Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  It was my house and I loved it, but for all that pride, standing in this room, I was suddenly confronted with the knowledge, knowledge I’d really possessed since the first time I’d laid eyes on the Funny Farm, that my house was a spavined example of a Massachusetts farmhouse.

  Pooter’s house was a Stately Home.

  I never felt so middle class, so small, so…provincial in my entire life.

  That overwhelming sensation of being, simply and finally, outclassed shocked me into paralysis. Then something in me rallied and offered me comfort. Looking at it anthropologically, there was no way I could compete, should I have desired to, with Lord Hyde-Spofford. Any artillery I might have brought to bear—my advanced degrees, my supposed status as a college professor, all the things I had worked to earn—simply could not be compared with a hereditary title and its material appurtenances. Apples and oranges. So, even if I was the competitive type—which I certainly am not—I understood immediately that I just wasn’t in the same league. That made me relax: the outcome of any social battle was a foregone conclusion.

  Though I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that anyone whose front hall was worth my entire house, and then some, would be ordinary—common American snobbery ensured that—at least I could relax, be polite, and drink my tea.

  Realizing I’d been dawdling too long, I hurried down the hall, only to be brought up short again. The paintings were all of Marchester, different views from various perspectives, ranging from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. In most of the early ones, the original abbey tower could be seen only as a backdrop in various portraits of someone or other; in the later ones, particularly the romantic eighteenth-and nineteenth-century renderings, the landscape with the new church and the ruins of the abbey was the focus of the subject. I wondered if Jane had had a chance to study these: they would provide an invaluable record of how the site had changed over time. I took another quick look around before I headed for the room where I could hear Dora.

  “You took your time, Emma,” she called from across the parlor as soon as I entered.

  I restrained myself from making a face. “I couldn’t tear myself away from the views of the abbey in the hall. They make a nice history of the town.”

  “They’re not bad, are they?” a man’s voice said.

  I turned to see my host for the first time. Subconsciously I suppose I had been expecting either an aged and jowly gentleman in the Hogarthian tradition or a refugee from a Brontë novel, talk, dark, brooding, and secretive. Like most preconceptions, this one was less than accurate. Lord Hyde-Spofford was probably in his forties, and although he was a little on the thickset side, he hadn’t gone to jowls yet. His hair was light, short, with tight blond curls that were probably his mother’s delight and a boy’s worst nightmare growing up. His face had a babyish quality, round and full, that emphasized the cupidlike impression; his wide mouth and straight nose broke up the softness of his face. His eyes were alert, another thing that helped keep him from looking ridiculously immature. His lordship was dressed casually in dark trousers, a yellow shirt, and maroon cardigan, and I swear to God, he was actually wearing an ascot. Baby blue, to match his eyes. Even though all the colors clashed like crazy, it somehow seemed to work.

  He offered his hand. “How do you do? I’m Jeremy Hyde-Spofford.”

  Oh, hell, there was yet another name to add to the mix of lordships and Pooters—what to call him? Well, I’d simply avoid the issue for the moment. I shook hands. “Emma Fielding. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  “Emma’s here to do something archaeological over at the abbey,” Dora announced. She was draped comfortably, cup of tea in hand, across an antique chair with slender cabriole legs that looked scarcely sturdy enough to support her bulk.

  He looked interested. “Is that so? Well, you must have a seat, and tell me about it. Can I interest you in a cup of tea?”

  The gentleman gestured for me to take a seat in a chair that matched Dora’s and I sat down tentatively on the edge of it, until I was sure it would bear my weight, and then settled back a little further.

  “That would be lovely, thank you—” Here I paused, taking a deep enough breath to get both title and hyphenation out, but his lordship waved a hand and interrupted pleasantly.

  “Oh, call me Jeremy. The rest of it makes too much of a mouthful. How do you take your tea?”

  “Milk, no sugar, thanks, er, Jeremy.”

