by Sarah Maine
Almost at once their work was rewarded. Scraps of corroded iron began to appear.
“What was it?” Rodri asked.
“Impossible to say without x-raying it, but it suggests there is something else in there.”
Rodri met her eyes. “Great,” adding softly, “so we need to get them to stop, right?”
“Ideally, yes.” But as work progressed, it became increasingly clear that the mound was far from undisturbed. The dark stain which she believed to be decayed turfs was not, as she’d hoped, a constant feature, but was confined mostly to the edges of the mound, and there was evidence that it had been cut into. And then a shout went up from one of the policemen and he straightened, holding something. A revolver. The smoking gun—
Her stomach turned over at the sight of it.
For a moment she had forgotten the reason that they were here, and the discovery brought work to a halt.
The man held the gun between finger and thumb as if fingerprints might have survived the century, and she saw that it had a short barrel and a distinctive chequerboard pattern on the grip. “A Webley, by the looks of it,” the policeman said. “The early RIC model.”
“Do we have a date?” asked Rodri.
“Around 1860. They became standard police force issue after the Royal Irish Constabulary adopted them, and pocket gun of choice for anyone who wanted one. The early models used .442 Boxer cartridges.”
“Consistent with the bullet?” Fergus asked.
The man nodded. There was an almost audible release of tension, and Rodri looked across at her, one eyebrow slightly raised. “So does that close the case, gentlemen?” he asked.
But he had been too hasty and Fergus shook his head. “There might be something else.”
Libby seized the opportunity to explain her thoughts about the turf layer. “I think the whole mound was turf-covered once, and if I could just spend a moment cleaning the surface, we might get a better idea—” Fergus agreed, and she went to work before he could change his mind.
It didn’t take long for the situation to clarify. Her rapid cleaning demonstrated that if there had been a turf layer, it had been cut through along one side, and whoever had then robbed the burial mound had done so with careless abandon— And since the Victorian body had been found in the upper layers on the other side, these must have been two entirely separate events, divided, perhaps, by centuries.
She explained her reasoning to the police who, now that official duty was no longer so pressing, seemed as intrigued as she was. Slowly and subtly command of the operation shifted to her, helped along by Rodri’s careful nudging. The police now stuck to the side from which the man’s bones and the revolver had been recovered, while Libby worked along the other side, and Rodri continued to sieve the sand. After a further half hour, he called her over to examine the sieve’s contents.
“Are these human?”
Small bones lay in the bottom of the sieve. “Yes. Hands, by the look of them.”
She looked up and met Rodri’s eyes. “Better stop again, lads,” he said. “There’s someone else in there.” But these bones were bleached clean, shell white, and looked quite different to those lifted before.
“But older, much older,” she said.
Fergus came across to look and seemed convinced.
Alice came down with coffee, greeting Libby like an old friend, and they paused to drink it, then carried on, and those few bones were quickly followed by others. A collarbone, then a femur, and then ribs, one by one. Each was carefully bagged and recorded. The sound of a vehicle reached them, and Rodri looked up. “Delivery, I expect,” said Alice, and returned to the house. The next find got everyone excited. It was part of a sword hilt with the blade snapped across six inches down its length. “Your Viking?” Rodri asked.
“Could be,” Libby replied, feeling increasingly anxious. They should stop now or there would be nothing left. What a travesty! It was followed by more small fragments of iron, a pin which once fixed clothing in place, garment hooks—all confirming that the mound had once contained a much earlier burial.
Then suddenly, a reprieve. “There’s nothing for us here, boys,” Fergus said, straightening and leaning on his shovel. “We’ll hand over to you, Libby. And if Mr. Sturrock doesn’t mind, we’ll—” He broke off, as Rodri was no longer listening but stood frozen, staring ahead, his gaze fixed on a figure that had appeared on the path from the house.
A woman in city clothes was carefully picking her way down towards them.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and went to meet her, stopping at the edge of the dunes. They stood talking for a moment, and then the woman turned and went back up the path towards the house.
