Not necessarily. I know the remains have been examined by someone in Oxford.”
Rob nodded. “Dr Rosemary Goodchild at the Archaeological Materials Laboratory.”
“Presumably this Dr Goodchild is an osteoarchaeologist like your …” She looked at Rob. His expression was impassive. Another impulse, an intuition. “She is your wife, isn’t she?”
The owlish smile again. “Brilliant. You should’ve been an archaeologist, Marnie. Attention to detail and the ability to make deductions. It’s all detective work.”
“So do you have any results, or do you have to be discreet about that?”
“The tests are still in progress, in fact they’ve only just begun. I, er …”
“The remains aren’t seventeenth century, are they?”
He grinned. “So you did know.”
Marnie stayed silent and let Rob continue.
“They’re testing samples in the lab to determine the age, but I think we’re looking at something more modern.”
“Much more modern,” Marnie suggested.
Rob climbed into the Land Rover. “Could be.”
“Any idea how modern?” Marnie shut the door behind him.
He slid open the window. “Not for certain, not yet. I wouldn’t like to comment without firm evidence.”
“When do you expect to know?”
“It’s hard to say. We have to take our turn in the queue at the lab.”
“Will your wife be able to determine the cause of death?”
“I honestly don’t know. One thing’s for sure, Marnie, when you dig up the past, you never know what you might find.”
She watched the Land Rover climb the field track. That phrase again: digging up the past. Tell me about it, she thought.
Chapter 6
Danny
Marnie yawned and blinked. Saturday morning. She lay in bed with eyes closed, listening to the birds singing, one of the pleasures of country life. Beside her, Ralph was still asleep, breathing steadily, his head inches from hers on the pillow. She crept quietly out of bed, grabbed a shirt and tiptoed along to the bathroom. In the galley she slipped a curtain open with one finger. It promised to be another fine day.
Ralph was on his side facing the wall when she returned and climbed under the duvet to join him. They had hardly spoken when he got home the previous evening. His train had been delayed by faulty points somewhere in the north of England, and it was almost midnight before he had collected his car at the station. Marnie had waited up, though she was flagging after a busy day. When Ralph had finished showering, he reached the sleeping cabin to find Marnie dozing. With great care he had climbed over her, kissed her gently on the head and almost at once they were asleep.
Marnie stretched both arms above her head and lowered them onto the duvet. Ralph stirred.
“What time is it?” His voice was muffled.
“Ten past seven.”
Ralph breathed out, a long audible sigh and turned onto his back.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
In reply he moved over and kissed her.
“Tell me something, Ralph.”
“Mm?”
“When you got home last night …”
“Yes?”
“Was I sensational when we made love?”
“Unbelievable.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t wake me to tell me so at the time.”
“I’m considerate like that.”
“It’s your best quality. Why were you so late?”
“I thought I told you, there was some excuse, a mole ate the points, or something like that.”
“Must be the rutting season. Do they rut, moles?”
“Constantly, they’re famous for it. Sometimes causes earthquakes. How was your day?”
“Let’s get up and have breakfast and I’ll tell you about it.”
*
Later that morning a red Mini left Leighton Buzzard and headed north, destination Knightly St John. With no moles to disrupt their passage, Anne was able to make good progress in moderate traffic. It was the first time since moving up to work with Marnie that she had had a friend to stay. Beside her in the car, Danny kept up a barrage of questions about her work, her life with Marnie and Ralph, her college course, everything that had happened since Anne had left school two years earlier. Even Anne had been surprised at how much she had packed into that time.
> After half an hour they turned off through the field gate at the end of the village high street. Anne drove slowly down the track, carefully avoiding the bumps and tussocks. Danny, a young woman now with school and A levels behind her, looking forward to university, who normally preserved an unruffled exterior, was unable to conceal her excitement. Halfway down the slope the roofs of the farm buildings came into view, mauve-blue Welsh slate over pale honey-coloured limestone.
“Oh wow! This is so cool.”
