Dust to Dust

by Lillian Stewart Carl

  “We have several brands in the shop,” Grant offered.

  “I needed to get out, didn’t I? The shop assistant saw me.”

  With the barest of shrugs Devlin abandoned Elaine’s red, indignant face. Mackenzie strolled to the fireplace and leaned on the mantel. Tony and Dennis shied away. “This is ridiculous,” Jerry muttered.

  “Dr. Kleinfelter,” said Michael, without bothering to look at the man, “just for once can you no pull your head oot o’ your own ego?”

  “Who the hell do you think you are, Campbell?”

  Michael didn’t answer; his tired but dignified expression conveyed that he knew very well who he was.

  Mackenzie dismissed Jerry with a thin, undeceived smile and asked Michael, “Tell me again where you were at the time of the murder.”

  “In the hotel attic, searchin’ for items of historical interest.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone saw you there.”

  “I dinna suppose anyone did, no.”

  “Where did the coins that were on Miss Fitzgerald’s eyes come from?”

  Michael shook his head. “Nora, Mrs. Baird, said one of them was the one nicked from the hotel three weeks ago. It was scratched wi’ a wee ‘F.K.’, for Francis Kerr, who found it. Nora said the other was a spit of the first, but even better preserved—collector’s quality, right enough.”

  “It’s not their second coin,” said Devlin. “That’s still in the display case.”

  Sheila and her documentary, Rebecca thought. The lost treasure of the spectral nun. Were the coins on her eyes poetic justice or a macabre joke?

  The pulse of a siren wavered down the air and then stopped abruptly. Devlin glanced at his watch. “They’ll be takin’ her away now.”

  “Our work is just beginning,” Mackenzie added. It was the first unnecessary thing he’d said all night. “Dr. Campbell, we’ll have to ask you to come with us to Galashiels, to help us with our inquiries.”

  Rebecca looked up, stricken, into that imperturbable face. No, he wasn’t gloating. He wasn’t conveying any emotion at all except a tired intellectual curiosity. Tired, she estimated, not jaded. His long, thin, mouth was stretched taut as a finely tuned harp string.

  Asking Michael to help with their inquiries didn’t mean the police regarded him as a helpful citizen. It meant he was their prime suspect. But, but, Rebecca’s aching mind stammered, he didn’t do it. But she reminded herself that the more cooperative he was, the faster they’d find that out.

  Michael reacted only with a sigh. Rebecca laid her head against his shoulder, then snapped it upright again. She didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “It’s all right, lass,” he whispered, brushed her cheek with his cold lips and released her hand. “Very well, Inspector. Just let me get my coat.”

  Dennis clambered to his feet, protesting, “But the most obvious person is never the one who really did it!”

  “Well, lad,” returned Mackenzie, “this is real life now, isn’t it?”

  Dennis blushed. Tony stood up, wincing as though his muscles were cramping. “May I go back to the hotel?”

  “And us?” Jerry stood, hauling Elaine up beside him. Oh good, Rebecca thought. Puff himself up as he might, Jerry still wasn’t as tall as Mackenzie.

  “Watch your step,” said Devlin. “The press is at the top of the lane.”

  “Here,” Grant exclaimed, “they’ll no be badgerin’ my wife, will they?”

  “I’ve assigned several more constables to share your beat,” Mackenzie told him. “Indefinitely.”

  Only partly mollified, Grant escorted Jerry, Elaine and Tony out the door. For once Jerry had run out of parting shots.

  The officers who’d been searching the house trooped through the hall, exchanging shrugs with Devlin. No sgian dubh, then. Hilary seemed only now to realize she was holding Mark’s hand. With a crumpled smile she extracted herself, dodged around Devlin and Mackenzie, and disappeared into the back of the house. Dennis muttered some apology and followed. A moment later his footsteps trudged dispiritedly across the ceiling. Adele remained on the couch, hands folded, gazing into the middle distance.

  Rebecca picked up the matchbook from the mantelpiece and held it out. “I don’t know whether it’s important, but I found this in the hotel attic the day that coin was stolen.”

  Mackenzie looked not at the matchbook but at Rebecca while she explained what Michael had said about the pub. His gaze was steely, and again she reminded herself she had nothing to fear from him. “Fleet Street,” he repeated. “There aren’t as many newspapers there as there once were. Do you know whose number this is?”