Rodri returned, his face expressionless, and silently helped to pack up the equipment and take it to Libby’s car. When he was out of earshot, she heard one of the policemen mutter, “That was her ladyship, wasn’t it?”
“Looked like it,” agreed Fergus, and Libby watched the woman disappear through the garden gate.
Rodri slipped into the passenger seat beside Libby a moment later, and confirmed the matter. “My sister-in-law has chosen this moment to drop by,” he said quietly.
“From Oslo!”
He nodded. “That’s what she said.” Then: “So was that your Viking, do you think?”
“What was left of him, yes.”
“Him?” He seemed distracted. “Oh, yes—the sword.”
Earlier Libby had heard Rodri invite the policemen back to the house for a bite to eat when they were done, and when they entered the kitchen Lady Sturrock was seated at the kitchen table, her chin resting elegantly on the palm of her hand. Alice was beside the Aga with her back towards her.
“Ah!” said the woman, raising her head and smiling. “All finished? But how exciting this is! I told Alice to make everyone a warm drink and prepare a little food.”
“Aye. She did,” said Alice, turning to set a teapot on the table, and Libby noticed two high spots of colour on her cheeks. “And there it is. What’ll you have, Fergus? Andy?”
Libby noticed Rodri briefly touch her shoulder as he passed and saw Alice respond with a quick smile. “For those who’ve not had the pleasure, let me introduce my sister-in-law, Laila. Lady Sturrock—” He introduced the policemen, who grunted and nodded. “And, Laila, meet Libby Snow, archaeologist in charge.”
“Oho! How fascinating. And what have you found?”
Did she know about the body recovered a week ago? Rodri had surely told his brother, but Libby decided to play it safe. He was back into coiled-spring mode. “It looks like it was once a burial mound, but it’s been robbed out—”
“Robbed!” The woman looked quickly over at Rodri. “Not again!”
Libby hastened to correct her. “No, no. In the past, centuries ago. The bones and artefacts are all jumbled up. All there is left is a sword—”
“A sword!” the woman interrupted again. “How marvellous. I must see it!”
She thought she heard one of Alice’s little hrmph noises, but it was Rodri who responded: “Just a rusty bit of metal, Laila, broken off below the hilt. No jewels, no gold.”
Laila Sturrock bestowed a sweet smile on Libby. “But so interesting for you, my dear.”
“Yes,” said Libby. The woman was perhaps ten years her senior, maybe more, it was difficult to tell. Everything about her was immaculate and she emitted an aura of creamy elegance. And wealth—Libby could only guess what her outfit must have cost. Not a single blond hair was out of place and her complexion was as smooth as satin, but she did not belong in this spartan kitchen, and its atmosphere of well-being had been altered. She sat, almost regally, at one end of the table, speaking kindly to the suddenly taciturn Fergus, presiding over events, and making it clear with every gesture that she had the right to do so. The policemen did not hang about once they had finished eating but rose, making their excuses, and Laila Sturrock rose too and shook their hands, thanking them graciously. Rodri stood by watch
ing her, saying nothing, and then followed the men out.
She turned to Libby and held out her hand. “And thank you, my dear, for helping us with all this unpleasant business.” So she must know about the body. “Have you far to go?”
“Libby’s staying here,” Alice stated. “As Rodri’s guest.”
The woman’s mouth opened in a perfect O and her eyes surveyed Libby again, more speculatively this time, and she smiled. “But how nice,” she said, and sat down again.
Rodri returned to the kitchen. Taking the last of the bacon sandwiches from the plate, he sat down at the far end of the table, opposite Laila. “Well, isn’t this is a delightful surprise,” he said, and bit into the roll.
If Laila heard the irony she didn’t show it, but just smiled her sweet smile again. “Hector asked me to come if I could, so I changed my flight to travel via Glasgow and hired a car. Then I’ll fly back to London before I head home.”
“When?”
