Almost Love (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

The sun was shining when Alex awoke the next morning. She turned to face Tom and found that he was already awake, his arm propped up on his elbow. He smiled at her.

“Happy?” he asked. She nodded and thought to herself that, if it were not for her foolish entanglement with Edmund, it would have been the truth.

“I’m sorry I was late back last night,” Tom continued. “I half expected you to stay out for supper with Carolyn, so it was frustrating to get your message. I was tied up with the Padgett case again and you know that I can’t work nine to five on that.”

Alex nodded.

“There’s no need to apologise; I’d have stayed with Carolyn until halfway through the evening if she’d been free. She’s got an exacting client at the moment, someone who insisted on meeting her for a working dinner at short notice.”

Tom burst out laughing.

“Is that what Carolyn calls her assignations these days?”

“It wasn’t an assignation. It was . . .” Alex frowned and found herself also laughing good-humouredly. “You could be right,” she said. “Who knows? I don’t think Carolyn is often deceitful, but she may have told me a little white lie to spare me the humiliation of being stood up. And she loves intrigue, as you know. She’s probably very amused that I was so gullible.”

Tom kissed her on the nose.

“I’m glad you’re gullible,” he said. “And so is Carolyn, probably. Have you noticed that she has no friends like herself? None of the rest of you runs her life in triplicate, carries on clandestine affairs and generally wraps her personal life in secrecy and double-dealing in the way that Carolyn does.”

“I suspect that none of us has either the energy or the talent for it!” said Alex, with a pang.

Tom kissed her again, then sat up and swivelled round so that his legs and feet were hanging out of the bed.

“I must get up,” he said. “I need to be back at the office by eight to read up the Padgett case notes before we have another meeting. It’s early, though; you don’t need to stir yourself yet. If you want to stay in bed a little longer, I’ll bring you some tea and toast.”

“That’s sweet of you,” said Alex, “but it would do me good to get up early, too. I intended to do some work over the weekend and I’ve got quite a bit of catching up to do if I’m going to get the plan for the summer displays ready for the committee later this week.”

Tom sniffed.

“I’d think they were a ridiculous bunch if I didn’t find them and their behaviour quite sinister. I don’t understand why you have to submit a plan to them. They never argue with it, do they?”

“No, but they could do, in theory. They’re meant to be responsible both for the safekeeping of the Society’s possessions and for its good reputation.”

“Rubbish! Its reputation isn’t what they’re thinking of. They just want to make sure that you choose something popular enough to replenish the coffers. Get their paws on the cash, in other words.”

Alex sighed.

“You’re probably right. I sometimes wonder why I’m wasting my life on this!”

Tom leaned over to kiss her again.

“No more mood swings!” he said. “You know very well that you get a huge kick out of your job. The same as I do.”

“Go and have your shower. I’ll just read in bed for a few minutes until you come out. Or would you like me to make
you
some tea?”

“Don’t worry. I can buy some tea and a muffin in the canteen.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Alex arrived at the Archaeological Society just before 8 a.m. She was carrying the bulky file that she had taken home the previous weekend. She tried to wedge it between her hip and the door while she fumbled in her bag for her keys, but the file slipped away from her and bounced down the two steps to the pavement. A few of the papers that it contained had not been secured and they slalomed untidily across the path. The furthest of them lay fluttering in the gutter.

“Fuck!” said Alex under her breath. She swung her open handbag over her shoulder and bent to retrieve the documents.

“Let me help you.”

Alex looked up to find Edmund standing over her. She blenched.

“Sorry – did I startle you?”

“Not really: I just wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I said that I would come today.”

“I know, but I had thought that you would come this evening. You must have left Holbeach quite early.”

“I did. I’ve taken the day off because I wanted to come to see you this morning and I’m accompanying Krystyna to the doctor’s this afternoon.”

“Is she worse?”

“I don’t think so; but she was pretty bad in the first place. At least she’s seen sense and agreed to ask for some more powerful medication.”

“So you’re going with her in case she changes her mind?”

“Something like that,” said Edmund grimly. Alex did not pursue it.

Edmund collected the papers and lifted the file from the step.

“Here you are,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t put the loose sheets back – I don’t know where they came from.”

“They were just held by a clip at the front of the file – not very well, obviously. Thank you,” she added, shoving the pages back between the boards of the file. “Would you hold it again while I unlock the door?”

“Tea?” she enquired, when they were both inside.

“No, thank you, I don’t have time. I need to go and look at some of the stuff that has been archived in Broad Street. I’ve come to ask you for the key.”

“This is a bit precipitate, isn’t it?”

“Why? I told you that I have a special project that I want to carry out. I give you my word that it will benefit both of us – and the Archaeological Society, too.”

“I’m not sure that I should let you have the key.”

