by Dana Cameron
As comparatively “new” as St. Alban’s churchyard was, it had been filled up over the past four hundred and eighty years. Hence the use of a lone man with a shovel: There would be no room to use mechanical equipment between the existing graves. Soon, however, he was joined by another, who protested that the traffic had held him up. The two fell quiet and worked quickly, methodically, with the ease of considerable practice. They moved down through the ground at a rapid pace, the soil mounding up neatly next to them in a long, low bank. I was thankful that they were silent as they worked.
I thought of all the homely human endeavors that began with the instant of a shovel biting into the earth. Fields tilled for grain, clay dug for pottery, trenches excavated for water, cellars scooped out for storage, and finally, perhaps, a little house fashioned for the last rest. I wondered if the sexton who dug Mother Beatrice’s grave beneath the cold stone floor of the abbey worked in reverent silence or whistled tunelessly and scratched himself during the course of what had been just one in a long line of working days. His two modern counterparts seemed to be working faster and faster, and with a start, I realized that they were tucking a length of grass-green material over the berm. They hurried away just as the back door of the church opened and I realized that I was witnessing Julia’s Whiting’s funeral.
If I stood now, it would be as if a jack-in-the-box sprang open, and I had no desire to draw any attention to myself, no wish to disturb their privacy. I huddled down next to the wall, everything concealed from the eyes down.
There were only a handful of people: Sabine, now appropriately solemn as vicar in her robes, George Whiting; and a few others, none of whom I recognized, unless you counted PC Whelton, who stood with another officer in plain clothes, discreetly at the edge of things. There was no sign of Mrs. Whiting. I realized that this was as close as I had ever been, would ever be, to meeting Julia.
The service was as brief as it was melancholy to watch. I couldn’t hear but every fourth or fifth word, and recognized most of those only because of how the funeral rites inevitably become a part of anyone’s adult life. I thought then of how robes and words transformed one. Sabine’s cassock, surplice, and stole reminded me of Jane’s graduation photo and it was right they should: They were both derived from the same medieval tradition. Morag had her robes too—I recalled the photo in her office—and I smiled, thinking that the three women had more in common than any of them might recognize or want to admit.
The breeze rattled the leaves, and my concentration on the scene before me was such that I almost didn’t hear the footsteps next to me.
I looked up with a start. The young stranger from outside the Fig and Thistle was there, the one who had left the note in the graveyard signed “Stephen.” He looked worse off than before, hollow eyed from little sleep, and his clothing was showing definite signs of wear not so much as clothing but as camping gear. He had made another effort to wash up, though. He nodded to me, as if expecting to see me down there, and then turned all his attention to the ceremony in the cemetery. He leaned forward expectantly, balancing on the balls of his feet, hands clenched into fists, and it was then that I recognized the family resemblance.
The service was over. The few people who’d been there with George Whiting now left and the two of us by the stone wall watched as the Reverend Sabine Jones spoke earnestly to George Whiting. The police pulled back to a respectful distance, and I marveled that it should be the case. Sabine seemed to be the only person he ever let talk to him, advise him, as I remembered from having seen them at Jeremy’s house that rainy day of the faux hunt. Something about her insistence touched him this time, because although he responded with no more than a curt nod, body still tense, she leaned back from him with what looked to be a sigh of relieved satisfaction. Some breakthrough had been made. She followed George to the door of the church, where the police joined him.
I got up and looked over at Stephen. “Your father could probably use some company now, you know.”
He shrugged. “Probably. Though he never did seem to have too much use for me, you know.”
“I have no idea; you’re probably right. But now’s…different, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I expect so. But it’s going to take me a while, isn’t it? I left because I was tired of trying. Tired of arguing with him when I finally realized I couldn’t set things right with my mother. But maybe if I’d tried a little more, Julia wouldn’t be dead.”
I shook my head. “I know from experience, it doesn’t work like that. You can’t save people. Julia had other people in her life who tried too. Who loved her. In the end she made her own decisions, and in the end it was out of everyone’s hands. It was just a terrible accident.”
“He could have done something,” Stephen insisted. I could see how much he took after his father. “He should have done something. He could have put her away, he should have, long before this, only he didn’t, out of pride. Stupid pride that doesn’t mean a damn thing. No one cared about his name, whether he’d come from money or from the gutter, no one did, really. It didn’t matter.”
“It mattered to him. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.”
Stephen turned away, bitterness over him like a caul. “Right. And look where it’s gotten us.”
I sighed. “It would be wrong to think of this as purely your father’s fault, you know. Some of it was beyond his control. Your mother…Ellen…he loved her, loves her. How hard must it have been to watch her disintegrate like that, then realize that you were the reason she did what she did?”
I didn’t expect an answer and didn’t get one. I suppose it took a lot of gall for me to make excuses for George Whiting, but Stephen didn’t tell me to shut up. He wanted to talk. “What will you do now?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Stick around a few days, then head back up to university; I’m working there through the summer term. I would like to finish up, but after, who knows.” He shrugged, worn out. “I’ll probably call him. Probably. But it will be bloody awful.”
