Death at Bishop's Keep (3 page)

Miss Ardleigh looked up. “Mrs. Schreiber's attorney and Mrs. Dawson—these are the sum of your inquiries?”

Feeling somewhat surprised by the question, Mr. Kellerman countered with a prudent one of his own. “Are there positions I have overlooked—other than your efforts to find secretarial employment with the publishing firm of Frank Leslie?”

The answer, which was tempered with a smile, came with sufficient readiness to satisfy whatever suspicions he might have begun to entertain. “No, sir,” Miss Ardleigh said, “there are no other positions. I have been employed for regular wages by no persons other than the two in your report.”

He nodded. “Very well, then, I shall proceed. Having received and conveyed these satisfactory reports of your abilities, and the fact that you are presently unengaged and at leisure, I received yesterday a response from Miss Ardleigh, relayed by cable through Mr. Edgecombe. It directs me to make the following offer.” He picked up a yellow Western Union cable and read. “ ‘In return for a generous annual salary, board, and room at Bishop's Keep, Dedham, as well as the cost of transportation from America to said location, Miss Sabrina Ardleigh proposes to engage Miss Kathryn Ardleigh as her secretary and personal companion for a trial period of twelve months. If the arrangement is satisfactory to both parties, it may be continued indefinitely; if at any time it becomes unsatisfactory to either party, Miss Kathryn Ardleigh will receive wages earned to date and return fare to America.' ” He put down the paper. “You are asked to respond by cable as soon as possible.”

Miss Ardleigh unclasped her fingers and clasped them again, although without nervousness. Calm as a custard, she was, Mr. Kellerman thought, and her air of thoughtful self-possession disconcerted him. Most of the women of his acquaintance would have been flung into an absolute tizzy by the revelation of a hitherto unknown aunt who proposed employment, not to mention the opportunity of an exotic sea voyage and a visit to the romantic-sounding Bishop's Keep. But Miss Ardleigh, it seemed, was concerned with practical, not romantic or exotic, matters.

“This aunt of mine, of what age is she?” she asked. “What is her health? Is she a traveler or does she prefer to stay at home? What duties are expected of me?”

Mr. Kellerman spoke regretfully. “I am afraid I cannot answer your questions, Miss Ardleigh, for I have not met the lady. Neither she nor Mr. Edgecombe offered further details of the post. I infer,” he added, “based on the expense which she incurred to confirm your suitability, that your aunt is quite well off.” He coughed delicately.

Miss Ardleigh persisted. “Bishop's Keep. What kind of place is it? What about Dedham? And what does Miss Ardleigh consider a ‘generous salary'?”

“Dedham, I understand, is a small village some sixty miles to the north and east of London, ten miles from the town of Colchester. Its chief claim to fame, I recall, is that it lies near the home of John Constable, the famous painter. As to Bishop's Keep, I cannot speak, nor to the amount of the salary, nor to Miss Ardleigh's definition of ‘generous.' ”

Miss Ardleigh lifted her chin. “I am to know nothing of my employer nor of the position,” she said tartly, “and yet I am asked to commit myself to a full year's employment in a foreign land, across the ocean from my own.” She paused. “It would appear that I am being asked to buy a pig in a poke.”

“So it would appear, madam,” Mr. Kellerman said, “although I might note that such a position offers more in the way of ... say, adventure, than a place at a publishing house. If, indeed, adventure is to your liking,” he added hastily. He paused. “Perhaps you wish some time to reflect or to consult those elders who might guide you. Your uncle O'Malley, for instance, or your priest. It is, after all, a matter of some significance.”

“It is indeed,” Miss Ardleigh said. She looked down at her hands and then up again, her steady eyes clear and direct—quite her best feature, Mr. Kellerman decided, excepting perhaps that deep voice, that reminded him somehow of brown velvet. “However, since there is little information of real substance upon which to reflect, and since no more will be forthcoming, reflection is likely to prove unprofitable. While I respect my uncle O'Malley, his opinion can only be less well informed than my own.” Her smile was dry. “And as to a priest, Mr. Kellerman, any Pinkerton's man worth his salt would have ascertained that I am not a practicing Catholic. I am, in fact, a freethinker.”