  “Aye,” said Michael from the door. “It’s the number of the library at the British Museum.”

  I see, said Rebecca to herself. That’s interesting.

  If the flicker of Mackenzie’s eye was any clue, he found that to be as significant as she did. He handed the matchbook to Devlin. “Carry on with the excavation, Miss Reid. Except for the inquest—day after tomorrow, probably, and we’re rushing that—we’ll try not to get in your way.”

  But you’re taking Michael, she wanted to wail. Over Mackenzie’s shoulder Michael’s ice blue eyes met hers and melted. He winked, but couldn’t manage a smile.

  The front door opened and shut, leaving her alone with Mark and Adele. Alone with Mark—Adele was obviously engaging in some kind of astral projection. Rebecca hoped she didn’t want to hold a séance and ask Sheila who killed her. She shivered violently.

  Mark laid a firm, reassuring hand in the small of her back. They went out to the front porch of the house.

  Two constables stood sentry on the driveway. The lights in the church had been turned off, and the building was only a dim shape hunkered down in the darkness. Any will o’the wisps were lost in the thin mist that hung over the burn. Michael’s Fiat sat forlornly beside the Plantagenet van.

  From a centipede-like mass of people at the end of the driveway came shouts of “Have you made an arrest, Chief Inspector? Have you any comment?” Doors slammed. Blue lights winked out as the car disappeared toward Galashiels. Dim shapes started down the driveway only to be intercepted and shooed away by the constables.

  The hotel doors opened and shut repeatedly, swallowing the voices of the reporters. All of the windows in the building were alight. The Bairds would have no vacancy, at least until the press got tired of waiting for the police to produce the culprit.

  They wouldn’t have a chance to get tired, Rebecca assured herself. Mackenzie and Devlin would realize Michael wasn’t their man; he couldn’t prove he’d been in the attic but they couldn’t prove he hadn’t. By this time tomorrow, the real culprit would be jailed, and the dig would be back to normal.

  Normal? Sheila was dead. Rebecca might know a murderer. What she didn’t know was why. She pressed her temples between her hands. “Damn, we never resolved that argument.”

  “It won’t fester too badly,” said Mark. “Not with everything else going on.”

  Across the stream, in the dark hulk of the church, two points of light suddenly flared. The eyes of the cats… . Something moved along her leg and she jumped. Lancelot looked up, hoping for a handout. A shape whisking off the hood of the Fiat was Guinevere. Mark swore, reverently, under his breath.

  More tiny flames appeared in the church. Down the wind came the voices that had grown so familiar, words perfectly intelligible. “Kyrie eleison, Domine pater, miserere. Christe eleison, miserere, qui nos redemisti sanguine tuo et iterum. Kyrie eleison, Domine, Spiritus Sancte, miserere.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” whispered Rebecca. “Sheila’s blood didn’t redeem anything.”

  Mark said with that world-weary, world-wary air that did not gel with his youth, “Rebecca, is there any possibility Michael did kill her?”

  So much for that reassuring hand. “No!” She pushed at him, her blow landing square on his chest.”No! No!”

  “Miserere,” sang the voices. “Spiritus Sancte, miserere.”

 
She turned and blundered into the house, but the voices, both Mark’s and the uncanny chanting, followed her.

  1

  Chapter Ten

  The harsh buzz of the alarm jerked Rebecca into consciousness, her heart pounding. The first thing she saw was the smooth spread on the second bed. She’d lain awake for hours, knotted and shivering, that bed’s emptiness like a chasm at her side. When darkness faded into dawn, she’d at last dozed off, only to grope through a scarlet-tinted nightmare. Now a metallic taste clogged her throat, like that of blood.

  She rose, groaning, every muscle as sore as her mind. Quickly she dressed and grabbed some toast and coffee from the kitchen, avoiding the uncomprehending eyes of the students. Yes, the murder really did happen, she thought. It really happened. Last night they’d all been stunned. Now the shock was wearing off, and everyone was feeling pain.

