The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (12 page)

“Five,” Emmie finished for him, horrified.

Dean paused, then said softly, “It was a common thing back then: Children—girls—being pushed into the trade because men were willing to buy them.”

He led her over to the closest body to the door. This one was much larger.

“This strapping man we call Arnold.”

“Arnold?”

“As in Schwarzenegger,” he laughed. “Look at the size of his upper body. Thick arm bones, thick ribs, ridged shoulder plates. See the deep grooves? That’s what happens when there’s significant and repeated musculature strain. The bone starts to ripple to provide more surface area for the muscles to attach to. You’d probably see that in a competitive body builder today. Now compare the upper body with the legs.”

Emmie took note. “They look disproportionate.”

“Significantly disproportionate,” he confirmed. “A common thing to find in knights back in the medieval period. They trained to use their upper bodies, but sat on a horse all day so their lower bodies were a lot weaker—by comparison of course. He’s still a behemoth.”

“That’s interesting. I mean, I know you can tell a lot from bones, but I never realized how much.”

“You can tell more from bones than a lot of people think. See here? This dent in his skull?”

“Ouch.”

“Yup. Dude probably took a blade to the front of the skull at one point or another. But that’s not what killed him. See? It’s begun to heal. Probably went three or four more years after that.”

Emmie leaned closer. “So what killed him then?”

Dean grinned devilishly. Gently, he detached Arnold’s jaw and lifted it for her to see the underside. “Tell me what you see.”

“They’ve got cut marks on each side.”

“Mmm hmm. Pretty deep cut marks to be affecting the bone, don’t you think? Evidence that the man had his throat slit.”

“Really?”

“Those marks are a surefire way to tell if a person’s had his or her throat slit. If you think about it, someone comes from behind and grabs you by the hair. Then they take their knife and drag it from ear to ear. That’s bound to make a mark on the bones. With that much force and at that angle? More often than not, victims of a throat slitting have that same mark on the jaw.”

“Hey, you guys just about ready?” Ewan appeared at the door, rapping on the metal frame with a knuckle.

“Yep, we’re done.” Dean turned to Emmie. “Cool, huh?”

Emmie laughed in disbelief. “Only to people like us. I think for anyone else, this stuff would be pretty morbid.”

“Thank God for people like us, then.
This stuff
is what helps us solve modern day murders.”

“Did you show her John Parker?” Ewan inquired.

“Of course I showed her John Parker. First thing—he’s the coolest one in there.”

The others were waiting eagerly when they returned to the team’s temporary office. As a group, they went back up to ground level and out to their van in high spirits. Emmie tried to show as much enthusiasm as the others. But inside, Dean’s story about Arnold and his slit throat made her feel sick.

It was a strange thing. She’d been affected by the stories of the other three, of course. But the sadness she felt for them was remote, tempered by the fact that their circumstances were also intriguing.

The last body, though, was anything but remote. It was inexplicably personal.

THE FAMOUS DR.
Iain Northcott’s
home was a three-storey townhouse. It was newly built, no more than a decade old. But careful attention had been paid to neighbourhood aesthetic, with the end result being that it did not look out of place with the older buildings and homes in the area. A small, well-maintained walking park occupied the land directly opposite Dr. Northcott’s row of townhouses, with a working fountain and several large, old oak trees. If the homes themselves weren’t an indication, then the prevalence of expensive automobiles parked in the driveways and on the streets were an unmistakable giveaway of the area’s significant affluence.

The sky had fallen completely dark by the time they arrived. Mellow interior lights warmed the windows of the homes, and a general air of domestic contentment embraced the street. The crew piled out of the white van and made their way to the most brightly lit house of them all, from which laughter and music could be heard.

In contrast to what she’d been expecting, Emmie was relieved to discover that the party was tasteful without being stuffy. History buffs, in her experience, tended to throw rather stuffy soirees. It was why her first impression, when Sophie had told her about the gathering, was that the still-youngish Londoner had gotten it wrong when she’d instructed Emmie to dress down. But when they stepped through the tall oak front door, there were enough faded jeans and hoodies mixed in amongst the more professionally dressed people that the crew fit right in.

Dr. Iain Northcott was near the door. He was engaged in an animated discussion with a well-dressed older woman sporting short, platinum blonde hair, and a middle aged man in a blazer and Buddy Holly spectacles. He, himself, was dressed somewhere in-between, in a button shirt with small blue-and-white stripes, and a clean pair of faded denim jeans. When he saw them enter, he waved enthusiastically, and excused himself to his guests.

