The Emerald Comb (24 page)

‘How come they didn’t just rot away completely?’

‘Your soil is quite alkaline. That helped preserve them. And under the tree the earth would be dry, as the roots would pull all moisture out of the soil before it had a chance to get down to where the bones were.’

I nodded. That made sense to me. I could hardly wait for DI Bradley to go, so that I could make a start on the research. But he seemed to want to linger over his tea, and was enjoying the pack of biscuits I’d opened. Finally he got to his feet.

‘Once all the reports have been completed, we won’t need the bones any more. Strictly speaking, as they were found on your property, they belong to you, but if you want us to dispose of them, we can do that. They’re not old enough to be of interest to a museum, so it’s probably best if we get them cremated. Do you want to have the ashes?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. We could scatter them back in the garden or…’ I hardly liked to say it. If I unearthed any clues as to who she was, perhaps I could scatter her ashes somewhere of importance to her – near her home, or her family’s graves. ‘Yes,’ I said, more decisively. ‘I’d definitely like to have them, if I may.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll bring them. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Smith. You always provide a fine choice of biscuits.’ He shook my hand, and I showed him out.

As soon as he’d gone I picked up the phone and rang Dad. There were three hours to go before I needed to collect Thomas from his nursery class. Time to get started finding out who the poor woman was.

Dad was fascinated by DI Bradley’s revelations and definitely wanted to help with the research.

I was feeling daunted. ‘How do we even begin to find out who she was?’

‘Well, why not start with the residents of the house in 1841?’ he said. ‘Try to trace them forward. If you find them in the next census or find a death certificate for them, you can rule them out.’

‘What if she died before the 1841 census and the tree was planted later?’

‘In that case we’d have no chance of finding out who she was. But if the sapling was planted in 1842 the body was probably buried only just before, and that does fit with the carbon-dating range of 1840-60. So let’s hope we’re right, and she was alive at the time of the census. When exactly was it taken?’

‘April 1841,’ I said.

‘OK. The other thing we could try,’ Dad said, getting excited now, ‘is local newspapers. Perhaps someone went missing. Perhaps there was some local scandal… Why don’t you start with the censuses and I’ll trawl through the papers? Quite a few are online. Or I could go to the library in Winchester and look at microfiches. Your mother will be delighted to have me out of the house.’

‘OK, Dad, if you’re sure you don’t mind?’

‘I can’t wait to get started! I’ll ring if I find anything. Bye, love.’

I grabbed my laptop, saved the kitchen designs I’d started on, and navigated to my genealogical research file. I already had a copy of the 1841 census for the house saved, so I opened it up.

Bartholomew St Clair, head of household. Obviously not him. Georgia St Clair, his wife. Right gender and age, but it wasn’t her. She was buried in St Michael’s churchyard, and I had her death certificate from 1875. Barty St Clair. Not him, he was only a few weeks old in 1841.

That left two servants: Agnes Cutter and Polly Turner. I looked at their entries in more detail. Both were listed as young, unmarried women.

I looked at the 1851 census for Kingsley House. Bartholomew, Georgia, their children Barty, Isobella and William. Their other daughter Elizabeth had been born and died between the two censuses. Servants Annie Barton and Eliza Montford. No Agnes Cutter or Polly Turner. Had they married, changed jobs and moved away, or…?

My next job was to try to trace these two women after 1841. It was harder going forward than going back. Going backwards, you know that someone must have existed, and must have had a birth registration. Going forwards was harder, as you have no clues as to when they died, or married, or moved area.

It was a nightmare. Researching the St Clairs had been relatively easy, as it is such an unusual surname. But there were hundreds of Cutters and thousands of Turners. I spent a couple of hours browsing the 1851 census, and possible marriage or death registrations for them, and got nowhere. I realised I’d have to be more systematic.

With just half an hour left before I needed to go to leave to collect Thomas, I decided to take a look at the neighbours of Kingsley House in the 1841 census. The village was tiny back then, and the total census for it ran to just a dozen pages. Maybe there’d be someone with a more unusual name I’d be able to track forwards, so at least I could rule out one person.

