Gather the Bones

by Alison Stuart

  * * * *

  “Sam says you and Mrs. Morrow met this morning,” Sarah placed the tray with tea and biscuits on the library table.

  “Couldn’t avoid her,” Paul replied, looking up from unpacking the first of six neat wooden boxes. He knew Leonard Woolley would not have sent him the most interesting pieces but the fact he trusted him with any of the precious finds, said much for the great archaeologist’s respect for Paul’s talents.

  “What’s that?” Sarah indicated the artifact in his hand. “Looks like a lump of dried mud.”

  “It is, Sarah,” Paul set the clay tablet down on the table. “And it is my task to translate what is written on it.”

  Sarah peered at the cuneiform inscription. “That’s writing? You can read that?”

  He picked up the unedifying object and smiled at the pattern of what looked like little arrows that had been pressed into the still damp mud two thousand years ago. “Most of the time.”

  Sarah sniffed. “You always were the clever one,” she said. “I’ll leave you in peace. What time do you want lunch?”

  “One will be fine,” Paul said, already absorbed in the little tale of domestic life revealed on the ‘lump of dried mud’.

  As it always did when he became lost in a task, the morning drifted away and his tea went cold. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven and he frowned in annoyance at the sound of some sort of commotion going on above him. Beyond the heavy oak door leading to the narrow, wooden stairs, he could hear a child’s voice raised in what sounded like protestation. What had Sarah said about the joy of a child’s laughter?

  Paul leaned back, tipping his chair on to its back legs, and stretched his stiff limbs. He gave the library door a glance as he heard the clatter of small feet on the stairs. The door crashed open with such ferocity that Paul nearly lost his balance.

  A small girl, her fair hair done in two plaits stood with her hand on the door latch, staring at him. The child appeared to be frozen in fear, her eyes large orbs in her thin brown face.

  He regained his balance and his composure.

  “I take it you’re Alice?” he asked.

  The girl nodded and her eyes widened even further. “I’m going to get into terrible trouble aren’t I?”

  “Why?”

  “Grandmama said I was not on any account to make any noise and disturb you or come to the library.”

  “Grandmama said that, did she?”

  The plaits bobbed on her shoulders as the child nodded.

  “Then we’d better not tell her,” he said.

  Alice let go of the door latch and took a few steps into the room, looking around as if searching for something.

  “I was trying to catch the dog,” she said. “Have you seen it?”

  Paul frowned. “What dog?”

  “A cocker spaniel. I know he’s a cocker spaniel because Aunt Chloe has one. He ran in here. I saw him.”

  Paul closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now it was dogs?

  “Alice, there are no dogs in here,” he said. “We haven’t had a dog since...”

  Since your father’s old spaniel, Reuben, died.

  “But I saw him,” Alice persisted. “He ran right in here.”

  “Through a closed door?”

  “But the door was open...” She looked back at the door and frowned. “Are you sure you don’t have a dog in here?”

  “Quite sure, but I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Alice.”

  She smiled and Paul’s fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. She had her father’s bright, disarming smile.

  “You’re not scary at all,” she said.

  “Did you think I would be?”

  “Mummy thinks you’re scary. She makes me tiptoe every time we go past your door.”

  “And where is your mother?”

  “She’s gone to Birmingham with Grandmama.”

  Alice had advanced all the way into the room and stood beside the table, looking down at the clay tablets he had unpacked.

  “What are these?”

  “Each tablet has writing on it, called Babylonian cuneiform. It’s the oldest writing ever known,” Paul picked up one of the tablets and held it out to her. “That is thousands of years old.”

  She lifted her hands to take the object but at the last minute pulled back, looking up at him. “Can I hold it?”

  He nodded and Alice took the tablet with a reverence that impressed him. She turned it over, her eyes wide and curious.

  “If it’s writing, do you know what it says?”

  “Yes. It’s a list of all the grains that this man has in his store house.”

  Alice pulled a face. “That sounds very boring.”

  “It can be but sometimes you come across little stories, like this one about the boy who wouldn’t go to school.”

  He retrieved the tablet from her and tapped another one on the table with the end of his pencil.

  “What is the story about?”

  He rifled through the notes he had already made that morning and read the rough translation out to her. She rewarded him with a bright beaming smile.

  “That’s a funny story,” she said. “It sounds like my cousin, Alf. He doesn’t like to go to school much.”

  “People are still the same aren’t they, even though this story is thousands of years old,” Paul said.

  “Oh, is that a typewriter?” Alice stood in front of the old Remington Paul had retrieved from the estate office. “Do you know how to type?”

  “Not well,” Paul admitted with a rueful smile.

  Alice ran her fingers over the keys of the old machine.

  “You should ask Mummy. She’s really good. She even showed me how to do it.”

  Unbidden, Alice knelt up on the chair facing the typewriter, fed some paper in and began to thrash away at the keys.

  “There.” She looked at him. “That’s how you type.”

  “Very good,” Paul said. “Maybe I should ask you to do my typing?”