“Probably. You know, if you do talk to him, why don’t you think about having Sabine Jones there? George listens to her, and she’d be a good person to have on hand.”
Stephen shrugged, and then the regularly spaced thump, whump of soil being shoveled onto his sister’s coffin began to fill the silence of the graveyard.
It’s that sound, I thought, my own throat constricting, that idea of finality that will reach him now. I watched Stephen closely, but he seemed no more affected by the burial than he had been by the spoken ritual.
We stood a few more minutes; I just couldn’t leave him like that.
“Can you show me the site?” he asked.
I nodded. “I can show you, but the gate will be locked today. I can tell you about it, though, if you want.”
He nodded and we walked back down the path toward the site. We stopped on the river side of the fence and peered through the links.
“It doesn’t look like much, just tarps and beaten down soil,” I said. “But under those tarps are the areas where the crew has been working, the medieval graves—”
“I know, Julia told me all about it.” He gritted his teeth. “All about it; her work meant the world to her. You could tell from all the details in her calls and e-mails. Where was she working? She said she was working in the northeast corner.”
I pointed out the area opposite us.
He nodded. “She said she had to keep an eye on her friend Lucy, who was a nice girl, but not very good at digging.” He smiled a little. “She felt responsible for Lucy’s work.”
I shrugged. “Lucy is okay; Julia was just that much better. They were finding—”
But Stephen was crying now. He clutched the fence and wept for his sister. It wasn’t the sound of dirt on coffin, but the place she had loved and described so well, now bereft of her presence, that did it. He hardly made any noise at all, but his slight shaking rattled the fence. I put one hand on the fence to quiet those vibrations, rested
the other on Stephen’s shoulder, and closed my eyes.
He stopped after a few minutes and pulled back carefully. He looked away and started to speak, then stopped. He looked at me.
“I was about to say something stupid and cheap, but I won’t. I won’t do it. Julia was worth more than that.”
I nodded, feeling my eyes well up. “I’m very sorry for this all. I—” I reached into my pocket until I found one of my university business cards, crumpled from being in my jeans. “Take this. If you ever want to…I’ve been through something like this, too.”
He looked at the card, then grinned briefly. “That’s right, your name’s Emma.”
I smiled a little back at him. “I guess we never introduced ourselves properly, did we?”
“No. But it’s all right. Thanks, Emma.” Stephen gave me a quick hug, and before I knew what was happening, he’d continued down the path, away from the site. I gave him a moment to get away, then followed the fence all the way around the site to the main road. I didn’t realize how rapt I was in my thoughts until I literally bumped into Morag, similarly preoccupied. There was an awkward moment between us.
“Hello,” I said.
She nodded. “I’m just out for a walk. It’s my lunch.”
“How’s the project going?”
“Good, but it will be over soon, thank heaven.” There was a pause; Morag was unusually subdued. She took a deep breath. “There’s no one at the site today.”
“No. Work was canceled because of Mads Crawford’s death.” I didn’t feel I needed to tell her what I’d just witnessed.
“We’ll remember her when we have coven next, and Julia Whiting, too. Pray for them both.” She looked down the path, back where she’d come from. “Pray for healing, the Lady’s mercy.”
I thought of Portia. “‘It is twice bless’d; it blesseth him that gives and him that takes. / ’tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.’”
Morag was impressed. “That’s very good. Is it from the Bible?”
“No.” I looked away. “I’ve got to be going. My ride leaves soon.”
Morag nodded, unsmiling. “The Lady’s blessing on you, then.”
“Thanks. Uh, you too.” As I walked toward the site and the main street, I could hear the little ripple of bells on Morag’s scarf receding in the distance.
Jane, Greg, and I were standing in the front hallway saying our good-byes, when Jeremy arrived. He and Greg took my bags out, and then Jeremy said he’d meet me in the car when I was ready. The silence in the hallway was overwhelming. Each of us was preoccupied with other things and we all looked dreadful, dark rings under our eyes. I was glad that there was so little time for good-byes.
“Got everything, then?” Greg asked. “Book to read? Candy? Motion sickness tablets? Smelling salts?” He smiled weakly.
“I’m all set, thanks.”
Greg kissed me on the cheek. “Good traveling, Emma. Take care. Good luck in London and…we’ll see you in Chicago, next year, I think is when the next meeting is?”
I kissed him back. “That’s right. See you then, Greg.”
He shifted from foot to foot. “Well, I’ll leave you girls to say good-bye, then.” He all but scampered away from us upstairs.
Jane and I were left alone together. “Well. Do come again when…When…”
“When…” I chimed in as cheerfully as I could, and fell similarly short.
“When we’ll make more time to take you around and see things,” Jane finished finally.
I nodded. “That sounds good.”
“You know,” she said, “I think Greg’s got something cooking. A surprise along the lines of the one your Brian has for you. Won’t say a peep about it.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You know? What is it?”
“Jane! I’m not going to ruin the surprise.”
“I hate surprises. I hate secrets.” But she looked childishly pleased in spite of it.
“Let me know how things turn out, okay?”
