Grave Consequences

by Dana Cameron

  Unless I was going to frog-march her off the site, I had to listen. For now. I always wondered whether I could effectively frog-march someone.

  “Can I see one of the relics? From that area where you’re working? Right here?”

  “There isn’t much,” I said, “not from a—”

  She nodded impatiently. “From a grave shaft, yes I know. But ‘not much’ doesn’t mean ‘nothing,’ does it?”

  “Let’s take it with us, shall we?” I suggested. I bent over and pulled something from a plastic bag in the tray. “There’s a nice bit of sunny patch over beyond the barrier, and I’d like to warm up a bit.”

  “I’m really not going to hurt anything,” she said; again, half-ironic, half-defensive.

  “No one said you would. Shall we?” I held out my hand in invitation toward the gate.

  Once we were off the actual site, I decided to reestablish things on my terms. I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Emma Fielding.”

  “Morag Traeger.” She shook my hand.

  “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “May I see the relic?”

  I hesitated, knowing what she was going to do, but not quite certain why. “The word ‘relic’ is probably a bit of an overstatement; you’re probably closer to the mark with ‘artifact.’ I consider anything a relic to be religious object, properly associated with a saint.”

  Morag smiled patronizingly. “Don’t you consider Mother Beatrice a saint? I think she was a holy person, not a Christian, but a worshiper of the Old Religion.”

  I shrugged. “I guess if the Church doesn’t think her a saint, then I don’t. I don’t know her story that well. Besides, I’m pretty sure this never belonged to her. I don’t even know if I’m actually working on her grave.” I realized that she couldn’t know that I might be working on Mother Beatrice; I must have just looked like fresh meat she could get around.

  I handed Morag the sherd I was carrying, and she scrutinized it carefully. Then she closed her eyes and held the lowly bit of pottery up to her forehead reverently. I watched, a little curious, a little annoyed, a little uncomfortable.

  “No,” she said finally, opening her eyes, and handing back the sherd to me. “It was never hers, but it did belong to some troubled soul—”

  I noticed that she didn’t actually identify the piece of stoneware for me; it was from a ceramic mug, probably several centuries later than Mother Beatrice’s period. “Just someone picnicking in the graveyard,” I said, “maybe a gravedigger had a drink of something, and this got kicked around for a couple of centuries. It was from just above the shaft. No way to tell if he—or she—was troubled or not.”

  “Of course there is,” she said. “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophies—”

  Mentally I corrected her: dreamt, not dreamed; philosophy, not philosophies. Easy enough mistakes, but she left out poor Horatio altogether.

  “Besides. You were trying to trick me. It’s not from the grave itself.”

  “No, I did just what you asked,” I replied. “I even told you. You asked to see an artifact from where I was working. Besides, nothing I might find there is going to have been put there by Mother Beatrice. Once you’re dead, you have very little say in what people put in the ground with you.”

  Morag shook her head sadly and I caught a strong scent of some heavy incense. “I will tell you, Emma, that I feel lots of hostility from the people working on this site. I deeply resent the fact that this important part of history—local and spiritual—is being co-opted, dominated by a select few. It seems wrong that history should be hoarded, perverted to serve the interests of the governing.”

  Problem was, I agreed with her—in principle, just not in this specific case. “I’m sorry you feel threatened—”

  “Not threatened,” she said. “I didn’t say threatened, I said I feel hostility, which is very—”

  “—But maybe what you are sensing is the anger of people who feel you don’t respect their work or their rules. The fences are up there to help protect the site—which, you’re right, does belong to everyone, in a sense—and to protect the public. I’ve seen unwary visitors break ankles by falling into working units because they weren’t looking where they were going. Jane would be blamed if anyone got hurt. I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, I wish no one to be hurt, or blamed. I just question her right to be on this site, when so many others are denied. From where does her privilege come, to pick and chose who might be here?”

  My shoulders heaved; this drama was tiring. It was the oldest story in the book, the rights of scientists versus the rights of everyone else—to history, to be on a particular bit of land, to dig, even.