  Alice looked down at the papers on the table. “I can’t read your writing,” she said pragmatically. She looked up at the window. “You’ve got a lovely horse.” “Sam lets me feed him carrots. Uncle Tony is going to lend me a pony to ride. His name is Turnip and he’s a piebald.”

  “That’s nice of Uncle Tony,” Paul commented with the same flash of guilt he had felt that morning.

  “Mummy’s been riding Minter,” Alice said.

  “I know. I’ve seen her. Your mother is a good rider,” he observed.

  “She is.” Alice said with evident pride. “Grandad says she’s better than some of the men on Terrala.”

  The child wandered over to the bookshelves and pulled a large folio book from the bottom shelf. She opened the book on the carpet and lay down on her stomach, turning the heavy pages.

  Paul glanced at the clock. “Alice, I do have work to do.”

  She turned an earnest little face to look up at him. “Can I stay here with you? I won’t make any noise.”

  Just for a moment, he saw her father and heard himself saying without conscious thought, “Of course you can.” He glanced at the tray of untouched tea things on the table. “On condition you go and ask Sarah to bring us some fresh tea and biscuits.”

  Chapter 5

  After lunch, Paul sought out the room in the house that had always been known as the estate office. He opened the safe and took out the books, settling himself at the desk to make some sense of the finances.

  As he ran his eye down the columns of figures, he could not miss the change in handwriting from Prynne, the former estate manager, to his own interspersed with Evelyn’s familiar spidery hand. One by one the staff, both in the house and on the land had gone. Now only the Pollards, and he and Evelyn remained.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Paul looked up. His aunt stood at the door, her hand resting on the handle and an incredulous look on her face.

  “Doing what I always do when I ge
t home, Evelyn. I’m going through the estate books and wondering how we can keep going.”

  He saw a flush of color rise to her pale cheeks as Evelyn stepped into the room. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said. “I’ve had a telegram from Edith. She’s unwell so I thought I should go up to London to see her.”

  Paul considered his aunt and bit his tongue against the scathing comment that rose to his lips. Her older sister enjoyed a state of perpetual ill-health, usually exacerbated when her husband had business that took him away from her constant demands.

  “I think it would be good for you to have a few days in London. See some friends, go to the theatre. Enjoy yourself.”

  She visibly relaxed as if she had been expecting him to argue with her.

  “When do you leave?”

  “I thought I would catch the six o’clock train this evening,” Evelyn took a step into the room, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her cardigan. “Since you’re taking an interest in estate matters, I need to talk to you about the church restoration appeal.”

  Paul shut the account book with a thump intended to punctuate his next comment. “No, you don’t need to talk to me about the church. I have no interest in the church, its restoration or its lack of appeal. I have at least two farms that have leaking roofs which, in my opinion, take precedence over the church.”

  Evelyn opened her mouth to say something then clamped it shut again, viewing her nephew with evident displeasure.

  “You really don’t understand your position, do you?” she said at last. “You have obligations and responsibilities.”

  “None of which I asked for,” Paul snapped back. “In fact I am only too well aware of my obligations and responsibilities and it is a matter of priorities, Evelyn. The church is not one of them.”

  “You are the last of the Morrows.”

  “You know damn well I am long beyond caring about what happens to the Morrows, or to this bloody estate.”

  “Don’t swear, Paul,” Evelyn said.

  “Sorry.” Paul ran his hand through his hair and softened his tone. “Evelyn, I never wanted it to be like this and you’re wrong, I do understand my responsibilities. That is my dilemma.” He tapped the account book. “We can’t go on trying to pretend that everything is just as it always was. There is simply no money.”

  “We can sell the library–” Evelyn began but he cut her short.

  “Then what will we sell? Will we go on selling everything until we’re left with nothing but packing cases in large empty rooms?”

  “There are five centuries of your family history in this house. You can’t just walk away.”

  Paul sighed. He had heard it all before from Evelyn, a circular argument he would never win. “The world has changed, Evelyn. We have to do things differently now.”

  “No we don’t.” Evelyn exclaimed. “If it had been–” she broke off, cutting off the words that should have followed.

  If it had been Charlie instead of you sitting there, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.

  The unsaid words lay between them, an unbridgeable gulf. Paul took a breath and closed his eyes. He swiveled the chair around to look out of the window as he said, “Go to London, Evelyn. Enjoy yourself for a couple of days.”

  “How can I possibly enjoy myself,” she snapped. “You’ve just told me, there’s no money.”

  Paul turned back to face her. “You’ve held everything together for so long. Who am I to begrudge you a new hat and an evening at the theatre? Please go and forget our troubles.”

  She met his eyes and he could see the defiance in them. “Yes,” she said. “I think a few days away will do me good. I will be back on Friday morning in time for Maude’s party. Will you be coming?”

  When he didn’t reply she said, “It would do you good to have some people around you.”

  “I’ve just returned from three months on an archaeological dig, Evelyn. No shortage of people, trust me.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it. You’re away for months on end and then you shut yourself in here. Little wonder people talk…” she broke off.