  Rebecca hurried outside and up the driveway. A curtain of mist blotted the face of the Priory. Shutting doors and curt voices sounded unnaturally loud, as if armies moved invisibly through the haze. Several bobbies were gathered on Jedburgh Street, sharing sips from a thermos, waiting to be sent into battle. The hotel lobby smelled of coffee and bacon. Laurence stood talking to Jerry and Tony, his beard bristling like a porcupine. “… impossible to carry on as if nothing’s happened, but I think we should…”

  Tony spoke to the toes of his shoes, as lugubriously as an undertaker. Jerry grimaced like Teddy Roosevelt contemplating San Juan Hill. Laurence nodded encouragement and hurried off. Rebecca shut the door to the office, muffling the sounds of dishes and cutlery and speculation.

  All Laurence had wanted, she thought, was to restore and present Rudesburn and make himself a living. All she’d wanted was work and Michael. She did want Michael… . Sighing, Rebecca sat down and dialed Directory Enquiries. At the third hotel she tried in Durham she found Colin. The desk clerk dispatched someone into the dining room to look for him; when he answered, he was still chewing. “Eh, hello, MacLeod here.”

  “Colin, this is Rebecca. In Rudesburn.”

  “Well, good mornin’! This is a surprise.”

  “Oh, Colin, surprise is an understatement.” She steadied her voice. “You remember Sheila Fitzgerald, don’t you?”

  “The bitch-goddess of the European Community?”

  Rebecca winced. “She’s been murdered, and the police suspect Michael.”

  There was a silence, broken after a moment by distinct gulp.

  “Colin? I’m sorry, that was rather abrupt.”

  “Just draggin’ my toes out of my tonsils. Murder? Michael?”

  Rebecca told him the tale. She concluded, more lamely than she’d have liked, “Don’t you think Michael’s family ought to know? The police haven’t actually arrested him, and I assume they can only hold him so long without charging him, but he probably could use a lawyer…”

  “Don’t you worry. He’s innocent, and he’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Thank you, Colin. I’m so glad to hear you make that assumption.”

  “I’ve known Michael since he was eighteen. He has a temper, right enough, but bein’ capable of violence is another matter. What happened at Dun Iain last winter bein’ the exception that proves the rule.”

  Memory traced cold fingers down Rebecca’s back. The most important memory was of Michael’s thistle-covered integrity. “Yes,” she said.

  “What about the dig?” Colin went on. “Is everyone goin’ to stick it?”

  “I just saw Laurence talking to Tony and Jerry, telling them to carry on, I gather. The volunteers are upset, no doubt about it, but dammit, Sheila’s death would be an even greater waste if we abandoned the work we’ve already done and ran away whimpering. Not that running away isn’t tempting.” The pulse in her throat beat a litany: Who killed Sheila? Why?

  “Steady on,” said Colin soothingly. “I suppose the police would like to talk to me, since I was there yesterday?”

  “Yes, they would.”

  “I’ll come round this afternoon. If they haven’t released Michael by then we’ll get on to a solicitor. As for the family—well, they’re all level-headed people. I’ll ring Andrew, let him know what’s goin’ on.”

  “Thank you, Colin. I really appreciate it. See you later.” Rebecca hung up. All she’d done was spread the worries out like a farmer spreading fertilizer. And she’d thought she had worries on the interminable plane ride across the Atlantic.

  She slumped in the chair while she called the British liaison of the University Archeological Network. Yes, the students were all right. None of them seemed to be involved. She’d keep the Network posted.

  A glossy photograph lay on Laurence’s desk. In this country, all someone had to do to get a good picture was take off the lens cap and trip the shutter. But Tony got great pictures. This was one of his best, taken from the Law late in the afternoon, the ruins and the village as meticulously defined as a drawing in a textbook. A human body walked up the driveway, and another stood by the wheel-cross. The cats chased a mouse or something beside one of the grave stones, and the black-faced sheep ruminated behind the Craft Centre. Maybe with Tony in charge the film would be an honest one. Not as flashy, but honest.

  Yes, the show must go on. Michael wouldn’t want her to be distracted from the gathering of knowledge, from the vital career step, from the… . “Right bluidy cock-up,” she said aloud, in a fair imitation of his accent. At least she could be sure Mackenzie and Devlin hadn’t strung him up and tortured him all night. He’d probably get a better cup of tea from them than he could at the American-infested cottage.

