Grave Consequences (15 page)

“Do you mind?” He turned on me and I almost stepped backward, the force of his personality and words was so strong. I decided immediately that I didn’t ever want to cross this man. “This is a private conversation.”

Shouting on the open street in the middle of town on a
crowded work site doesn’t fit my definition of “private,” I thought. George Whiting must have had the same thought, for instantly he flushed to the color of a fire engine, an alarming display of passion, and turned to Jane once again.

“Don’t you ever imagine this is over,” he said in a low voice that hummed with power, his pointing finger within an inch of Jane’s nose. “Don’t you even
dream
it.”

He waited a beat for the message to sink in, and then turned and marched off toward his car with a stiff-necked, stiff-legged gait that might have been comical had anyone else tried to imitate it, but as executed by George Whiting, it spelled out a danger signal as clear as any display of fangs or claws in the animal kingdom. He got into the brand-new bottle-green Jaguar and roared off.

I thought about how rough the construction trade could be, how some of my friends had been asked by the contractors who hired them—out of federal or state regulation, usually—to ignore certain objects discovered when a site was tested prior to building. Had been asked to deemphasize things that would have held up work. It left a bad taste in my mouth, and that was just on my insulated side of things—everyone was always telling stories about the mob, or even just shady practices, trimming the quality of materiel, etc., never mind pulling strings in local government. So there was a lot to look into, perhaps, when it came to George Whiting. And my friend Kam, Brian’s boss and one-time roommate, was always pointing out to me that “only criminals and politicians drive Jags.” When I asked him about his own XJR—surely he was not a criminal, just a chemist?—he corrected me gently. “I would never dream of driving one in London. I’d as soon wear a pair of green wellies in town. But in America, well, everyone wants to be an outlaw, don’t they? That’s different.”

Obviously, Mr. Whiting didn’t share Kam’s advanced theories of aesthetics.

I turned back to Jane, who was not watching George
Whiting’s departure, as I had been, but was staring at me, white-faced and trembling.

“What have I done? Oh, God, Emma—” And with that, for the second time that day, she burst into tears.

Oh no.

Not at all knowing what the proper British etiquette might be in such a situation, I decided to fall back on what I knew would be appropriate at home. I hugged Jane despite the fact that I’m not a huggy person; I rather suspected that if I’d been through the day Jane had been having, I’d probably not mind someone at least trying to comfort me. And as we stood there for what seemed like a long time, Jane’s sobs grew steadily more harsh, not lessening, as they might have. I wondered how long it had been since she’d let herself have a good long cry. I also began to wonder about Whiting’s accusations and Jane’s reactions to them: What would have happened if I hadn’t shown up? It was particularly worrying in the light of Greg’s description of Jane feeling hunted, pursued by turks younger than herself. Jane had once upon a time, three days ago, mentioned to Andrew how much she would do to protect her position and reputation. And now, as much as I didn’t like to think about it while my friend was wracked with sobs, I had to consider, seriously, the question of just how far Jane might have gone to do just that.

B
Y LUNCHTIME, HOWEVER, IT WAS AS IF NOTHING AT
all had happened during the tea-break. After two minutes of crying, Jane had abruptly pulled away from me, and in a strangled, annoyed voice, explained that she needed to use the loo. I stood there stupidly for about ten minutes, fully expecting she’d come back and explain what had happened with George Whiting, and only then realized that wasn’t going to happen when I saw her across the site, quite composed, helping Bonnie with her notes. Then I felt angry, waiting for her like an idiot. I ate the sandwich I’d bought in the cafe that morning, sourly watching Jane eat the one I’d bought for her, since she’d been too distraught to think about preparation earlier.

And when I went over to Jane, determined to ask her if I might have a quiet word with her, she looked at me straight in the eye and said that yes, she’d be delighted, only she was quite busy at the moment, could I possibly—

I said, “Yes, of course,” more abruptly than I meant, but far more politely than I wanted, turned on my heel, and didn’t quite stomp over to where my work was waiting for
me, much neglected that morning and now a perfect diversion for me. I was just trying to sort out how I could possibly be sympathetic to Jane
and
still want to shake her—and in what proportions—when thankfully, the dirt began to speak to me.

It is precisely that kind of quiet moment, when things outside you recede and things in the ground start to make a little more sense than they had just bare minutes before, that is the very reason you put up with the all the dirt and trouble of doing the work. I fell into that easy rhythm of scraping at the soil—it all seemed to come out perfectly level now, I would have bet there was no more than a centimeter’s variation across the entire unit—and observing what I had exposed; writing my notes was painlessly simple, the words came readily and precisely. I also knew that I would remember the moment perfectly, years from now. It was the sort of thing I’d come to England for, since directing my own projects, although having a different sort of thrill, didn’t often allow me to do my own digging. These moments were precious.

