The Ghosts of Tullybrae House (6 page)

EMMIE NEVER TOLD
Lamb what happened. She stayed in her bedroom until the crew from Stannisfield Films left the property. When the old butler called up the stairs to let her know that dinner was ready, she feigned a headache and called back that she was going to bed early.

Not long after, he was at her door with a tray. Homemade beef stew and a slice of rye bread with margarine.

Emmie was lying on top of her covers, with her back to the door. The only light in the room was from her bedside lamp. She turned her head when Lamb approached.

“Are you sure it’s just a headache?” he inquired. “You look pale.”

Emmie shoved herself into a sitting position and slumped against the brass rail headboard. “I feel guilty now. If I’d have known you were going to bring something to me, I would have come down.”

“Of course I was going to bring something to you. I couldn’t let you waste away.”

“I don’t need you wearing yourself out waiting on me.”

Lamb moved slowly into the room, and placed the tray on the night stand. “It was no trouble, really.”

“Yeah, sure. Those stairs with your old knees?”

“Nonsense. Is there anything else I can get for you? A paracetamol perhaps?”

“No, but thanks. I took one already,” she lied.

“All right, then. I’ll leave you be. Good night, dear.”

“G’night, Lamb. Thanks.”

He left, casting a troubled glance over his shoulder before he disappeared down the hallway.

Later that evening he stood at the kitchen counter, wrist-deep in bread dough for next day’s breakfast.

“I don’t like it,” he murmured. “I don’t like it one bit. He shouldn’t have done it.”

“Oh, leave him be,” sighed Mrs. Lamb, who hovered at his right shoulder.

“What right does he have to frighten her like that? What possible
reason
could he have?”

“He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even know she was there. Don’t be so hard on him— No, no, you’re doing it wrong.
Fold
the dough, don’t squish it.”

“I
am
folding it, Mother.”

“You’re no’. You’re squeezing it to pieces. Oh, you are a useless lad.”

Lamb turned sharply to the empty air. “If you think you can do better, then by all means.”

“Don’t get smart,” Mrs. Lamb clucked. “Anyway, he didn’t mean to frighten her. He’s frightened, himself. The young man hasn’t quite accepted his death, you know. Poor thing’s still convinced he shouldn’t have died.”

“What good does that do, to be stewing over something he cannot change?”

There was a sharp tug at Lamb’s ear; he swatted ineffectually.

“Look at you, all high and mighty,” Mrs. Lamb admonished. “Wait until you step over onto
our
side of the line. You may just start to think a bit differently.”

Lamb went back to his kneading. “I still don’t like it. You saw the state of her. He frightened her something terrible.”

Mrs. Lamb drifted to his other side. “He did do that, aye. Perhaps I should keep an eye on her tonight.”

“I reckon it would be good if you did.” Lamb shaped the dough and pressed it into the waiting pan on the counter top. Once it was the right shape, he covered the dough with a damp cloth, and popped it into the refrigerator to rise slowly overnight.

“I’ve been meaning to check in on her at night anyway,” Mrs. Lamb continued. “That Clara’s been getting curious again.”

“I thought you told her to stop bothering her. I won’t have her doing what she did that first night, pulling the covers off and disturbing her sleep.”

“I did tell her,” Mrs. Lamb insisted. “As much as you can tell a five-year-old anything. You know how they are. Tell them something one day, and the next they’ve completely forgotten about it. You were far worse when you were that age, you know.”

Lamb harrumphed. “Well, tell her again. That poor girl needs her sleep, needs to recover from what happened today.”

“I’ll go up as soon as I’m sure that dough’s rising right. I have my doubts, what with the way you were squishing it to pieces.”

Lamb rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

The first few
days of the dig were noisy and chaotic. The primary archaeology crew were the ones doing the grunt work. Dr. Iain Northcott came out only twice more after his first visit, and stayed only long enough to make a few on-camera appearances. It would give the impression that he was there in the fields, working alongside his colleagues for the benefit of the show.

On his third visit, he was close enough to the open nursery window that Emmie could hear what he was saying for the cameras.

“It’s day three of our dig, and we’re making substantial progress. The weather’s been cooperating so far. The rain’s held off, so we’ve been thanking our lucky stars that we have dry conditions to dig in.”

“We?” Emmie muttered from two stories up.

For the initial stage of the dig, a backhoe was brought in. The job of the operator was to scrape up the top soil, one thin layer at a time, which covered the direct areas where the ground-penetrating radar had picked up disturbances. There was a cluster of these areas, which Lady Rotherham had explained were thought to be the outbuildings. A more distant disturbance, farther east of there, was thought to be the burial site for the murder (assuming, of course, that’s what it was).