  “It’s not fair,” I said. “But it’s the best solution. By letting people who are trained excavate a site, you have the best chance of preserving all the data—for everyone. On the other hand, Jane and Greg, and even the students, have trained for years, so it’s not without some sacrifice on their part, this privilege. And it’s not random: They had to prove their ability to be here, had to get a license from the Home Office to work on the human remains.”

  “Still and all, I wish that you scientists would be a little more open-minded,” Morag persisted. “I think that Mother Beatrice was something special, someone important, and I think she’s not been granted her due. She was tied into this place—a place of real power, mind you—in a way that I think is truly important. She had visions and I know, just know, she was one of us. I’m just trying to see that justice is done, that her story is given as much prominence as it deserves, as much as any Christian’s. As much as any man’s.”

  Again I found myself agreeing with her, but only halfway. I also felt a headache coming on. “Look, like I said, I don’t know the story all that well, but I find it pretty amusing that you should lump Jane with the establishment. As far as I can tell, Jane’s in everyone’s bad graces here, and as far as feminist interpretations go, you’ve got a better chance with Jane than most.” Morag really wasn’t all that politically astute, that was for sure.

  “I can see I won’t get anywhere with you.” The other woman gestured grandly, again to the sound of tinkling bells. “You’re as shut off as the rest of them—”

  Now, if you want to get me angry, just tell me how narrow-minded I am. I’ve spent my life training myself not only to see patterns, to make logical leaps, to pay attention, but also to follow my instincts as much as my intellect. I could feel my jaw muscles tighten.

  “Look, Ms. Traeger. Why don’t you tell me what evidence you have for Mother Beatrice’s spiritual—pagan—importance, and I’ll consider it. Next time you visit the site—just wait at the fence—I’ll tell you what I think.”

  There, I thought, she’ll say I’m not considering the spiritual side of things, that I’ll only consider the ordinary, material world that anyone can look at. Then she’ll leave and I can get back to work.

  To my surprise, however, Morag nodded, and pulled out a file from the large bag on her shoulder. “Here, take it. I’ve made copies. Take my card, too. Come and chat, if you like. I’d be very interested to hear your point of view.”

  More than surprised, I took the folder and the card, which read, “Marchester Interactive, Web Site Design and Construction, Morag Traeger, Creative Lead/ Co-Founder” with a telephone number, Web site address, and a Fitzwilliam Street address.

  “I’ll be sure to have a look,” I said. I was very curious to see what she’d collected.

  “I wonder. Still, it was nice to meet you Emma. I get a good feeling from you.” She looked around the site, and shook her head sadly. “And that’s a relief, in the midst of all this pain, all of those triangles.” And with that, she walked off, the self-assured sway of her hips causing the little bells to jingle madly.

  Greg came over as Morag left. “Well, that was unusually quiet.”

  “Huh?” With all of the bells, the garish trim, the smell of incense, and M
orag’s insistent defensiveness, her theatrical choice of words, I couldn’t imagine anything less quiet. She overwhelmed every one of the senses.

  “Usually, Jane ends up in a slanging match with her.”

  “Well, that never works with her sort of people. Morag’s, I mean. People who are stuck on one idea.”

  “Oh, and don’t I know it. Jane knows it too, but she just can’t stand that Morag is so…”

  “So very…”

  “That’s it, exactly,” Greg agreed. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed his glasses with it. The usual confetti of odds and ends landed on the ground, and he retrieved them after he’d replaced his glasses. “What’d she want this time? I’ve worked on sites where the visitors wanted to come in and lie on one of the graves. Get the vibe.”

  I shivered; the idea wasn’t so much spooky as it was just weird. “No. She wanted to hold one of the artifacts. I let her and she said it belonged to some tortured soul.”

  He smiled faintly. “Well, it’s no fun if no one’s tortured. Anyway, I was going to suggest—”

  Suddenly Greg was interrupted by a loud honking. He frowned at this infraction of common decency and we both turned to see what the matter was. I should have suspected: the matter, as it was so often, was Dora.