There were very few stones now, so it was the change in the sound of the trowel on the ground that alerted me that something was happening. The soil had become darker and more humic, looser and softer, so I wondered if I hadn’t encountered the disintegrated shroud or the rotting wood of a coffin. I would have to watch for coffin hardware and the remains of wood; if Beatrice had been buried in a shroud, I might find straight pins as well. I took a few preliminary photographs, even though there was really nothing to see yet: it was still only evident through touch and sound.

When I looked up again, I glanced at my watch and was faintly surprised to see that it was most of the way through the after-lunch break. Although it wasn’t unusual for me to get so wrapped up in my work, most of the crew was already gone, and I noticed that Jane had not bothered to remind me to stop; she was positioned as far from me as she could be without actually leaving the site. Well, good, I thought,
slamming my pencil down, I didn’t want to eat lunch with her anyway. But then I noticed that she and Greg seemed to be more comfortable with each other again; something had been repaired since that morning while I was otherwise occupied, perhaps only minutes before, because I saw Greg reach over and squeeze Jane’s hand briefly from his seat on the ground, as good as a declaration to anyone.

And then, typically, Trevor chose that particular moment to reappear. After an absence from his work of nearly three days, the chunky pain in the backside walked with uncharacteristic haste to his work area and settled in without a word. I wasn’t terribly close by—he had been positioned in an area to minimize damage through neglect or incompetence, after all, and I was right at the heart of things. But even from where I was, I could see the other significant, noticeable difference in Trevor that perhaps had been the real reason he’d waited until most of the crew had cleared out during a break. Even from my distance, I could see a very clean, very new, very white bandage across his nose. Where had he been to get that? And what else had happened in the meantime?

Not even bothering to be discreet, I watched the little drama between him and Greg unfold. At first, Jane caught at Greg’s hand, not wanting him to speak to Trevor, but he gently disengaged himself and went over to the student. Although I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I could imagine very plainly what was going on between them. Their actions were very clear, and I filled in the dialogue for myself.

Greg gestured.
Where the hell have you been?

Trevor kept his head down to his work and didn’t meet Greg’s eyes.
Nowhere.

And what the hell have you been up to?
Greg gestured at Trevor’s face.
What happened here?

Trevor shrugged.
Fell down the stairs. Tripped over the cat.

After only a moment or two of this fruitless interview, Greg’s shoulders heaved in a great sigh. Trevor kept his head
down, focusing on his notes in an uncharacteristically studious fashion. Finally, Greg gave up and walked away.

The other students returned from the pub, filing back in small groups, and it was Trevor’s failure to rise to their collective bait that decided me that something besides the broken nose had profoundly changed the heretofore loudmouthed student—possibly something to do with Julia. I decided that I might try finding out a little more about what had happened to Trevor later on this evening.

Once the other members of the crew were back to work, always a little bit less energetically than at the beginning of the day, somewhat slowed by beer and the idea that there was only the merest splinter of the day left to work, Jane came over to my area. I now saw definite traces of something showing up in the grave shaft and was optimistic that it was an undisturbed burial. I gave her a perfunctory report and we discussed my progress in a businesslike fashion: two professionals who might only just have met, considering the changing soil, the possibility of hardware. Then Jane colored briefly, looked away, and said hurriedly:

“About this morning. Sorry you got drawn into that. Bit of a nuisance, really—”

Bit of a nuisance? “Jane, that was
George Whiting,
wasn’t it? He was talking about his daughter Julia, right? What did he say to you before I got there? He was purple!”

I thought she wasn’t going to answer for a moment; she was watching as tools were collected for the night. Her face was a study in noncommunication. “It’s still a bit too fresh to me. But you’re a good friend, Emma. You’ve been really splendid through all this. I just need some time to sort this all out. A little time, is all. Let me buy you a drink tonight, and then we can talk more—all right?”

I didn’t think that the pub was the best place for a private discussion, but I was going to hold Jane to her promise. With relief, I said, “Sure. That’d be fine.”

But as work finished, it became immediately clear that Trevor, still quite unlike himself, wasn’t going to be a part of
the evening pub session. “Where you going, then?” asked Bonnie, who was one of the few people still willing to speak to him on a social basis. The others, emboldened by his downcast manner and bandage, had done nothing more than direct a few caustic cracks in his direction.

“Nowhere,” he said. “Piss off.”

“You needn’t get your nose out of joint,” she said huffily, then laughed at her own unintentional joke.

Trevor didn’t even spare a scowl for her but set off in the opposite direction from the Prince of Wales. This was new, I thought. Then it occurred to me that I was seeing a lot of deviations from the norm today: Trevor’s rejection of the usual pub, Jane’s cracking and her later cussedness toward me, the friction between her and Greg, and the presence of the very angry George Whiting on the site, confronting a woman whom, by all rights, he should have been very happy to avoid. I had already tried to ask Jane what was happening to no avail and Whiting wouldn’t be likely to answer my questions, so I decided that it was time to see if I could find out from Trevor what had had such a profound effect on him.

