by Sarah Maine
“Fine, apart from this bit of kit. Nothing much to show yet except more disturbed bones and a couple of beads. Scraps of iron.”
He nodded. “Well, if anything needs charging, bring them up to the house.”
She looked at him. “Is that alright?”
“Aye.”
“Don’t let the students hear you or they’ll all be clamouring to charge their phones.”
“They can use the sockets in the dairy, after hours, boots off, one at a time.”
“No, really—”
“That’s my electricity, not Hector’s.” He paused, then: “Alice told you, she said.”
“Yes.”
“It had to happen.” His face was devoid of expression and she had no idea how to reach him. The shutters were down.
“Three months, Alice said,” she probed gently.
“The baby’s due in October and they want us out before then. I’m sorry about your grandmother. Funeral went alright?”
“Thank you. Yes.” She wanted to tell him about the house, how she had felt, how she had seen Ellen’s grave, slept in Ellen’s house, but that was impossible now. The man looked gutted.
“Good,” he said, and squeezed her arm; then, like Alice, he turned to look at the manse, surveying the windows devoid of glass, the rotten frames, the clumps of bracken sprouting in the broken gutter. Starlings darted in and out of a hole in the roof. The planks which had been nailed across the door, she noticed, had been removed.
How would the boys feel about the change?
And David.
“Laila tells me it needs pulling down, so I’m bringing a builder to have a look tomorrow before she plants that idea in Hector’s mind,” he said, moving off.
“She wouldn’t—”
He shook his head. “Hector and I made a deal.” But was the deal backed up with deeds and documents? She daren’t ask.
Then she remembered something and put out a hand to stop him leaving. “Wait, please.” She ran back to the car and retrieved the package she had brought with her. “It’s the cross,” she said, handing it to him.
He handed it straight back. “I don’t want it, it’s yours. There’s no record of a theft, so the Sturrock lad must have slipped it in his pocket on his way to Canada and given it to Ellen. You’d no need to be worried.” He made to move off again.
“But I can’t suddenly declare I have it! Please take it, for safekeeping at least.” She thrust the package into his open jacket. “It ought to be in a museum.”
“Give it to a museum then.”
“They’ll ask questions. I had wondered . . .” she faltered.
“Go on.”
She felt her face colouring, hating the duplicity of it. “Well, I wondered if I gave it to you, could you just ‘find’ it again, inside an old book or in the back of a drawer, and then give it to a museum? It would be . . . neater.”
“But life isn’t neat, Libby.” He explored her face for a moment, saying nothing, and then his expression hardened. “And aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“There’d be no need for Laila to flog the Nasmyth if she could sell the cross.”
She stared at him. “But if there was a fuss about finding it, stuff in the press, she couldn’t just go ahead and sell it then, could she?”
“Laila makes her own rules. And she’s already said she won’t put up with the old kitchen and the vintage plumbing, and they’ll be selling every damn thing they can to pay for it all.” He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up at her again, an angry blaze in his eyes. “So follow your conscience, Liberty Snow, that way you sleep easy at night.”
Next morning the recording project in the church began, but there were blustery downpours to contend with and frequent retreats to the cook tent and caravan required. By lunchtime, however, the skies cleared, waterproofs were shed, and the smell of sun cream mingled with that of insect repellent. Rodri arrived with a builder and, with a brief nod to Libby, they went across to the old manse and disappeared inside.
Then the students sieving sand at the mound called her over. They’d found a larger lump of metal, more solid, and the shape suggested it might be part of the sword Libby had found previously. “More bones too,” Callum said, “a clavicle, ribs, and vertebrae, but still no skull. And another bead, a carnelian this time. Hello, who’s this?”
Libby looked up to see Laila Sturrock coming down the path towards them, wearing navy-blue trousers and a loose white top, immaculate as ever, and she raised a hand when she saw that Libby had spotted her.
