by Dana Cameron
“Jesus Christ…” Andrew paused, then continued mechanically. “You asked, and I said, I’ll see. I’ve run into a few snags. It’s going to be a while. Besides, whatever I do is only ancillary to the forensic pathologist’s work.”
I walked over to the counter, but it was completely clean of anything—there was nothing to occupy me. “Well, what about the one for Jane, then? I had a thought about the stratigraphy. About the stones on top and the dating. I think the scatter, if I remember it properly, was from the bombing that leveled the remains of one of the abbey walls, right? So if the scatter was on the surface, and we were finding stones mixed into the burial, wouldn’t that have to date it pretty close to right after the bombing? Not long enough for any later trash to get mixed in with it, though. That’s why I think that modern skeleton we were working on is war vintage.”
Andrew gave me a long look. “Interesting thought,” he said finally.
“Well? Aren’t you going to do anything about it?”
“I’m not in any hurry.” He leaned back again, and I couldn’t understand why he seemed so relaxed about all this.
“And why is that?”
He watched me, sizing me up, maybe. Maybe trying to figure what would shut me up, get me out of his hair. “Because Greg has enough on his plate at the moment, and I personally don’t feel I should add any more grief to his life presently.”
My stomach did flipflops and then settled with leaden dread. “Why? Who is it? Why do you say Greg would—”
Andrew smiled, an unpleasant smile that was pure schadenfreude, so pleased to have someone else feel as horrible as he must. “Trust me. It will probably come out eventually, but not if I have anything to say about it, so I’m certainly not going to tell you. No one in Marchester would thank you for pushing your nose into this. I think you should leave now.”
I shot Andrew a dirty look and got out of that mausoleum of a room as quickly as I could. The rain was still pouring down, which was fine with me. The bus came along within a few minutes, and I almost missed it, so intent was I on my thoughts. I stared at the gray streets as we rolled along, trying to put some order to my thoughts, the repeated “thank yous” of the conductor a counterpoint to the windshield wipers. An unfamiliar two-toned siren in the distance reminded me how far away from home I was.
Just then we passed Fitzwilliam Street, which I remembered from Morag’s business card. I pulled on the cord and had some luck for the first time in what felt like weeks—the bus stopped a few blocks down. I got out, put on my hat, and hurried down the road until I found number fifteen. Fitzwilliam was a busy street with a few shop fronts and restaurants at street level and what looked like professional offices on the floors above, converted from nineteenth-century row houses. The building at number fifteen was in the ubiquitous gray stone and an estate agent’s office occupied the ground floor, flanked by a Greek restaurant on one side and an Indian one on the other. A tidy address plate by the bell listed “Marchester Interactive, Web Site Design and Construction, first floor,” and, since the door was open, I hurried up a flight, curious as to what I might find.
It wasn’t decorated, as such. I suppose the room I walked into off the hallway would have been the apartment’s living room, in its former incarnation. Now it looked as though it might have started off as a reception area but gradually became additional workspace for a growing business. There was a single fabric and chrome chair next to a rubber tree plant, which was all that remained of the reception area. Crowded along each of the remaining three walls were three mismatching desks arranged so as to give the illusion of privacy, but that had long since passed away with the growth of the company. Each of the desks had a computer and a printer and a harassed-looking young employee sitting at each one typing like forty, none of whom even noticed that I’d entered the room at first. The place was a haphazard mess, probably only negotiated and understood by its denizens. Cables snaked around the place like Christmas garlands and there was no attempt to disguise or hide them. In fact, there were some tinsel garlands draped along the cables that ran across the wall and I couldn’t decide if they were meant to be a cheery disguise for the wires or had merely been forgotten since Christmas. On each of the two side walls, there was a doorway, leading off to other rooms, presumably. One of the desk owners was on the phone, a strawberry blonde with a pointed face whose narrow build was overwhelmed by her fisherman’s sweater.