“I don’t see why not. I’m the President, after all.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Alex paused for a moment. She was unhappy about giving Edmund access to the archive without quite knowing why. As he pointed out, he had more right than most people to request it. She decided that she couldn’t refuse.

“You’ll need the burglar alarm code, too. I’ll write it down for you. And I’ll have to ask you to complete our standard consent form for researchers. You must undertake not to remove or damage any of the Society’s artefacts or papers and to leave everything in the archive exactly as you found it.”

“That’s hardly necessary, is it? I am an officer of the society – even if only a temporary one.”

“So you keep saying, but we ask everyone to comply – as I’m sure you know. You’d be the first to complain if I allowed anyone else into the archive without signing. I’ll get you a copy of the form now; I’m sure you must have read it before, so it won’t take you a minute.”

“What if I do want to remove something – temporarily, of course?”

“We don’t normally let anyone take the artefacts away unless it is another society or museum that wants them for an exhibition. Individuals aren’t usually allowed to take them except for scientists who have been requested to carry out dating tests or experts asked to establish authenticity. We do let researchers take papers home with them sometimes, if there’s a lot for them to get through. Usually we only allow the material out for a very short time – a few days, or a week. They need permission – from me, and from one or more of the trustees, depending on what it is. They have to sign another document and pay for temporary insurance if we decide that it’s advisable. I’ve only allowed papers out two or three times, though. I don’t get asked very often. And I’ve never had to call on the trustees to give their permission for documents to be borrowed because the ones that have been requested have not been of great monetary value. Not many of the documents that the Society owns are. Some of the artefacts are valuable, of course; I’m sure that you’ve been at meetings where we have debated the risk factors involved in lending certain items.”

“I suppose I must have been. I don’t really remember. I’d certainly forgotten how bureaucratic it all was! And I thought that we were bad at the Heritage Foundation!”

“Well, you’d be the first person to say that we should safeguard our legacy, if it weren’t for the fact that this happens to be something that inconveniences you. I’ll walk over to Broad Street in a couple of hours, if you like, to see if there are any papers you’d like to borrow. If there are, it will probably be something that I can authorise myself. It
is
papers that you’re interested in, isn’t it?”

“Hm? Yes . . . yes, of course.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for? Otherwise it will be a needle and haystack job. As long as you have a reasonable idea of what you want to find, the archive plan should help you. There is a copy of the plan inside the desk at the entrance to Broad Street, but I can give you one for your own use now. The lighting there isn’t very good, so it might help you to work out where to search while you’re still here.”

“Thanks. Yes please, I’d like to see the plan now.”

“I’ll find the consent forms at the same time.”

Alex stood precariously on her desk chair, trying to reach a pile of box files high on the shelves behind her.

“Can I help you with that?” Edmund asked rather lamely.

“Yes, if you would,” she said, as she struggled with recalcitrant folders for the second time that day. “I’m not sure which of these boxes contains the forms and the plans. I’m pretty certain that both will be in them somewhere. Can I pass them to you one by one?”

Edmund took the dusty boxes from her and piled them precariously on her desk.

“There’s one more file, up there on the top shelf, but I can’t quite reach it,” said Alex, stretching up. The chair moved and she nearly lost her balance.

“For goodness sake, come down now,” said Edmund pettishly. “I don’t want to be responsible for your breaking your neck. If we need that top file I’ll get it myself.”

Alex found the plan of the Broad Street archive almost immediately.

“Here you are,” she said to Edmund. “When you get there, you’ll see that the chapel has been divided into twelve stalls, each of which contains shelves and space for hanging files. Some of them have cupboards or pigeon-holes as well for storing bone tools and shards of pottery, that kind of thing. All of the papers have been filed meticulously under subject headings and there are card-indexes which catalogue each paper within collections of documents individually. Most of the cataloguing work was done in the 1950s, I believe by a retired schoolmaster who belonged to the Archaeological Society, and his wife. The papers are catalogued according to when they were received by the Society and where they came from. There is no proper dating of any of the artefacts, as you know, but some attempt has been made to record either where they were found or who donated them. Nothing has been moved since, but of course there have been some new acquisitions. Most of these are stored in the basement here – they haven’t been nearly as meticulously catalogued – but the final two stalls at Broad Street also contain some of the more recent uncatalogued material. Do you know how long the documents you are looking for have been in the Society’s possession?”

“I think that they date from the middle of the nineteenth century,” said Edmund.

“Well, you should be OK, then.” Alex smiled, trying to catch his eye, but he looked away immediately.

“Yes,” he said. “Let us hope so.” He spread the plan out on her desk, and began to pore over it at once. Meanwhile, Alex searched through all of the box files without finding the consent form.

“I can’t find those forms,” she said, as she closed the final file. “They may be up there, right on the top shelf. Someone had a hundred or so printed years ago. What I really need to do is to create my own digital copy so that I can just print them out when I need them. I’ve found some used forms here in this file, so I could do that.”