“Libbee!” she called as she approached, implying an intimacy well wide of the mark. “So, you are here, and your students are here, working hard, and the sun is shining and all is well.”
“It’s Lady Sturrock,” Libby quietly informed Callum, and she heard him pass the news to the others.
“So, show me what you have found.” Laila reached them, breathless but glowing, a hand on her midriff, and she scanned them all with a blazing smile. Callum picked up the finds tray and brought it over to her.
It was just as well that he did so, because at the sight of her Libby’s brain had frozen.
“Not much, really,” Callum said. “Just this bead, which is nice, and some possible sword fragments.”
Her brain kicked back in, and she began calculating furiously. What was it Rodri had told her? She’d not taken it in— Rapidly she reran the conversation. Laila’s child was due in October, and it was now June, which meant that Laila was already five months pregnant.
Hence the bump.
Not large yet, but a very definite bump.
“Has Rodri told you our wonderful news?” Laila soon tired of scrap metal and chipped beads and came over to Libby, speaking in the low voice of a confidante.
“I can see for myself.” Libby forced a smile. “Congratulations.”
Laila looked complacently down at her midriff, smoothing her top over it. “I had my suspicions, my hopes, when I was here before, but Hector and I have had so many disappointments that I had to be sure before I said anything. And Hector, of course, had to be the first to know.”
Libby looked back at her. “Of course. When is it due?”
“He, not it. We asked when we had the scan because I just had to know. I was given the date of October twelfth, but babies are so unpredictable.”
Libby was fighting her disbelief. Either that bump had grown in the last few days or— “Do you feel it—him—moving yet?”
Laila hesitated, but only for a moment. “My mother always said that I was a lazy baby,” she said with a smile, “so sometimes I think so, but maybe it is indigestion.”
It was simply not possible. “And you’ll be here when he’s born. The eighth baronet, on home turf.”
Laila gave her a brilliant smile, then added, “Sadly, no, not here. He will be born in Norway. I feel more comfortable there, you understand, and the hospitals are better. And Rodri might need a little more time to arrange his own affairs.” As she spoke, Rodri and the builder emerged from the old manse, deep in discussion. Rodri looked briefly in their direction and then away again, and the two men walked up the track towards the builder’s van, where they stood talking. Laila’s eyes narrowed. “He’s quite mad, you know. That place needs pulling down. It is not a good building anymore.”
“But it’s his own place,” she said, and then wished she hadn’t.
The woman looked back at her. “Is that what he told you?”
The builder drove off and Rodri came towards them, stopping a moment to talk to Callum and admire the blade fragments; then he strolled over to them, poker-faced.
“Did he also tell you that you are mad?” Laila asked with her lilting smile.
“Useful stuff.”
Laila put her hand on his arm. “But you won’t start any work until you hear from Hector, will you?” There was something behind the sweetness that was not sweet, and Libby saw Rodri’s face darken.
�
�You know what you said yesterday about charging equipment?” she said quickly, and tried to catch his eye. “Could I bring my laptop and one or two other things up to the house tonight, do you think?”
Laila answered for him. “But of course! Come now. I will get Alice to make us tea.”
No way. “Thanks, but we need to keep going. Maybe this evening?” She gave Rodri a steady look. “I won’t get in the way. Perhaps best in the library or the dining room, away from dust and grease?” She saw him register the look, and a flicker crossed his features.
“Come about eight, when we’ve eaten.”
“But how ungracious, Rodri! Come and eat with us. You must, as my guest if not his. You can leave your students for one evening, surely, and your equipment can be charging while we eat.”
Libby went over and over the calculations in her mind as she headed up to the house that evening, the equipment in a rucksack on her back, and she reran the image of Laila in Heathrow. It was her, there was no doubt of that, she remembered seeing the mole on her left cheek when she had lifted her sunglasses. Sunglasses! She’d forgotten the sunglasses. Why wear them if not to pass unrecognised in case of a chance encounter? And she had been model-thin, wearing a close-fitting dress. Whatever she was up to, Libby was positive that there had been no bump.