“—In the middle of a death march, no one’s slept for a week. I can’t believe we’re this close to the deadline and they’re still adding features. Well, now, you’d think this wouldn’t happen every single time, wouldn’t you? Yeah. Of course it’s Tim on their side of things who’s the problem; stupid wanker’s never shipped anything. He doesn’t know his arse from a hole in the wall. Mmm. What can we do, though? They keep giving us work—”
That’s when she noticed me. Blushing to the roots of her hair, she said hurriedly, “I’ve got to go—cheers, love.” She hung up quickly and turned to me, annoyed, running a hand over her hair, which did nothing to help make her look less frazzled. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Morag Traeger.”
She shuffled some papers, a bit snotty at having been interrupted. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Um, no, but I—”
Morag appeared in the doorway. She, too, must have been feeling the pressure of her project: her hair was unruly beyond artistic wildness, her eyes were reddened, and she looked as though she hadn’t had much sleep. She also looked a bit uneasy at seeing me. “What do you want?”
I could have sworn I heard the clatter of typing slow down just a bit; the woman who had been on the phone was lucky enough to be able to see what Morag looked like without having to sneak a peek out of the corner of her eye. “Here to see you, Morag.”
“I guessed that. Well?” she asked me.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.”
She looked at me. I did my best to look harmless. She spoke to the others.
“I’ve just put the kettle on, the water will be ready in a moment. If you can wait half a minute, I’ll run down to the Greek place and get lunch.” Back to me. “Come with me. You’ve got one minute.”
I followed her to the adjacent room, which was distinguished by having a door and only one desk, which was so tidy that at first I thought the place must be unused. Then I saw that there was a nice carpet on the wooden floor, and few calming prints on the walls. The place had a residual whiff of incense, possibly from Morag herself; it certainly didn’t come from the fresh cut flowers in the vase on the mantelpiece. The desk had a computer, with a stylus and pad: That’s right, I thought. Morag was a “creative lead,” whatever that might be. Even the books that were pulled from the shelf—a couple of design books and a Pantone color chart—were neatly stacked. One on the top of the pile was The Visual Display of Quantitative Information by Edward Tufte, and there was a Post-it note stuck to the cover, so tidily printed that it looked like a computer had printed it. Whew! Morag certainly must have something on the ball, I thought, to help found a growing company and keep up with all those eager young things in front. I had a quick glimpse at the framed photo on her desk; Morag and a short man with dark hair and a beard, both cloaked in full black robes and holding intricately carved staffs. Morag sat down.
“You’ve heard about Mother Beatrice,” I said.
“I was there, remember? I—what is it, Raj?”
A very natty Indian man, in his twenties and dressed in stylish 1970s retro, had poked his head through the door. “We need to talk about my design for—”
“Give me ten minutes, would you?”
“Righto.” He looked at me with frank curiosity, then departed.
Morag got up to shut the door, then she returned to her desk. “As I was saying. I’m not about to apologize to you, though I admit, I may have been out of line. I got too carried away—”
I did my best to ignore the fact that Jane
had been the one to carry her away. Since Morag didn’t see the pun, I wasn’t about to advertise it.
“Your friend Jane is the one who—”
“I’m not about to apologize for Jane.” I sat without being asked. “Things got out of hand. But I’m not here about that. I mean what happened this morning, or rather, late last night.”
Morag shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what you’re going on about.” She turned to her monitor screen, losing interest in what I had to say. She tapped a few keys.
I kept my voice matter-of-fact. “The site’s been vandalized and the bones of who we think was Mother Beatrice have been stolen. Someone dug her up.”
She whirled around, her eyes wide, her mouth working. It took a moment before she could speak. “Oh, Lady, how horrible. Who wa—? Wait, you don’t think—?” She stood up, unsure of what to do with herself. “I had nothing to do with this! That is not our way!”
I didn’t get the impression that too-earnest Morag could be that good an actor, but I couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. I shrugged.