The next census entry after Kingsley House was for Stables Cottage. This listed a George Fowles and his wife Maria. Both were in their sixties; George’s occupation was given as Groom, and Maria’s as Housekeeper. With a jolt I realised that they probably both worked for Bartholomew St Clair in Kingsley House. And Stables Cottage was almost certainly where Stables Close was now – on part of the land belonging to Bartholomew.

I began compiling a document on my laptop for each person – Agnes, Polly, the Fowles couple – and started adding notes and possible matches. The clock in the hallway chimed two. I was late to collect Thomas! I leapt up, grabbed my keys and ran through the village to the school. Other parents and their children were already on the way home. I hated being late to pick up the kids.

Running as fast as my FitFlops would allow, I reached the school gate, crossed the playground in record time, elbowing the groups of chatting mums and skipping girls out of the way, and burst in through the classroom door. As expected, Thomas was sitting alone, his Thomas the Tank Engine rucksack on his back ready, his lunchbox on the table in front of him. His teacher was stacking tiny chairs on top of tables ready for the cleaners. She smiled sympathetically at me as I stuttered an apology, and waved at Thomas. ‘See you tomorrow, Thomas. Don’t forget to bring your picture in when you’ve finished it.’

‘Hello, sweetie,’ I said. ‘What picture have you been working on?’

He pouted at me, and marched out of the classroom without taking my hand. My punishment for being Last Mum. I walked behind him until we reached the school gate, then took his hand anyway. He gave me a half-smile. The sulk was over already. ‘What picture was Miss Cotton talking about?’ I asked again.

‘The one I’ve been doing of the ghosts and skelingtons in our house.’

‘Oh. You must show me when we get home.’ I dreaded to think what he’d drawn. Miss Cotton knew about our discovery – so did the whole village of course, after the piece on
South Today
and in the local papers. We were quite the local celebrities.

The picture turned out to be a typical four-year old scrawl of characters with huge heads, stickman arms and legs and no bodies. All had enormous Os for mouths. They were the ghosts, Thomas told me. The ones that went woo-woo in the chimney. Amongst the ghost figures lay lots of sticks and circles – apparently these were the bones. Thomas settled down at the kitchen table with his crayons to complete the drawing, then carefully wrote his name in spidery letters at the top, and put it back in his bag to take to school the next day.

Later that evening, as we sat around the dining room table after our evening meal, I told Simon and the kids about DI Bradley’s visit, and about the findings. Simon, for once, was home on time to eat with the kids.

Lauren nodded sagely at the news the bones were female. ‘I knew it’d be a girl. The ghost is a girl, and I’ve always thought they’d be her bones.’

I frowned at her, hoping she was not about to scare Thomas again. ‘What ghost?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘The one who visits Thomas’s room, of course.’

‘She goes woo-woo in the chimley,’ Thomas said. ‘That was to warn us that the tree was going to fall. She’s a good ghost, Mummy. Not a bad one.’

Ah. I hadn’t realised the ghosts were now considered goodies. That probably explained why Thomas had seemed more settled in the house since the storm, despite the macabre findings in the garden.

‘Have you actually seen this ghost?’ asked Simon.

‘No, Dad. You don’t
see
ghosts. You just
feel
them. She watches Thomas play and looks out of the window at the hill,’ said Lauren.

Lewis laughed. ‘Yeah, and once she built him a really good Brio train layout. But I’ll kill her if she touches my Lego. Oh, I forgot. She’s already dead.’

Lauren thumped his arm. ‘Don’t be stupid. She’s real. Just cos
you
haven’t felt her. Me and Thomas know she’s there, don’t we?’

Thomas nodded vigorously. Simon and I exchanged a glance. Maybe it was time to change the subject. I’d heard that children can be more sensitive to supernatural phenomena, but I wasn’t sure that I actually believed in ghosts myself…

After the children were in bed Simon and I sat outside on the garden chairs watching the midsummer sun slowly set. It was good to spend some time with him. The air was scented with honeysuckle and Eileen and Stan’s newly mown grass. I told Simon the rest of DI Bradley’s report, and that Dad and I had decided to try to find out who the bones could be.

‘Are the police not going to try to do that?’

‘No. They’re not interested. The bones are too old to be of importance to anyone living, so they’ve closed the case.’