  “And what do they talk about, Evelyn?” Paul kept his tone even. “I thought the doctors told you I needed peace and quiet, not the meaningless chatter of your friends.”

  Her lips tightened. “You’ve never understood,” she said, pulling her cardigan tight around her slender frame as she turned on her heel leaving him alone in the silent room.

  * * * *

  Helen set down her novel and rose to her feet, glancing at her little clock that stood on the bedside table. It showed ten thirty. With Evelyn gone, the house seemed empty. To make life a little easier for Sarah, she and Alice had eaten their evening meal in the kitchen and played cards for a little while before Alice went to bed.

  Sitting down at the dressing table she reached for her hairbrush, uttering an unladylike curse when she found it was missing from its usual place. Annie, the girl from the village who helped Sarah, seemed to be always moving the contents of her dressing table. Just this morning she had found the photographs face down and the hand mirror on the bed. Now it was the turn of her hairbrush which she located on the mantelpiece behind a vase. She stood in the middle of the room with the hairbrush in her hand and decided that before settling down she would make herself some cocoa and bring it back to bed while she finished reading her novel.

  As she opened the door into the corridor, the utter silence of the house closed in on her. She pulled her dressing gown tighter and walked briskly toward the main staircase, her way lit only by the thin moonlight shining in through the old, diamond- paned windows.

  At the top of the stairs, she stopped, resting her hand on the newel post. In the overwhelming silence of the old house, she could hear the distant, but unmistakable sound of someone crying. For a moment she held her breath, every nerve in her body taut, as the pathetic sobbing of a woman drifted through the house.

  She looked back toward her room but the sound didn’t come from that direction. The only inhabitant of that part of the house, Alice, had been fast asleep, curled up with her arms wrapped around her rabbit. Frowning with concentration, she decided that the crying came from the front of the house. Her curiosity piqued, Helen walked along the gallery toward Paul Morrow’s rooms, the ancient floorboards creaking at every step.

  A faint light came from beneath his door but the house had fallen silent again. It crossed her mind to knock on his door and check everything was all right but the crying had been a woman. What if he had company? That could account for the sound, or perhaps the noise came from an animal outside the house? Either way Paul would not thank her if she disturbed him.

  Helen took a breath and but as she turned back toward the stairs the sobbing came again louder and more insistent. Spinning on her heel she looked at Paul Morrow’s door. It did not come from his room but from the direction of Evelyn’s room at the end of the gallery, above the library. She followed the sound and approaching the end of the corridor, she took a startled breath. A yellow light emanated from the staircase leading down to the library. It appeared that the lights were on and the library door left open.

  She shook her head. This wasn’t unusual. Paul Morrow kept his own hours and had work to do in the library. But even as the thought crossed her mind, the heart wrenching sobs rose to a crescendo. Helen crept forward along the corridor. As she reached the stairs to the library, she hesitated. If Paul Morrow had a woman in the library, it was none of her business and neither of them would welcome her intrusion.

  She thought about the man she had met in the stable that morning, the man Charlie had spoken of so often. Paul Morrow, as distant and apparently reclusive as he appeared to be, did not seem the type to reduce women to such heartbroken sobs. Whatever was going on in the library was none of her business.

  Helen turned to make her way back to the kitchen. As she passed the door to Lady Morrow’s room, it swung open and a draft of cold air enveloped her.
She shivered, her breath frosting in the chilly atmosphere, and reached out her left hand to close the door. As she grasped the doorknob and started to pull the door shut, cold fingers closed around her wrist and an unseen hand grasped her with such force she could feel each finger and the pressure of a thumb. Where the phantom fingers touched her skin, it felt like ice had been pressed against her.

  She tried to scream but could only manage a strangled gurgle as the invisible force on her wrist tugged at her, pulling her toward the staircase. The more she resisted the tighter the grip became resembling the “Chinese burns” her brother, Henry, used to give her as a child.

  Behind her a floorboard creaked and as suddenly as it had appeared the apparition vanished, leaving Helen motionless, staring at her outstretched hand. Her heart thudded in her chest and her breath came in short gasps.

  She turned blindly, screaming as a shadow loomed up behind her, blocking the light from the windows.

  * * * *

  In the shadowy corridor, Paul could see the slight figure in a blue robe of some kind standing at the door to Evelyn’s room. She stood quite still her arm outstretched as if pointing to the library stairs.

  As he reached her, Helen turned and screamed. Her knees appeared to buckle and he caught her and held her by the forearms, turning her to face him.

  “Steady,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  She sank in his grip, and for a moment he thought she had fainted. In the watery moonlight that filtered in through the windows her face looked ashen.

  “Paul?”

  His name came out in a whispered rush as she hung limp in his grasp. Instinctively he put his arms around her, drawing her in toward him like he would a small child. Helen leaned against his chest and he could smell the sweet, floral scent of soap in her hair.

  “Helen?” She looked up at him and frowned, stiffening in his embrace. He released her, taking a step back as she ran a shaking hand through her hair that fell loose around her face.