Anne parked in the garage barn between Marnie’s Discovery and Ralph’s Volvo, and they grabbed their hold-alls from the back seat. In the courtyard Danny stopped to take in the scene. Facing them across the way stood a terrace of three cottages, each with a bottle green front door and roses climbing up the facade. Tubs of flowers strategically placed on the cobbles softened the hard surfaces. Adjoining the cottages at right angles to their right, the farmhouse itself was double-fronted with stone-mullioned windows.
“Who lives here?” Danny asked.
“Two young couples are renting cottages one and two. They’re very nice.”
“Who’s in number three?”
“Marnie let it to Angela when they sold the old vicarage before she moved into the new one. She’s going to let it to another couple but they can’t move in until later on, so it’s empty for now.”
“And the house?”
“It’s not finished yet. There’s still a lot to be done inside and the garden’s a tip. Marnie wants to get it just right and it’s taking longer than she hoped. She and Ralph will live there when it’s ready.”
“What about you, Anne?”
She indicated the building to their left. “Let me show you the office barn.”
“Where you work.”
“And where I live. Come in.”
Dropping her bag inside, Anne went back out to pull open the barn doors, revealing the tinted plate glass window. She beckoned Danny to enter and pointed to a ladder attached to the wall.
“My attic’s up there.”
Before she could show Danny the way, the phone started ringing. Anne picked it up on Marnie’s desk.
“Walker and Co, good morning.”
Danny waited while Anne took the call. Everything here was a surprise to her. It seemed no time at all since they were schoolgirls together in the classroom, Anne always introverted, constantly worrying about her unemployed father, twice made redundant. Now, here she was with a job, her own car, a place to live, confidently taking a call on the office phone as if she ran the company. The call came to an end.
“Okay, Angela, that’s fine. I’ll tell Marnie and Ralph. We’ll see you later. Bye!”
Anne wrote a quick note on the pad and turned to Danny. “We’ll be going for a tootle.”
“A what?”
“A trip on the boat for lunch.”
“That was a friend?”
Anne nodded and picked up her bag. “The vicar.”
Danny was amazed. “You’re friends with the vicar? You use her first name?”
“Yeah. She’s bringing her boyfriend.”
“Vicars have boyfriends?” Danny had never considered this possibility.
Anne grinned. “Yes, even the female ones. But seriously, Angela doesn’t just have any old boyfriend. This one’s the rural dean. You’ll like him.”
Danny had never heard of a rural dean before, but it sounded impressive. She looked around the office. A memory stirred.
“Isn’t this where …?”
Everyone from Anne’s old school had heard the story of Sarah Anne Day’s suicide at Glebe Farm. Anne had not been going to mention it, but since Danny had raised the subject, she pointed up at the spray of lavender. She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes. Sarah hanged herself from that hook.”
Danny swallowed and stared upwards with wide eyes. “And your room is up there, just above the hook?”
“Is that a problem, Danny? It was all a long time ago … 1645 … and she hasn’t been back since.”
Danny boggled. “You mean …?”
“She’s not a ghost or anything. If it bothers you, you can sleep on Sally Ann.”
“No, no. That’s okay.”
“It’s up here, then.” Anne climbed the ladder.
Danny put her head through the opening. All thoughts of dead girls hanging by the neck went out of her head at the sight of Anne’s room. The whole attic area was her domain, with exposed beams of dark timber against light-coloured plaster, sloping up to the point of the roof. It had no windows save for a narrow glazed slit at one end that let in a single shaft of daylight. Table lamps radiated a jewel-like atmosphere of comfort and intimacy. The double bed in the centre of the attic was covered in a woollen throw of deep blues and greens, a traditional Welsh pattern, with cushions in various colours piled at the head. Oriental rugs were strewn over the floor. There was a hint of something spicy in the air.
“Anne, it’s magic.”
*
They had lingered over breakfast on Sally Ann and spent a lazy hour or so reading the papers. Marnie looked at her watch.
“I expect Angela will’ve rung by now about the tootle.”
Ralph looked up from the Financial Times. “There weren’t any messages when I called into the office for the papers.”