It was Laila who opened the door to her, which was a nuisance, but she ushered her through to the kitchen where Rodri was stood over the Aga.
“Give those things to Rodri,” Laila said, “and he’ll set them to charge.”
“Thanks, but I think I’d better do it myself.”
“So do I.” Rodri came over and took the rucksack from her. “Come through to the library. Keep an eye on those pans, will you, Laila? Keep stirring or the sauce will catch.”
He led her through to the library and set the laptop down on the desk. “What is it?” he said, and suddenly it seemed so improbable, so incredibly offensive. And what if she was wrong? “Make it quick.”
There was no going back. “I don’t believe she’s pregnant.” He stared at her, and she ploughed on. “I saw her, just a few days ago, in Heathrow, and there was no bump. She was wearing tight-fitting clothes. And sunglasses.”
“Sunglasses?”
“She took them off. It was her.”
He continued to stare, then shook his head. “You saw someone who looked like her.”
“No. It was her.” She was certain, but she was also now terrified by what she was saying, and by his expression. Dear God, she had better be right.
He shook his head again, his eyes not leaving hers. “Impossible.”
The door was pushed open and Laila entered carrying a tray with three glasses on it, one of them containing orange juice. Libby bent quickly to plug in the battery, while Rodri did the same with the laptop. “I removed the sauce,” Laila said, “it was done. And what is impossible, Rodri?” she asked as she set the tray down, looking from one to the other.
Libby said the first thing that came into her head. “I was asking about digging inside the church. If we finish the other work, I wondered if Rodri would reconsider.”
Laila settled herself in one of the low armchairs and gave her a limpid smile. “Surely nothing is impossible. And now that I’m here, you must ask me! Please take a glass.”
Libby took one. “Of course, I hadn’t thought. If we get good weather and get finished, then perhaps I might discuss it with you.”
“No, no, discuss it now. Please!” Laila flashed a smile towards Rodri. “Because the day after tomorrow, I must return home.”
“So soon,” he murmured.
She sent him another smile. “There seems to be an endless stream of check-ups once a woman is over thirty-five. I don’t suppose our grandmothers had to put up with such things.”
“But then a lot of them died.”
His words were followed by a cold silence, and Laila turned back to Libby. “What is it you want to do in the church?”
Libby sipped her drink and considered. She was tempted to say they wanted to dig out the nave and put in a dance floor, just to see what she would say. “Perhaps some below-ground survey to start with, and then go from there.”
“There can surely be no objection to that!” Laila turned to Rodri, who was staring down into the fire, one hand on the mantelpiece.
“What?” he said, not moving. “No, none at all.”
“Then please feel free to go ahead. I will inform Hector.” Laila bestowed a gracious nod. “What will you hope to discover?”
Libby found herself parroting almost exactly what Declan had said when he’d sat in this room earlier in the year, improvising where there were gaps in her knowledge, and Laila pretended to listen, flicking an occasional look towards her brother-in-law where he still stood motionless, gazing down. Perhaps she thought he was sulking, but Libby knew otherwise.
Then abruptly he straightened, and Libby saw that she was right, recognising that spark in his eye. His force-of-nature look, Alice had called it, except that now that force was being carefully controlled, restrained—
“You know what, Laila,” he said, looking down at her glass. “We should open a bottle of fizz. I’ve been so astounded by your news that we’ve never actually celebrated—and since Libby is here too. A small glass will do you no harm.”
Laila opened her eyes wide as Rodri left the room. “Well!” she said, lifting her shoulders in a gesture of elegant incredulity. “That man is full of surprises.”
Yes, and so beware.
He returned a moment later with three champagne flutes and a bottle which he opened with some style, aiming the cork into the fire where it set off a shower of sparks and shrieks of protest from Laila. He filled the glasses, passed them round, and raised his own. “To the next baronet, and to you, Laila. And, of course, to Hector.” Libby raised her glass, murmuring her thanks, and then Rodri set his glass down. “And, dammit, I’ve not congratulated him either. That’s really bad of me.”