Mr. Kellerman winced. Miss Ardleigh had reinforced his perception that hers was a too-willful nature. But she was regrettably correct. He had not thought to report her failure to attend church services, and he should have; it might have made a difference to her prospective employer. However, it was too late now. He had tendered the offer and the young woman was pulling on her gloves.

She picked up her reticule and stood up. “Mr. Kellerman,” she said, “please reply to Miss Ardleigh's cable with the simple word, ‘Yes.' ”

Mr. Kellerman stood up as well, surprised by the precipitous response but glad for the end of the interview. Miss Ardleigh was a young woman much too definite in her inclinations, decidedly unfeminine in her appearance, and entirely too forthright. What would be the outcome of this unusual enterprise? How would her new employer respond to this rather too-assertive person?

These questions Mr. Kellerman quickly dismissed as beyond his responsibility. After all, it was Miss Sabrina Ardleigh who was buying a pig in a poke.

“With the recent appearance of emulsion papers and the further development of the single-lens reflex camera, photography has become portable, making it an outstandingly useful tool. A single photograph is superior to a half-dozen sketches, for the camera reveals what the eye beholds. With the camera, we may safely say it is no longer possible to harbour illusions.”

“Photography as a Tool in Natural Science” British Journal of Photography 1894

 

 

 

T
he student was pale and panting. “Pardon me, sir,” he blurted “there appears to be a dead body in my dig.”

Sir Archibald Fairfax put down his magnifying glass. He had overseen the Colchester excavation for several months now, and finds—small, to be sure, but quite promising—were occurring daily. Just yesterday, for instance, the team at the Lion Street site had uncovered a patch of excellent Roman mosaic floor, in first-rate condition. As he had written to his colleague Howell, he expected momentarily to make a more stimulating discovery. He had not, however, expected to turn up a skeleton.

“Good show, old chap!” Sir Archibald exclaimed, rising. “There are artifacts?”

The discovery of skeletal remains in the Colchester excavations were surprisingly infrequent, given that the town, the first Roman colony in Britain, was destroyed by Queen Boadicea in A.D. 60 and again by the Danes in the ninth century, and was the site of the Roundheads' famous siege of the Royalists in 1648. Sir Archibald would be pleased to surrender any bones to those of his colleagues who were versed in physical anthropology. Of far greater interest to him were the artifacts found with the skeleton.

“Well, actually—” The student wrung his hands. “That is to say—”

“Come, come, man,” Sir Archibald commanded, “get hold of yourself. A good archaeologist must manage his work with dignity, never permitting himself to be swayed by the emotions of discovery.” He gave the student a more kindly look. “In what stratum are you working, my boy? Of what period is this skeleton of yours?”

The young man swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing above his collar. “But you see, sir, it's not a skeleton, at least not yet. The body appears to be recently deceased. And to make a bad lot worse, somebody tumbled dirt in on it. Mucked up my dig a good bit, sir.” His voice became anguished. “And I was getting down to the Danes.”

Sir Archibald forgot about skeletons and artifacts. He snatched up the pith helmet he affected on site, even in England, where it was hardly required to shade his head from the sun. In fact, even now the sun was well hidden behind a bank of clouds and the late-summer morning was dull and cheerless.

“Right,” he said testily. “We'll just go and see, shall we? Can't have people tumbling dirt and mucking up the digs.”

The student's excavation was located in the southeast corner of the larger dig. When Sir Archibald reached the site, he found that several people had preceded him and were clustered disturbingly close to the excavation, no doubt tumbling even more dirt. The first, he noted with approval, was a tall, strikingly lean man with a closely trimmed brown beard, a shapeless brown felt hat, and a camera on a wooden tripod. Charles Sheridan and his ubiquitous camera had provided an invaluable service at the dig. Sir Charles was also an amateur paleontologist who understood how to behave on an archaeological site. The second man on the scene, to whom Fairfax took immediate objection, was a uniformed police sergeant, buttons gleaming. The unspeakable third was a seedy young police constable in a uniform shiny in the seat, his scuffed boots run over at the heels.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the student panted, reading Sir Archibald's censorious scowl. “The constable happened to be walking by when I made the discovery. He heard my, er, exclamation of amazement. He summoned a superior.”