“Anne should be here soon. She’ll let us know. She’s bringing a friend back for the weekend, a girl from her old school.”
“Good. Do we need to shop for lunch?”
“No. I did it yesterday after my meeting with Rob Cardew.”
“It seems to be the season for new faces.”
“Mm …”
Something in Marnie’s tone made Ralph lower the newspaper. “Is there a problem?”
Marnie outlined her conversation with Celia Devere.
Predictably, Ralph was unruffled. “It’s a pretty serious accusation without some evidence to go on.”
“I know. She just seemed to have got it into her head that it was me.”
“But you managed to persuade her she was wrong.”
“Yes. She rang up to apologise, even asked me to do a makeover on their wing of the house.”
“Oh well, it’s an ill wind, as they say.”
Marnie looked surprised. “You think I should do it?”
“Don’t you?”
“I did say I’d talk to her about it, but my instincts tell me not to have any more to do with Celia. I think she could be trouble.”
“You think she’s probably neurotic.”
“She must be. To be honest, Ralph, I feel torn about this, don’t want to turn business away. In my line it’s all about word-of-mouth and reputation.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
“Of course it’s the same for you, I realise that, but you’re famous all round the world as a leading economist. Your reputation is established. How many people get invited to advise at the White House?”
Ralph grinned. “Perhaps I could put in a word for Walker and Co, interior designers. I’m sure the Oval Office could use a make-over.”
Marnie laughed. “That’d be good!”
“Marnie, I know this Celia person seems problematical, but if you keep everything on a businesslike footing, it should work out all right, surely?”
Marnie was still smiling. “Problematical … only an academic would use a word like problematical to describe someone.”
“Talking of academics, tell me more about this Cardew. What’s he like? What does he have in mind?”
Marnie explained the archaeology project.
“Oh well, that seems harmless enough.”
“Mm …” That tone again.
“What is it, Marnie? You seem troubled.”
“Something’s making me feel unsettled.”
“The archaeology project can’t do any harm. They’ll dig some test pits, record whatever they find and fill them in again. Nothing to worry about.”
“It’s more than that, Ralph. It’s
the digging up of Sarah’s grave, this other body they’ve unearthed. Rob Cardew said that when you dig up the past you never know what you might find.”
“Like another lot of remains that no-one knew were there. Yes, I see your point.”
“And then there was the accusation by Celia. That’s thrown me off balance, too.”
“But none of these things is connected, Marnie. They’re just coincidental. Or is that another word only an academic would use?”
Ralph was smiling and Marnie tried to join in, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly she sat upright.
“We have visitors,” she murmured. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Ralph turned to see Anne emerging from the spinney accompanied by another girl, slightly shorter, with a pleasant face framed by a mop of dark curly hair.
Marnie brightened. “Let’s meet Danny.”
*
Hugh Devere was accustomed to having breakfast alone during the week, but on Saturday and Sunday mornings he normally shared the table with his wife. On that particular Saturday it was fine enough to eat on the terrace, and it was only when he had finished reading the Sports section of the Telegraph that he realised that Celia had not appeared. The Daily Mail was lying unopened beside her plate; the silver pot containing her favourite Tiptree Little Scarlet Strawberry Conserve was untouched.
He listened in the house for sounds of her stirring. At the foot of the stairs he could not hear the faint hissing from the shower that usually proclaimed Celia was up and about. Outside their bedroom door he put an ear to the panels and heard nothing. Pushing it quietly open, he found the room in darkness, the heavy lined curtains shutting out the morning sun. There was a movement from the bed and the hint of a groan.
“Are you all right, darling?” Hugh spoke in little more than a whisper, bending over the pillow.
“… nasty headache.” The words struggled out.
“I’ll fetch you some Disprin.”
He turned away, ignoring the muted protests behind him. In the bathroom he dissolved two tablets in water, swirling the glass to quicken the process. He might have known something like this would happen. After their walk in the woods the previous afternoon, Celia had announced she was too upset to eat and had gone to bed early. He wished he had not pointed out the witches’ circle. After six years of marriage he ought to have realised she would be spooked by it.
