Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  “What is her story?”

  “She was a wealthy widow when she came to Marchester, where she had family connections. It wasn’t all that unusual for widows or young women to become vowesses—living a religious life of poverty and chastity without taking vows—but she actually became a nun. In a few years, she rose to the rank of abbess; this might have been because she was particularly holy, it might have been because her family in Marchester were powerful and able to exert a good deal of influence in the Church, or it might have been because it was her money that got the abbey out of debt and in good running order, through some rough times.”

  Jane smiled. “I, of course, like to think it was a combination of things, and it helps if you look at the historical context as well. It’s disputed, of course, but thinking these days suggests that the late medieval Church offered responsibilities and freedoms to women that they couldn’t get in secular life, especially since there was supposed to be a special kind of piety in women who were consecrated as the brides of Christ. I think Beatrice was an ambitious woman who saw an opportunity to be someone of power, of consequence, and took that opportunity.”

  I nodded. “Do you have any of her personal records? Is that what they suggest?”

  “No, we just have a fragment of a set of instructions, informing her community that she wanted to be buried within the abbey—near this spot—and that she did not want an elaborate coffin. She saw no reason to lavish money on housing the empty shell of her body when it could be better used in charity or in fixing the sisters’ leaking roofs.

  “I’m sure I’ll turn up more as I continue the search. The anomalies from the remote sensing suggest that this is the right place within the east end of the church and I’m betting that even if she wasn’t the founder of the house, Mother Beatrice’s money would have gone a long way in assuring her wishes were carried out. And since you’ve got the credentials and the experience and you’ve nothing to do with any of the foo-faraw, you’re going to be the one to find out. I don’t think I could make a fairer choice than that.”

  What Jane didn’t say, and what was immediately clear to me was that by placing me here, she was thrusting me into the middle of everything Palmer had warned me against.

  When I didn’t say anything right away, Jane said, “You can handle it anyway you like, of course, just run it past me first.”

  “If you really mean that, I’d like to find a screen and sift what I excavate, then,” I said quickly. “I just wouldn’t want to risk losing any of the data from such an important burial.”

  “Of course,” Jane agreed, “if you like, though I honestly think your eye will be enough. Tell me what you need, and I’ll have Greg or one of the students pick it up from the DIY—the ‘do-it-yourself’ building center—tonight.”

  “Just a couple of two-by-fours and some wire screening, two pieces, each about two feet square, one quarter-inch, the other, eighth-inch. I’ll put them together myself.”

  “Fine.” Jane nodded. “For the moment, I think you’ve probably got a good bit of depth to go before you see the burial proper, so perhaps you could work on bringing that down?”

  “Sure, but—” I frowned. “Shouldn’t there be paving, stones or brick, or something, though, for the floor of the abbey? Over the graves?”

  “There would have been, but the worked stone was robbed out over the centuries. If you’re all set, I’ll be off.”

  I began a recording sheet of my own on a beat-up clipboard and started work just as the rest of the crew reappeared. Not too much later, I heard Jane announce the lunch hour. I was getting annoyed with all these disruptions.

  “Off you go,” she called to the departing students, “but no more than an hour. If I have to come down the pub to find you again, it’ll be off limits at lunch!”

  She came over with Greg to fetch me. “How’s it going?” She peered down at my work eagerly.

  I put my notebook under a bucket, lest it blow away or the weather turn bad. “Pretty well, I think.” I tried to restrain myself, but then blurted out, “You let them drink at lunchtime? And you let them play a radio?”

  She looked puzzled. “Of course. Why not?”

  “I just…never mind. What shall we do?”

  “I say we pull up a couple of trees and eat. I’m ravenous.”

  We ate the sandwiches Jane had made, and I listened while she and Greg went over the day’s progress. It sounded remarkably like what I was used to: some students who were on top of things, others who needed some help to do a good job, and a few who were just not able.

