Dry Bones

by Margaret Mayhew

‘It’s by somebody terribly famous . . . I’ve forgotten his name. Hans got it for us. It’s called Redemption.’

  ‘I would never have guessed that.’

  ‘It makes the garden, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s certainly very striking.’

  He remembered reading in a newspaper gardening column, that a garden could never be an instant creation. You couldn’t order one, no matter how much money you spent. You could buy all the ingredients – big trees and mature plants, splashing fountains and statues – but there was always the likelihood of it looking more like a film set than a real garden. There was, he thought, some truth in that.

  ‘Of course, the local planning people objected to everything but luckily, Howard knew someone who helped things along for us. And, of course, Hans’s ideas are all absolutely brilliant. No hall, you see. He says a hall is just a waste of space.’

  The Colonel thought of the cramped passageway at Pond Cottage. ‘I rather agree with him.’

  ‘So do I. He calls this room the dramatic heart of the house. It redefines the concept of the contemporary Neo-Modernist home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Hans doesn’t believe in dining rooms either, so we eat in here. Actually, he wanted the kitchen to be a part of the room, too, but I drew the line at that. I’m hopeless at cooking, you see, so there wasn’t much point. We have this fabulous Filipino couple, Diego and Perlita to look after things behind the scenes, as it were. And, there’s a daily cleaning woman who comes down on her bike to take care of anything else that needs doing. We have a gardener, too.’

  The rich were very different, he thought, but without envy. Their life was lived in a world where architects designed and built dream houses for them, just the way they – or the architect – wanted, and servants did all the tedious work involved in looking after them.

  ‘We kept the house in London, of course. Howard spends most of the week there, except when he’s away abroad – which is constantly.’

  Howard, he remembered, was a banker. Not the kind who sat behind a high street desk, but one who moved in the complex realms of world finance.

  ‘You said he was in Hong Kong at the moment?’

  ‘Yes. He won’t be back for another two weeks, or more. I came down here because the builders are working on the barn. We’re having it made into a sort of games room for Rory. We’ve already done a tennis court and a swimming pool, but I thought it would be fun for him to have somewhere indoors where he can play table tennis and billiards when it’s raining.’

  It seemed perfectly normal to her that her son should be given every plaything that money could buy.

  He said, hoping there was no trace of irony in his voice, ‘A barn sounds ideal.’

  ‘Of course, the planning permission was a complete nightmare again. Even worse than with the house. It’s about five hundred years old and they’ll hardly let us change a thing. Hans had some wonderful ideas but they wouldn’t agree to any of them. The hayloft and the doors had to stay and they wouldn’t let us put in any proper windows.’

  So, the Danish architect had finally met his match.

  The Colonel said, ‘I haven’t seen Rory since he was about two years old. How is he?’

  ‘Well, he looks rather different now. He’s seventeen, you know. Taller than Howard. Very good-looking, though I suppose I shouldn’t say that about my own son.’

  He could tell from the tone of her voice and her expression that her one and only child meant the world to her, and it wasn’t surprising. There had been no children from the first marriage and none from her second until Cornelia had miraculously become pregnant in her early forties. He could remember how pleased Laura had been for her.

  He smiled. ‘Certainly, you should say it.’ He looked round the room. ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

  ‘Not here. Hans isn’t very keen on what he calls clutter. It completely spoils the look, he says, and goes against the whole concept of the house. So, we keep it very simple.’

  ‘Ah.’

  She ran a finger round the rim of her glass. ‘Rory’s away at Harrow, Howard’s old school. He’s in his last term.’

  He saw the shadow that crossed her face; the nest was almost empty, the fledgling all but flown. It was a familiar situation.

  He said encouragingly, ‘But I’m sure you’ll still be seeing a great deal of him. This house must be a big attraction.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not very exciting for him here on his own. He brings friends to stay, of course, but it’s rather dull for them in the country. That’s why we’re doing the games room.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, but he didn’t. An only child himself, he had never found life dull. He had made his own entertainment.

