Grave Consequences (8 page)

Now it was my turn to be amused. “No, not really. I usu
ally just make sure everyone drinks enough water, if it’s hot out.”

“Water?” Jane’s face now registered as much confusion as mine had: How could any crew manage on just water? she seemed to ask.

“It’s pretty standard. Actually, I’m considered a kind and beneficent director.”

“Uncivilized.” Jane was having a hard time grasping the Yankee work ethic. “Are you saying that you don’t want coffee now? I’d’ve thought you’d be glad, after this morning…”

“Actually, I’m floating. Maybe just a quick trip to the…what was it you called it? Porta-loo?”

“Yes, just over there. And when you get back—” She paused indecisively.

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m not stopping at the moment either. Perhaps we could discuss where to put you next.”

She must have seen Andrew hopping around. “Look, I’m sorry about how things went with Andrew, but I don’t think he can use me anymore—”

“I thought you did splendidly with Andrew,” she interrupted evenly. “He hasn’t complained about you and you haven’t cut his throat. He can be a charmer, when he chooses, and when he doesn’t choose, he can be something considerably less appealing. It’s just that you can’t work there any longer and we can use you better elsewhere in the meantime.”

I nodded. “I’ll just be a moment then.”

When I returned from my mission—and despite the different name, the British version of the outdoor convenience was no more appealing than its American counterpart—I idly followed the line of paper plates over to the edge of the site. They seemed to point directly to the center of the site, where I now saw Jane standing, waving me over to where she and Greg had been talking earlier that morning.

Jane was uncharacteristically hesitant when I arrived. She
stood beside a wide excavation area that was described by twelve nails that marked out the corners of six one-meter squares, three units over three. I noticed a faint, darker stain in the soil, about six feet by two, located just to the south of the middle set of nails. It was another burial.

“I’d like you to work here,” Jane said abruptly. “It’s rather sensitive and…I think you’re the person I’d trust most with it.”

I frowned. “What about you or Greg? What about Andrew? The rest of your crew have been here longer than I—”

“I can’t do it myself, obviously, and oversee the rest of the site. I wish I could. Greg can’t, because he has to help me and supervise the lab work as well. Andrew can’t because generally he doesn’t focus on just one burial—the one you were working on was special, because it looks like it is a crime scene. He has to help with that as well as keep an eye on all the other skeletons that are exposed. Julia would have been the one…but she’s not to be found and I can’t wait any longer. This is burial nineteen…and it’s important. It’s important to Marchester and it’s important to me, personally, truth be told.”

We were much closer to the last remaining wall of the abbey, closer to the river itself. I looked up and down the site, orienting myself, and guessed that we were well within the confines of the old abbey. The students were a ways off, definitely outside the building itself. If what I knew from my reading held true—

“You think this is where the abbess, Beatrice, might have been buried, don’t you?” I said.

Relief washed over Jane’s face. “Yes. The rest of the crew…well, they’re nowhere near as experienced as you, of course. Some of them I don’t want near it simply because I’m afraid that they are more susceptible to some of the new agey rubbish that some people have been propagating around town.”

I nodded slowly, understanding. “You mean Morag.”

Jane was amazed. “How do you know about her?”

“Andrew and Sabine—the vicar?—told me a little when she stopped by.”

My friend chewed her bottom lip. “I’m sorry to have missed Sabine, but I wasn’t about to take my eyes off that Morag. Well, yes, in any case, the more experienced ones are where I need them to be, and putting you here keeps them from being jealous of a fellow student getting the honor. And the less experienced ones just don’t get to cut their teeth on Beatrice.”

“What is her story?”

“She was a wealthy widow when she came to Marchester, where she had family connections. It wasn’t all that unusual for widows or young women to become vowesses—living a religious life of poverty and chastity without taking vows—but she actually became a nun. In a few years, she rose to the rank of abbess; this might have been because she was particularly holy, it might have been because her family in Marchester were powerful and able to exert a good deal of influence in the Church, or it might have been because it was her money that got the abbey out of debt and in good running order, through some rough times.”

