Precious Bones

Precious Bones

A Novel

By Irina Shapiro

© 2011 by Irina Shapiro

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author. 

All characters are fictional.  Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental
.
 

Chapter 1

March 2010

I poured milk into my coffee and padded into the living room to catch up on yesterday’s mail and current events.  Plopping down on the sofa, I turned on the television and turned my attention to numerous bills and store circulars that had accumulated in my mail box over the past few days.    I was just staring in disgust at a particularly high credit card bill when something on TV caught my attention.  The newscaster was reporting from the Blackfriars neighborhood of London, standing in front of a charming Tudor house, her face infused with artificial concern.  She pointed to the house behind her just as a team of police officers carried out something to a waiting police van. 

“A
grisly discovery this morning as workers stumble across the remains of what appears to be a woman and an infant entombed behind the kitchen wall of this historic building.  There is no way of telling at this time how long the remains have been in their hiding place, but we will have more information for you on this gruesome find as soon as we hear back from our forensic experts.  As of now, the location is being treated as a crime scene by the Metropolitan Police and no one is allowed to enter the premises.  All work on the house has been suspended until further notice.”

The reporter dropped her false sorrow and went on to say something about world markets, but I wasn’t listening to a word she said.  A tidal wave of sorrow washed over me as I saw the body bag
carefully deposited into the vehicle, and the door slammed shut by a burly policeman.  I wiped a tear from my cheek whispering, “Oh, my darling.” 

Chapter 2

I spent the rest of that day feeling weepy and listless.  I started several projects, but left them unfinished due to my inability to concentrate.    I had no idea what prompted these feelings since, as far as I could recall, I had never set foot in the house in Blackfriars.  My thoughts kept turning to the news report.  It would take days, or possibly weeks, for the forensic report, but deep down, I already knew what they would find.  How I knew, was an entirely different story. 

I spent a restless night dreaming of
strange faces and airless tombs, and was up at the crack of dawn searching the internet for any updates on the strange story.  There were no new developments yet, so I powered off the computer disappointed, and pulled out my appointment diary.  I had nothing on the agenda for that morning, and I had blocked out the time to start working on my new novel.  My latest manuscript was already with my agent, and she would call once she had some feedback from the publisher. 

I had been putting off starting a new novel for weeks because
, frankly, I had the worst case of writer’s block that I’ve ever experienced.  I wrote my first novel while I was still at university and although it took a long time to find a literary agent who was willing to even consider looking at it, once I got signed on, it had been smooth sailing.  My novel went on to become a bestseller in several countries, and I was hailed by the critics as one of the best writers of my generation.  It’s hard to allow praise like that not to go to one’s head.   I basked in the glory of my newfound fame for months until I finally began work on a new book. 

The second novel sold even better th
an the first, and now my third manuscript was with the publisher.   It was time to start writing a new book, but I had no clue what to write about.  Normally, an idea would pop unbidden into my head, but this time, my mind felt as barren as the desert.  I sat at my desk staring at the empty notepad.  Usually, I would start by writing down the bones of the story.  Once I had a premise and an ending, filling in the events in-between was easy enough.  Half an hour later, I threw the notepad into a drawer and went to get dressed.  I wasn’t getting anywhere, and the best way to deal with my frustration was to go take a nice, long walk by the river. 

The sun was already up
, and the cool breeze off the Thames cleared some of the cobwebs from my mind.  I walked along the Victoria Embankment, enjoying the sunlight sparkling on the water and the faint smell of seaweed that filled my nostrils.  A few small piles of dirty snow still lay in the shaded areas, but the winter was clearly on the way out.  There weren’t too many people about at this time of the morning, and I had another hour or so before the sleeping city began to stir itself and get ready for another day.  I didn’t even realize that my steps were taking me toward Blackfriars, and it wasn’t until I was standing in front of the house from the news that I realized where I had been heading all along.  The house was a typical Tudor structure built in the post-and-beam fashion where the space between the beams was filled with plaster to create walls.  The beams could be seen on the outside, a stark contrast to the white plaster that filled the gaps.  The second floor overhung the first by at least a foot, leaving the front door and the windows of the first floor in permanent shadow; the steep roof boasted a large, brick chimney and several dormer windows that must be the attic. 

The house was set back from the street and surrounded by a wrought iron fence
complete with a creaky gate.  At the moment, there was yellow police tape warning the nosey passerby that this was a crime scene and not to be tampered with.  I stood with my hands on the gate looking up at the house.  I was positive I had never been there before, but in my mind, I could see exactly what the house looked like inside, down to the last detail, and I could almost see myself climbing the narrow stairs up to the attic.  For some reason, the thought of the attic filled me with dread, so I let go of the gate and turned to leave.  I was startled to find a man standing across the street watching me intently.  We stared at each other in mute appraisal.  He was very tall, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build.  His dark hair fell into his eyes and hadn’t seen a pair of scissors for at least six months; his slanted gray eyes were watchful and predatory.  He reminded me of a wolf stalking its prey, and I thought he would make a great character for one of my novels.  His mouth slowly stretched into a smile.  “I knew you’d come,” he said as he turned around and walked away before I could ask him what he could have possibly meant by that comment.

