Lynn’s voice seemed to come from far away, but her hand gripped mine painfully.
I cleared my throat and gave my head a shake. ‘Tell me that isn’t what I think it is.’
‘Oh, yes, it is.’ Her voice rose higher and higher, and she began to laugh. ‘You can’t really mistake a skeleton, can you?’
SIX
I have seen a few dead bodies in my life. I didn’t enjoy it. If I had ever thought about it, I suppose I would have expected a skeleton to be less disturbing. A body, after all, looks like a person. A skeleton is just bones.
Or so I would have thought. It isn’t so. There was something so absolutely final about that skeleton, so utterly and irretrievably dead, that it turned my own bones to water.
Once when I was a teenager I went into a ‘fun house’. For me it wasn’t fun. I’ve always been claustrophobic and a little afraid of the dark, and I didn’t, even at that age, like things that jumped out at me and made loud noises. But the worst thing, the absolutely worst, was the skeleton that dropped down an inch from my nose with a horrific shriek. The word ‘blood-curdling’ is overused, but I felt exactly as if my blood had turned solid and stopped my heart. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards, that grinning skull looming closer, closer . . .
That skull had been plastic, or something. This one was real. I turned away from it and sank down on the nearest fallen branch.
My friend was still giggling. ‘Lynn!’ I said sharply. ‘Pull yourself together and go get Alan. You can run. I can’t. Don’t tell him what’s happened yet, just bring him out. I’ll stay here.’
‘Why?’ said Lynn, still in that high voice, near hysteria. ‘He–she–it isn’t going anywhere.’
‘I don’t want anyone else seeing it yet, if I can prevent them. Lynn, go!’
She went. I took a deep breath, and then another, and tried hard to think.
The skeleton was not intact. The ligaments that had held the bones together had gone the way of all flesh. But the smaller roots of the tree had intertwined with the bones, creating a kind of net that held them in some semblance of their original alignment. I shuddered at that thought. Roots, weaving their tough, mindless, inexorable fingers through muscle, through heart and brain and . . .
I shook myself, nearly dislodging my hat, which was being teased by the wind. I replaced it more firmly and gave myself a lecture. Dead tissue feels no pain, knows no indignity. What happens to our bodies after we’re dead doesn’t matter a hoot. It’s what happens when we’re alive that counts.
That skeleton had once belonged to a living, breathing human being. If its owner had met a natural death, he or she would have been buried in the usual way in a churchyard. The implication was obvious.
On the whole, I came down on the side of ‘she’. The sad fact is that it has never been uncommon for a young lord of the manor – or an old one, for that matter – to seduce a serving maid or village girl. If the girl, discovering herself pregnant, or humiliated past endurance by her ‘ruin’, killed herself, she might well have been buried to prevent talk. Some story would have been put about that she had left for greener pastures. Or, if the seducer was someone whose reputation would have suffered, he might have killed the girl. Murder in either case, according to my way of thinking.
I wondered how long ago the murder had taken place. I had no idea how long it took for flesh to decay and leave clean bones.
My stomach was getting queasier and queasier. Better stop thinking about that sort of thing. There was no point, anyway. The place would soon be swarming with Scene of Crime Officers, some of them with enough knowledge of forensics to make a very good guess about the age of the skeleton.
And then, with sinking heart, I remembered. No, there would be no SOCOs. There would be no one to help, no one to study the scene and then take away that pathetic evidence of murder, no one to set in motion the efficient machinery of homicide investigation.
We couldn’t call the police. We couldn’t get to a police station. Or if someone managed to walk to the village, the constable there would have no way to summon the nearest homicide team.
We were cut off, alone here with a group of people who barely knew each other and the skeleton of a murdered person. I wrapped my coat more closely around me and wished Alan would come.
It seemed a long time, but was probably only a few minutes before I saw him striding across the muddy, littered lawn. He was alone. Lynn had undoubtedly sought the comforting presence of her own husband. I could understand that.
When Alan was close enough, I simply pointed.