  “—And Nicola’s doing okay, as long as I keep at her,” Greg said, around mouthfuls of egg salad—egg mayonaise, he’d called it. “She’s not as good as Julia, of course—”

  “Oh, no, no one’s ever as good as Julia,” Jane said, uncharacteristically sarcastic.

  I turned, all attention at this surprising vehemence, but Greg paid no attention. “—But she’s coming down cleanly enough. But unfortunately, Bonnie is not improving and Trevor is still making a mess of things, no matter where we put him. I wonder sometimes if it isn’t intentional.”

  I recalled that I’d seen Bonnie busily at work that morning. At one point, she picked up a stone, troweled beneath it, and then replaced the rock, when she should either have removed the rock, if she’d judged it unimportant, or just left it be. No way do you mess around with context as she had. I’d been too shocked to say anything before Greg caught her at it.

  After about fifty-five minutes, students began to come back in groups of threes and fours, some eager to return to work, others making the most of their break. Jane, Greg, and I discussed strategy and students for another twenty minutes.

  “Bonnie’s a disaster and Trevor’s been flirting with disaster since we started here,” Jane said impatiently.

  “He’s gone well beyond flirting with disaster; he’s gotten a leg over some time ago,” Greg replied.

  “Just keep on him, I guess,” Jane said with resignation. “Keep him where he’ll do the least harm.” It was time for us to think about getting back to work too.

  “Oh, God, here he comes. Greg, I simply can’t bear the sight of him right now. Would you mind—?”

  “No, no, off you go.”

  Jane made a hasty retreat as a bulky young man in what looked like untidy secondhand clothes sauntered toward us, a full ten minutes after everyone else had been back to work. He was fishing the last of a few french fries from out of the bottom of a McDonald’s container, ketchup and salt smeared over his fingers and mouth. In fact, although Greg was a bit dusty and rumpled from his morning’s work, Trevor looked as though he hadn’t changed his clothes in a month. The change the sight of this guy made in Greg was unbelievable; one of the quietest, kindest people I knew was now tightlipped with anger.

  “Ah, we see our Trevor arriving now,” he said with mock welcome. “Good evening, Trev. Nice of you to join us at long last.”

  Trevor pretended to be surprised by this reception and it instantly made me want to smack him. “Wot? I had to eat.” I noticed that Trevor’s pronunciation of vowels was longer, flatter, and more heavily accented than the others; he was not from around here.

  “And yet everyone else seemed able to find their way through lunch and be back here on time,” Greg replied. “Why is it that you can’t, I wonder?”

  Trevor ignored Greg and turned to me. “You the American?”

  Greg went scarlet. “Hey, I’m talking to you—”

  The student stuck another french fry in his mouth and chewed noisily. “I hate Americans. Fucking awful.”

  I barely suppressed a laugh at this adolescent behavior. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

  Greg wasn’t nearly as amused as I was and advanced a step on Trevor. “You watch your goddamned mouth!”

  Trevor shrugged helplessly and licked the tips of his fingers. “Sorry, but it’s true. I just can’t bring myself to be a hypocrite. I have to speak my mind.”

  “H
ow about this? How about you stop stuffing your stupid face and get to work?”

  Trevor yawned. “Why? It’s not like I’m anywhere near anything interesting. Why bother?”

  “Because as much as I have no desire to endure your odious presence any longer than absolutely required, I will not pass you simply for being the bone-idle, nasty little toe-rag that you are.” Greg’s voice was low and steeped with menace. “You will put in at least what looks like an honest effort to show a minimal competence or I will not sign off. I can’t just kick you out, but neither do I want you back here. Therefore, upon learning that you will return next year, for yet another final year, I will undertake to make your life miserable until you leave on your own. So I suggest you get to work and endeavor to meet the low level of achievement I have set for you, lest you cause me to start considering how best to ruin your life.”

  Trevor paused, as impressed as I.

  “But…Jane won’t like it,” he replied, rallying. “She won’t let you.”