His tone was barely civil, and she didn’t answer. “What news is there of the other body?” she asked instead. “Hector is most concerned.”
“Is he? Why?”
“What a question!” She raised her eyebrows in polite incredulity, and rolled her eyes at Libby. “A man is found murdered and buried on the estate, and you ask why Hector is concerned—?”
“As I said in my e-mail, the body’s over a hundred years old. And we found the probable murder weapon today, a nineteenth-century revolver. But we’ve learned nothing else.” He chewed the rest of his sandwich and swallowed. “I told Hector I’d keep him informed, and if he is so concerned, why hasn’t he rung me?”
“So do we know who it is?”
“No.”
Libby stood, uncomfortable in the increasing tension, but Rodri put out a hand. “We need to talk.”
“Yes, I know, but for now I’ll just walk back down to the mound, and have a think.”
She was aware of Laila Sturrock watching her, her oval eyes sliding from Rodri to her and then back. “We too must talk, Rodri.” And to Libby: “I’ll not keep him long, my dear.”
Libby had no real desire to go back to the mound, but needed an excuse to leave them. The set-up here got more bizarre. Rodri, after their first meeting, had been nothing but friendly and helpful, in stark contrast to his manner just now which had been brusque to the point of rudeness. The wind still blew cold on her face as she left the shelter of the garden and went down to the dunes. And familial ties apart, wasn’t his sister-in-law, to some extent, also his boss?
She went over to the mound and stood staring down at the ravaged site, trying not to dwell on what might have been. The wind was already drying the newly disturbed surfaces and soon their activities there would be nothing more than a few new humps and bumps, lost amongst others in the sand. They had recovered fewer than half of the bones from the disturbed burial, and no skull, but the size of the well-developed humerus and the sword fragments all indicated a male burial. And that gave rise to the inevitable question: Were they the remains of the legendary Harald, brother of the warlord Erik, and lover of his wife? Could there really be such a close tie-up with the legend?
She lifted her head and gazed out towards the headland. It wasn’t hard to imagine the scene: the men bearing Harald’s body down from Odrhan’s cell, with Ulla following and the monk too perhaps. The following day, the legend said, the men had left, having no reason to stay only to serve Ulla, a woman powerless without her man. Had they returned to Erik, or set out to pursue their own fortunes taking the gold, leaving Harald there amongst the dunes?
She left the mound, drawn again to the headland, wondering where Ulla herself had been laid to rest. And then her thoughts moved forward in time to when the legend became entangled with another story. The body of the other man must connect with Ellen’s story, but how—
She heard movement behind her and Coalbox bounded forward, pushing his nose into her hand. “So,” said Rodri, as he climbed over the rocks. “Did we find Harald, do you think?”
“I was just wondering.”
He came and stood beside her. “And who decided to hack into his mound and pull him apart?”
“That too.”
“At least you can comfort yourself with the thought that the mound was already disturbed.”
“Cold comfort, but yes. Although I’ve no project now.”
He gave her a sideways look. “Says who?” But then his attention was caught by a small fishing boat which had appeared from around the headland, trailing a cloud of gulls as it cleaved through the choppy seas. It gave a short blast on a horn and someone raised a hand. Rodri raised his in return. “It’s Angus,” he said. “He’s taken the lads fishing.” Three heads appeared above the side and three arms waved back. “They’re well off out there,” he added softly, “and they’ll stay over.”
“Because of the digging?” she asked, but suspected it was not that.
His answer was oblique but seemed to confirm the thought. “Laila leaves in the morning, but we’ll have her company tonight. A shame, actually, because there’re some papers I wanted to show you, some of the stuff Hector assembled. They’ll interest you, I think.” She nodded, registering the fact that he didn’t want to discuss them in front of Hector’s wife.
Nor, apparently, did he want his children under the same roof.
Then he swung round and looked about him at the tumbled stones of Odrhan’s cell. “And what about all this, then?” he asked, tapping a rock with his toe. “What would you do here?”