“I swear to you by all I hold holy, it wasn’t me or any of my coven!” Morag said. “You must believe me.”
“Why must I?”
“No matter what you think, witches don’t ever fool with that sort of thing. Raising the dead is just what you see in bad movies. Witches never seek power through the suffering of others and we don’t believe that we can gain power only when someone else is denied. What you’re talking about, accusing me of, is about as far away as you can get from the tenets of love and trust that I embrace. And think about the Threefold Law.”
I shook my head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“We believe that all our actions, good and bad, are repaid threefold. There’s no way I’d so something so ugly, even if I didn’t believe in karmic repayment.”
I was silent.
She sat down and looked out the window. “We get blamed for things all the time, people make up the most outrageous stories about us, about what we do or what we will do. It’s the worst kind of prejudice, persecution. It might be kids, it might be Christians, trying to get us into trouble.”
I realized at that instant that while Morag usually puffed up with self-importance at any confrontation, there was none of that here. This was too significantly meaningful to her.
Morag turned from the window as it dawned on her: “Jane Compton thinks I’m responsible.”
“After yesterday, I’m hard pressed not to blame her. It looks very bad. You should talk with her, iron this mess out before it escalates.”
“It would be hard. She’s not an easy person to talk to. I assure you, it wasn’t me or mine.”
I thought of PC Whelton and the watchband I’d seen, the one with the pentacle on it. I suddenly realized that I had no particular reason to believe him, either. I didn’t know what his agenda might be. And there were so many agendas. “Who could it be, then?”
“Jane has made so many people prickly, both professionally and personally—” Morag said.
“Personally? Well, she is a bit driven, but—”
Morag shook her head. “I’m thinking of something else. I mean, symbolically, don’t those bones suggest anything else to you?”
“What do you mean?” I looked at her narrowly.
“Whoever dug them up really wanted to disrupt Jane’s work, and that would be a profound hurt to Jane. The fact that it was that burial that was dug up makes it seem quite personal. I’d be thinking about Andrew, if I were you.”
I shook my head, trying to figure out how that might work out, given what I’d discovered in the osteology lab. It didn’t fit. “What? Why would he dig up those bones?”
Morag shook her head in frustration: I hadn’t understood her. “I’m not sure that he’s the one who did it, though it’s not outside the realm of possibility. I wonder if it isn’t so much a professional matter as a personal one. Andrew’s been in love with Jane for so long that she was bound to find out, eventually. Maybe she’s known all along. Anyone with a pair of eyes to see that would have known, if they wanted to. Maybe, finally, Greg Ashford’s found out too.”
Chapter 19
MORAG WALKED ME OUT, ON HER WAY DOWN TO THE Greek place. I was glad she did, because I was somewhat in a daze. I walked along the street, trying to reconcile Morag’s suspicions with what I’d been considering. Somewhere through the fog in my brain, somewhere out in the fog of the real world, I heard honking behind me. I ignored it—it wasn’t for me this time, I wasn’t anywhere near a zebra crosswalk—but then heard a familiar and presently unwelcome voice call out behind me. “Emma! Get in, I’ll give you a lift!”
I was quickly running out of space on my “would rather not run into” list, but Greg was right at the bottom of that list, at the moment. I didn’t know how I could look him in the eye, knowing that his best friend was in love with his wife, and not knowing whether he knew and might have done something about it. At least he was still acting nominally friendly toward me. I waved and got into the car, a little surprised at just how very wet I had become; water streamed off my coat and hat and I soon created puddles on the floor.
Greg saw me looking at the wet footprints. “Don’t worry about it; the dear old Landcrab don’t mind the wet. A motor for all British seasons, she is.” He patted the dashboard, then, turning back to me, frowned. “If you don’t mind a quick stop, I’m going to knock up Aunty Mads—”
He just means visit, I reminded myself hastily.
“—As I’m really worried about her. When I called this morning, her neighbor was in and said she’s really gone into a decline.”