‘OK. Well, don’t you waste too much time on it. At some point we’ll also need to close the case and get on with our lives.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Although I don’t much feel we can get on with life at the moment. This Amy thing – it’s really difficult to concentrate on anything else. I keep thinking about her, wondering what she’s like, wondering how it’ll be when I finally meet her.’

I shrugged. ‘It’ll be OK. Awkward, no doubt, but you’ll be fine. You’ll charm her, as you always charm everyone you meet.’

He didn’t appear to have heard me. ‘What does she want from me, I wonder?’

‘A link to her roots, I’d say. A blood relative. The knowledge of where she’s come from.’ I knew Simon would find this concept hard to grasp.

He looked at me, worry clouding his eyes. ‘Do you think she’ll want to meet her grandmother? My mother? What would I do? Mum would have no idea who she is. She doesn’t even know who I am any more. I’d never be able to explain Amy to her.’

I squeezed his hand again. ‘You could tell her about your mother, but no, I don’t think I would tell your mum about Amy. And, because you’re adopted, your mum is no relation to Amy. So it’d be fair for you to say you don’t want to upset your mother by taking Amy to visit her.’

‘You’re right. I don’t think I will tell Mum.’ He sighed. ‘Speaking of Mum, I’ll be going to see her this Saturday afternoon. I’ll try and get some gardening done in the morning. We should extend this patio, to fit a larger table, so we can eat meals outside in the summer. We should also get on with planning the new kitchen. So much to do, so little time!’

I’d completely forgotten about the kitchen plans. DI Bradley’s visit had put all that completely out of my head. I fetched my laptop, and showed Simon where I’d got to. The stars were out and dew settling on the grass by the time we went back inside. I loved midsummer. Those lovely long evenings made so much more seem possible. I was looking forward to the school summer holidays, too. We’d planned to stay at home this year and explore our local area. We’d have trips to Marwell Wildlife Park, Winchester to see the cathedral and its various museums – Lewis was desperate to see King Arthur’s Round Table – and walks in the Downs and the New Forest. Only three more weeks until school broke up. In August it would be Thomas’s fifth birthday. In September Lewis and Lauren were due to move up to secondary school. They’d be taking a bus from the village into Winchester every morning, and I’d only have Thomas to take to the village primary school. All change. My babies were growing up.

Chapter Seventeen Hampshire, December 1876

Barty, my son, you have read this far and perhaps you are now beginning to tire of this narrative. Many men are unfaithful to their wives, perhaps even father a child with their mistress, so maybe you are not terribly shocked by what I have confessed so far. What then, did I do to haunt me throughout my life? What happened that I regret so much?

I cannot divulge the answers to those questions just yet. I must allow the story to unfold, piece by piece, step by step. But this I promise you, dear Barty, you will know the answers before the end. For it is soon now that I will reach the climax of this sorry tale. I must steel myself with a whiskey or two before I write this next section. I have made the earlier parts longer than I intended; perhaps because I was putting off reaching this part, and the deeds of which I am most ashamed. Well, I can put it off no longer. Time is against me – my cancer is taking hold, eating away at me from within, like the secrets I have long held. I grow weaker with every passing day, but I must and
shall
finish this narrative, so that I hold no secrets from you, my best-loved son.

I shall pick up the story again in early December 1841. The autumn had been long, dark and wet. Georgia was still confined to her room, seeing no one except myself and Agnes. The wet-nurse had been dismissed, as young Barty, at nine months old, was now eating gruel mixed with milk and sugar. I shall resume the narrative with a scene between Agnes and myself, one which pains me even now to recall, even after so many years. My words and actions here, were they in some part to blame for what happened after?

Hampshire, December 1841

It was a dark, gloomy afternoon, and Bartholomew was sitting beside the fireside in the drawing room, half-heartedly reading a newspaper. If only the rain would stop, he would go out for a ride to clear his head. Georgia’s ongoing melancholy, together with the depressing weather, was affecting the entire household and he felt the need to get out as often as he could. He toyed with the idea of going away – spending the winter season in London perhaps, leaving Georgia and little Barty in the care of Agnes and Mrs Fowles. He could employ a nursemaid to help them, perhaps.