Grave Consequences (18 page)

“It’s something about your pictures,” I said, folding the note into one of my pockets. “She claims that there’s something important about one of the landscapes that I should see.”

“Then you’ll have to have a good squint at them when we get back, if you like,” Jeremy said instantly. “What is it that you should be looking for?”

“She doesn’t say,” I replied. “She assumes that I’ve already noticed, or will do immediately upon viewing it again.”

He cocked his head and clucked. “Isn’t that like our Dora? But we wouldn’t have her any other way, would we?”

“Well…” I was ungracious enough to start, but Jeremy interrupted me, quite convinced, and set all argument aside.

“She has her little moments, I grant you, but she wouldn’t be Dora if she didn’t, now, would she? And we’ve quite enough uninteresting people in the world without wanting to turn her into another one, don’t we?”

“You’re right,” I said, but secretly I thought there were moments when Dora could stand to be a little more boring.

Palmer stuck his head into the room, avoiding my gaze altogether. “Whenever you’re ready, my lord. The other guests are all assembled outside.”

“Excellent, Palmer. We’ll give you, say, a ten-minute head start?”

“Very good, my lord.”

“And do ask Rachel to circulate with the drinks again. Well, Emma, let’s get things under way, shall we?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been monopolizing you.”

“Not at all. Once more around with a cheering cup, and away we’ll go.”

We exited out to a part of the garden that ran alongside the house, a gravel way that led out to formal beds—presumably those in which Jeremy had found his sherd collection—and ran up to a garage that had once upon a time been a stable. About twenty people had congregated there, some
rather jolly from the hunt cup, all talking animatedly. The chat fell off gradually as it was realized that the host had arrived on the scene. Jeremy rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation.

“Good morning, good morning! Just a few more moments and we’ll begin. We have a newcomer today, and I’ve no doubt that you’ll make Emma Fielding feel welcome in our little group.”

There was some polite clapping to accompany the discreetly curious glances in my direction. Jeremy excused himself to greet other guests and I looked around me to see if there was anyone I knew. I only recognized Sabine without her collar, who nodded hello, but was busily chatting with parishioners. Several people introduced themselves and we discussed the probability of rain interrupting our event. A few spoke knowledgeably about archaeology and I was reminded of the accessibility of it to more people in Britain than in the United States. People were dressed in everything from athletic wear to tweeds, but all wore shoes made for uncertain terrain. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to see more people I knew because the population of the dig, my whole world at the moment, was only a tiny percentage of the rest of town.

And then there was the baying of dogs as they were led out of their runs by the whip. All of a sudden, Dora’s inquiries after Roxie and her pups made sense to me, although I assumed mother and babies wouldn’t be participating today. There wasn’t actually a horn sounding, but all at once there seemed to be a buildup of excitement among the animals. Then we were off.

The chaos was controlled, but it was chaos nonetheless. The dogs stayed more or less in one body, but this was loosely described and got looser the deeper we went into the woods. One foxhound caught a scent and with a triumphant yelp that made me cover my ears, he moved with some of his fellows away from the main part of the pack, which con
tinued on. With some good-natured hallooing and cursing, the human party split up, some still following Palmer, some trying to round the strays up. I followed Jeremy’s group for a while, and then watched as things disintegrated further, as chatting about neighborly affairs and hunting down straying dogs and the removal of snagged clothing from briars took precedence over following any scent. As I tried to follow the banter that went back and forth in Jeremy’s group as we all ran along, in-jokes that had obviously evolved over many such weekends, I realized that no imaginary fox had ever been less threatened.

I had been running alongside and chatting with a young man in his twenties who introduced himself as Rory. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues and a torn black concert T-shirt that read “Scraping Foetus Off the Wheel” in bold red letters. The name of the band alone made it entirely possible to overlook the fact that the T-shirt, either of antique vintage or extraordinarily well worn, was held together with safety pins and a piece of electrical tape. The young man’s hair was bright metallic blue. As we ran along, I found myself wishing, in a peculiarly grown-up fashion that unnerved me, that Rory would buy a clean T-shirt and stop putting on so much eyeliner, because he really seemed very nice and had such good skin. We had been discussing the possibilities of his coming holiday in France when he abruptly measured his length on the path with a heartfelt “Fuckwad!”

I trotted back to see what the matter was. Rory’s boot lace had broken and when he snagged his foot on a root, he stepped straight out of his Doc Marten boot. My suggestion of retying the lace together was as sensible as it was useless, for the laces on both boots were already too short from being previously and repeatedly broken and reknotted, until there was nothing but knots left. The offending lace was dirty and meant for a banker’s brogue, the other was a girl’s shoelace, pink shot through with silver, neither of which would ever have been the right length to begin with. After a few moments of fiddling about, Rory gave up.