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” I said.
“Thank you. I’ve been calling around social services this morning to see if I can find a visiting nurse to come round. I don’t want to drag her to hospital if…if it’s not going to do her any good.”
We drove in silence for a moment.
“So I’m just going to meet the nurse, make sure that Aunty’s settled in as comfortably as possible. Are you in a hurry to get back home?”
“Not really. I’m happy to go…only, do you think Mads would mind?”
Greg frowned again. “If she’s feeling fit for company, then it’s no problem. If she’s low, and not feeling fit to be seen, you can sit in the parlor. It won’t take long, only I want to make sure that I meet the nurse and get things settled.”
“Oh, of course, no problem at all. Please, don’t worry about me.”
We pulled up to a little row of houses, and I recognized that we were just a few blocks from the cafe. Greg got out and reached into the back. “Give me a hand, would you?”
He handed me a couple of plastic grocery bags marked “Sainsbury’s,” and I followed him up the front stairs. He let us in with his own key; in the hallway, an aroma of long-lived-in house swept over me, scrubbed linoleum and old varnish, sachet, milky tea, and boiled vegetables.
“Hallo?”
A voice called, “In here, Greg.” A stout middle-aged woman met us at the door to the kitchen.
“Mrs. Haywood, this is my friend Emma Fielding. Emma, this is Mrs. Haywood, Aunty’s neighbor and very good friend.”
“Very old friend, at least.” We shook hands.
“How is the patient, then?” Greg said, as cheerily as he could.
“Well, not very well, I’m afraid. I won’t lie to you, Greg,”—she lowered her voice—“I just helped her to the loo and it’s completely wrung her out. She’s in bed again. I don’t think she’s been up since before I got here this morning. She’s very bad off, I think.”
We all stood around for a minute. “Well,” Greg said.
“She’s very old and very tired. I think she’s had enough,” Mrs. Haywood whispered, nodding solemnly. “Is the nurse coming?”
“Yes, I was able to track one down this morning. She’ll be here on the hour.”
“Well, that’s good, at any rate. A nurse’ll be able t
o make her comfortable. She’s not doing very well, you know, recognizing people. She kept calling me Moira, which was her sister’s name, I think. I’ve just put the kettle on, but if you don’t mind, I need to get to work. Are you all right here, for a bit?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Greg looked distractedly down the hallway. “We’re not working today. You’ve been so kind, Mrs. Haywood.”
“No, no. Only, it’s a bit sad, to see her so,” she turned to me, “with her being so much a part of the town, do you know what I mean?”
I nodded.
“Still. Well, I must be off, but I’ll stop in after I’ve done at work.” She picked up her coat and umbrella. “Still raining out, I see.”
“Probably a bit longer. It will clear up tonight, be nice and hot tomorrow.”
“So it will. Ta-ra, Greg.”
“Good-bye, Mrs. Haywood. Thanks again.” He closed the door behind her.
“Do you want me to make the tea? You could go check on her,” I offered.
“No, you won’t know where anything is, and I must put this lot away before it spoils. Let me just look in on her.”
He hurried upstairs and was down a moment later, looking concerned. “I think she’s almost asleep, but not quite yet. She is a bit out of it. I don’t like to leave her alone…”
“Well, I can sit with her for a minute, if you don’t think it will bother her.”
“No, and I’ll only be a minute.” Greg was relieved to have a plan. “I want to keep an eye out for the nurse as well.”
I crept upstairs and peered into the room, which looked as though it hadn’t changed much since the 1950s. Large cabbage roses formed stripes on the wallpaper and the furniture was a mixture of cheaply manufactured goods from the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. Aunty Mads was in the middle of a narrow bed, a faded and much washed cotton nightgown on her thin shoulders showed above the covers. The varnish and sachet smell was very strong in here, the place where she was most herself. There was something else too, though I hesitate to give it a concrete name: it was really more of a state. It was the absolute quiet of a room in which someone had given up.
