The Emerald Comb (18 page)

He nodded. ‘We’ll have to do a bit more digging, I’m afraid, to retrieve all the bones. You won’t be able to use your garden until we’ve finished.’

‘That’s all right. As you can see, we can’t use it anyway until the tree’s been disposed of.’

‘That’ll keep you in firewood for a couple of winters, I’d say.’

‘Yes. At least one good thing has come of this tree falling.’

‘Finding the bones is a good thing, too,’ DI Bradley said, gently. ‘Once we’ve finished dating them we can arrange for a proper reburial or cremation. Lay the poor soul to rest at last.’

I turned away and went back inside, before he noticed the tears welling up in my eyes.

As I entered the house I heard a car outside, then the sound of the front door opening. Simon was back. I rushed through to the hallway and hugged him tightly. He kissed my hair and patted my back. It had taken a macabre discovery to get him home early, and away from his mistress if there was one, but right now I needed the comfort of his embrace.

‘Katie, it’s OK, I’m here now. What’s happened? Are the bones human?’

‘Yes, definitely.’ I took a deep breath and blinked a couple of times. ‘We’ve got a detective here now. They’re going to carbon-date the bones but they’re probably over a hundred years old, judging by their position under the tree.’

‘Wow, fascinating! What do the kids think?’

‘Thomas is scared there might be ghosts again, the other two are as thrilled at the adventure as you seem to be. Come on, come and see for yourself.’

As we went through the kitchen we met DI Bradley who was on his way out. I introduced them and the detective shook Simon’s hand.

‘I’m off for now. We’ll send a crew to get the rest of the bones out tomorrow, then you’ll be able to let your tree surgeons finish their job. Till then, the hole’s out of bounds.’ He winked at Lewis who’d come through to listen. ‘Got that, young man?’

Lewis nodded solemnly.

‘How long until the results of the carbon-dating are known?’ I asked.

‘About three weeks, I’d say. We’ll let you know. If the bones are as old as I guess they are, we’ll probably never know who it was. Ah well, can’t solve them all.’

He strode across the hall and let himself out.

I took Simon outside to see the remains of the tree, the hole and the bones, now protected from the elements by a white tent.

He whistled and shook his head at the scene. ‘Who’d have thought it? Must have been a terrible shock for you, Katie. You OK now?’

‘I’m fine. A bit shaken. I can’t help wondering who it was.’

He shrugged. ‘Like the detective said, we’ll probably never know. Whoever he or she was, and how they died – well, it’s all long in the past, nothing to do with us.’

But it
was
to do with us. It was our garden, and, depending on the age of the bones, there was a good possibility it was something to do with my ancestors. I realised it was time I told Simon the truth about the house’s history. I must have looked as though I was hiding something, because he suddenly caught hold of my arm and turned me to face him.

‘What, Katie? What is it?’

‘There’s something I meant to tell you – about the house,’ I began. ‘I – well, I’d been here before.’

‘What do you mean, before? Before what?’

‘Before we moved in. I came here to see it…’

‘Yes, we all did, with that smarmy young estate agent…’

‘No, I mean before that. I’d already met the Delameres.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you remember, I came to see a house back in November, the one –’

‘November?’ He frowned at me, trying to work out what I was talking about.

‘– the one where my ancestors used to live?’ There. I’d said it.

‘Ye-es, I remember… so are you saying…?’

‘It was this house, Simon. I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you before because, well, I thought…’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Katie, how do I make it clear to you, I’m not interested in the past, or who lived here before, or where you’ve come from. I only care about who you are
now
, not who your great-great-whatever-grandfather was. Why should I care in the slightest who owned the house before us? What does hurt, though, is that you kept it secret. What did you think I’d do, refuse to buy it?’

‘Well, yes. You might have – you might well have thought that I’d spend even more time researching, and that would have pissed you off. Don’t deny it, Simon, you know you wouldn’t have wanted to give me any reason to spend more time on genealogy than I already do. But anyway, the thing is, those bones, they might well have something to do with my ancestors.’

He laughed. ‘Unlikely.’