“Hey, guys, glad you could make it,” he called over the crowd in his tempered Scottish brogue. When he reached them, he clapped Ewan on the back, and extended a hand to Dean. “I thought it might be too far.”

“We knocked off early,” Sophie admitted.

“As well you should. You lot work far too hard as it is.” He turned his boyish green eyes on Emmie. “And who might this lovely young lady be?”

“This is Emmie Tunstall,” Dean was quick to answer. “She’s the new curator up at Tullybrae.”

Dr. Northcott’s eyes lit up. “Oh, is that so? Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Emmie. You’re very welcome. Now please, all of you, help yourselves to drinks. And there’s some fantastic tuck in the kitchen.”

“Tuck?” Emmie whispered to Sophie.

“Food.”

“Ah.”

They all ventured down a narrow hallway, which had gleaming hardwood floors lit up by track lighting overhead. They had to go single file, and skirt around people who were milling about, taking up much of the already slim space.

In the kitchen, more people stood around, chatting happily in groups of two and three. The drinks and “tuck” which Dr. Northcott had mentioned were laid out in abundance on the butcher-block centre island. Cheeses, meats, fruit and vegetable trays, a crock pot with saucy meatballs, plates of chicken wings, phyllo-wrapped appetizers and mini sandwiches—the counter was brimming. In a cluster beside the food were several different bottles of red, white and blush wines, pre-made spritzers and all kinds of spirits. On the floor on either side of the island were two coolers packed full with bottles and cans of beer, which were kept cold by crushed ice.

Some of the people in the kitchen waved to the crew, who waved back. Spotting the beer, Adam went straight for them. He fished a brown bottle of Hoegaarden lager from the ice, cracked the cap off, and took a long swig. “What are you drinking, Em?” he offered once he’d lowered the bottle.

“Um,” she glanced at her choices. “I’ll have a red wine please.”

“Cor,” Sophie declared, eyeing the spread with glee. “He’s got that cream cheese salsa dip.”

She plucked a taco chip from an oversized ceramic bowl and scooped a large chunk of cheesy dip. Her teeth crunched into the morsel with audible satisfaction.

“Here you are, love.” Adam thrust an etched crystal wine glass into Emmie’s hands. The ruby liquid sloshed inside.

“Wow, this is a lot,” she laughed.

Adam winked. “Famke—you’re up. What’ll it be?”

“White for me, thanks.”

Once she had her drink, Famke caught Emmie’s eye and inclined her head. “Come on, let’s go exploring. I’ve never seen inside Iain’s house.”

Like thieves, the pair stole away, leaving Sophie to devour the cream cheese salsa dip singlehandedly. Adam was busy chatting up a stylish zoomer-aged woman, but Dean noticed them sneaking off, and shook his head playfully.

The house was stunning, expertly decorated as one might expect for a well-off bachelor and scholar. White pine fixtures and floors, along with archaeological show pieces, were accented by strategic lighting. Original canvas paintings in bold reds, oranges and blues were hung on the clean, white walls. Despite the number of bodies radiating heat, the atmosphere was comfortably cool and remarkably fresh.

“Upstairs?” Famke suggested when they’d seen all of the first floor.

“You devil,” Emmie teased.

“What? Other people are doing it. Let’s go.”

Indeed, the entire house was occupied by party-goers. There was an upstairs study in which a number of people were mingling, examining books and more artefacts. Famke ran into a few of her former colleagues from her undergrad days at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands, and was pulled into a round of catching up. She made a concerted attempt to include Emmie, who smiled along with the conversation, but let her go when Emmie excused herself on the pretext of needing to use the washroom.

After running into Sophie, then Dean, then Ewan, and engaging in conversation with each of their groups of acquaintances, Emmie felt confident that she’d done enough socializing. Fetching a paper plate of food for herself and another glass of wine, she retreated to the conservatory, which ran off of the kitchen. It was surprisingly empty, as was the back garden beyond. Grateful for the opportunity to be alone, she opened the glass door, and moved out into the night air. At the far end of the small yard was a black cast iron bench. She sank onto the chilly metal and exhaled a delicate puff of vapour into the cold.

“I am not a party girl,” she told the rose-coloured fall mums that occupied the planter across from her.

Taking a leisured sip of her wine, she rolled the tart, rich liquid around on her tongue, and savoured the pleasant burn as it slid down her throat. Her thoughts drifted back to the skeletons at the university, and she considered their significance to the students that would examine them. She considered their significance to academics like Dean. To herself, even, and historians like her. Those skeletons were irrefutable proof of the inevitability of death. And weren’t they all preoccupied with death in their different ways?