“Of course.” Jane quickly kissed me. “Thanks for coming, Emma,” she said to the air over my right shoulder. “I learned a lot.”
“Me too,” I said, shouldering my things. “Take care, Jane.”
“You too.”
I grabbed my backpack and jogged down to the waiting car.
Lunch was casual, and although Jeremy offered me chicken salad, he confessed that since Palmer was away, he was going to indulge in cheese and pickle. I decided to join him in that and enjoyed watching him eat the sandwich with such relish.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to meet Mother,” Jeremy said, after his second sandwich. He wiped a bit of pickle from the cuff of his shirt, but I was of the opinion that he should have left it there. The shirt was a truly horrible red and white striped dress shirt that made him look like a stick of peppermint. “She left directly after her birthday party for Switzerland. She would have enjoyed meeting you.”
“I’m sorry to have missed her. Speaking of which, where is Palmer?” I asked. I was only eager to know where he was so I could avoid him, if possible.
“His holidays. I practically have to shove him out the door every year. He never goes away, of course. Doesn’t like foreigners, doesn’t like anything new or different. I suspect that accounts for his attachment to this place. It makes sense to him, somehow. That’s part of the reason I let him help in the house when the other staff are on holiday during the summer; everyone needs to feel they belong somewhere.”
“I suppose they do.” Perhaps it also explained why he felt such antipathy to me, a foreigner, and Jane, an outsider to Marchester. “Let’s have a look at those sherds,” I suggested.
“Wonderful. They’re just in here.”
The pantry was huge, large enough to store service for a very large household and their guests. I could see stacks of plates behind glass doors built into the heavy wood cabinets, and more specialized items, like porcelain wine coolers and silver epergnes that would have been used to create stacked centerpieces of fruit or sweets. Jeremy pulled out a couple of shoeboxes and began to set out his broken treasures for me to examine on a long oak table in the middle of the room.
The sherds were caked with crumbs of dried soil, but that proved no problem; I was able to recognize them almost immediately. There was a wide variety, ranging from nineteenth-century wares with transfer-printed designs in blue all the way back to buff-bodied wares with a bright green glaze, that I suspected were either local English or possibly earlier French wares.
“I hate to be so vague,” I said, “but I’m betting this is late medieval and that’s just beyond my range of expertise. Where did you find them all?”
“In the rose garden.”
I smiled. “Jeremy, you have a very large rose garden. Do you know whereabouts? Which end of the rose garden?”
“Yes, I do!” He checked the shoeboxes. “This lot of the transfer-printed ones, I found them just outside here. The others were further away—”
“Near an older part of the house? An older kitchen area, maybe?” I suggested.
“Now that you mention it, yes! How did you know?”
“People would have chucked broken or unwanted crockery out the door, out the window. They didn’t start to get fussy about trash in plain sight until very recently, the past century and a half or so.”
“Really!”
I nodded. “It worked out well, really, the pottery would help create a solid surface in the mud, and any bones or food refuse would have fed any animals that were in the yard, or garden. I’ll bet you have some that match this later stuff still in your cupboards. Jane or Greg would be able to identify some of this earlier material for you a little more closely.”
“I invited Greg to come around some evening when we were loading your bags. He said they’d be happy to come once things settle down. Terribly sad about Mads Crawford, wasn’t it?”
“Y
es, it was,” I said. Sadder than anyone really knew.
“What do you think, Emma?” Jeremy asked, genuinely interested in my answer. “Will they get the remains of Mother Beatrice back?”
“Oh, yes. I know they will.”
Jeremy seemed to sense that I wasn’t going to say anything more about that—I was going to leave what details emerged to the police. “Speaking of mothers superior, I’ve had a telegram from Dora. She didn’t know how else to contact you and she wanted to make double sure that you’d seen the portrait of Frobisher Cholmondeley.”
“Oh?”
He grinned, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a creased piece of yellow paper. “Yes. Apparently she couldn’t stand the suspense of wondering whether you’d seen what she wanted you to see. She decided that she shouldn’t leave anything to chance and spelled it all out here. Longest telegram in history, I should think. It’s all here, have a look.”
I took the paper, and despite the fact that the words were printed and not handwritten, the language and the medium absolutely screamed “Dora” to me. It turned out, very simply, that she wanted me to notice the way the ruin’s stones were scattered, so that I might be able to tie them into things on the dig; not at all the minutiae I’d been hunting for.
“Is it anything helpful to you?” Jeremy asked.
“Not really. We’ve got the remains of that wall, of course, and any of those loose stones would have been the first ones robbed out, so it’s not much use to us. Still, Dora was thinking like an archaeologist, which is quite something. I’ve never seen a telegram before, though.”
“Rather a flair for the dramatic, hasn’t she?” Pooter agreed. “So it won’t change your views on Mother Beatrice, will it?”
“No—oh! Jeremy, I did think of something…er…a while back, and I completely forgot to tell Jane about it!” I told him my speculations about Frobisher Cholmondeley and the abbey ruins, the ones I’d formulated sitting outside the site in the middle of the night. “It seems like a long shot, but it’s worth investigating the documents, just in case. Do you mind if—?”