  Jeremy went to a small side table arranged with a porcelain and silver tea service that looked so much like the ones I’d studied in eighteenth-century paintings that I started. He handed me a delicate cup and saucer, so thin as to be translucent, and I was terrified that I might drop them.

  Palmer came in with a tray full of sandwiches; his rough bearing and coarse demeanor stood out in this place of delicacy and refinement like a pig in a party dress, and yet he seemed to feel right at home in the house. Perhaps he was a sort of general dogsbody as well as driver?

  Jeremy picked up one of the sandwiches, peeked under the bread hopefully, sighed in disappointment. “Perhaps cheese and pickle, just once, Palmer? Just for me?”

  Palmer stood impassively, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “Palmer always makes cucumber,” his lordship explained, “no matter how much I tell him I’d much rather have ham or cheese. They’re very nice, though; please have one.”

  My stomach was just beginning to remind me that it was well past lunchtime and so I decided I’d better take him up on the offer. Jeremy turned to get me a small plate. While I still had one hand free, I automatically flipped my saucer over to examine its base.

  “I’m pretty sure it’s real, Emma,” Dora said.

  It wasn’t until she’d opened her mouth that I realized my faux pas and blushed violently. I looked up in horror, first at Dora, who was positively delighted, and then at Jeremy, who had returned with my plate and was staring curiously at me.

  “Uh, I…of course I know it’s…er.” I took a deep breath and tried to stop stammering. I will not apologize, I thought fiercely, I will not! I addressed Jeremy. “It’s just this terrible habit I have of looking for the maker’s marks on the bottom of dishes and things. Archaeologists learn so much about where and when the wares were made from the markings that I’m afraid I’m always embarrassing myself that way. I’m just happy that I didn’t tip the cup over while it was full.” I shrugged and smiled.

  Jeremy was seriousness itself. “Well, if it’s marks you’re interested in, marks you shall have. I’ve a whole pantry full of ’em.”

  I began to blush again, but then realized he wasn’t needling me when he continued.

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault you’re here,” he explained. “Dora knows I collect the little bits of things—pottery, glass, bones—that pop up when I’m gardening. I stash ’em in shoe boxes in my pantry. I mean, they belong with the house, don’t they? I won’t chuck them just because they were in my way.” He handed me my plate, and I nodded my thanks. “Plenty of little marks on them. Perhaps sometime you’d stop back and have a look at them, tell me about whether I should hang onto them or no.”

  “I’d be happy to.” I bit into a sandwich, pleased with myself. I surreptitiously gave Dora a little “so there” look, and she rolled her eyes back at me. “You should meet my friend, Jane Compton. It’s her project I’ll be working on at the abbey ruins, and I’m sure she’d be happy to show you around the site, if you’re interested. And,” I continued, somewhat boldly, “I’m sure she’d be very interested to see your paintings of Marchester—they’d be incredibly informative about the way the abbey’s changed through time.”

  “Well then, she must come and see them.” Jeremy took a sip of tea and looked thoughtful. “Jane Compton? Isn’t she the one always causing all sorts of rumpus in town?”

  I almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s in all the papers. Never seen so many people get so worked up over a little patch of damp ground, unles
s you consider Belgium during the war, of course.”

  I managed to swallow the rest of my tea, in spite of that last remark.

  “Oh, she’s got everyone simmering,” Jeremy said. “I’m sure she’s very nice, sterling, even, but how that little thing managed to annoy the town fathers and the shopping center folks who want to develop the waterfront property—what’s that chappie’s name, Palmer?”

  “Whiting, sir. An ’orrible man, if I may say so.”

  “Nonsense, the man’s ambitious, is all; a bit rough about the edges, but no worse than that. As I was saying, how she can annoy both parties on opposite sides of the debate and stir up the New Age types, I’ll never know. Yes, I do; you simply can’t mix ley lines with saints, is all.”

  Before I could ask him to explain that, he went on. “And apparently one of her students has gone missing to boot. Not that any of this is her fault, mind, but she does seem to be in the thick of it all.”

