‘You knew,’ he said.
‘He was a terrible one for the girls,’ she said. ‘But what could I do?’
*
Cook picked an apple from one of the trees. A reflex action. He took a bite. It was sour. A cooking apple. A wasp buzzedangrily, emerging from a hole in the apple. Cook threw it into the hedge.
Six graves. Six young women. Buried in plain sight.
‘You knew about all this,’ Cook said.
‘And I’d be in one of those if I’d spoken up,’ she said.
Cook knelt by the freshest grave. The soil smelt different here than on his farm. Darker. More clay, less chalk. He picked up a handful and brought it to his nose.
The soil was damp.
Cook looked at the woman. She was watching him closely.
He put his hand on the top of the grave. The disturbed soil was all damp. It had been a dry night and a dry day.
Cook didn’t know much about digging graves, but he knew plenty about soil. Half of his life had been devoted to digging and planting. Many of his best days were those spent leading a team of horses, the ploughshare turning over a fresh row of earth. The smell of it. Coming to it the next day, after it had dried, tilling the large lumps of soil, breaking them up, ready for planting.
This soil hadn’t dried out. It hadn’t been a day. It hadn’t been an hour.
He pushed his hand into the loose soil.
Too late, he thought. But still, he pushed his hand in further.
‘What are you doing?’ Reynolds asked.
Cook shook his head. Didn’t want to give false hope.
But then he saw it.
The ground rose. A slight movement. Ever so slight. An optical illusion. Seeing what he wanted to see.
Cook scooped a handful of soil out of the grave, keeping his eye on the woman. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
Another movement. A slight mound forming, then falling back.
Someone was pushing up, from underneath.
‘Help me,’ Cook said. Without waiting, he scooped out soil with his hands. More. Whole arms full, like he was trying to swim, pushing the soil behind him.
Reynolds ran to him, dropped to the ground, joined in.
‘Shovel,’ Reynolds said.
‘No,’ Cook said. ‘Too dangerous.’
Cook and Reynolds pulled earth out of the hole. The more progress they made, the more movement they saw. A knee, trying to push up.
‘Ruby!’ Reynolds yelled.
Cook pushed his hand down, a new tactic. No need to excavate a perfect hole, he just needed to get his hand on the girl. Pull her out.
His fingertips brushed skin and wool. Suddenly a hand gripped his. He pulled.