  Rebecca forced her way, head down, through the group of reporters leaving the hotel and the police entering. Harry Devlin stood outside deploying the rest of the bobbies. “Have you let Michael—Dr. Campbell—go yet?” she asked him.

  “He’s still helpin’ us with our enquiries, miss,” Devlin returned. His basilisk stare wasn’t any milder; he probably hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, either.

  Two constables stood in the doorway of the Plantagenet van, speaking quietly to a suited figure inside, “… copies of those photos of all the expedition members.” Rebecca walked across the footbridge toward the priory, Devlin’s steps behind her like the ominous hoofbeats of the Apocalypse.

  The morning was clearing. It wasn’t as warm as yesterday; the air held a tentative breath of chill. The stones of the priory were damp. Whatever ghostly shapes and voices had thronged there last night, only humans were there this morning, if she counted Simon Mackenzie, who was speaking with Grant by the porch of the church. Beyond them the lenses of reporters glinted like crocodile eyes just above the perimeter wall. Various officers, some in blue uniforms, some in suits, prowled the ruins, the grounds, and the village itself.

  Tony wandered disconsolately from trench to trench, every now and then peering through his camera. Jerry leaned against a buttress of the church, nursing a cigar, eyes unfocused. Elaine’s back was against the cloister wall as she entered information from data sheets into the computer. Beside her Adele scrubbed bits of carved masonry with a toothbrush. Mark troweled the pavement in the third trench, his shoulder against one of the stone piers of the undercroft. Hilary and her drawing board perched nearby, her pencil poised but unmoving. They were like actors waiting for the director to shout “Action!”, only playing at their tasks, in reality watching each other, waiting, listening for cues.

  Rebecca ducked into the church. A critical glance showed her the boxes of excavated artifacts—unglamorous but vital bits of pottery, metal and stone—were still stacked beneath the table in the chancel. Rearranged but not disemboweled. That would have been the last straw, if in their zeal to find clues to the present the police had ruined any clues to the past.

  Through the doorway Rebecca saw Grant pace off across the lawn, hands folded behind his back. Dennis, hunched like a schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s office, responded to Mackenzie’s gesture and sat down on the porch step. Devlin joined t
hem, taking out his notebook and a fingerprint kit. Mackenzie thrust his hands into his pockets, tilted his head to the side, and spoke. Dennis started, shaking his head emphatically.

  Rebecca went outside. Hilary glanced up, saying under her breath, “So far he’s asked everyone what they were wearing last night, and whether Michael was wearing the same T-shirt at dinner that he was in the sitting room later. He was, wasn’t he—the red one with the Dr. Who logo?”

  “Yeah,” said Rebecca. “Not a bloodstain on it.” She selected a trowel and slipped into the trench beside Mark.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was pretty tactless of me, asking you if Michael could’ve killed her.

  “Tactless, yes, but understandable. You don’t know Michael,” Rebecca reassured him.

  Mark’s trowel clinked against the stone. Rebecca started scraping. She caught herself listening and realized it was the beautifully moderated if gracelessly didactic tones of Sheila’s voice she was missing.

  Concentrate, she ordered herself. The familiar chalk and loam odor of the earth filled her nostrils. The pattern of the paving stones beneath her trowel changed from regular horizontal layering to a less precise diagonal. An experimental poke with the tip of the trowel, and she found rows of thicker stones abutting the pier. Beyond that was the edge of the wall.

  “Back corner of the cellar,” Mark said. “Probably where they swept all the dust.”

  “And straw and fruit pits and dead rats and God only knows what, it being the Middle Ages,” returned Rebecca. “Look how the pattern of the stones changes here. As if someone had pried them up and re-laid them.”

  Mark’s forefinger dug a furrow in the dirt between the stones. “Maybe they were building a sewer. Although I’d expect the drains to be over there, close to the infirmary. And I’d expect them to get the stonemasons in to do the job more tidily than this.”

  “Let’s give Jerry a chance to earn his keep,” said Rebecca.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Mark pulled himself out of the trench and summoned Jerry. Rebecca scooted out of the way. Dennis was still sitting on the steps, writhing under Mackenzie’s scrutiny. Anyone would have thought poor Dennis had a guilty conscience, his face was so pale and sweaty. Clever, to start with if not the weakest then the youngest link in the chain of suspects.