Jane smiled. “I, of course, like to think it was a combination of things, and it helps if you look at the historical context as well. It’s disputed, of course, but thinking these days suggests that the late medieval Church offered responsibilities and freedoms to women that they couldn’t get in secular life, especially since there was supposed to be a special kind of piety in women who were consecrated as the brides of Christ. I think Beatrice was an ambitious woman who saw an opportunity to be someone of power, of consequence, and took that opportunity.”

I nodded. “Do you have any of her personal records? Is that what they suggest?”

“No, we just have a fragment of a set of instructions, informing her community that she wanted to be buried within the abbey—near this spot—and that she did not want an elaborate coffin. She saw no reason to lavish money on
housing the empty shell of her body when it could be better used in charity or in fixing the sisters’ leaking roofs.

“I’m sure I’ll turn up more as I continue the search. The anomalies from the remote sensing suggest that this is the right place within the east end of the church and I’m betting that even if she wasn’t the founder of the house, Mother Beatrice’s money would have gone a long way in assuring her wishes were carried out. And since you’ve got the credentials and the experience and you’ve nothing to do with any of the foo-faraw, you’re going to be the one to find out. I don’t think I could make a fairer choice than that.”

What Jane didn’t say, and what was immediately clear to me was that by placing me here, she was thrusting me into the middle of everything Palmer had warned me against.

When I didn’t say anything right away, Jane said, “You can handle it anyway you like, of course, just run it past me first.”

“If you really mean that, I’d like to find a screen and sift what I excavate, then,” I said quickly. “I just wouldn’t want to risk losing any of the data from such an important burial.”

“Of course,” Jane agreed, “if you like, though I honestly think your eye will be enough. Tell me what you need, and I’ll have Greg or one of the students pick it up from the DIY—the ‘do-it-yourself’ building center—tonight.”

“Just a couple of two-by-fours and some wire screening, two pieces, each about two feet square, one quarter-inch, the other, eighth-inch. I’ll put them together myself.”

“Fine.” Jane nodded. “For the moment, I think you’ve probably got a good bit of depth to go before you see the burial proper, so perhaps you could work on bringing that down?”

“Sure, but—” I frowned. “Shouldn’t there be paving, stones or brick, or something, though, for the floor of the abbey? Over the graves?”

“There would have been, but the worked stone was robbed out over the centuries. If you’re all set, I’ll be off.”

I began a recording sheet of my own on a beat-up clip
board and started work just as the rest of the crew reappeared. Not too much later, I heard Jane announce the lunch hour. I was getting annoyed with all these disruptions.

“Off you go,” she called to the departing students, “but no more than an hour. If I have to come down the pub to find you again, it’ll be off limits at lunch!”

She came over with Greg to fetch me. “How’s it going?” She peered down at my work eagerly.

I put my notebook under a bucket, lest it blow away or the weather turn bad. “Pretty well, I think.” I tried to restrain myself, but then blurted out, “You let them
drink
at lunchtime? And you let them play a radio?”

She looked puzzled. “Of course. Why not?”

“I just…never mind. What shall we do?”

“I say we pull up a couple of trees and eat. I’m ravenous.”

We ate the sandwiches Jane had made, and I listened while she and Greg went over the day’s progress. It sounded remarkably like what I was used to: some students who were on top of things, others who needed some help to do a good job, and a few who were just not able.

“—And Nicola’s doing okay, as long as I keep at her,” Greg said, around mouthfuls of egg salad—egg mayonaise, he’d called it. “She’s not as good as Julia, of course—”

“Oh, no, no one’s ever as good as
Julia
,” Jane said, uncharacteristically sarcastic.

I turned, all attention at this surprising vehemence, but Greg paid no attention. “—But she’s coming down cleanly enough. But unfortunately, Bonnie is not improving and Trevor is still making a mess of things, no matter where we put him. I wonder sometimes if it isn’t intentional.”

I recalled that I’d seen Bonnie busily at work that morning. At one point, she picked up a stone, troweled beneath it, and then replaced the rock, when she should either have removed the rock, if she’d judged it unimportant, or just left it be. No way do you mess around with context as she had. I’d been too shocked to say anything before Greg caught her at it.