  Greg nodded. “But the problem is, Jane is a just person. She sees injustice in the world and is determined not to contribute to it. I, on the other hand, see that there is injustice in the world and reason that a spot more—carefully localized—will harm no one it’s not meant to and may in fact do a bit of good.”

  Greg’s vehemence and willingness to threaten the student surprised me and Trevor too, it seemed. He actually stopped chewing for a moment, then looking Greg straight in the eye, deliberately dropped the bright red cardboard box at his instructor’s feet. “I’m done, anyway,” he announced, shuffling off toward his area.

  Greg looked like he would cheerfully have pounded Trevor into the ground as he watched him leave. He shrugged off his anger and then smiled at me. “I’m sorry. I thought, for some stupid reason, that calling him out in front of a stranger might actually make an impact on the lout.”

  “Well, you convinced me, anyway,” I said. “I’ll behave from now on.”

  Greg smiled wryly. “He knows I am capable of torture; I went to public school.”

  I translated “public school,” British for “private school,” and remembered some of the horror stories of schoolboy torture with which my friend Kam had regaled me. I thought of stories—stories I just knew were carefully edited—about thin mattresses folded and taped around hapless sleepers into an “apple pie,” “pranks” involving homemade black powder, and horrors with snapped wet towels. Greg was right; he’d had training in how to make someone miserable, all right. “Which school? You didn’t mention the other night. A friend of mine went to Winchester.”

  At first, I thought he wasn’t going to answer me. Then, “Nice quiet little place, close to London.”

  “Which one is that?” I picked up my notes.

  I caught sight of an irritated grimace before Greg turned away and I realized I’d missed something. Finally, staring across the site, he said, “Harrow.”

  Although I’d heard of it, I couldn’t understand his reticence. As Greg stooped to tie his shoelace, I saw something of a conflict manifesting itself across his features. His next words made it clear to me that pride had won out over—what? Self restraint? A desire not to seem boastful? “Mind you, Winchester might be older, but Harrow has certainly produced its share of prime ministers.”

  Nothing brash, nothing overt, but apparently Old Harrovians were no less willing to stand up for their alma mater or get their digs in on a competing school than graduates of any other all male institution. I made a note to pay more attention to this subtle kind of behavior.

  “Things should be quiet until tea,” Greg said. “I’ll just run out and get the timber for your sifter.”

  “That would be great,” I said. “I’ll just carry on here, then.”

  As the afternoon wore on, and the tea-break came, I noticed that a police car pulled up to the site, soon to be joined by several other civilian vehicles. A police officer in plain clothes got out of the car, shook hands with the other men who joined him, and then began to talk to Andrew, with whom he seemed very familiar, both of them looking at the burial. At one point, as Andrew showed the cop the button, they both looked over at me. Fortunately, they left me alone, and I was very pleased about that. I had absolutely no desire to become embroiled either in whatever had transpired here a hundred years ago or in what was going on in the immediate present. No desire whatsoever. They began to work on recording and then removing the skeleton with the efficiency of long practice, occasionally consulting with Andrew.

  I also noticed that with as many breaks as Jane allowed, she never left the site herself. I recognized the instinct to look after the tools and the equipment myself, but I wondered what else she might be worrying about. Now she went over to the modern burial and was listening in on the discussion between Andrew and the officer in charge, whose body language suggested that she was only tolerated there.

  After the last of the cars pulled away, I got up to stretch my legs and asked Andrew what had been found. I told myself it was purely a professional interest and that Andrew’s looks were merely a nice fringe benefit.

  “A few more buttons, that’s all,” he said shortly, fiddling with his clipboard. “I’d rather not draw any more conclusions at this point. And now if you don’t mind—”

  “But…I was wondering, did you find any other marks on the ribs? Stab marks, or other indications of what happened?”

  Andrew didn’t look up at all, but merely stroked his beard. “I assure you, Doctor Fielding, I will do a thorough examination.” He sat down and continued to write.

  “Can I have a look at the police report? It’s just curiosity, but I’d like to, if I could.”