My husband, bless him, can meet almost any occasion with aplomb, and he’d seen lots of corpses and probably a few skeletons in his long and distinguished police career. He studied the bones, then took my hand and grinned. ‘I can’t take you anyplace, can I?’
I was able to smile back. ‘Now really! I know I’ve managed to get involved in a few crimes over the years, but you can’t blame me for a body that’s been there for . . . how long, would you say?’
‘Probably years, but I don’t know how many. It would take some time for the roots to entwine themselves around the bones like that. As for the decay of the body, there are so many variables – type of soil, temperature, whether the body was naked or clothed, what insects are in the soil – sorry, love. Not pleasant, I know. But only an expert would be able to say with any certainty, and even then, it will be an estimate.’
‘And we can’t get an expert here,’ I wailed. ‘Alan, what on earth are we going to do?’
‘First we tell our host. It’s on his property, after all. Then we’re going to have to try to get through to the authorities.’
‘How? Smoke signals?’
‘A satellite phone, if someone here has one and I can find someone at the other end. Or I’ll walk to the police station in the village and see what, if anything, they can do. At the very least, a constable might be sent to guard the remains, though given the storm emergency, I’m not sure if that will be possible. The village probably has only the one constable.’
‘Shall I stay here and keep watch?’ I asked. ‘I don’t mind, now.’ Alan has a marvellous gift for steadying me in a crisis.
‘That would be a help, love. I’ll send someone to relieve you. I can trust Tom. Then I’ll talk to our hosts and see what can be done, given the circumstances.’
‘Jim and Joyce will be shattered.’
‘They already are. Blast this storm! There are times when I’m tempted to move to some place with dependable weather.’
‘If there is any such place, which I doubt, you’d be bored to tears.’
‘I’ve heard parts of Australia— ah.’ His voice took on a speculative tone.
‘What?’ I asked apprehensively.
‘I believe I remember someone saying Laurence Upshawe lives now in Australia.’
‘New Zealand,’ I murmured, but Alan wasn’t listening.
‘Do you have any idea when he sold Branston Abbey and moved away?’
‘Not a clue.’ I was getting impatient. ‘Alan, shouldn’t we—?’
‘Because,’ Alan went on with maddening calm, ‘depending on how long the body’s been there . . .’
‘Oh! Oh, obviously. My head’s getting soft in my old age. But Alan, I like Mr Upshawe!’
‘So do I.’ But he said it grimly, and strode off toward the house.
I sat back down on the uncomfortable branch, left alone once more to listen to the wind and commune with a pile of bones.
In the few minutes before Tom Anderson came to take over the vigil, I was able to notice a few things in that huge cavity left when the tree toppled. I dared not approach too closely. The ground was soft and unstable, and I shuddered at the thought of falling into the embrace of that grinning horror. But from where I sat I could see some dark fragments of something hanging from the tree roots, moving in the wind as if alive. They could almost have been leaves. Oak leaves are tough, and decay very slowly. But how would leaves have made their way deep into the ear
th?
No, I was pretty sure they were rags of cloth, the sorry remnants of what the person had been wearing when he, or she, was buried. And if they were identifiable . . .
‘What a hell of a thing!’
I jumped. Tom had come up behind me while I was brooding.
‘Sorry, D., didn’t mean to scare you. Honestly, I don’t know how you manage to get into these messes.’
‘Alan said something like that, too. I refuse to take any responsibility for this particular mess! That pile of bones has been down there since before I even moved to England, probably. And may I remind you who is responsible for Alan and me being here this weekend? How’s Lynn holding up, by the way?’
‘She’s fine. She’s pretty resilient, you know. She was just a little perturbed by the bones. You don’t expect to find a skeleton when you’re out for a walk in the pleasant English countryside.’
‘You don’t expect hurricanes in the pleasant English countryside, either. I’ve never seen destruction like this, and I’ve lived through a couple of tornadoes, years ago in Indiana. I wish I knew what was going on at home. In this age of instant communication, it’s incredible that we have none.’