I realized that I had taken it upon myself to look into things, ask questions of people who didn’t want to answer. It occurred to me that Sabine had noticed what I hadn’t—that after Jane’s interview with the police, I’d easily, unconsciously, slipped again into the role of being the one to sort things out. Greg’s behavior was another spur, as were Andrew’s absences and then Trevor’s. On top of those pictures of Julia and the modern skeleton with the tip of a knife lodged in it—the list was getting very long. I needed to find out what was going on, and if no one would tell me, then I would find other avenues to explore. Jane just didn’t understand: I could help her with this.

I caught Jane’s eye as I picked up my bag. “I’ve got an errand or two to run. I’ll meet you at the pub, okay?”

She looked puzzled and almost said something, but then changed her mind at the last moment. “All right, then.”

I let Trevor get a block or so ahead of me, and since he
didn’t expect anyone to follow him, I had a pretty easy time of it. Though I supposed there was no real reason even to stay out of his sight.

After a few blocks, I noticed that this section of Marchester was a little more run-down, a little less nicely kept up than the sections I’d spent my time in up until now. The doorways were strewn with discarded and stained wrappers from fast food joints, and there were beer cans, taller and with more colorful labels than the ones we had at home, mingled in with them. I still wasn’t quite used to the idea of being able to walk around with a beer in my hand, if I wanted to. Where I came from, you got a warning from the cops if you even thought about liquor in public. I paused to cross the street—again, carefully reminding myself that the traffic was going to be coming on my right. Graffiti began to appear, mostly raillery against the local police, and the longer I followed Trevor, the more the buildings took on a distinctly seedy appearance. I sped up a little, not so much to keep Trevor from getting out of sight, as to suggest to the loitering youths that I knew where I was going and that I had a purpose in being there. They didn’t say anything to me, though they did turn quiet as I passed, and one clucked at me; this was followed by laughter in the group. I wasn’t fooling them or myself.

Before too long, Trevor turned into a pub and I followed him, grateful to be getting off the street. The Fig and Thistle was not as well marked as the Prince of Wales—there was none of the landlord’s pride in the exterior—but even the gloom inside didn’t faze me at first. The Prince of Wales had been dark too, but then I began to realize that darkness was cozy rather than dismal. Even so, I really should have been more aware of what I was getting myself into.

Trevor was at the bar, paying for a large glass of clear liquid, as the bartender put away a bottle of nondescript vodka. The student drank off half his glass. As I went over to Trevor, I tried to catch the bartender’s eye, but he looked straight at me and walked past without stopping. Mentally I
tried out a new word that I’d heard someone use when talking to Trevor: wanker. Never mind, I had other things on my mind than drinking.

I pulled up next to Trevor, who choked when he recognized me. I sat down and waited for him to stop coughing.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He whipped his head around wildly, perhaps trying to see if anyone saw us together.

“Just thought I’d try a change from the Prince of Wales. Though I don’t think the bartender—landlord? publican?—would you say—”

“I wouldn’t say bollocks,” he sputtered.

“—Is as nice as Ian. Still.” I tried to get the attention of the barman again, with no further luck. “That’s quite a nose job you got there. What happened?”

“None of your bleeding business! Why don’t you piss off?”

I decided that the direct approach would be best. “Where have you been the past couple of days? I mean, it doesn’t take two days to get a nose patched up, unless of course you went in for cosmetic surgery, in which case you should be more careful about going out into the sun, not that there’s been much of that lately. Is there someone you’re trying to—”

“There’s never a moment’s peace from you bloody women, is there?” Trevor slugged back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the sticky wood of the bar, kicked back his stool, and left.

That was when I noticed just how quiet the rest of the pub had become. I watched Trevor leave, and looking around me, I saw that I was the only woman in the pub. Every eye in the place was on me, there was no friendliness in any of them, and every one of the other patrons had observed my brief row with Trevor. There was, however, amusement in two faces that I was startled to find I recognized. I swore under my breath and turned quickly around, pretending that I hadn’t seen anyone I knew. The bartender, now watching me
intently, sauntered slowly over to my end of the bar, a cigarette dangling from one side of his mouth.

“Pint of bitter, please,” I said, thinking quickly, hoping that he would serve me this time, hoping I would be allowed to sit at the bar and the others at the table would get up and leave without passing me. I really should have just left.

“Ladies don’t drink pints of bitter,” he said loudly, mockingly. A few chuckles were heard from the tables. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering what was going on. “In Britain, ladies have halves of cider.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m an American, then, isn’t it?” I said, then cringed: I had been trying for banter, but it came out as more of a challenge than I intended. I decided that if I was going to get out of this, I had to stand my ground. “Just the pint, please.”

The bartender held my gaze for a moment longer, then pulled out a pint glass and managed the optic in a careless fashion. The result was a glass that was only three quarters filled, about half of that foam.

“Two pounds fifty,” he said, and although I suspected the price had been inflated for my benefit, I put the money on the bar without arguing. Call it the unladylike-American tax.