  I digested this all for a moment. “And now they’ve come up with a suspicious burial as well.”

  Jeremy put his cup and saucer down. “Suspicious? You mean a murder?”

  I shrugged. “Something’s not right on the site. Greg didn’t tell me much about it, only that it appeared modern, and very fishy, and that the police were involved. Poor Jane.”

  “Poor Jane indeed. Well, perhaps—”

  “Well, perhaps we’d be getting to look at that picture you’ve been teasing me with, Pooter,” Dora interrupted. “My time here is too short to be worrying about poor Jane.”

  Jeremy shot Dora an exasperated look. “You are perfectly horrible, aren’t you? Still, Mother’s party is tomorrow and if you’re going to see the thing before you bounce off to Italy, it had better be now. Perhaps Emma would also care to have a squint?”

  Before I could open my mouth, Dora answered for me. “Emma’s seen Raphaels before. She’s got to be going, or so she’s been telling me all along.”

  For once, I had to agree with Dora, although I would have given my eyeteeth to see a privately owned Raphael. “I’m afraid I really must be going—”

  “I’ll have Palmer bring you back to town, but you must promise to come back and look at my bits of things and we’ll sneak you in to look at the picture while Mother’s asleep. She’s so deaf, dear thing, she’ll never notice. Still, she’s eighty tomorrow and that’s something.”

  “Thank you so much for everything, Jeremy.” I really hadn’t expected, or wanted, to like him but I found myself charmed by his kind and frank manner. I set my teacup and plate aside with a smothered sigh of relief; despite my worst fears, they were still intact. It suddenly occurred to me that these were Jeremy’s things, though; his household stuff. He lived with them every day.

  We walked out to the hall and Jeremy and I shook hands again. “Here, now,” he said suddenly. “You’re very fit, aren’t you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fit. Healthy.” He gave me an appraising look, up and down. “I suppose like so many Americans, you exercise like fury.”

  “Well, I run, but I—” I stammered, not knowing what was going on.

  “Dear Pooter, always thinking of sport,” Dora said.

  I began to get really worried.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Jeremy announced. “You must come next hunt, you’ll do splendidly.”

  “Ah…er…” I had no idea what was transpiring, but I wasn’t at all convinced that I wanted any part of it. It sounded baroque and decadent and way out of my league. One heard stories about the jaded aristocracy, of course, but one never expected—

  “We don’t actually ride to the hounds, there are no horses, no guns, and we don’t kill any foxes,” his lordship said. “I could never stand the sight of the poor things struggling, long before the animal rights people came along and made it trendy. We don’t even use a fox these days, we just send Palmer tearing off with a bit of burlap soaked in fox piss and then we just chase along, following after the dogs, baying like mad. The dogs, I mean, not us, but if you had the urge to bay, I’m sure no one would object. Dear, lovely things, the dogs, but not a spoonful of brains amongst fifty of them. It’s really good fun, fresh air, brilliant food. Say you’ll come.”

  I was so relieved to understand finally what he was going on about that I thought I would collapse. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” But no horses? Ma would be devastated when I told her that I was invited to a fox hunt by a sure-enough lord and there were no horses. Running after stinky burlap just doesn’t play the same at the country club cocktail hour.

  We made our farewells and I thanked Jeremy for his hospitality before Palmer escorted me back out to the car. As we left the parlor, I could hear Jeremy chewing Dora out.

  “—The way you carry on sometimes, just a perfect duchess. I’m surprised you have any friends left at all.”

  “Oh, Pooter,” Dora began, but by then we were too far away to hear the rest of it. It must have been funny, because I could hear them both crack up laughing.

  As the car pulled back down the drive, with me the sole occupant in the backseat now, I felt a pang, wishing I could have spent a little more time at the house. It was another world, and this became increasingly clear as we pulled into town, where things seemed foreign to me, but were on a scale that I could relate to, at least.