She wondered if Arnold ever savoured wine as she had. If Mary Vincent felt the sting of cold air on her arms as Emmie did now. Those bones were so much a part of why she loved history. Like the artefacts she catalogued and researched and preserved, they, too, were the evidence of lives lived long ago.

It was romantic. In an achingly sad way.

The Highlander, too, made her heart ache. Her thoughts had never been far from him since leaving Tullybrae. The tangible absence of him, the lack of awareness of his presence. He’d been on her mind all this time. She wondered if he knew she was gone. If he missed her the way she missed him—

The thought brought her up short. Missed him? She did not
miss
him. This was not some silly crush, and the Highlander was not a person. He had no form, no face, no physicality whatsoever.

And yet, there it was: She
missed
him.

The realization was unsettling. This was not like her.

Caught up in her fretting, Emmie was startled by the sound of the conservatory door opening.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said a male voice.

She turned to find Dr. Northcott standing on the threshold with a bottle of beer in one hand.

“I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”

“It’s not your place to apologize in your own home,” Emmie pointed out genially. “I’m probably not supposed to be out here, Dr. Northcott.
I’m
sorry.”

“No, no. By all means. I’ll leave the door open for you if you’d like. And please, call me Iain.”

“Iain, then. Don’t worry about the door, I’m coming back inside. I’ve been hiding out here for too long.”

She rose from the bench and crossed the lawn, but stopped when he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

“I hope you’re having a pleasant time. You’re not hiding because the party’s lame, are you?” He flashed his famous charming grin, but there was genuine warmth behind it.

“I promise, it’s nothing like that.”

“Not much of a party girl?” he guessed.

“You know, I was just telling your flower pot that.”

He laughed, refreshed by her wit. “I’ve had many a conversation with those mums, myself.”

“I was kinda dragged here by Sophie,” Emmie admitted. “She basically told me I’ve been a hermit for too long. Nose buried in historic junk and all that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy to be here. I hope it’s not an imposition.”

“I am always happy to meet the friends of my friends.”

“Oh good. ’Cause I was starting to feel like a party crasher.”

“You were not,” he teased.

“I was. So the crew are good friends, then? I wasn’t sure—I thought maybe they were just acquaintances.”

“Good friends, all of them. “Did you know that Sophie and Adam were both students of mine when I taught at York?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, mildly surprised as much by the information as by Iain’s down-to-earth countenance. She wasn’t happy to admit it, but Emmie saw now that she’d formed an opinion of the archaeologist before she’d met him, and without even realizing. The genuine, friendly man that sought to make her comfortable at his party was far from the snobbish, full-of-himself television personality she’d imagined.

“Yeah, they were a lot of fun, even as undergrads. And I’ve gotten to know Famke and Ewan and Dean over the years, too—archaeology being the small world that it is. I asked for them specifically for the Tullybrae project.”

“Really? I didn’t know you got to pick your own team for the show. I thought it was just whoever looks good on camera.”

“Ewan? Looking good on camera?”

“He fits a type,” Emmie laughed. “Papa bear, maybe.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But no. I insisted on having them all. They’re not always available to drop everything and uproot to a dig site, but when I can get them, I jump at the chance. They’re only working out of the Edinburgh U campus temporarily.”

She nodded her head, understanding. “I thought their office looked a little transient. Huh—I never thought of that. I just assumed that digging is what they always do.”

“It’s what they’d always do if the university would let them. But alas, tuition is a powerful motivator. Eager young minds clamouring for knowledge, and the undergrad courses need to be taught. To say nothing of the delegate committees, research grants and other short- and long-term projects.” He paused and tilted his head. “Emmie—is that short for Emily?”

“Emmeline, actually.” She took another sip of her wine, growing self-conscious.

“Emmeline. That’s beautiful. Unusual. A family name?”

“My great-grandmother’s, or so I’m told.” When he raised a brow quizzically, she added vaguely, “I’ve never met her.”

“It’s always nice to see the past carried forward to the future. A nod to those who came before us. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that. How is it that you came to be curator at such a young age, by the way? That’s impressive.”

“Not really,” she dismissed. “It was kind of a trade-off. Lady Rotherham couldn’t afford to pay for a full-fledged curator with the amount of work that needed to be done cataloguing and referencing and all that. So I’m doing all the grunt work in exchange for the title and the experience.”

“Sounds like a fair trade.”