Normally, this kind of activity excited Emmie. In her fourth year of university, one of her undergraduate professors had taken her class to a dig site at Fort Henry in Kingston, Ontario. She’d been fascinated by the process, by the possibilities that these men and women were helping to uncover. They hadn’t actually uncovered anything while her class was visiting, but still, the idea that they
might
find something was what captivated her imagination.

Now, though, the work going on outside made her feel uneasy, like it wasn’t right.

Like whatever was buried there, out in those fields, should remain buried.

She stayed inside those first few days, avoiding the crew. It was easy, since they didn’t come inside. They had their tent set up close to where they were digging, with a generator rigged to it. Inside the tent the excavators had a hot plate to boil water for tea, and their laptops, paperwork, and other technical equipment. They even had a port-o-potty onsite, so they weren’t traipsing in and out of the manor house all day.

Thank goodness for small mercies.

Emmie’s cataloguing and research kept her occupied, and by this time she was beginning to feel like she was making progress. She used her progress as a justification for why she needed to stay indoors, rather than go out and meet the dig crew—she was just too busy. She knew Lamb went out, though. With clockwork precision, he brought biscuits and tea to the excavators every morning at ten, and again at three in the afternoon.

They knew she was in the house, hiding from them. Lamb mentioned it at every meal.

“They’re eager to meet you, you know.”

“I know, I will. Soon.”

She couldn’t avoid going out forever, though. Emmie Tunstall may be a bit of a wallflower, but she was no hermit. Wherever this aversion to the dig came from, whatever had sparked it… it was simply all in her mind. It had to be.

This wasn’t like her.

So she went.

It was just before noon. She finished up with a collection of random buttons which she’d found buried in a cardboard box in one of the main bedrooms (several of which buttons she’d traced to the officers’ uniforms of the German Imperial Navy of the late eighteen hundreds), closed her laptop, and went outside.

At first, she stood on the edge of the driveway, one hand hugging her middle and the other shading her eyes. Above, the clouds chased each other across the sky, intermittently blocking out the sun, like giant search lights sweeping over the hills. A light breeze ruffled the sleeves and the hem of her sheer, cream-coloured blouse.

They looked peaceful out there, the crew, digging quietly within the perimeters of the grid they’d marked off with yellow nylon string and pegs. Doing what they loved to do in contented silence. Emmie didn’t doubt that this was how she looked to others when she was knee-deep in cataloguing and tagging. There was a comfort in doing these kinds of repetitive tasks. She recognized that same comfort in the excavators working in the field now.

She hadn’t been there long before one of the archaeological crew spotted her. It was a young woman, tall and svelte. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which was tucked through the snaps of a pastel blue baseball cap. A neon yellow reflective vest hung from lean, strong shoulders. Denim shorts, cut off just above the knee, were dirty from days of digging in the Scottish soil.

She waved and stood. Hopping up out of her shallow trench, she loped towards Emmie in a graceful stride.

“Are you Emmie?” she asked when she was close enough. She spoke with a slight accent. German, maybe? Or Swedish?

“Yeah, hi.” Emmie extended her hand. The woman removed one of the heavy-duty work gloves she was wearing, and gave Emmie’s hand a firm shake.

“Hello, I’m Famke. Famke Bomgaars. Mr. Lamb has mentioned you. And also Lady Rother-ham—am I saying that right? Rother-ham?”

“Rother-um” Emmie corrected. “Do you mind me asking what your accent is?”

“It’s Dutch.”

Emmie nodded appreciatively. “Far from home, then.”

“As are you, I understand. Canada, is it?”

“Born and raised.”

“And you are curator here?”

Emmie tipped her head back and forth. “Er … that’s the official title. There’s so much stuff here, though, and none of it is catalogued, so mostly I’m doing a lot of junior stuff that would already have been done before a curator would typically be brought on board.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, no. Don’t get me wrong, I’m okay with it. I knew what I was getting into before I came out here. It’s good experience.”

“Yes, I suppose it would be,” Famke agreed. “I’ve been in a similar position myself.”

The two women smiled at each other, slightly awkward in their new acquaintanceship.

“Would you like to come and see what we’re doing?” Famke asked.

“Sure, I’d love to. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course not.” Famke motioned with her head, then set off across the field.

Emmie trailed behind, stepping carefully over the nylon string and into the grid. There had been a rain last night, and the ground was spongy beneath her feet. Her low-heeled leather booties weren’t the best footwear for this kind of terrain, even when it was dry. She was relieved when she made it out to the dig site without overturning an ankle.

“Here is where I’m working.” Famke pointed to her trench. “I’ve not yet found anything.”

“Do you think you will? Find something here, I mean?” Emmie peered into the trench.

“I hope so. I think I will. Some of the others have found a few things already. Nothing very exciting, of course. Pottery shards and domestic waste, mostly.”

“Domestic waste is exciting,” Emmie argued amicably. “Evidence of lives lived long ago and all that.”

Famke beamed. “I think so, too. Usually I’m the only one.”