  “Emma! I’m over here, Emma! Emma!” Dora was calling out of the car window as though we were on separate alpine peaks, or as if she were on a sinking ship and I had the lifeboat. Jeremy Hyde-Spofford was seated next to her, and Palmer, scowling all the while, hopped from the driver’s seat to open the door for them. It wasn’t the Bentley this time, but a huge Land Rover that actually looked as though it did estate work.

  Palmer had just enough time to shoot me one truly poisonous look, reminding me of his implied threats to me, before he opened the door and Dora emerged, still hallooing. I sighed, realizing that, as always, I couldn’t just wave from where I was: Dora required my full attention. I wiped the dirt off my trowel and went to meet them at the gate.

  “Hello, Dora, Jeremy.” I turned and smiled sweetly at Palmer, in memory of our last, rather hostile encounter. “Mr. Palmer.”

  “Good afternoon, Emma,” Jeremy replied. He was wearing a green jacket similar to Greg’s and a truly horrible silk scarf—so crammed with electric yellow paisleys that the thing appeared to be alive and crawling. “I hope that we’re not interrupt—”

  “We haven’t got time to stop, Emma,” Dora trumpeted, by way of greeting. “I’m on my way to the airport, off to Florence.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be there already,” I said.

  “Well, you know how it is. One gets caught up where one is. They won’t mind, once I get there,” Dora responded, waving a hand airily.

  “But I did want to take the opportunity to renew my invitation for this weekend,” Pooter said, firmly stanching any further philosophizing on Dora’s part. “And to ask your friends too, if they’d like. The more the merrier.”

  So Dora wouldn’t be at the faux fox hunt. That would have been worth seeing. “I’m afraid Jane’s not here at the moment,” I said. I turned and found I couldn’t keep my eyes off Palmer, who, although seeming to pay close attention to rubbing some dirt off the front headlight, was, I was sure, paying deepest attention. “But Greg is.”

  “I’m what?” Greg asked, joining us. I made the introductions and Jeremy repeated his invitation to Greg, who looked uneasy, his wavy ginger hair blown about by the light breeze.

  “Thanks all the same, but I’m afraid you’d better not count on us. I’m sure you’ve heard the sad news about Julia Whiting and our troubles here, and I wouldn’t want to accept your offer without checking with my wife first.”

  “I understand completely,” Jeremy said. “In fact, I almost canceled, out of respect to George and Ellen Whiting, but George insisted we carry on the yearly tradition. Quite adamant on that account. So, please, if you find yourselves free, don’t hesitate to join us. Emma, if your friends can’t make it, I’ll send Palmer to fetch you.”

  Palmer looked carefully blank, and I tried to squash the butterflies in my stomach. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Pooter! We must leave immediately,” Dora announced. “Signor Bravatelli won’t wait another instant.”

  Jeremy made a studied attempt to ignore her. “I’m sorry to have to dash off, Ashford.”

  “Perhaps you’ll join us again when I can give you a tour of the site,” Greg said.

  “Delighted to. Emma, until this weekend.”

  “Good-bye. Bye, Dora. Have a good time in Florence.”

  My colleague slid back into the vehicle. “I’m going to seize, remove, and totally reconstruct the idea of Raphael for a generation of scholars. I shall not have a good time, but it shall be worthwhile and they shall thank me after. It is not easy, revising hundreds of years of erroneous academic consideration, but I shall persevere.”

  Greg watched thoughtfully as the Land Rover tore away. My pounding headache worsened, and I suddenly decided I needed a break. “Greg, can you spare me for an hour or so?”

  “Of course. We’re getting ready to close up, you don’t need to be here for that.”

  “Well, I’m caught up on my paperwork, so I just thought I’d go have a look at the church. Sabine, ah, Reverend Jones, offered to show me the tower, and I’d like to go.”

  “No problem. We’ll have dinner when you get back. With any luck, Jane’ll be home by then.” Although he’d been trying to maintain his composure all day, Greg was morose at the very thought of his wife’s absence. But I noticed that he didn’t seem worried for Jane, somehow.