  The manservant, Diego, reappeared to announce that dinner was ready to be served. They exited the horseshoe and moved to the dining table – black glass this time and with black pod-shaped chairs. The Filipino brought in a vegetable soup, followed by a superb dish of chicken and rice.

  ‘Perlita does all the cooking,’ Cornelia told him. ‘She’s a marvel.’

  ‘She certainly is.’ He thought of his own hit-and-miss attempts in the kitchen.

  Cornelia asked after Alison and Marcus and he told her about his two grandchildren. Then, they talked of Laura: the shared memories, the happy times long past. So far, Cornelia had made no reference to anything horrible happening. Apart from missing her son, which was perfectly natural for any mother, nothing else seemed to be wrong in her life. Her husband was away a good deal, but wives of very successful, high-flying businessmen must get used to that. Howard might well have a mistress or Cornelia might have taken a lover, but surely neither happening could be described as very horrible. Different words would apply.

  He searched his mind for what he knew about Cornelia. Not much, he realized. Laura had always been fond of her and that was a good enough recommendation for him. If any help was needed, Laura would have wanted him to give it.

  He had first met Cornelia at the flat off the Brompton Road that Laura had shared with her. In those far off days, she had been a working girl – a secretary in an advertising company, if he remembered rightly, though he doubted that she had taken it very seriously. Parties, nightclubbing until dawn, weekends away in the country, holidays abroad, a steady stream of personable young men. She had got married to a barrister and Laura had been a bridesmaid at the very smart wedding in St Peter’s, Eton Square. They had not seen a great deal of the couple during the following years beyond occasional dinners in London, when he and Laura had been home on leave, and a meeting in Singapore when Cornelia and John had been passing through on their way to Australia. As far as he was aware, it had been a happy marriage. Then John had died suddenly of a heart attack. Not surprisingly, given her looks, Cornelia had soon remarried and they had seen even less of her and nothing of her new husband. She had visited Laura in hospital with a magnificent bouquet of flowers, and she had come, alone, to the funeral. He remembered, too, that she had written him a very moving letter of condolence.

  The manservant cleared the plates and produced a delectable passion fruit pavlova topped with spun sugar. He wondered if the Heathcotes ate this sort of thing every day.

  They moved back to the sofas for brandies. It was high time, he thought for Cornelia to spill the beans. Tell him about the very horrible thing, whatever it was. Surely it couldn’t be that bad?

  He went over the possibilities. Marital problems? But she would surely choose a close friend, or a skilled counsellor to consult. Legal trouble of some kind? But she would have access to the best legal advice available. Blackmail? A lawyer or the police could usually deal very efficiently with that.

  He said, ‘Cornelia, in your letter you were obviously very upset about something that has happened. Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?’

  She shuddered and pressed her hands to her cheeks. ‘It’s awful, Hugh. Such a horrible thing . . . and I just don’t know what to do.’

&
nbsp; He waited while she gulped down some brandy.

  ‘Is it something to do with Howard?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about it yet.’

  ‘Is it to do with your son?’

  ‘In a way.’

  This was going to turn into Twenty Questions, if he wasn’t careful.

  ‘I think you’d better tell me all about it, Cornelia.’

  ‘You were the only person I could think of, Hugh. You were always so reliable, so wise.’

  Here we go again, he thought, ruefully. Saddled with someone’s trust and high expectations.

  He said, ‘I’ll do my best to help, if I can.’

  She hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I had a cigarette?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  She fumbled in her pocket and produced a crumpled pack of Players and a throwaway lighter. Hans Birger would definitely have classified them as clutter. Seeing how her hand was shaking, the Colonel got up and took the lighter from her. He hadn’t lit a woman’s cigarette for years; it had become a gallant flourish from the past.

  Although it hadn’t shown before, Cornelia was clearly a bag of nerves. He wondered if she was on pills. If so, they weren’t helping much.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘There’s no rush.’