‘Simon, think about it: if the bones are dated to any time between about 1800 when my four-greats grandfather built the house and 1923 when Barty St Clair died, then it’s almost certain that a St Clair knew something about the body. How could a body be buried in the garden and the owner of the house not know anything about it?’

He shrugged. ‘Still, nothing to do with us. What’s past is past. Anyway, I reckon the bones’ll turn out to be far older. Medieval, perhaps. Come on. Don’t know about you, but I reckon it’s wine o’clock.’

He went inside to find a bottle. I stood for a moment longer, gazing at the remains of my garden. Great-great-great-uncle Barty, did you know about this? Did you know who was buried here? Once again I wished I could travel back in time and simply question him.

I followed Simon inside and gratefully sipped the wine he’d poured for me. I sat down in the living room for a few minutes, then made a decision.

‘Simon, I’m going to give Vera Delamere a ring. To warn her that DI Bradley might get in touch with her. Also she might know something…’

‘If Bradley’s right about the age of the bones then they date from before her time, love,’ said Simon. ‘I’d leave it, if I were you.’

‘…know something about the history of the house, I was going to say.’ I fetched my address book and looked up the Delameres’ new phone number.

Vera was, of course, horrified to hear of the discovery. ‘To think we lived there all that time without knowing there was a body rotting there beneath the beech. The tree my boys climbed in when they were children. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?’

As expected, she’d known nothing about it. The beech was already a mature tree when she and Harold had moved in. ‘Maybe old Barty St Clair had something to do with it,’ she said, echoing the thought I’d had. ‘It might explain why he never let anyone in the house.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose we’ll never know. But what an exciting discovery, although I can imagine it must have been rather traumatic for you. You are all right, aren’t you, dear? And your husband and children?’

‘We’re fine, thank you. Yes, it certainly was a shock,’ I said. ‘Vera, who lived here before you and Harold?’

‘It was a probate sale when we bought it. It had been empty for years. Since the war, I believe. Yes, that’s right, it’s coming back to me now. The army requisitioned it during the war, and RAF officers from the old airfield at South Kingsley lived in it. When we moved in there was still evidence of their occupation – cigarette butts, playing cards caught under the skirting, even an old gas mask in the under-stairs cupboard.’

‘Wow, how fascinating to find all that stuff!’

‘We just thought it was mess. Back then, in the 1950s, everyone was trying to forget the war and move on. Not like now, when we’re all much more interested in the past and what’s gone before.’

Except for Simon, I thought.

‘I think it was a London family, quite well to do, who’d bought the house after Barty St Clair died,’ Vera went on. ‘They used it as a country retreat, up until the war. And after the war they never came back, and it was put up for sale when the last of them died. Perhaps the bones had something to do with them?’

‘Perhaps. Well, hopefully DI Bradley might be able to tell us in a couple of weeks.’

‘As long as that? Gosh, I don’t think I can wait! Mysterious jewelled hair combs and skeletons in the garden – how many more secrets does Kingsley House hold, I wonder? You will ring again, as soon as you have any more news, won’t you, Katie?’

I promised I would and, after ringing off, jotted down what she’d told me about the history of the house, before I forgot it all. Vera wasn’t the only one wondering if we’d uncover any more secrets here.

After we’d had dinner, put Thomas to bed and sent the other kids upstairs to their rooms, Simon and I settled down in the sitting room with the remains of the bottle of wine.

He topped up his glass, then sat back in his armchair and regarded me.

‘Katie, there’s something I need to talk to you about. I know today’s been a little traumatic, and I’m sorry to dump something else on you, but I really need to talk about this tonight.’

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. This didn’t sound like Simon. He wasn’t the kind of man who needed to talk through his problems. He usually kept quiet about them and told me only after he’d resolved them himself.

‘Go ahead, love,’ I said.

He sighed, and twiddled his wine glass by its stem. ‘Not really sure how to tell you this.’

‘Just say it, Simon, whatever it is. Today seems to be the day for coming clean. I’ve already told you my secret – about my ancestors having lived here.’

He snorted. ‘What I have to say is a little more important than that.’

I felt a cold hand clutch at my guts. Oh Christ, he wasn’t going to tell me he was leaving me for that other woman, was he? Surely not?