“You don’t expect me to wait while you do it, though, do you?” Edmund did not even try to smile.

“No, I suppose not,” said Alex, slowly. “I’ll give you the key and the burglar alarm code now. Bring the key back before lunch and I’ll have the consent form waiting for you then.”

“Thank you.”

Edmund folded up the archive plan and placed it carefully in his inside pocket. He took from Alex the key and the slip of paper bearing the alarm code and pocketed them, too.

He had reached the door of Alex’s office before he turned and hurried back to place a perfunctory kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll see you later,” he said.

Alex spent the morning working on her summer exhibition plan. Just before midday, she created a Word document version of the consent form and printed it out. She looked at her watch. It was almost three hours since Edmund had left her. It was less than a ten-minute walk to Broad Street, so he would have been looking at the archives for more than two hours. It would soon be time for him to go back to Holbeach for Krystyna’s appointment. Alex hoped that she could trust him to return the key. She wouldn’t put it past Edmund to pocket the key and go home, then turn up tomorrow and explain airily that he hadn’t had time to give it back immediately. She still felt uneasy about having given him access to the archive, although she hardly knew why. He was the County Heritage Officer, for God’s sake! If she had asked any of the other trustees, of course they would have agreed to it. They probably would have been as impatient with the formalities as Edmund was himself.

Alex sighed. Tom was right. They were an insufferable bunch of vain old men . . . and Edmund was one of them – younger than most of them and with some redeeming qualities, but still an irascible old buffer at heart. The thought struck her that she had always considered them corrupt, but in a petty way; she knew them to be the sort of people who would fail to query restaurant bills from which some items were missing, or disguise rounds of drinks for their friends on expenses claims. She did not believe that Edmund would stoop to this kind of behaviour. She did wonder, however, whether he might not be capable of some grander evil.

She decided that she would take a walk to Broad Street, ostensibly to ask him to sign the form but also to retrieve the key. She placed the consent form in an envelope and wedged it into the side pocket of her handbag. Stepping out into surprisingly warm winter sunshine, she enjoyed the heat of the sun on her face. It was the warmest day she could remember after many miserable weeks of rain and cold.

As she turned the corner from Westlode Street into Broad Street, she saw Edmund’s battered car parked half on the pavement and half on the road. She was surprised; she had assumed that Edmund had left his car in the big car park at the bus station and made the journey from the Archaeological Society to the chapel on foot. He must have returned to the car park after he had left her. She shrugged. Perhaps he had moved the car in order to be ready to leave for Holbeach when the time came. She looked at the car again and saw Edmund emerging from behind it. He slammed the boot shut and walked rapidly back into the chapel. Alex was still a considerable distance away from him and could not see what he was doing. She quickened her pace and was within a few feet

of the car when Edmund emerged from the chapel again, carrying one of the large grey files from the archive. He paused when he saw her.

“Alex, hello! I thought I had told you not to bother to come here. I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“You didn’t actually say that, Edmund, but I would have come anyway, to help you to lock up, and to save you the journey back to the Archaeological Society. I’ve brought the form for you to sign. Where were you going with that file?”

“I was just going to bring it to you, to ask you if I might sign it out. I’ve found the collection of papers that I want.”

“I’m glad about that,” said Alex severely. “What are they?” She squinted at the small rectangular label, trying to make out the faded inscription in the schoolmaster’s impeccable italic script.
Kirton Parish Papers,
1830
–
1870
she read. There was something familiar about it, though she could not think what it was.

“Just some local history papers relating to the Boston area. As you know, I am particularly interested in the local gentlemen historians of the period.”

Alex remembered the trustee meeting at Peterborough Museum.

“Not more about the Reverend Lockhart?” Edmund hesitated, evidently a little ill at ease.

“I believe that he is mentioned, but one would expect that – he was one of the foremost clergyman antiquaries of the county.”

“I seem to recollect that you didn’t paint him in quite such a rosy way when you were purchasing his papers from the museum.”

“Perhaps not, but I assure you that I paid more than a fair price for those papers. They are not of any interest or value except within the context of local study. Just like the ones I have here. In fact, these are probably rather less valuable than the Lockhart papers, as they consist of a mish-mash of notes from several antiquaries who were active at the period. I’m assuming that you won’t consider them to be too valuable to be removed from the archive temporarily?”

“I shall need to look through them, to make sure that each paper contained in the file has an index card. But I think it’s unlikely that I shan’t be able to release them on my own authority alone.”

Like wine being poured into a carafe, Edmund’s face filled from the chin with the deep purplish red that Alex had seen on previous occasions when he was ruffled. He fiddled with his cuff in order to consult his watch.

“Must you do that now? I don’t have time to wait; I have to be back in Holbeach in half an hour.”