  She took a deep and desperate drag at the cigarette, another gulp at the brandy.

  ‘I told you about the barn.’

  ‘That you’re turning it into a games room – yes.’

  ‘The whole roof had to be redone and some of the beams replaced, so the builders have been working on that for months. When they’d finished it, they started on the floor. It was just hard earth, you see, and we wanted a proper floor put in. A wood one, and sprung, so it would be good for dancing, too.’

  God knows what it would cost. He had no experience of sprung floors – only of ones full of dry rot.

  ‘That sounds like an interesting idea.’

  ‘There was no point spoiling the ship for a ha’p’orth of tar.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  She drew hard on the cigarette again. ‘So the workmen started to dig up the floor to lay the joists, or whatever they have to do for floors.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And then their foreman, Ed, came to see me. He told me there was a problem and when I asked what it was, he said that when they were digging, they’d found . . .’ Another gulp of brandy. ‘They’d found some bones.’

  ‘Bones? What sort of bones?’

  ‘A skeleton.’

  ‘Of an animal?’

  ‘No. Not an animal. Ed said it was a human skeleton. Skull, body, arms and legs . . . all joined together.’ Cornelia shuddered. ‘They’d come across it in the far corner, about a foot or so below the surface. They didn’t move it, or anything, and Ed came at once to tell me.’

  ‘Very sensible of him.’

  ‘He wanted to know what I wanted him to do about it. I mean, whether I wanted him to inform the police, or whether I wanted him to just cover it up again. Leave it undisturbed. He explained, you see, that if he told the police then there would have to be an inquest and, if that happened, then the work on the barn could be delayed for weeks – months perhaps – while there was an investigation. There would be no hope of finishing the barn in time for the summer holidays.’

  ‘Would that be so terrible?’

  ‘Yes, it would. You don’t understand, Hugh. This could be the last summer that Rory will spend here. Next year he’ll want to go off abroad for his gap year, then after that it’ll be university . . . If I can get the barn finished now, he’d be sure to ask his friends down and we’ll be able to have a lovely summer together. His eighteenth birthday is in August and I’m planning a big party for him, with dancing in the barn. I’ve booked the caterers and a jazz band. It’s all arranged. Now everything’s being ruined.’

  He said slowly, ‘Let me get this straight, Cornelia. Your foreman is prepared to leave the skeleton where it is. To cover it up again and say nothing at all about it to anyone?’

  ‘If that’s what I decide. It’s up to me, he says. Actually, Hugh, it seems quite reasonable to leave the wretched thing in peace, don’t you think? And, of course, Ed wants to get on and finish the work and be paid for it. And I just want it to be finished for the party.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘When exactly did this happen, Cornelia?’

  ‘Last Tuesday. The builders have gone off on another job at the moment but they’ll be back on Monday to start on the barn again and I have to have my answer ready. I just don’t know what to do.’

  The tears that were brimming in her eyes overflowed down her cheeks.

  He said, ‘Have you seen the skeleton yourself?’

  Another shudder. ‘Good God, no. Ed says the thing’s probably been there for years and years – maybe centuries. He says it wouldn’t be unusual in this part of the country. People were buried all over the place.’

  The Colonel had comforted bereaved wives of his men in the army and a woman’s tears always moved him – so long as they were genuine. Cornelia’s were certainly genuine, even though they were misplaced. He found his handkerchief and passed it to her, giving her time to compose herself. The ash was falling off the end of her cigarette and she ground it out in the porcelain scallop shell and mopped at her eyes.

  After a moment or two, he said firmly, ‘I think you should phone Howard and tell him what’s happened. That’s the first thing to do.’