  “We’ll see.” He didn’t even look up.

  I stared at his back: Okay. As I walked back to my unit, I decided that when the charm wasn’t turned on or the professional connection wasn’t established, looks aside, there wasn’t really much left to recommend Mr. Freeman as a person.

  By late afternoon, I’d made good progress on my work. I took an elevation to establish how far down I’d dug and determined that based on what the others were finding in their burials, I should hit mine soon. The stain persisted, even grew a little darker, the outline a little more distinct, so that I knew I definitely had a grave. I’d found no artifacts, but that only meant that no one had disturbed any earlier material when they’d dug the grave hundreds of years ago, and they hadn’t dropped anything into it, either.

  Two very interesting things occurred at the end of the day. The first was a curious ritual I’d never seen on any dig in twenty-five-odd years. I watched the students pause at Andrew’s unit after they put their tools away but before they left the site. I began to realize that each one of them had a paper bag or a Styrofoam coffee cup or something and each was dumping something brown into a small plastic bag that Andrew kept with him. He thanked each of the students gravely, with a bow; most of the young women giggled.

  I caught the eye of a baby-faced blonde with bangs as she went past. “Excuse, me but what’s going on over there, er—?”

  “I’m Lucy.” She nodded over at Andrew. “That? It’s worm day.”

  “Come again?”

  She giggled. “Andrew found out that Hildegard—you know, Greg’s tortoise—eats worms occasionally, so every once and a while he’ll collect the earthworms that we dig up for her. Isn’t that sweet?”

  “Um, sure.”

  Lucy leaned in conspiratorially. “You mustn’t say anything, of course, but we all fancy him like mad. So smart, so dishy, and so…oh, I don’t know. Rather mysterious. Don’t you think he’s scrummy?”

  I thought Andrew’s charm was entirely a matter of his own convenience, and his scrumminess, while undeniable, was something he exploited on an epic scale. “I guess he’s not my type. Was Hildegard Greg’s grandmother’s name or something?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t know what that was. Hildegard was named for Hildegard of Bingen, wasn’t she?” She caught my blank look. “You
know, the saint? Lived from 1098 to 1179 in Germany? Known for her theological studies and her church music?”

  “Oh. So the turtle sings?” I grinned; my students thought I was a riot.

  “No, not that I know of.” Lucy gave me a strange look, as if she were afraid that I might be serious. “Jane sings though. Like a dream. And she’s a tortoise, not a turtle, a Russian or Horsfield’s, I think. Hildegard, I mean, not Professor Compton. Well, I’ve got to be going. It’s time for the walk-around.”

  I soon found out what that was. It was obvious enough: Jane took the entire crew around the site and reviewed what each had done over the day. The thing that I really found fascinating, though, was what she managed to accomplish with it. It was in part a review of what to expect, what to look for when encountering a burial. It was also a way for Jane to praise or encourage the students publicly, which left everyone feeling pleased with himself and visibly built up morale in the crew. Even Bonnie, who was obviously trying, in spite of Will’s and Nicola’s harsh observations, looked like she was ready to try again tomorrow. Jane simply summarized Trevor’s work and no one seemed to think any less of her for not struggling bravely to find a few charitable words.

  I did notice that Jane’s criticism became more particular and her praise harder to win when she was examining the work of the more advanced graduate students. I could almost tell by the way she questioned them who was close to completing a degree: The more advanced they were, the harder she pushed them. None of them seemed to mind her exacting comments, though; indeed, they reacted as if they had earned the right to sharper scrutiny and would have found any ordinary encouragement debased currency. The younger or less experienced ones, though markedly pleased with her attention to them, seemed to think that level of expectation was something to aim for. It was an impressive display of team-building, something that most directors aim for but seldom achieve with quite as much artistry as Jane. Spirits were quite high when she dismissed them.

  “Ready for a pint?” Greg asked, when we finished, about five o’clock. Jane was with him.