He went over to the phone on the desk. “He’s not at home, Rodri,” said Laila. “I told you—”
He put down the phone “Of course, Dubai again.” He pulled out his mobile, scrolling down to find the number. “They’re, what, about three hours ahead? So, it’s about nine-ish there, and if I know Hector he’ll just be warming up for the evening. But hopefully still coherent.” He put the phone to his ear, and waited. “Hello, Hector? That you?” Libby was watching Laila’s face, but her smile never wavered. “Damn, it’s gone to voicemail.” He left a brief message of congratulation, asking Hector to phone back, and then punched in a message as well, and smiled at them both. “Drink up, Libby. You too, Laila, it really won’t do you a bit of harm.”
“What is your husband doing in Dubai?” Libby asked, because Laila was looking at Rodri in a puzzled way.
“Trade delegations,” she said, shifting her attention back to Libby. “I never really understand what he does, but he has a role as facilitator between governments and various companies.” She flashed an arch look at Rodri. “His brother thinks he just opens the bottles and pours the drinks, but I think it is rather more.”
“Did I say that? Scurrilous of me,” Rodri remarked, checking his phone.
“He’s probably in a meeting, or at some dinner,” said Laila, watching him.
“Yeah. So let’s eat too, shall we?”
He called the boys from wherever they had been, and they all went through to the kitchen. Laila insisted on accompanying them to wash their hands while Rodri dished up the food. The boys slid silently into their seats, joined a minute or two later by Laila. Conversation flagged, and the boys eyed their aunt with the instinctive wariness of young creatures. What had they been told? Libby wondered. In an effort to draw attention away from Rodri, who sat silent and distracted at the end of the table, she described what they had discovered at the mound, and the boys were enchanted by the idea of the sword.
“It might be the sword that cut Odrhan’s head open,” Charlie speculated
.
“No, stupid!” his brother retorted. “If it’s Harald who was buried there, then Odrhan probably helped to bury it.”
“But doubtless it cut other people’s heads open.” His father seemed to spring back to life, and pushed a bowl of beans across the table. “So don’t fret.”
“How many, do you think?” Charlie asked Libby. “Heads, I mean.”
“Dozens, I expect,” she replied. What was Rodri up to?
Laila pulled a face. “Not over dinner, please.”
She was ignored. “They had axes too.” Charlie made a two-handed downward chopping gesture, which earned him another rebuke. “You might find one of those too.”
“Maybe. And we haven’t found the skull yet,” Libby remarked.
“Haven’t you?” the boys chorused, enthralled by the idea of a headless corpse.
“Someone disturbed the burial years later, you see, and—”
“It was Erik! He came back. The legend says so.” Donald had put down his knife and fork with a clatter.
“Donald—” But Laila held no sway here.
“Erik came back, killed Odrhan, and then dug up Harald. It must have been him, and he hacked off his head and—”
“Please!”
Laila had put her hands over her ears and appealed to Rodri, who simply added: “And Erik’s abandoned son bore witness to it all, so the legend says.”
A little silence fell.
“Clear the plates, lads, and bring on pudding. Tart, with whipped cream. OK with you, Laila?” He sat back and picked up his phone to check it. “Aha! Message from Hector. ‘Thanks. Yeah, great news, eh. Will ring from Oslo. Madness here.’ When is he back, Laila?”
She shrugged. “In about a week, I think. But plans change all the time.”
He nodded, that odd spark in his eye more intense now; he punched another message into his phone, then slipped it into his pocket.
A thought suddenly occurred to Charlie. “Does Uncle Hector like kayaking?”
Laila looked surprised. “I expect he does, I know I do. We used to fall in and out of kayaks all day when I was a child on the fjords.”
