A short note from 1954 described the earlier operation as a success. Both her anxiety and obsession had been brought under control. The same doctor mentioned that from then on she would be prescribed thorazine. Her discharge had been discussed but as there were no family members wishing to take her in, and there were fears about how she would cope in the outside world after so long in an institution, it was decided she should stay.
From that point on the notes were infrequent and terse. In 1959 she was hospitalized with a bout of pneumonia.
No one revisited her case, or commented on her treatment. She existed until 1964 when a small paragraph noted matter-of-factly that she experienced a seizure, fell and as a result of her injuries was taken to an infirmary where, Nigel knew from her death certificate, she later died.
They sat in silence for a few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts. Nigel pictured a frail young woman, terrified by life, scared of what lurked round every corner, strapped down, electrodes attached to her body, in an attempt to divest her of a mania that may have had a grounding in truth, before severing the nerves in the brain that connected her cortex to her thalamus and then anaesthetizing her further with strong medication. Little wonder her condition 'improved'. In his mind's eye she sat, childlike and silent in the corner of a crowded ward, ignorant of the wailing and gibbering, a numb, muted life. He only hoped the treatment she'd endured rendered her oblivious to the horror of her situation.
At the same time, he wondered if he would ever be able to discover where Horton and Sarah Rowley came from and the truth behind the cataclysmic event that their granddaughter spoke of, the distant echoes of which were still being felt.
Nigel remembered a programme he once caught on the radio, about the effects of nuclear fallout. The fusion products from an air burst are sucked up into the stratosphere, dispersed by the winds, eventually settling across the wide earth in rainfall for years to come, with unpredictable effects that would only later be known.
Much like the past.
The problem appeared insurmountable. As Margaret Howell told the doctors, her ancestor seemed to have taken the secret with her when she died.
Then he remembered. He grabbed Foster's arm, causing the detective to stiffen.
What?'
'I think I know where we might find out more about what Sarah and Horton were running away from.'
Where?'
'In Sarah Rowley's grave.'
'You want us to dig her up?'
Foster thought Nigel was joking at first, but the zealous gleam in his eye indicated otherwise. He was being serious.
'Do you know how difficult it is to get an exhumation done? The Home Secretary has to grant it. You need a very, very good reason.'
Nigel kept on nodding, eyes ablaze.
'What do you think we're going to find -- a document that conveniently explains what happened to her, and therefore what happened to Naomi Buckingham?'
'I don't know. But she asked in her will that she be buried with a metal box. Why would you insist on being buried with something unless you didn't want people to get their hands on it? It might not lead us to Naomi Buckingham or her mother's killer, but it might move us closer.'
Foster rubbed his chin. It wouldn't be an easy ask. For a start, the main argument for exhuming the body came from the mouth of a certified lunatic. The mention of the box in the will altered things slightly, but he knew there was no way Harris would sanction it as part of the investigation.
'The will said it was metal?'
Nigel nodded.
'Well, it may have survived, then.' He continued to stroke his chin. 'Do you know where she's buried?'
'East Ham cemetery. I can find the location of the grave.'
Nigel was still wild-eyed. Hidden secrets in a grave.
Foster could see this must be a genealogist's wet dream.
That would change if he ever attended an exhumation and saw that the reality was less romantic. Foster sighed, not quite believing what he was about to do.
'I might be able to swing this,' he said. 'However, if I do, you'll need to be there with me. She comes out of the ground and goes back in. We have a look in situ.'
He could see the excitement bleed from Nigel's face, along with all the colour. Not quite as thrilling now, he thought.
They drove towards Colchester through driving rain that pelted the windscreen like tiny stones, to the home of the Chancellor of the Diocese of Chelmsford, Kenneth Brewis. Foster had called ahead to check Brewis was in, and got the man himself, who issued a polite if curt invitation to drive to his house and explain the urgency.
Foster knew there was no point wasting time, even if it meant a lengthy drive -- it was just their luck that the chancellor happened to live in the most distant area of the diocese from London. Brewis was a QC, and the prospect of some pompous lawyer boring him rigid with the arcana of ecclesiastical law caused Foster's heart to sink. Church bureaucracy was even more labyrinthine than that of the modern police force. But to wait until after the weekend was not an option.
'Can't the police just go ahead and do it?' Nigel asked.
'Why does the Church have to be involved?'
'It's in consecrated ground so we'd need their help anyway.
True, if there was a compelling case to dig up the body then a warrant signed by a coroner would be pretty easy to obtain and they'd allow us to bring it up without any protest,' Foster explained. 'But we're not interested in the body, or the little that would be left of it. We need to know what lies with it and for that we need permission to disturb the grave, and not actually exhume, which is down to the individual churches -- and in the case of the Anglican Church, it's down to the diocese. At least, I think it is.'
'I didn't know that,' Nigel replied. 'You done this before then?'
'No. I just know the right people to call to find out. A grave is sacred ground. It's our job to make sure our case is compelling enough for us to be allowed in there with an excavator.' He knew that requests like the one he was about to make were measured in weeks and days, not hours, which is why he hoped a personal visit might speed the process.
Brewis's house was a grand one in the countryside on the edge of Colchester, an old stone former vicarage decorated with creeping ivy. A sleek grey Jaguar was parked in front of the house, Foster noted admiringly, as he pulled up alongside. The rain had subsided to a murky drizzle as they climbed out of the car and made their way to the front door, adorned by an elaborate brass knocker bearing the fleshy head of a cherub. He let it fall against the door and it made a profound thud that echoed through the house. Beside him Nigel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. 'Don't worry,' Foster said, trying to put him at ease. 'I'll do all the talking. Just smile, look well educated and drink all the tea they give you.' Barnes gave him a watery smile back and flapped away a curl of fringe that had fallen over his forehead.
The door opened to reveal a well-fed man in his fifties, dressed in cardigan and slacks, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looked at them both with some curiosity.
'Detective Foster?' he said expectantly.
'That's me,' Foster replied, thrusting out a large paw.
'Mr Brewis?'
'Come in, come in,' he said, gesturing for them to follow.
'Sorry to barge in on a Saturday,' Foster remembered to say.
'Don't worry. This bloody weather, what was I going to do?' They followed him into the hall, and he ushered them towards a large drawing room. 'The family are all out, so I was catching up with some paperwork and a bit of diocesan business.'
As they took a seat on a large sofa, Foster introduced Nigel as someone who was helping their investigation.
'Yes, what is the investigation? I have to say I'm intrigued what it could be that draws you out from London to Colchester on a foul Saturday afternoon. I've been puzzling it over ever since you called.'