After about fifty-five minutes, students began to come back in groups of threes and fours, some eager to return to work, others making the most of their break. Jane, Greg, and I discussed strategy and students for another twenty minutes.

“Bonnie’s a disaster and Trevor’s been flirting with disaster since we started here,” Jane said impatiently.

“He’s gone well beyond flirting with disaster; he’s gotten a leg over some time ago,” Greg replied.

“Just keep on him, I guess,” Jane said with resignation. “Keep him where he’ll do the least harm.” It was time for us to think about getting back to work too.

“Oh, God, here he comes. Greg, I simply can’t bear the sight of him right now. Would you mind—?”

“No, no, off you go.”

Jane made a hasty retreat as a bulky young man in what looked like untidy secondhand clothes sauntered toward us, a full ten minutes after everyone else had been back to work. He was fishing the last of a few french fries from out of the bottom of a McDonald’s container, ketchup and salt smeared over his fingers and mouth. In fact, although Greg was a bit dusty and rumpled from his morning’s work, Trevor looked as though he hadn’t changed his clothes in a month. The change the sight of this guy made in Greg was unbelievable; one of the quietest, kindest people I knew was now tightlipped with anger.

“Ah, we see our Trevor arriving now,” he said with mock welcome. “Good evening, Trev. Nice of you to join us at long last.”

Trevor pretended to be surprised by this reception and it instantly made
me
want to smack him. “Wot? I had to eat.” I noticed that Trevor’s pronunciation of vowels was longer, flatter, and more heavily accented than the others; he was not from around here.

“And yet everyone else seemed able to find their way through lunch and be back here on time,” Greg replied. “Why is it that you can’t, I wonder?”

Trevor ignored Greg and turned to me. “You the American?”

Greg went scarlet. “Hey, I’m
talking
to you—”

The student stuck another french fry in his mouth and chewed noisily. “I hate Americans. Fucking awful.”

I barely suppressed a laugh at this adolescent behavior. “I’m so sorry to hear it.”

Greg wasn’t nearly as amused as I was and advanced a step on Trevor. “You watch your goddamned mouth!”

Trevor shrugged helplessly and licked the tips of his fingers. “Sorry, but it’s true. I just can’t bring myself to be a hypocrite. I have to speak my mind.”

“How about this? How about you stop stuffing your stupid face and get to work?”

Trevor yawned. “Why? It’s not like I’m anywhere near anything interesting. Why bother?”

“Because as much as I have no desire to endure your odious presence any longer than absolutely required, I will not pass you simply for being the bone-idle, nasty little toe-rag that you are.” Greg’s voice was low and steeped with menace. “You will put in at least what looks like an honest effort to show a minimal competence or I will not sign off. I can’t just kick you out, but neither do I want you back here. Therefore, upon learning that you will return next year, for yet another final year, I will undertake to make your life miserable until you leave on your own. So I suggest you get to work and endeavor to meet the low level of achievement I have set for you, lest you cause me to start considering how best to ruin your life.”

Trevor paused, as impressed as I.

“But…Jane won’t like it,” he replied, rallying. “She won’t let you.”

Greg nodded. “But the problem is, Jane is a just person. She sees injustice in the world and is determined not to contribute to it. I, on the other hand, see that there is injustice in the world and reason that a spot more—carefully local
ized—will harm no one it’s not meant to and may in fact do a bit of good.”

Greg’s vehemence and willingness to threaten the student surprised me and Trevor too, it seemed. He actually stopped chewing for a moment, then looking Greg straight in the eye, deliberately dropped the bright red cardboard box at his instructor’s feet. “I’m done, anyway,” he announced, shuffling off toward his area.

Greg looked like he would cheerfully have pounded Trevor into the ground as he watched him leave. He shrugged off his anger and then smiled at me. “I’m sorry. I thought, for some stupid reason, that calling him out in front of a stranger might actually make an impact on the lout.”

“Well, you convinced me, anyway,” I said. “I’ll behave from now on.”

Greg smiled wryly. “He knows I am capable of torture; I went to public school.”