“Well, pissflaps. I reckon that’s it for me. I’m going to head back and suss out what’s for lunch.”

“Oh, well. It was nice to have met you, Rory. I’m sorry you’ll have to miss the rest of the hunt.”

Rory shrugged. “There’ll be others. Uncle Jeremy always asks me when I’m home.”

So Jeremy was his uncle? Did that mean young, colorful Rory also had a title of some kind?

“Very nice to have met you, Emma. I’m pretty sure if you follow this same path the way we’ve been going, you’ll happen on the others soon enough.”

And as he limped off back the way we’d come, the boot slapping against the bottom of his right foot, I was absurdly pleased that he had not called me Mrs. Fielding, as he might have and which drove me crazy. That honorific always made me feel absolutely wizened, and I kept looking around behind me for my mother when I heard it. Dr. Fielding had its place of course, but the increasing occasions on which I was called “Mrs.” these days just reminded me that I was now further away than ever from the point in my life when I might have worn obnoxious concert T-shirts. Each “Mrs.” brought with it a tiny pang of recognition that I was no longer “just starting out” but “well established.” I still thought of myself as twenty, but the rest of the world saw me as thirty-two, next stop forty, and I was pretty sure I didn’t like that.

I realized I knew better than I admitted where Jane was, and if I was going to be perfectly honest, I also would admit that every time I heard “Mrs.,” I pushed myself just that little bit further, trying to distinguish myself from it. I knew exactly what was driving Jane and me both, and I didn’t like it. It was like the treadmills at the gym, and we both had to learn to step off.

I had been immersed in these thoughts and had lost track of the voices of the others; soon I realized that I was alone. I wasn’t especially worried, as there were paths to follow, and after all, a pack of dogs and a crowd of people do leave some
trace behind them. I walked for a few more minutes, listening carefully for the dogs and voices beyond the bird song, when I heard something else that made me stop. There was a hiss followed by the smell of sulfur: someone, quite close by me, had struck a match.

My heart was in my throat: Something told me not to call out. I can’t say that it was the spirit of the occasion, because no one had bothered being very quiet up until now: This was more of the chase than the hunt. I suppose it was just that I realized suddenly that apart from that noise, I’d heard nothing else, none of the careless, ambient noises that humans make when they are simply standing. No breath, no shifting of weight, no rub of fabric.

Someone didn’t want to be heard. Right up until the moment they’d struck the match.

I turned around abruptly. Palmer was standing behind me, lit cigarette and matchbox in one hand, the extinguished match in the other. I realized that I could also detect another sharp smell, this one definitely animal rather than mineral.

“Not lost, are we?”

I thought: I can yell, if I have to. The others would be close enough by to hear a really good scream, if it came to that, wouldn’t they? But I was far enough away not to hear their shouts or the dogs and their racket. Then I realized my mouth was already so dry from running that I might not be able to make a noise if I had to. I tensed up, wondering whether tearing headlong into an unfamiliar forest was a good idea.

I swallowed. “I guess I’m not so lost if I’ve found you.”

Palmer stuck the burnt out end of the used match into his mouth briefly and then carefully replaced it in the box, which he tucked away into a shirt pocket. I realized he was practicing good woodcraft by not littering.

“Well, there are no prizes for finding the fox here, I can tell you that,” said Palmer heavily. “I know the dogs don’t know it; they can’t help themselves, poor buggers. It’s all in
stinct with them. But I want to make very certain that
you
understand that.” That last he said with slow, careful emphasis.

Any second now, I thought, bracing myself.

“All this rushing about, looking for things that really aren’t there. Seems a bit of a waste of time to me.”

Palmer stepped forward. I, unwillingly, stepped back a pace, all too ready to spring away, if necessary.

“I suppose that’s his lordship’s privilege, though. I wouldn’t stand for a pack of strangers poking into my business, nosing about the place. I don’t stand for it, simple as that.”

He means me, I thought, trying to keep my eye on Palmer. I tried to remember whether the way behind me was clear.

Palmer stepped forward again. “I’ve work to finish here—”

Here it comes…ready now. I tensed, nearly on tiptoe, as if anticipating a starter’s gun. The hunt’s horn.

“—So you’d best be getting back to the house.”

It took a minute for that to sink in. “Wh-what?” It wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting and it knocked me off my balance.

Palmer looked up into the sky, held out an experimental hand. “It looks like rain. You do have enough sense to get yourself out of the rain, don’t you?”

“I…huh?” I looked behind me, looked up into the sky, confused.

“Turn yourself around, go back the way you came about fifty yards. Pass through the clearing, and then follow the path on your right. That will take you to the edge of the woods, and you can find your way back well enough from there. If not, the others will be back this way shortly. The rain will wipe out the trail and the dogs won’t know what to do with themselves.”

He grinned, knowing he’d got me wound up, and then wiped his nose, showing off the scars on the back of his hand, just as the sky, as if by command, opened up and the
rain began to pour down. At first, all I could hear was the rain on the leaves, but as the downpour grew heavier, cold drops began to penetrate the canopy and pelt us both.

“Looks like the fox gets away today, at any rate.” With that, Palmer picked up the burlap which had been soaked in fox scent and passed very close by me as he headed off into the woods, vanishing within seconds. I turned, stupefied, and not knowing what else to do, followed his directions out of the woods.

I made it to open ground shortly and, to my relief, heard the others—humans and animals alike—not far behind me. As I waited for the rest of the hunt to catch up, I felt the rain weigh down my coat and beat onto the stiff canvas of my hat. That sound reminded me of camping in the rain, and as I scuffed back through the duff and underbrush, I wondered whether the fox that had gotten away today was Palmer or me.

A
S IT TURNED OUT, THE OTHERS MADE IT BACK TO THE
house just ahead of me; I had been ahead of them but had come out at the far end of the garden rather than closer to the house where we’d begun. Inside there was a rack for dripping coats and hats and a mat covered with muddy shoes at one end of a long gallery, where the members of the hunt were busily descending upon a buffet groaning under sandwiches, quiche, and, I was grateful to see, a steaming kettle of soup. After a moment’s hesitation, I took off my sneakers, joining the rest of the stocking-footed crowd as they mingled under the collective watchful gaze of generations of Pooter’s ancestors.

It seemed that, at last, Jeremy had gotten his way; I bit into one of the sandwiches and found that it was cheese and pickle. The “pickle” here was a brown, lumpy, vinegary sauce that took me aback at first, so very different was it from the pickled cucumber slices I was used to. After a couple of bites, I realized that the sweetly sour taste nicely complemented the cheddar and, washed down with a bottle of beer, was quite heavenly.

I saw Rory and he waved; he’d knotted a dishcloth around his boot rather than finding a piece of twine. I thought about having another sandwich, but decided to try the soup instead. It was a curried carrot that drove the last of the cold and damp from me. As I ate, I heard a despondent sigh next to me.

An older man, in a tweed jacket and corduroys so worn there were patches of wale rubbed away, stood next to me in his wooly-stockinged feet, pondering the soup with dismay. His hair was more salt than pepper, wiry; he had overlong eyebrows that curled in mesmerizing directions. Add a round, almost non-existent little chin and a hooked nose and it all made him look quite owlish. He looked at me and shrugged, smiling sadly.

“I suppose it’s warm and wet, but soup to me means ‘chicken’ or maybe ‘split pea,’” he said in a mournful tone. “I don’t hold much with too many spices. They unsettle me so.”

“I was just about to return my bowl; can I take yours for you?”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you.”

When I returned from the buffet, Jeremy was talking with the older man and quickly introduced me. “Now, Emma, I’m very glad that you’ve met Gilstrap here, I was meaning to introduce the two of you. He’s a very fine historian and I was just telling him how you were working with Jane Compton, eh, Edward?”

“Not really an historian,” Mr. Gilstrap said, “but I have spent quite a bit of time studying the town and church records of Marchester and I dare say I know them as well as anyone.”

“Not really a historian!” Jeremy said. “Don’t let him fool you! He’s the recording secretary of the Marchester Historical Society, has been since anyone can remember!”

“Pooter here has been telling me that you were going to look at the pictures in the hall. I was wondering if I could join you? I do like to have a look at them every so often. I’d
like to publish a little pamphlet on them sometime, as a souvenir of the city, but it is so costly to print photographs and I am getting a little too old for such a project—”

“By all means, join us,” I said.

“If you’re ready, Emma,” Jeremy said. “We’ll spend a few moments with the pictures, and then be back for dessert before anyone knows we’ve gone.”

We wound our way through the house back to the front hallway and I marveled again at the range of beautiful things in the house. I wondered whether, given sufficient funds and thirty generations’ time, I could have put together as nice a collection.

“Here we are,” Jeremy announced. “Actually, I’d better not tarry. If you think you can find your own way back, I’ll just leave you to carry on. I really shouldn’t leave the others, not when Jenny Ruggles is going to tell us the story of how she was thrown at Daddy’s hunt in 1954.”

Mr. Gilstrap chortled. “No, you couldn’t miss that. You’ve only heard it forty times, so far.”

“Then you’ll be joining me?” Jeremy asked mischievously.

“Good God, no. I was there in ’fifty-four and it wasn’t that funny then; it gets worse every year. Please don’t trouble yourself on our account, but go, a willing lamb to the slaughter.”

Mr. Gilstrap and I strolled along the entryway from the far end, meaning that we were traveling backward through time, each picture a little earlier than the last, moving from the nineteenth-and twentieth-century landscapes to the earlier portraits, until we got to the end nearest the door. The first five pictures were portraits, of men who looked like clergy; they might have been prominent townsmen, but they didn’t look like connections of Jeremy’s. All the Hyde-Spofford portraits in the long gallery where lunch was being served had a similarity about the nose and the chin that marked the family right to the present day. Now that I considered some of Rory’s features beneath the makeup, I rec
ognized the similarity he and his uncle bore to the pictures. But these portraits—the ones that showed views of Marchester in the front hallway—all depicted a landscape behind them, most likely the lands over which the men held sway, and in each of these the old abbey was still standing intact. It was in the third, the one Dora had indicated, dating to more than fifteen years after the lightning strike and devastating fire, that the abbey was first shown as a ruin.

I told Mr. Gilstrap about Dora’s letter. I peered at the picture and he put on his glasses and squinted at the plate that had been screwed into the frame, sometime in the nineteenth century by my guess. He read it out loud: “‘Frobisher Cholmondeley, 1449–1521, c. 1520, Artist unknown, English.’ Well, that’s obvious! Look at that chin! Those watery eyes! Only a fellow countryman could have captured them so accurately.”

I studied the portrait, close enough to smell the must of old wood and paint. “He does look a little porcine, doesn’t he?”

Mr. Gilstrap snorted. “Like he shoved all his siblings away from the trough. He seems to have done all right for himself, at any rate, making it to threescore and ten years in a time when most people didn’t live nearly as long as that. But do you see what your friend was after you to find?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I wonder if it hasn’t something to do with scale or aspect, or something.”

“Well, I see what catches my interest. Always has done.” He grinned, quite pleased with himself.

I shook my head and smiled. “What’s that?”

“The river,” he said triumphantly. “That’s always been the thing that’s determined how the town changed through time. Even in my day, the river was the important thing, all that free power? But there’s lots in the history that you can’t see in the church records, or the tax documents, or you won’t, unless you learn to see between the lines. For example, I mentioned that the factory was important during the war. Can you guess why else the river was so important?”

After I tried “water power” and “communication” and “trade,” I gave up.

“You’re nearly there,” Mr. Gilstrap said. “Smuggling, of course. The black market. Very busy around here. The war was an extraordinary time. Mads Crawford, she could tell you all the stories. She was the one who was here, I was off at infantry training. But she and her friend Caroline Green, later Ashford, were right dashers in those days. Practically running things at home—most of the men in the service, of course, many killed in the raids, a few gone missing and no one knows what happened to them, whether they got caught in a bombing, or ran off or what. So the ladies were running the show at home and it was hard for them to give that up when the war ended. I tell you, although some of the blokes didn’t care for what the ladies had learned, in the factory and the home reserves and all, I liked a girl with dash then. Still do. But if you ever want to hear what Marchester was really like back then, buy old Mads a glass of something stronger than tea and you’ll get an earful, I promise you. But let’s have a look at your picture here.”

As far as portraits went, it wasn’t very good. Frobisher Cholmondeley’s fingers were interlaced and rested on his lap like a pile of fat white sausages, his cheeks both plump and wrinkled, and his mouth small and insipid, possibly even beyond the art of a better painter to flatter. His robes and hat were flat blocks of color, with no fold or even a bit of braid to distinguish them.

But looking over the sitter’s shoulder and out the window, it was possible to see where the painter’s real interest was: outside the room in which he worked and down on the field before the abbey. The tiny block of landscape in the upper right hand corner, less than one-ninth of the entire picture, was a jewel in miniature. There was only one tree, to the far left of the window frame, but each of its minute leaves was painstakingly rendered in a range of colors that was inconceivable, given the principal figure in the foreground, which was an almost childish cartoon. The patch of
green meadow that spread out before the abbey—still standing at this point, shortly before its ruin—was lovingly depicted, the minute dots of bright color immediately suggestive of wildflowers. The stones of the abbey buildings must have struck the painter as part of the landscape, for they were as carefully drawn as the natural features had been, and the river was a bright, lively slash behind the abbey ruin that immediately drew the eye. A few small buildings could be seen across the river, small both as a matter of perspective and in social consequence next to the abbey, like the diminutive portraits of slaves next to the kings and queens in Egyptian wall paintings.