  “See you then.” I waved, crossed the site, and found the path that was just below the top of the bank. I started hiking along the riverbank toward the “new” church. My head was pounding and I thought, still no sign of Trevor. While it was very nice to have the break from him and his attitude, which hung over the site like a miasma, I wondered where he’d gotten himself to. Jane didn’t need another missing student, that was for sure.

  Tall grass and weeds grabbed at my boots as I clumped down on the hard packed dirt path. Down about ten feet below me, the river Mar was dull gray-blue and sluggish, nearly indistinguishable from the smoothed stones along the bank, but just the quiet and the smell of wet mud and plants was soothing after my frustrating day; I couldn’t even see the road from down here. The air was still chilly and there was a little breeze that occasionally moved the clouds away from the sun.

  About ten minutes later, voices, or rather, a single, shouting voice, intruded upon the tranquility of the path. I found myself at the edge of a mowed grassy space between the riverbank and the back of the church—too small to be a field, too large to be a yard—and saw the source of all the noise.

  To my amazement, Sabine Jones, garbed in shorts, a sweatshirt, athletic socks, and cleats, was expertly dribbling a soccer ball, charging toward a makeshift goal and the skinny, rather nervous looking boy with dark curly hair who was defending it. Her blond hair was frizzing from perspiration, combs falling out and tangled.

  “Anticipate, anticipate! Come on, come on, Teddy! Not just the eyes, not just the body language, anticipate where I’m going to go!”

  As I watched, she faked left, then dove right, and attempted to drive the ball between the two battered orange pylons. Teddy was fooled for a moment, but at the last second lunged at the ball, just barely brushing it away from the goal with the tips of his fingers.

  “And Jones is denied, with a brilliant save by Tedman!” The vicar ran around in a tight circle, celebrating his save herself, as the goalie watched with embarrassed pride. Then she composed herself, collected the ball, and addressed her companion in a stern voice.

  “And now, Mr. Tedman, what’s going to happen?”

  “I’m going to go home and study my maths,” the boy replied, as if by rote.

  “And then?”

  “And then I’m going to pass the exam with a better than average score.”
>
  “Whereupon?”

  “I’ll be allowed to play against St. John’s parish on Saturday.”

  “And the result of that shall be?”

  “That we ev…eviscerate their side!”

  “Good lad. Now go home, and don’t let the xs and ys fool you; they’re only code names. Geometry is crucial to aspiring footballers.” Sabine handed the boy a pile of schoolbooks, and then she noticed me. “And be nice to your mother,” she called after the boy as he tore off around the church.

  “Hello,” I said, drawing nearer. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  “Not a bit. Young Tedman has been coming for some extra help with his schoolwork, spurred on by the fact that I coach St. Alban’s football. The boys can’t play if they don’t keep their grades up, and while none of them will ever play for Arsenal, if it keeps them slogging through plane geometry, I don’t mind using the carrot.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.” I bit my lip, uncertain of what I was here for. “Have you got a minute?”

  “Yes, certainly.” Sabine grabbed a towel and wiped off her face, then replaced the combs that were tangled loosely in her hair.

  “You mentioned the tower before. I just thought, maybe, if it wouldn’t be any trouble, you could show me the view from the tower?”

  “No trouble at all. Follow me.”

  She led the way from the back lot round to the front doors and into the church itself.

  “You should have a look at the church proper, before we head up to the tower. It’s rather ordinary but a pleasant enough place.”

  We stepped into the main section of the church. The gray stone was cool and the interior was dark; our footsteps echoed through the building. Dog-eared hymnals sat on the wooden pews and the gloom was broken periodically along the walls by stained glass windows the color of rich jewels and at the far end, where the altar, dazzlingly lit from above, was bedecked with flowers and bright brass candlesticks.

  “It’s not quite so grim when the pews are full,” Sabine said. “Bodies damp down the echoes, but the choir still sounds respectable.”

  “I don’t think it’s grim at all,” I replied. “I like the emptiness.”