  She looked at him in anguish. ‘I couldn’t possibly, Hugh. He’s thousands of miles away and in the middle of negotiating an important deal worth millions. He’d be absolutely furious. Furious at my bothering him and furious about the skeleton. We had lots of setbacks building the house and he used to go crazy. When we finally moved in here, the heating didn’t work properly and there was a leak in one of the bathrooms. Howard went berserk. He said that if anything else went wrong, he’d just get rid of the house at once. The skeleton would be absolutely the last straw.’

  ‘Then let me ask you a question, Cornelia. If you decide to let the builders cover it up and build the floor over it, how will you feel about that – knowing it’s still there?’

  She gave another convulsive shudder, pressed his handkerchief to her mouth. ‘I’d be terrified that it might haunt me. That I’d see it looking in at the windows, tapping at the glass, coming into the house, standing at the end of my bed . . . But I suppose I’d get over it. And it would be worth it to get the barn finished for Rory.’

  He realized that she was blind to almost every other consideration and that what she really wanted was for him to tell her that it would be quite all right to leave the skeleton where it was.

  ‘Do you want to hear my opinion?’

  ‘That’s why I asked you here, Hugh.’

  ‘You must inform the police at once, Cornelia. Anything else would be highly illegal as well as foolhardy. Even if the skeleton is covered up again, that’s no guarantee of the workmen’s silence, in which case you could find yourself in serious trouble. The bones may, or may not, be hundreds of years old, like your foreman thinks. We don’t know whether it’s a man or a woman, how old he or she was, when or how he or she died – from natural causes or otherwise. The law in England requires that all unexplained deaths are investigated by an inquest, a post-mortem and whatever other forensic tests may be necessary to establish the cause of death. I’m very sorry to add to your distress, but that’s what you must do.’ He paused. ‘In your heart, you know that you must, Cornelia, don’t you?’

  Her head drooped. ‘I suppose so.’

  He said encouragingly, ‘It may not be as drawn-out as you think. Forensic medicine is extremely advanced these days and it shouldn’t take long to establish everything about the skeleton. If it’s hundreds of years old, they’ll soon find that out and then your builders will be able to carry on. Do you see?’

  She lifted her head and stared at him. ‘But
what I don’t see, Hugh, is what on earth it was doing in our barn in the first place.’

  FOUR

  In the morning, the Colonel walked over to the barn. It was beyond the formal gardens surrounding the house and, on the way, he passed a hard tennis court and a swimming pool, the water glittering blue in the sunshine. The ancient flint stone barn stood in what once must have been a working farmyard. According to Cornelia, there had also been an unsightly collection of shacks and sheds and piggeries which had all been removed. The barn was a fine testament to another age and he was glad that the Danish architect had been prevented from making any drastic changes. The big main doors were shut, but he found a small entrance at one end and stepped inside. When his eyes had adjusted, he could see up into the cavernous roof renovated by the builders. A tall wooden ladder led to the hayloft.

  The men had been digging on the other side of the barn and a tarpaulin had been laid across one corner. He went over, pulled it aside and switched on the pocket torch he had brought with him from the Riley.

  During his army career, he had seen many dead – the bodies of young soldiers and sometimes those of civilians caught in crossfire; once, a small girl clutching her doll. He had always found it tragic, often heartbreaking.

  In this case, the circumstances were different. These were bones. Dry and fleshless bones without identity. He could look at them with complete detachment.

  As the foreman had told Cornelia, the skeleton was lying about a foot below the surface. Flat on its back, the Colonel noted, with the skull grinning up at him; hands at its sides, legs out straight. A normal burial position. He crouched down and shone the torch closer, studying it closely. A few fibres were clinging to the bones that might have been the remains of clothing. No hair, but teeth all present and in perfect condition which indicated a young person. No other obvious clues that he could see, though a forensic expert would probably have been rubbing his, or her, hands. He touched nothing, straightened up again and stood looking at the skeleton.

  Dem dry bones! Dem dry bones! Dem dry bones! Oh, hear the word of the Lord. The words came to him from somewhere. A Gospel song, he thought, about how your bones were all connected to each other: