Libby 
Libby
A week after returning from Ullaness, Libby was in her tiny office making lists of equipment needed and worrying about project finances when the phone rang.
“Libby Snow?” The voice was unmistakable, and she found herself pleased to hear it. “Rodri Sturrock here. I’ve just had Fergus on the phone. Word’s come down from on high that they have to clear the rest of the mound to look for further evidence.”
“Damn—”
“I did what I could, but Fergus has to obey orders.”
She looked down at the lists in front of her—now just so much waste paper. “When will they start?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Oh God.”
“The only concession I won from them was that you could be there to observe. Will you come? We’ll keep some supper for you.” Right now? A force of nature, Alice had called him. “I sold them the idea on the basis that you’d recognise what was ancient and what wasn’t and save them time. No promises that you’ll be allowed to dig, though, Fergus went all vague at that point.”
“I’ll have to speak to my head of department.”
“Is that Lockhart?”
“No. George Buchanan. Above him.”
“I’ll speak to the man. Give me five minutes.” And he rang off.
She put the phone down and sat there, absorbing the blow. She should tell Declan, she owed him that much— Then she thought of the morning when she arrived back at the department: “Whose fucking project is this?” he’d said, having first shut his office door. “What were you doing up there, going behind my back?”
“Like I said. Just taking a look.”
“Why?”
Because it was a place that had been in her consciousness since childhood, a place which had a deep resonance, a place she had had to see. But that was not for Declan. “I’d no intention of getting in touch with the estate, it just happened. A good thing too, or there would be no project left, would there?” Then, as payback, she added: “Besides, what I do with my weekends is my own . . . affair, same as you.” That little pause silenced him, but now she had an enemy, rather than a colleague—and she owed him nothing.
Two hours later she was on the road, heading north. By the time she had gone to find George Buchanan, Rodri had already spoken to him and got him on board. “Any help we can offer you, let me know. I suggested that one of the postgraduate students go with you but he said no, just you.” He paused a minute, then continued in an expressionless voice: “I’ll square all this with Declan, of course, when he finishes teaching.” By which time she would be on her way; George was a good sort. As she turned to go, he added: “Mr. Sturrock said he’d discuss the summer with you. So if you have ideas how we might keep six or seven students occupied in a way that’ll let us hang on to that grant, I’d be grateful. He sounded like a reasonable man.”
She had left the building, stopping only to collect some basic equipment just in case, then drove to her flat, threw some clothes into a holdall, and set off. Another seven-hour drive, she calculated, plus stops, and she phoned Sturrock House to tell them she was on her way. No reply. School pickup probably. She left a brief message saying she hoped to be there soon after eleven.
Reasonable, was he?
In fact it was almost midnight by the time she pulled off the main road and plunged into the labyrinth of smaller ones which led out to the coast. Tiredness was jagging at her nerve ends as she negotiated the bends and twists in the narrowing road. Eyes, eerily lit by the headlights, stared back at her from the verges, sheep for the most part, but once she was sure it was a fox. A different world— Then, around a tight corner she had to brake hard, skidding across the road to avoid three deer which bounded out in front of her. Dear God! She watched them disappear into the blackness as her heart rate slowed.
The journey north had given her time to consider this new development. And as she drove her concerns about Declan had faded and been replaced by a growing sense of excitement at returning to Ullaness. The place had, on many levels, got under her skin. Something might yet be salvaged for the summer, and somehow she would find a way of explaining about the cross, and maybe learn more of Ellen along the way. She’d thought of writing to Rodri but sensed he would view that as cowardly—and found that his good opinion mattered.
This time when she saw him, she would tell him.
Then, out of the darkness, she found herself in the small community of Oran Bridge, and saw the pub’s window softly aglow as she passed it. Almost there— A mile or so further on she turned into the fateful entrance to the track up to Sturrock House and, as she swung into the cobbled courtyard, she was struck by an odd sensation of homecoming.
Rodri must have been listening for her and she saw him framed at the back door even before she had turned off the engine. He came over and opened the driver’s door. “Hell of a thing to ask you to do. Alice was furious.”
The question of Alice had also occupied her thoughts.
She got out to stretch her cramped legs while he opened the boot and took out her bag, and stood for a moment viewing the assortment of equipment. “You travel hopefully, Liberty Snow.”
“Always.”
The question of Maddy too, for that matter.
He shut the boot lid and ushered her through the back door. “I can promise you nothing, but come in and have some food.”
The kitchen also felt familiar, and there were good smells coming from a pan which simmered on the Aga. Coalbox wagged a tail in greeting as Rodri ladled the pan’s contents onto a plate which he put in front of her, together with a piece of mealy bread. “Food. And then bed. We can talk tomorrow.”
“Will the weather be fine?” she asked, between mouthfuls. A day of torrential rain might give them a stay of execution and allow her to plan a little.
“Sunny and warm,” he replied. “And they’ll be here at eight.”
“Ooh! Early start. I’d like to go down to make a record before they begin, and draw a plan.”
He nodded. “Sunrise is about five-thirty these days.”
“I’ll set an alarm.”
“Right. I’ll take your bag up. Same room.”
Dawn was already lighting a milky blue sea when Libby pulled back the curtains next morning, and a thin mist was lifting from its surface. The headland seemed to float there, disconnected from the shore.
She dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen to find Rodri at the Aga stirring porridge. He looked up as she came in. “Tea’s in the pot. Mug over there. Help yourself.” They ate in silence and then drove in her car down to the end of the track, parking as close to the mound as possible, and together they shifted the equipment she had brought into the dunes.
“You give the orders,” Rodri said. “Just tell me what to do.”
He was efficient and practical, holding the ends of tapes as she plotted the outline of the mound, shouting out measurements as she hastily planned, somehow knowing instinctively what she was trying to achieve. “Not bad for a beginner,” she said when they’d finished. “And at least we’ve got a decent record of it.”
“Just in time,” he said, nodding to where a car was pulling up beside Libby’s.
A look of consternation crossed Fergus’s face when he joined them and saw the equipment lying beside the mound. “I’m afraid—”
“Don’t worry,” said Rodri. “I explained, and we’ve not moved a single grain of sand, just made a drawn record.” Fergus nodded, and after a brief discussion work began.
Libby found it hard to watch from the sideline and turned her attention to what she could usefully do. Something must surely be retrievable. She’d brought down a sieve, and the policemen agreed to shovel the sand into a heap so that she could sieve it and retrieve any small items. Rodri watched her for a moment, then drove her car back up to the house to collect more buckets so that they could work as a team.
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 watching 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.”
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 business 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.”
“How dreadful.” Libby took a refilled glass from Rodri, and glanced up at him.
“We were all away at a wedding when it happened,” Laila continued, “so someone must have known the house was empty and seized their chance— It was valued at more than half a million!”
“And not insured—” said Libby, though its value lay not in pounds.
“And not insured,” echoed Rodri, handing a second glass to Laila. “Though if it had been, you’d have been suspected of nicking it yourselves.”
“We were! Or at least, Hector was,” Laila replied. “Have you forgotten? That stupid policeman suggested he’d had it stolen to order and taken out of the country to avoid an export license or some such nonsense. Hector was furious!”
“An outrageous slur,” agreed Rodri, but something in his tone sent a flicker across Libby’s mind and she glanced at him. Did he believe that was what had happened? This quarrel went deep.
She finished her wine and went up to bed as early as she felt she could, pleading fatigue, leaving them free to argue further if they so wished. At face value, Laila was avarice writ large, but who was in the wrong here? “Rodri sows,” Alice had said during the meal Libby had eaten with her and Maddy, “and Hector reaps.” But then again, was he not within his rights to do so?
By next morning the quarrel was far from played out, and when Libby left her bedroom and came out onto the landing she heard raised voices and retreated hastily. But curiosity got the better of her and she crept forward again to listen.
She could hear Rodri’s voice quite clearly. “. . . so, get him to ring me and tell me himself. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“I’ve already said! I cannot reach him in Dubai. How dared you remove it. . . .” Laila spoke quickly, clearly in a high passion, and her next words were lost.
“Like I said, when I do hear from him, I’ll package it up and have it couriered down to whatever gallery—”
“No! Tell me where it is! It’s not yours to—”
“And it ain’t yours either, sweetie. It’s Hector’s.”
“What’s Hector’s is mine!”
“Yeah? Get him to tell me that.”
That suggestion could only further infuriate her, and it did. “I will call the police instead and report it stolen.”
“There’s the phone.”
“Oh yes, but you have everyone round here in your pocket, don’t you!”
His response was lost as a chair was scraped back on the flagged floor. Then Laila’s voice came again. “You seem to think your position here is secure—”
“Believe me, I never do.”
“—you live rent-free, you spend half your time on your own business—”
“Wrong.”
“—your children treat this house as if it was their own home.”
“But that could change.”
“At Hector’s say-so, not yours.”
“I will speak to Hector.”
“Do that. And tell him I’d like to speak to him too.”
The woman hurled further fury at him, but the sound diminished as she went down the passage to the back door. Libby returned to her room and carefully pulled the door closed behind her, and through her open window she heard the sound of a car engine starting up and then fading as Lady Sturrock drove away.
She sat on the edge of her bed, rather ashamed of her eavesdropping. But had Rodri actually hidden the painting from her? How extraordinary.
When enough time had elapsed, she started downstairs and found him standing looking out of the kitchen window, his hands thrust into his pockets and his back to her. He turned and bid her a neutral good morning, looking like a man who had not slept. “Help yourself to whatever. No porridge, I’m afraid.”
After a moment he came away from the window and brought the teapot over to the table, filled two mugs, and sat down opposite her.
“There’s muesli somewhere. Or toast.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have something. I’ll make toast.” He got up again, restless as a caged animal and then stood silently over the toaster, then brought the plate over and pushed the butter towards her. “So what are your plans now?” he asked, and sat again.
There were dark rings round his eyes. “There’s nothing more I can do here, so I’ll get on my way.” She wanted to raise the question of the summer, as well as tell him about the cross, but this hardly seemed the time.
“Yes—”
“Have you things fixed for the weekend?”
“Not especially.”
“Then why don’t you stay?” There was nothing flirtatious in his manner, nothing other than a straightforward suggestion, and yet she was unsure how to respond. “Frankly, I could do with the company,” he continued, leaning back in his chair and contemplating her. “Even a small dose of my sister-in-law plunges me into the depths of gloom. I could go round to the girls and vent to them, but I’d rather not.” He paused. “I expect you heard the barney we had just now.”
“Yes.”
“Laila would liquidate the entire estate given half a chance and undo everything I’m trying to achieve. And besides, the Nasmyth was my father’s favourite.”
“The Nasmyth? I thought Hector was deluded?”
He smiled, an unrepentant smile, and a spark lit his eye. “Not on this occasion. My mother had it checked out, as Hector no doubt dimly remembered, and he must have told Laila.”
“So—?”
“So what? Hector has never told me he intended to sell it. If I’d let her take it away today, that’s what would have happened. Authentication, my arse. And it wouldn’t be the first time; a charming French ormolu clock went the same way a couple of years ago. So it’s in the game larder, up in the rafters, safe and sound.”
He got to his feet. “I don’t actually believe Hector knows about half the stuff she’s filched, so I’ve no scruples about thwarting her little plans, having no more conscience than she has. So will you stay the weekend?”
With a man with no conscience? She hesitated for a moment, then realised that she wanted to. “Yes. I will.”