I watched him
disappear around the corner and shook my head.  He must have mistaken me for someone else.  I’d never seen him before.  I would have remembered someone as striking as him.  I suddenly realized that I was famished, and I turned toward home.    Tristan would be back from his business trip today, and I couldn’t wait to see him.  He’d been in China for the past two weeks and I felt instantly better knowing I wouldn’t sleep alone tonight.  We still maintained separate flats, but I spent at least four nights a week at his place, and we were seriously discussing moving in together.  I picked up a cappuccino and a danish from my favorite bakery, and went upstairs to have my breakfast and wrestle my imagination for a good story.

Chapter 3

I kissed Tristan lightly on the brow and tiptoed out of the bedroom.  He was still jet-lagged and would probably sleep for hours.  I got quietly dressed in the other room, grabbed my purse, and scribbled a hasty note on a piece of paper before letting myself out of the flat and heading to the elevator.  I would go home, shower, change, and then meet my agent, Joanna, for breakfast.  She sounded a little mysterious in the message she left on my mobile, and I was wondering why she suddenly wanted to meet.    At this point, Joanna was more friend than colleague, so it was odd she wouldn’t just blurt out what was on her mind.  She sounded very circumspect, and I suddenly thought that maybe she wanted to discuss something personal, rather than my manuscript.  Maybe she had a fight with Mark again.  They’d been divorced for six months now, but they still found something left to fight about.  I chuckled at the thought. 

Tristan and I hardly ever fought.  Our relationship was never the volatile terrain that some couples tread over constantly in fear of stepping on another land mine. 
We met at a party at Oxford shortly before graduation and got along like a house on fire.  We shared similar political views and goals for the future, and despite our very different temperaments, we managed to approach every problem calmly and rationally.  Tristan was my soul mate, and we frequently gloated over how lucky we had been to find each other.    Even our looks complemented each other.  Whereas I was dark with glossy black curls, hazel eyes and olive skin, Tristan was blond and blue-eyed with fair skin that never got darker than bronze, even in the sun.

I pulled on a pair of jeans,
a cashmere sweater in moss green, and a pair of comfortable, suede boots. After running a comb through my curls and putting on nude lip gloss, I decided I needed some ornament, so I reached for my favorite necklace.  I found it last year at a jumble sale and rarely parted with it since.  The necklace had been carelessly tossed into a cardboard box labeled
₤
1 with an assortment of shiny beads, mismatched earrings and a few plastic bracelets.  It was covered in grime and looked like a worthless piece of junk, but I’d gone antiquing with my grandmother many times and knew how to spot a gem.   I handed the woman behind the stall a pound note and made off with my loot.   

I couldn’t wait to get home and clean it to see what treasure lay beneath.  I got the silver polish from the cabinet beneath my kitchen sink and s
et to work.  As I polished away the grime very carefully I saw a glint of gold.  I’d been sure the necklace was silver.  I cleaned the chain and moved on to the pendant.  It was the size of a small apricot, round with an intricate design etched into the metal.  

Once I cleaned the front and back of what now appeared to be a locket, I
carefully tried to open it to see what was inside.  The two halves were stuck together, and I briefly considered leaving the pendant as it was, but then curiosity won out.  I got a knife and gently tried to insert it into the seam.  It took a few tries, but eventually the glue gave and the locket opened.  Inside was a miniature portrait of a young woman.  The bodice of her gown, being the only part of the dress that was visible, looked to be Elizabethan; her brown hair was artfully piled atop head and covered by a hair net set with gems.  It was hard to make out the color of her eyes, but they appeared to be either blue or green, and her pouty lips and fair complexion would have made her a real beauty in her time.  She would have been a beauty in our time as well, I thought. 

On the inside of the front half was an inscription “C&R”.  I couldn’t stop wondering who C & R were, but there was no way to find out.  I took the locket to a jeweler
, and his eyes lit up as I laid it on the counter. He examined the outside carefully before gingerly opening the locket and peering at the portrait inside. 

“May I ask where you acquired this?” 

“I found it at a stall at the Portobello Road flea market.  Do you think it’s valuable?”  I was suddenly nervous, afraid that my serendipitous find would turn out to be some cheap trinket.

“This is definitely gold, Elizabethan, and the miniature is of the finest quality.  I can’t say for sure without showing it to an expert, but I believe it might have been painted by no other th
an Nicholas Hilliard himself.  He was very popular during the period and often given commissions by members of the Court.  This could be very valuable.  I have no doubt that if you put it up for auction at Christie’s you could make a substantial sum.”

“Thank you,
but I’m not interested in selling.”  I walked out of the jeweler’s shop feeling very pleased, enjoying the weight of the necklace round my neck.  I knew I could sell it for a large amount of money, but I felt a strange connection to my lady of the locket.  She and I would not be parted.