‘Well, D., you’ll get your wish as soon as Alan manages to get in touch with the outside world.’
‘If he manages to get in touch with them. Anyway, even if the police get here, they won’t be wanting to waste time putting me in touch with our Sherebury neighbours.’
‘Not the police, sweetie. The media.’ He jerked his head toward our grisly companion. ‘This is news. As soon as they hear, they’ll be here in force, if they have to use a helicopter.’
‘Oh, Lord. I hadn’t thought of that. Talk about your mixed blessings! They could be a big help – but they’ll also be a major nuisance. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need news from home that badly. I hope the TV crews and all the rest don’t learn about this for a while. Especially for the Moynihans’ sake.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Tom, when you first talked to them about this house, back in Cannes or wherever it was, did they say how long they’ve owned it?’
‘So you’ve thought about that, too. It was Antibes, and no, I don’t believe they said. I got the impression it’d been a couple of years, because they talked about how much work had needed to be done, and their frustration over the usual delays. So . . .’ He held up his hands and shrugged.
‘So they could maybe be involved. Or some of the workmen could. Tom, we need to get this . . . this thing identified as soon as possible, and find out how long it’s been dead. Because until we do . . .’
We didn’t need to spell out the unpleasant possibilities.
I was glad to leave Tom on guard duty and get back to the house. I met Alan on the way. He was carrying a tall walking stick.
‘What luck?’ I thought I knew the answer.
‘No satellite phone. Jim and Joyce have been thinking about getting one, but haven’t got around to it yet. So it’s Branston village and any help I can find there.’ He sounded tired.
‘Alan, it’s five miles! And I hate to mention it, but you’re going to be seventy in May. Should you walk all that way?’
His discouraged expression changed to one of amusement. ‘My dear pampered American, I’m English. We still remember what feet are for. Five miles is nothing, at least on clear roads. These will be littered with debris, so it may take a bit longer. That’s why I borrowed the staff.’
I know a lost battle when I meet one. ‘Have you at least had something to eat? And do the others know? Besides the Moynihans, I mean.’
‘I told Upshawe. And obviously Tom and Lynn know. I haven’t broadcast it yet. I made a casual remark to the effect that I needed a stroll, and would come back to report on what damage I found. And yes, I had some of your excellent soup. Go in and have some yourself, love. I’ll be back well before nightfall.’
‘But you have a flashlight, just in case?’
‘I do. Stop fretting. A brisk walk will do me good.’
He gave me a peck on the cheek and strode off. I went inside to fret.
SEVEN
The entire party was gathered in the kitchen. The moment I opened the door I could hear Julie Harrison, who was, predictably, taking the disaster as a personal affront.
‘. . . slates came right through our window. We could have been killed!’
Which window, I wondered. The sitting room where she’d slept it off, or the bathroom her husband stumbled into?
She whined on. ‘And I think one of them hit me on the head. I have the most god-awful headache. I need to get to a doctor!’
Joyce said, ‘Sis, I’ve told you.’ She was near tears. ‘No one can go anywhere. All the roads are blocked by fallen trees. And we can’t call a doctor or a pharmacy, or anyone. We’re cut off.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll tell you right now, I intend to sue.’ The other Horrible Harrison spoke up. ‘Bringin’ us out here in the middle of nowhere to a rickety old house that’s fallin’ apart—’
‘I will remind you,’ said our host through clenched teeth, ‘that we did not “bring you out here”. You came for reasons of your own, and without invitation. I’m not sure whether you plan to sue God for the storm, or the long-dead builders of the house for the flying slates, but I think your lawyers will advise against either course. And I’m not exactly astonished, Julie, that you have a headache. You drank enough to fell an ox. As soon as the roads are clear and the trains are running again, I will escort you to the station in Shepherdsford.’
The shrill voice and the hoarse one rose in united protest.