  I could see the tower of the new church growing as we approached the site and I was interrupted in my reflections by the gruff and polite clearing of Palmer’s throat. “If I might offer a bit of advice?”

  “Sure, Palmer.” So easily I fell into the habits of those around me; where was the “Mr.” now, Emma? But was Palmer his surname?

  “I should be very careful about becoming involved in any of the goings on in the town. With the doings down the abbey.”

  I looked up, startled. “I’m not sure I—”

  “It’s local business, really,” Palmer continued matter-of-factly, “and it’s just we locals don’t appreciate when outsiders try to come in and mess about with things. We’re a close community, we don’t want a lot of outsiders—like Jane Compton—mucking things up. See what I mean?”

  Surely this wasn’t some sort of threat? I thought, in a panic.

  “I’m sure you understand. I wouldn’t want you walking in on something you didn’t belong in, what with your friend being in the thick of it and all, and especially seeing’s his lordship has taken such a fancy to you. A word to the wise, eh?”

  Palmer’s words seemed quite friendly, but his eyes were cold as they regarded me in the rearview mirror. I noticed, for the first time, the web of scars that crisscrossed the chauffeur’s large right hand as it gripped the steering wheel.

  “Uh, sure. Thanks,” I managed to stammer out.

  “Ah, there you are, just to your left, Professor,” Palmer called out, suddenly jolly. “The Prince of Wales.”

  “Where?” I whipped my head around, looking for my first sight of a royal.

  “We’re just coming up on it now. A very pleasant pub, and a very proper place for the ladies. You might sample the local bitter while you’re here.”

  “I’ll…I’ll certainly make a point of it,” I said. I frowned and rubbed my eyes. I was so tired that I could easily have been making too much of Palmer’s warning, but it was certain that I’d landed in the middle of a real mess.

  We turned down off the main street—the “high street,” as Palmer called it, continuing his little tour of the local sites—and then one or two more side streets until the buildings fell away and I could see the sluggish river Mar again. We passed the new church and its tower, and as we approached the site of the ruined abbey about a half mile later, I could see a couple of police cars and the dig itself, partially cordoned off within the chain-linked enclosure.

  It was the sight of blue and white police tape and backdirt piles that told me that, after a morning of adventures and seeing how the other half lived, I was back where I belonged.

  Chapter 3

&
nbsp; GETTING OUT OF THE CAR, I HEARD RAISED VOICES fifty or so feet away from the pavement. One of the police cars took off, leaving one left. A figure in a short dark green raincoat followed the remaining policeman back toward the car, not quite pleading, but certainly insistent.

  Palmer set my bag on the sidewalk and shut the trunk with a solid-sounding whomp. “There you are, Professor. And, if I’m not mistaken, that should be la Compton over there, harrying the local constabulary—”

  I might not buy into all of the niceties of class distinction here, or understand exactly what the social mores were, but I did know when it was time for me to speak up. “Mr. Palmer, Jane Compton is a good friend of mine. I don’t appreciate your comments.”

  He stared at me, his grin fading instantly. “Of course, I beg your pardon,” he said woodenly. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Well…thanks again,” I said uncertainly.

  He nodded and the car glided off; the people I saw were too busy arguing to pay it or me any attention. In the distance, I could see a crew working, digging neatly delineated squares and rectangles within the larger excavation, occasionally putting their finds into flat little trays, but then I started to look at the excavations like a digger and not a director, and realized I didn’t see anyone using screens to sift their dirt. Filing this disturbing tidbit away for later consideration, I juggled my suitcase into a comfortable position, for what I hoped would be nearly the last time today, and began to walk over to the opened gate in the tall fence surrounding the entire site.

  I admit it, I was tired and distracted by the day’s events. That’s why the car sneaking up on me from the right hand side had to honk suddenly, waking me up and forcing me back to the curb. I’d have to pay more attention to the traffic, if I didn’t want to end up a smear on the road.