“Looks like the lad wished he was outside with the cows by the river,” Mr. Gilstrap murmured. “Anywhere but in that room with himself there.”

I was confused, a little annoyed at being waked from my reverie. “What lad?”

“The painter, of course. Although I’m assuming it was a lad, most painters must have been at that time, mustn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I suppose you’re right. His emphasis is really down in that field, by the abbey, isn’t it? That’s where all his energy and focus are. I suppose that’s what Dora meant, when she said that I would find it out.”

I spent another few minutes staring at the landscape, but could find nothing of what my infuriating colleague might have meant. The abbey ruin seemed to be along the same stretch of river, its orientation the same as the one now indicated by the last bit of standing wall, and although the field had been filled over the years with more and more houses and small businesses, it all looked maddeningly correct to me.

Damn Dora! I thought vehemently. Why couldn’t she have just told me her idea? Why did she always have to be grandstanding?

“I give up, for the moment,” I said to Mr. Gilstrap. “I just don’t see what I’m supposed to see.”

“I can’t make out anything unusual, myself. Nice of your friend to be so specific, wasn’t it?” he said dryly.

“Well, that’s just her way.” I was annoyed to find myself defending Dora against just the same charges I’d been laying at her door an instant ago. “If you want to see what’s for dessert, I’ll be along in a moment.”

“I think I will; a cup of tea would do me just right about now. Very nice to have met you, Mrs. Fielding.”

I smiled. “And you, Mr. Gilstrap.”

I took my notebook out of my pocket and made a note of the information on the brass plaque before I made a hasty sketch of the painting. I’m not much good at drawing freehand—any virtue in my artifact drawings or plans is strictly a matter of hours of study and too many erasures and measurements—but did a fair enough rendering of the sitter and the view out his window. I made the most effort with the buildings, the river, and the abbey, because they were the things I’d want to draw on later, so to speak.

When the disturbance down the hallway intruded upon me, I had been too much in my own little world, immersed in a four-hundred-fifty-year-old landscape, a detail no more than four by four inches of the whole picture, to move discreetly away, as I should have. Ordinarily I would have claimed eminent domain and since I was there first, waited for the others to apologize and move on, but I wasn’t on my own turf and I really did not want to interrupt George Whiting again.

“—If it had been anything but archaeology, if it had been anyone but that bloody Compton woman, it would never have happened,” he insisted, quietly for him, but quite loudly enough for me to hear. He was standing so close to her, almost as if he’d been leaning on her while he cried.

“George, you know that’s not true. You know that’s not the point at all—”

I was surprised at how stern Sabine Jones sounded; she was not in the least intimidated by Whiting, personally or physically. Despite the hole in her sock and the dried leaf
caught amidst a tangle of blond hair and combs, she had a force of personality that insisted you take her seriously.

“—So why don’t you let me help you? As for Ellen, you know I can help you there, if you’ll let me…”

Whiting’s voice was muffled now, but I could make out a bit. “I can’t…It’s all I can do to—”

As surprised as I was to see George Whiting so deflated, so unlike the strutting, aggressive figure I knew, I didn’t wait to hear the rest of it. Having no place to hide, I turned and was about to head back down the hallway toward the gallery where the luncheon was being served, when I saw Palmer at the other end. Our eyes met, and without hesitating, I instinctively turned and hurried back toward the entryway and the front door. Perhaps if I hurried past, Whiting wouldn’t recognize me and Sabine mightn’t say anything; they needn’t know that I had heard any part of their conversation.

As soon as my feet hit the marble floor, I knew I couldn’t go out the front door: I was still in my stocking feet and it was pouring with rain outside. I hesitated again, but slid forward on the cool stone floor. It was a horrible moment when the vicar and the contractor broke off to stare at me, and I wished I could sink under the decorative marble tiles.

“I was heading out…I forgot my shoes,” I said, knowing just exactly how inane I sounded.

“Emma, perhaps I’ll save introductions for another time,” Sabine said, smoothly and pointedly.

Which was fine with me. I nodded my head and turned to go, ready to face an army of Palmers, when George Whiting looked up. His face hardened as he recognized me.