‘That’s enough!’ Jim didn’t shout, but the Harrisons stopped in mid-tirade. ‘I’ve put up with a lot, but I’m not going to subject Joyce, or our guests, to any more. You have a choice. Pack up now and set out on foot if you think you can get a train quicker that way. It’s something like ten miles to the station at Shepherdsford. Or stay in your room until the roads are clear.’ He held up a hand as Dave started to bluster. ‘There is no third option.’
‘Dave! Do something!’ shrieked Julie.
‘Oh, I’ll do somethin’, all right,’ he growled. ‘I’ll sue the pants off both of ’em when we get back to civilization. Right now we’re getting out of where we’re not wanted.’
He grabbed Julie’s arm and towed her out of the kitchen.
I was beginning to get used to the sort of silences left behind by the Harrisons. This time it was broken by Mike, the dancer. ‘Ooh, do you suppose he could have meant what one hopes he meant? That they’re actually leaving?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Lynn. ‘He had a bottle under his arm. I saw him filch it from the liquor tray a few minutes ago.’
‘Then perhaps they will anaesthetize themselves again,’ said the vicar, mildly, ‘and we will hear no more from them for a while.’
I sighed and sat down to the bowl of soup Mrs Bates offered me. Conversation resumed, in bits and snatches. The gorgeous Pat was trading witticisms with Ed, but neither was being especially brilliant. Mike and the vicar were discussing emergency steps to secure the house against further damage by rain or wind until a repair crew could get through. Lynn and I tried to find something to say to each other that had nothing to do with storms or skeletons, but without much success.
The Moynihans were huddled in a corner of the vast room with Laurence Upshawe. Their voices were inaudible, but for those three, who knew about the grisly discovery under the tree, there was only one likely topic of conversation.
Mrs Bates was going about preparations for supper, a set look on her face. These were not, her expression said, the conditions under which she was accustomed to working. I didn’t know where Mr Bates was. Probably repairing something. There was certainly no shortage of work to be done.
I finished my soup, ate an apple from a bowl on the table, and was trying to decide what to do next when the kitchen door opened and Alan walked in.
I stood, startled, but he ignored me, went straight to Jim Moynihan, and spo
ke to him in an undertone. Jim grimaced and nodded, and Alan moved to the centre of the room.
‘May I have your attention for a moment, please?’ He sounded perfectly courteous, perfectly relaxed, but there was something in his manner that stopped all conversation. I drew in a quick breath. This was a man I scarcely knew, the chief constable in person.
‘I’m afraid I have two pieces of unpleasant news. The first is that evidence of what appears to be a crime has turned up quite unexpectedly. A human skeleton, apparently buried under one of the oak trees at the edge of the wood, has been unearthed, literally, when the tree was uprooted by the storm. My walk was intended to take me to the village, where I meant to try to find some help in dealing with what will soon become a crime-scene investigation.’
There was a shocked murmur from those in the party who didn’t already know about the discovery under the tree. Alan waited for it to subside before he continued. ‘And that brings me to my second piece of bad news. I will not be able to walk to the village. Nor can anyone come to us, for quite some time. The river is in flood, and I’m sorry to say that the bridge has been destroyed by falling timber. Until it can be replaced, we are marooned.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘But, surely—’
‘That’s impossible! A boat—’
‘But I have to be in London—’
Everyone was shouting at once. A resurrected skeleton was distressing, but disruption to one’s own schedule was outrageous.
‘What’s in the other direction?’ Ed, the photographer, asked.
It was Laurence Upshawe who answered. ‘No joy there, I’m afraid. I don’t know how much chance anyone has had to explore the grounds. The river makes a loop around the estate, making us very nearly an island. Branston village is to the north of us, on the other side of the bridge at what one might call the top of the loop. There are no bridges to east or west. To the south lies a particularly deserted stretch of country, without so much as a farmhouse for probably ten miles. In any case, the bottom of the loop, where the river nearly bends back upon itself, is low-lying ground, marshy at the best of times. In flood, it, too, is impassable, making the estate a true island.’
A Dark and Stormy Night Page 5