He nodded his satisfaction. “Good.” He began clearing the breakfast things away while Libby ate her toast and swallowed her tea. Was the man never still for a moment?
“The things Laila said,” she began, watching him. “Those threats—”
“Laila specialises in threats.”
“Could she really cause trouble for you? And the boys?”
He shook his head. “Hector’ll not throw us out. He’s a decent bloke at heart. Idle, self-indulgent, drunk half the time, but decent. Drives me mad, but he stepped up to the mark when my wife was killed and offered us the chance to come back here. But he always gives in to Laila, anything for an easy life. Afghanistan wrecked him.” He paused. “And Laila knows my weak spot.”
“The boys?”
He nodded. “She’s none of her own, you see.”
“So you keep them out of her way?”
“Better all round.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But enough of Lady Macbeth. Come through and let me show you something.”
He led her across the hall into a room she’d not been in before. It too was part of the Victorian addition and matched the library in size and layout, bearing witness to the hand of the third baronet. A long dining table occupied the centre, its surface protected by a thick dark-green cloth over which were strewn books and papers. A dozen or so dining chairs were all wedged along one side, suggesting it was some time since this room had been used for gracious dining. An office-style swivel chair was drawn up on the other side in front of several box files with an empty mug beside them.
“I got this lot out after you were here last time. I’d not looked at them for years.” He pulled a box of papers towards him. “They’re more or less as Hector abandoned them, after his little burst of enthusiasm.” He began lifting papers from it while Libby looked around her, taking in the room. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, depicting thistles and rowanberries like the plaster ceiling in the library, and below dado height was more wood panelling, lighter-hued here and more pleasing, and once again some of the windowpanes had scenes painted on them, repaired presumably after the ravages of football. “See what you make of these,” he said and unrolled a sheaf of papers, weighting the curling corners with books and the coffee mug.
Her interest was immediately aroused. The papers were dog-eared and tatty and covered with neat drawings in faded black ink complete with measurements. It was unmistakably the headland, with Odrhan’s cell at the end of it, and she leaned closer and saw little notes and sketches in the margins. “There was more headland in those days,” Rodri remarked, and she nodded, examining the exquisite elevation drawings of the cell with walls standing several courses high. It had been drawn from all four compass points, each aspect carefully labelled: View looking north. View looking west. View looking . . . and she paused at the view looking east. The entrance to the cell, and much of the centre was filled with the dome’s fallen blocks.
“Fantastic,” she said.
“Dated too.” He pointed to the corner, where the same neat hand had written May 12th 1890. O.D.
“Who was O.D?”
“Not a clue,” he replied, and she bent closer to read the tiny handwriting in the margin. Rodri passed her a hand lens.
She took it and read out loud: “Probably originally of domed form and corbelled construction in the manner of the Irish Monasteries of the Early Period. This would be consistent with the view currently held that this ruin is the small house described in the Legend as belonging to the hermit Odrhan.” She looked across at Rodri. “So O.D. was chasing the legend too.”
“Looks like it.” He removed the top drawing to reveal the next. It was a plan rather than an elevation, and depicted the cell as a rough oval; from the contours, Libby could see how much of the headland had eroded away in a century and a half. She picked up the hand lens again to read the tiny lettering. The same word was written in three separate places. Bones? Bones? Bones?
She looked up to see that Rodri was watching her. “Bones—” she said.
“Could be sheep bones, of course.”
“I don’t think he’d note sheep bones—”
“Nor do I.”
She bent to the drawing again, creeping over it with the hand lens as she searched for something more, but there were no further annotations other than rocks, turf, sand. And then her eye was caught by something, not a word but a symbol beside one of the Bones?. A tiny splayed-arm cross, and a further question mark beside it.
“Another grave, perhaps, eroding away at the time. What do you think?” Rodri asked.
Libby straightened, her brain working furiously. “And now long gone.”
He released the edge of the drawing and it rolled back up. “Well, open the other boxes. There’s more.”