He gulped at his wine and took a deep breath before answering. ‘OK. Well. I think I told you once about Sarah, the girlfriend I had at university? We broke up amicably when we left uni and got jobs in different towns. We wrote to each other for a while but then it fizzled out.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ I took a sip of my wine. Where was this going?

‘I haven’t heard from her for over twenty years.’

‘Er, so?’

‘Turns out she was pregnant when we broke up. She didn’t tell me at the time. She never told me.’ His voice sounded strained. He took another gulp of his wine, then looked straight at me. ‘She kept the baby. It was a girl. She’s twenty-one now. I didn’t know about her until last week. She’s my daughter.’

Chapter Thirteen: Hampshire, March 1841

It was a good thing, Bartholomew thought, that the railway had reached North Kingsley. It was only a year earlier, in 1840, that the line between Winchester and Basingstoke had been completed, and the little station of North Kingsley opened. Travelling here had been so much easier than he’d remembered. Perhaps he should have invested in the railways after all.

They were met at the station by old George Fowles, in Bartholomew’s father’s phaeton. George was greyer and more bent over than Bartholomew remembered, but his toothy smile was as wide as ever.

‘Good to see you again, sir,’ said the old man. ‘It be many a year since I had the pleasure. Sorry it be under such circumstances. Your father were a good man, God rest his soul. And I’m delighted to meet your lady wife, and all.’ He bowed and raised his cap at Georgia, who smiled sweetly in return. ‘You be coming to live down along of North Kingsley again, sir?’

Bartholomew helped Georgia into the phaeton, and climbed up beside her. Her enormous swollen belly had made the journey from Brighton difficult and uncomfortable for her, and he was sure she was very thankful it was now almost at an end. He nodded at Fowles. ‘For a while at least. It’s good to see you too, George. Is your good wife keeping well?’

‘Ah, she’s not too bad, thanking you for asking, sir. She’s got a touch of the old rheumatics, but aside of that she’s the same as ever. Lord, it must be nigh on ten year since you last lived down along of us.’ Old George heaved the trunks onto the back of the phaeton and climbed up himself. He flicked the reins, and the two horses shook their heads and began to walk on.

‘Easily ten years. I think I was last here for my poor mother’s funeral.’ replied Bartholomew, as the phaeton clattered over the cobbles outside the station.

‘Aye, and now here for your poor father’s. It be set for tomorrow afternoon, up yon St Michael’s church at top of the village.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of the arrangements from his solicitor, but thank you,’ said Bartholomew.

Old George coughed. ‘We was wondering were you ever going to come and live in the house, or was you going to sell it off? And what would become of Mrs Fowles and me in that case. We’re not so young as we once was, and there’d be no finding another place at our age.’

Bartholomew leaned forward and patted the old man’s shoulder. ‘You’ve been faithful servants to my father. You’ll always have a job with me for as long as you live. I’m not intending to sell the old house and I’ll not cast you out.’

‘Ah, thanking you, sir. That be very kind.’ The old man grunted and lapsed into silence, as the horse trotted along the lane leading from the station towards the village, three miles to the east. It was a beautiful early spring day, cold but sunny, the sky a fresh, sparkling blue. The countryside curved and rolled away from them, fields either luminous green or still brown, trees in new leaf, with sweet-smelling hawthorn hedges either side of the lane. Bartholomew smiled. He’d forgotten how pleasant the countryside could be.

Beside him sat Georgia, looking about her and pointing out red kites wheeling overhead, a pair of rabbits in a field, a lone deer startled by the rattling phaeton taking cover in a small wood.

‘It’s beautiful, Bartholomew. Doesn’t it make your soul soar, just to be here? I’m sorry it’s under such sad circumstances, but forgive me, I cannot help myself. We shall be so happy! And our child shall be born healthy and strong, fed by such wonderful fresh air.’

He laughed. ‘A baby needs more than fresh air to grow strong, my love. But yes, it is beautiful and I am happy too, despite the events which brought us here. Remember, I had not spoken to my father for many years. His passing is not so very upsetting for me.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and she nestled into him, resting her head against him as the phaeton made its way eastwards towards North Kingsley.