“Make a proper plan for a start, then clear the stones and—” But he’d lost interest again and was looking back towards the house that he called home, and that Sturrock frown was back between his brows.
Dinner that night was awkward. Alice had left them a meat pie which Laila picked at, remarking how thick and solid British food was, and how hard on the digestion. Rodri remained coldly polite throughout, engaging Libby in conversation while fielding Laila’s questions about the boys’ whereabouts and her persistent enquiries into how his food business was doing.
“Are you making money yet?”
“Some.”
“We must review the rent for the dairy then.” It was playfully said, but Libby saw the muscles in Rodri’s jaw tighten. “I never understood this word peppercorn.”
“You don’t need to. It’s between me and Hector.”
“I will ask Hector to explain. And we really should talk about bringing the business under the estate management since you use the Sturrock House name, after all, and—” She jerked aside as Coalbox padded over. “Oh, that dog! Take it away, Rodri, it’s licking my shoes, and I can feel my asthma coming on.”
Coalbox retreated to his basket. “Asthma? That’s new, isn’t it?”
“I’ve always suffered with it. Have you forgotten!”
“Probably.”
Libby grew increasingly uncomfortable as the meal progressed. Laila alternated between an unconvincing charm and calculated goading, Rodri between sarcasm and silence. There was bad blood here, and it was a relief when they had finished and Rodri got up to clear the plates away.
“When will the boys be home? I haven’t seen my nephews at all,” Laila asked, with a little moue of disappointment.
“They’re staying over with Maddy and Alice. David asked them.”
“Then I shall miss seeing them!”
“I’ll tell them you were asking.”
She gave him a look, then shrugged. “Oh well, next time. Now, where can I find cardboard, and some sort of padding?”
“What for?”
“To wrap the painting, of course. I told you.”
Rodri came back to the table. “You’re surely not thinking of taking it as cabin baggage? Even if it isn’t a Nasmyth, it deserves better treatment than that.”
“How else will I get it to London?”
Rodri ran his fingers though his hair. “Why this sudden need to have it authenticated? It’s hung there minding its own busine
ss for decades. More wine, Libby?” He leant across the table to fill her glass.
Laila was not deflected. “But we must know for sure, of course we must! Hector’s certain it’s a Nasmyth.”
“Hector’s deluded. It’s a copy.”
Laila turned to Libby. “Do you know anything about paintings, Libbee?”
“Very little,” she replied, keen not to be drawn in.
But there was no escape. “Then come and I will show you.” Laila sprang to her feet and took Libby by the wrist, pulling her half-playfully into the library, where she halted in front of a landscape painting Libby had admired earlier, a soft highland scene with sweeping mountains and a threatening sky. “There, is it not fine! And my husband believes it to be the work of Alexander Nasmyth, although sadly it is unsigned.”
“Awkward—”
“And so the only way is for a specialist to decide, don’t you think?” Rodri appeared in the doorway and leaned against the door jamb, wine glass in hand. Laila threw him a coquettish smile. “I shall enlist Libbee to my side.”
Libby was not inclined to be enlisted. “But does it matter, unless you want to sell it? Or insure it, I suppose.”
Rodri raised his glass to his lips. “And last time that didn’t end so well, did it?”
Laila went and sat in one of the low armchairs by the fire. “Are you bringing the wine through for us all, or just your own glass?” She gestured Libby to the other chair. “Such a bad host! Come and sit with me, my dear. I am so glad that you are here. You know, I expect, what he is referring to?”
Libby could guess. “The chalice?”
“Just so.” Laila pulled a face and curled her legs up into the chair with effortless elegance. “We think that someone connected with the insurance company was behind it, or that one of them spoke to the wrong people. We’d just had it valued, you see, for insurance purposes.” Rodri reappeared carrying the wine bottle and two glasses, and gave her a wry look. “And then, just days later, someone broke into the house, smashed the cabinet, and took it, before we had completed all the documents.”
