Precious Bones (3 page)

Chapter 8

March 2010

I was just cracking the eggs into a bowl to make an omelet for Tristan when I heard the word
“Blackfriars” from the living room.  I left the bowl on the counter and raced into the other room just in time to catch the latest developments.  This time the reporter was in the studio, and she was recounting the details of the “
Bones of Blackfriars
”, as the case came to be known. 

“Today we have Dr. Anthony Downs joining us in the studio.  He is one of several forensic experts who worked on the case and he will do his best to clarify this mystery
for us.  Dr. Downs...”  The camera panned to the distinguished looking doctor who looked a little uncomfortable in a television studio.  Finally, he got his bearings and began, “After running various tests on the two skeletons, we found that they are not connected to any recent crime.  As a matter of fact, they date back to the late sixteenth century. 

The adult skeleton is of a young woman
, I would say between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one, and she appears to have died from having her neck broken.  She was approximately twenty-five weeks pregnant, and the infant died in utero once the mother was dead.  Based on the examination of the alcove where the two skeletons were found and the remains of the victim, I think it’s safe to say she was dead before being walled in, since there seem to be no signs of struggle, blood or scratches on the stones that would indicate that she was trying to claw her way out of her tomb.  There was hardly anything left of her clothing, but we did find a leather thong with a wooden cross on it.” 

“Is there any way to identify who the young woman had been?” 

“No, there isn’t.  There was nothing on the body that would give any clue as to her identity.  There were some scraps of fabric and lace clinging to the bones, but we cannot say more than that they were of good quality.   Most likely she was the daughter of the house and not a serving girl, but that’s just an assumption.”

The doctor stopped abruptly and looked back at the reporter
, who instantly began to babble.  She thanked the doctor for his accurate report, and went on to say that although the house was no longer suspected of being a crime scene, the owners no longer cared to live there and had put it up for sale.  A brief shot of the house showed an estate agent’s sign out front, and I jotted down the number before they switched back to the studio.  They might not want to live there, but I knew who did. 

Chapter 9

March
1586

The sky was just beginning to lighten outside the window when Richard woke up.  He wasn’t sure what woke him, but he didn’t mind.  He liked the house like this, when it was dark and silent, just before Agnes stealthily made her way downstairs to start her morning routine.  He had been dreaming of Constance Thorne and cursed himself for being a fool.  He couldn’t afford to get personally involved, no matter how beautiful she was.  He didn’t think she was guilty of anything, but that aside, he could hardly permit himself to court a Catholic.  His position with Walsingham depended on his loyalty to Queen and the Realm, and keeping company with Catholics wouldn’t gain him any popularity, especially if Edward Norris caught a whiff of the affair. 

Norris was another of Walsingham’s agents and hated Richard with an intensity born of religious fervor.
  He believed every Catholic in the country should be hanged, beheaded, or burned at the stake, and religious tolerance had no place in state politics.  Despite his harsh views, he was a favorite of the Queen, and had been given the title of Earl by the grateful Monarch, who also happened to be a distant relation of his.  Richard avoided Norris as much as he decently could without arousing suspicion, and secretly pitied his hapless victims.

Walsingham frequently reminded Norris that Her Majesty
Queen Elizabeth, had said she had no wish to make windows into men’s souls, and their beliefs made no difference to her, as long as they remained loyal subjects to the Crown, but Norris didn’t quite agree.  He tortured many an innocent victim, but to Richard’s disgust, Mr. Secretary often covered for him because he got results.  He had recently uncovered a plot against Her Majesty’s person, and was still basking in the glow of having her thank him personally for saving her life and protecting the Realm. 

Richard’s brooding was
interrupted by the creak of the stairs as Agnes crept to the kitchen.  He realized he was hungry and hoped she would have breakfast ready soon.  Agnes was a lovely lass in her early twenties, and in his lonelier moments Richard wondered what it would be like to wake up next to her warm and willing body.  She had been with him for almost five years now, since he first came to London from Yorkshire where his family had their seat for generations.   He wasn’t sure how she found out so quickly that he was looking for a servant, but there she was; the day after he moved into his house, looking for work.  She stood on the step looking frightened and scrawny, with a squirming bundle wrapped in dirty rags clutched to her meager bosom.  Agnes’ husband had been a sailor whose ship went down in a squall somewhere off the coast of Portugal, and Agnes was left with no money and a newborn child.  She began looking for work, but most people turned her away because of the babe.  Richard was about to do the same, when he saw a pair of round, blue eyes regarding him thoughtfully out of the thin, pale face of the infant.

“Boy or girl?” he inquired.