“See here now,” Sir Archibald said crossly to the two policemen, “we can't have this. Unauthorized persons at the site. Next thing you know, there'll be tourists.” Tourists! As irresponsible as water buffalo. As undisciplined as sacred cows. He glanced at the gentleman with the camera. “Not meaning you, old chap,” he added. “Carry on as you will.”

Charles Sheridan gave Sir Archibald a restrained smile, took a photographic plate holder out of the large bellows camera, put it carefully into a shoulder bag, and inserted another one.

The sergeant, unperturbed by Sir Archibald's outburst, stepped back from the brink. “I wonder, sir, if you ‘ud mind askin' yer chaps t' remove th' dirt, or if you 'ud prefer my man t' do it.”

Sir Archibald was incredulous. “Your man, sir? In my excavation? Absurd! He has no qualifications. Just imagine what would happen should a valuable artifact reside beneath that lot of dirt! Can't have amateurs mucking about with ancient skeletons and irreplaceable antiquities. Simply not done.”

“P'raps, sir,” said the student, tugging at his sleeve, “you had better have a look first.”

Sir Archibald peered into the pit, an area about the size of a double grave, and very nearly as deep. At least, so it had been. Now, one of the sides had caved in, partially covering the floor of the excavation with an untidy heap of dirt and small stones. Out of the debris Sir Archibald saw protruding a human hand and perceived in an instant that this find would produce no artifacts suitable for the collection of the British Museum or for documentation in the
British Journal of Archaeology.
This relic belonged in the morgue.

“Well, sir?” the sergeant asked. “What'll it be?”

Sir Archibald turned to the student. “Right, then, lad,” he said, not ungraciously. “Why don't you just pop down and clean out the pit? Down you go, now.”

With that, he turned on his heel and marched back to his tent.

“You see, but you do not observe.”

—SHERLOCK HOLMES ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE “Scandal in Bohemia”

 

 

 

C
harles Sheridan remained at the lip of the impromptu grave for the next hour, soberly capturing with his camera the progress of the excavation. As the last of the covering dirt was shifted by the student archaeologist, down to shirt-sleeves now and sweating in the bright sun that had burned off the cloud, Charles moved his tripod to get a different perspective on the work. While the sergeant and the constable hoisted the stiffened corpse out of the pit, he composed another exposure under the black cloth which covered the back of the camera, and made several others, from different angles, with the body lying faceup to the sun. A knot of curious onlookers was kept well to the street by a second police constable, summoned to control the crowd.

Studying the inverted image on the ground glass screen at the back of the camera, Charles saw that the body was that of a slim, swarthy gentleman of foreign appearance. He had high cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and thin lips under a waxed mustache, and was dressed for evening in a black frock coat, double-breasted waistcoat, single-wing collar, and striped trousers. Upon one well-cared-for hand was a curious gold ring in the shape of a scarab, such as Charles had seen among recently discovered Egyptian artifacts in the British Museum. That the corpse was not the ordinary inebriated casualty of several hours' pleasant imbibing at the nearby Red Lion was attested by the fact that a substantial amount of dirt had been deposited on top of him by the landslide. It was more unquestionably indicated by a half-inch cut in the man's dirt-soiled waistcoat in the vicinity of the heart. The cut was surrounded by a rich rosette of crusted blood. The floor of the excavation, onto which he had fallen facedown, was blood-soaked.

The sergeant knelt and jabbed a finger at the cut. He spoke without looking at the police constable standing at attention behind him. “Knife, wudn't yer say, Trabb?”

Trabb penciled nervous jottings in a small notebook. “I'd say so, Sergeant Bat'le.”

“Inserted once firmly an' withdrawn?”

“So't appears, sir.” Trabb turned his head squeamishly aside. “D‘yer recognize 'im?”

“ 'Fraid not.” The sergeant gingerly inserted his hand into the dead man's pockets, one after the other. “Not a Colchester man, I'd warrant. Don't appear t' have a thing in his pockets. Rob'ry, wouldn't yer say?”