He’d locked up his finished pages in a box and hidden it in the window seat. He didn’t want to say that in the presence of anyone listening. “I have made little progress, but there is a letter in my writing desk.” Between river pirates and unmarked graves, he’d given up all hope of avoiding incidents. He simply wanted the task of corresponding about the gallery out of the way. “If you’ll copy it out half a dozen times, I’ll address and sign them. Once I have done my duty by Thea and this nonsense is settled, then we can return to routine.”
Because right now his mind was with how to keep gravediggers from gossiping about skeletons, if that’s what they found, and convince the staff they were Roman ruins. He feared, without staff, he’d have to pack up all over again and leave Gravesyde. He’d never finish the blasted book. And this time, he could blame no one but himself.
Not relishing returning to the musty cellar, one where swinging pickaxes risked life and limb, Grey was relieved to see the curate ride into the yard in a battered gig. He was less relieved to see the lady physician with him.
“Meera wants to see any skeletons laid out first rather than after they’re naught but a jumble of old bones in a box,” Upton explained.
“It’s easier to determine age and gender with a whole skeleton. They may have been plague victims. I’d rather no one touched any bones until I’ve seen for myself.” A short, round, and unassuming female, Dr. Walker still conveyed a no-nonsense authority.
Grey realized he needed to adjust his thinking about the frailer gender. “Plague, just what is needed to make this cursed house perfect. I suppose the village was actually here that long ago.” And the monks wouldn’t want plague victims in their private graveyard.
Equally curious as he was disgusted, Grey led them inside and called Andrew up to explain what had been discovered thus far.
“Some Roman coins, brass pieces that may have been on horse collars. A dagger. Fish bones shaped into needles. It is beginning to look like a medieval rubbish pit, except everything was encased in wooden caskets that have rotted.” Andrew looked uncomfortable. “Once the workers hit wood, I don’t allow anyone to open or lift out the boards, but we can see inside. I need to return to prevent any new finds being opened before we inspect them. They’re all expecting pirate treasure.” He bowed and hobbled back down the stairs.
After Andrew departed, Eleanor appeared as if by magic to lead their guests into the recently cleaned and polished dining room. An embroidered linen cloth now concealed the scarred tabletop. “Tea, while you wait?”
“That would be satisfactory,” Upton declared. Young for a curate, not overlarge, dressed casually and wearing a toolbelt, the preacher held out a battered wooden chair for Dr. Walker. “I have a tale to tell. My grandfather knew Bradford House’s previous owners. They were once prosperous merchants, back when the earl was alive, in the early 1700s—before Granda was born, so take any tale with a grain of salt. He’s Irish. He likes stories.”
At a signal from Miss Leonard, their new cook brought out teapots and fresh scones, while Grey’s assistant set out shabby plates. The arrival of jam and cream was nothing short of miraculous.
The trappings of civilization had Grey feeling better over their insane choice to stay in a portal to hell.
“What happened to the prosperous merchant?” Dr. Walker asked, stirring sugar into her tea.
“Old story.” Upton drank his drink unadulterated. “Bradford grew old. He had half a dozen children who bickered and fought. One was sent to the Antipodes for knifing another. The girls came and went, along with their husbands and children.”
Grey tried drinking his tea black. Not as bad as some. “One of them, at least, must have been a river pirate.”
“Very likely, although Granda didn’t mention it. He said the kitchen addition was built during the merchant Bradford’s time, when Granda was a young man. Maybe sixty years ago or so?”
“If they dug down at all for the cellar, they surely must have uncovered the. . . artifacts?” Grey wasn’t an architect, but he’d seen outbuildings built. Foundations were required.
“There is a bit of a slope there.” Upton gestured at the back of the house. “They needn’t dig too deep. Farmers are accustomed to finding bits and pieces. They’d just toss them out.”
“So we can assume they built on some ancient rubbish pit, and if we’re lucky, we’ll find a few coins to pay the diggers?” Miss Leonard was back to appearing serene.
Grey contemplated calling the whole thing off and leaving the past alone, but who buried their rubbish in caskets?
“The bank clerk, Mr. Comfrey, was in his early thirties.” Dr. Walker intruded on Grey’s relief. “Might he have been related to the Bradfords?”
Miss Leonard grimaced and set down her cup. Oddly, Grey could almost sense the direction of her overactive imagination. His own ran right along with hers. If Comfrey had known the house’s history. . . did he seek pirate treasure?
“I’ll check church records,” Upton suggested. “They are good until about 1800. If Comfrey was born here, my father would have recorded it in the church register.”
The stomping of heavy boots in the kitchen interrupted any further thought in that direction. Andrew appeared in the doorway. “I have sent everyone home. Dr. Walker, I’ll escort you down. Mr. Upton, you might want to say a few words.”
Grey wanted to say a few words, all of them obscene.
Nineteen
Rafe
“Old,” Rafe repeated in mixed relief and disgust. “Beyond my jurisdiction old.”
Poor Dr. Walker had seen too much death. She watched sadly as the bones of two young children were placed in a small coffin. “I am no expert on skeleton deterioration, but the bodies are thoroughly decomposed, so possibly decades old.”
“I will search parish records for the Bradfords. Do not expect definitive results.” The curate had provided the coffin and said his prayers. Watching the removal of small bones from a hole in the cellar’s dirt floor, he shook his head. “There’s nothing to be done about a crime that old, if it was a crime. We cannot really know.”