“Boy, sir.  William is his name, after his father. I am willing to work for no wages, sir.  Just food and a roof over our heads.  We have nowhere to go,” she added desperately.   Agnes was shaking with the cold and probably lack of food, and Richard took pity on her.  He never regretted his decision.    She was a good girl, and the little lad was an added bonus.  Richard loved children and came close to being a father himself some years ago.  He was fond of the boy, and now that he was five, he took time to teach him his letters and numbers and a few words of Latin.  Any education would help him in the future, and Richard meant to give him whatever assistance he could. 

Agnes had filled out over the years
, and now she was a picture of health with glossy blond curls, rosy cheeks, and creamy breasts spilling over her bodice.  Richard was greeted with the sight of her ample bottom as he walked into the kitchen and sat down at the scrubbed wooden table.   Agnes straightened up, having picked up the knife she dropped, and bid him good morrow.  The kitchen was pleasantly warm, and Richard braced himself for a blast of icy air as John let himself in through the back door and joined him at the table. 

They were an informal household
, and Richard liked it that way.  John Coombs had been his father’s groom, but when Henry sent his son to London, he sent John with him.  The boy wanted to see something of the big city and Richard was glad of the company.  John slept over the stable, took care of the horses and carriage, and helped Agnes with whatever heavy work needed doing.  As of late, Richard was beginning to suspect that an attraction had developed between the two, and if that was the case, he was happy for them.  He would not stand in the way of their union. 

Agnes put a plate of thickly cut brown bread in front of the two men, a plate of cold meat and a jug of small ale. 

“Will you be needing the carriage this morning, sir?”  John asked through a mouthful of bread. 

“I have a meeting in Whitehall, but I think I’ll walk.  I might require the carriage later.”  Richard was planning to pay a call
on Constance Thorne that afternoon to further his acquaintance.  Maybe she would consent to going for a ride.  He should probably ask her sister along too, as a chaperone.

William appeared in the doorway looking sleepy and disheveled.  He was still in his nightshirt and his mother gave him a
disapproving look. 

“I had a bad dream,” he said by way of explanation and slid onto the bench, reaching for a slice of bread.  Richard
tousled his hair and went to get dressed and ready for his day.

Chapter 10

April
2010

Tristan and I faced off across the room like a couple of prize fighters.  His hair was sticking up in places from running his fingers through it so often, and he looked angry and confused.

“I just don’t understand it, Cassandra.  We’ve spent months talking about moving in together and now I find out you
’ve bought that house without even consulting me.  Why?  Why would you want to buy that particular house?  I know you have a fondness for historical buildings, but why would you want to own that spooky, old heap when you have a beautiful flat with a view of the Thames and all the amenities?”  Tristan ran his hand through his hair again, and I sat down on the sofa staring back at him. 

I wish
ed I could tell him the truth, but I didn’t know the truth myself.  Ever since I saw that story on the telly, I couldn’t get it out of my head.  I was drawn to that house like a fly to honey, and I couldn’t rest until I had contacted the estate agent and made an offer much higher than what the owners were asking for.  I couldn’t countenance the thought of being outbid.  The elderly couple who owned the spooky heap in question was only too happy to unload it to me, and the sale went through very quickly since I was willing to pay in cash.  I already had a buyer for my flat, who gave a hefty deposit and all I had to do was pack my belongings and move.   I knew Tristan would not be pleased, but I never expected him to be this furious. 

“I refuse to live there, you hear?  Refuse!”  With that he stormed out the door and I went to pour myself a stiff drink.  This was the biggest fight we’ve ever had
, and I felt guilty and afraid.  I knew Tristan was right.  We had plans for him to move into my flat by Christmas, and now I’d pulled the rug from under his feet by buying a house behind his back, and putting my flat up for sale.  I never consulted him on my purchase, and he had every right to be livid.  I would call him tomorrow and beg for forgiveness.  I wouldn’t give up the house though. 

I was breathless with excitement as I opened the creaky iron gate and walked up the path to my house.  In the sixteenth century, the house stood right on the street, the top floor almost within touching distance of the house across the way, but over the years the street had been widened, and now the house was set back from the road with several bushes growing by the front door, and a maple tree in the front yard.  The tree was just beginning to leaf, and I took a deep breath of the spring air as I opened the black front door. 

The house greeted me with complete silence
, and I walked in awe from room to room, trying to envision where I would put my furniture and knickknacks.  The walls had been painted eggshell-white and the newly replaced windows in the living room painted slanted rectangles of sunlight on the hardwood floors.  The interior of the house had been completely stripped of any Tudor influences, but when I looked around me I saw it as it had been in its heyday.

I could see the dark wood paneling that ran around the lower half of the walls
, and the green fabric that covered the upper half of the parlor.  The room had been dominated by an ornate fireplace, in front of which the sofa and two hardback chairs were assembled.  There was a window seat under the diamond paned leaded windows, and a work basket usually could be found on a low table by the settee.  I walked up the stairs to the bedrooms.  The larger bedroom faced the street and still retained its original leaded windows.  It had been paneled in wood from floor to ceiling in the six
teenth century, but now was painted in that same boring eggshell, the only relief being the dark beams that lined the walls and ceiling.  It had been a master bedroom, and I could almost see the four-poster bed made of dark-brown wood with thick, carved bedposts, matching dresser, a small table with a ewer and basin, and a painted chamber pot peeking from under the bed. 

The other two
bedrooms faced the rear and were much smaller.  They would have been the children’s rooms and had been simply decorated with a bed, a chair, and a small chest for clothes.  Today they were bare and empty, awaiting the arrival of new inhabitants.  I resolutely did not go to the attic, but I knew there were two small rooms that had been used by servants and an attic space with dormer windows.

Going back downstairs I ventured into the kitchen.  The old
-fashioned hearth had been replaced with a modern stove, which matched the stainless steel refrigerator and microwave.  I tried not to look at the place where the discovery of the skeletons had been made, but I couldn’t look away.  The broken stones had been cleared away, and it looked like a little alcove, probably used as a scullery.  I touched the walls inside gently, never forgetting that this had been her final resting place.  The same wave of grief washed over me, but I felt marginally better knowing that no one else would trespass here as long as I owned this house.  It had been mentioned in the paper that the remains would be buried in the cemetery behind the church in Blackfriars and I was thrilled that she would finally have a real grave in consecrated ground.

The movers were not coming until tomorrow, so I let myself out and walked down Carter Lane and then turned left toward St. Paul’s Cathedral.  Joanna promised to meet me there at noon
since she had a meeting in the area and was already waiting for me on the front steps as I arrived.  She waved enthusiastically and came to meet me as I walked toward her.  We walked companionably for a few blocks until we found a quiet tea shop and went in.  I wasn’t hungry, but a cup of tea would be most welcome.  There had been a cold breeze off the Thames that blew right through my thin jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. 

Joanna gave me a quizzical look.  “So
-- tell me.”

“I
’m moving tomorrow,” I said happily, as I added a little milk to my tea and took a sip.  I felt the warmth begin to spread through my body and took another sip before continuing.  “It’s wonderful.  I can’t wait.  I was just there, trying to figure out where everything would go.”

Joanna looked at me as if I had suddenly started speaking in Japanese.  “Cass, what’s going on?  You haven’t written a word, you suddenly sold your flat and bought this relic
, and I assume you’re still fighting with Tristan.  I’m not asking as your agent, but as your friend.”  She looked genuinely concerned for my sanity and I gave her what I thought was a reassuring smile. 

“Nothing is going on.  I just needed a change and I’ve always been in love with Tudor architecture. “

“And I’m the bloody Queen,” Joanna replied without missing a beat.  “If you wanted a lovely Tudor cottage you could have bought one ages ago.  You went all barmy when you saw that story about the skeleton and went out of your way to outbid any rivals on this house.  What’s the draw?  Don’t you have enough skeletons in your own closet?”

“Jo, I honestly can’t
answer that because I don’t know.  That story cut me to the quick, but I’m not sure why.  I’ve been drawn to that house ever since.  I just can’t stay away.  Incidentally, the first time I went there guess who just happened to be hanging about?” 

“I can’t imagine.  The Grim Reaper?”  She was enjoying herself with this and I let her have her laugh. 

“
Adrian Turner.  He just stood there watching me, and said something about knowing how I would come back.”  I took another swallow of my tea while watching Joanna’s reaction.

“
The
Adrian Turner?!”  She nearly choked on her scone and took a gulp of tea burning her tongue.

“Yes, the
‘charming’ Mr. Turner just happened to be hanging about outside that very house, very early in the morning I might add.  What do you make of that?”

“I can’t begin to imagine.  Maybe he was just passing by
, or maybe he has the same ghoulish curiosity as you.  Speaking of Turner, do you have any ideas for a new book?  The deadline isn’t that far away.”  I was afraid she would ask me that.  Between buying the house, selling my flat, and fighting with Tristan, I had barely given any thought to my next book.  My creative juices seemed to have dried up for the moment. 

“Once I settle in, I
’ll start writing, I promise.  If I can’t think of something terribly clever, I’ll find some little-known work of staggering genius and pass it off as my own,” I joked.  “I wouldn’t be the first.”

“Don’t even joke like that.  You have no ideas at all?  Not even a little
one?”

“Jo, don’t fuss.  I won’t let you down.  I promise.  I
’ll come up with something soon.  I just need to get situated.  Tristan promised to come and help me move.  He’s still angry, but he’ll come around in time.  It’s only a house.  It’s not like I’ve decided to move to New Zealand.”

“No, I suppose not.”