his face as if somewhere there in the cold, dead eyes she would find the answer to her riddle. For he had something to do with that grave on the shore, she was sure of it. Marcus Severus Secundus and Augusta, his wife. Thoughtfully, she turned to the display case where his bones lay exposed to view. There was no answer there. Nothing but the gentle hum of the lights and in the distance, the muffled and unreal shouts and screams of the video replay of Boudicca’s massacre.
As she parked the car in the barn later she glanced at Redall Farmhouse with a certain amount of longing. They were there this time; she could see smoke coming from the chimney and there were lights on in the kitchen. They were expecting her to supper; supposing she knocked and went in now? Perhaps she could help prepare it, or sit out of the way by the fire sipping tea or better still whisky, until the appropriate time. But she couldn’t, of course she couldn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was barely three o’clock. She had another five hours to wait before she could knock on their door.
Shouldering her bag she turned up the track into the woods. The early sunshine had gone. The sky was growing increasingly wintry and as the wind rose a quick light shower of sleet raced through the trees. She shivered. At least the fire was ready to light at home.
Home. She hadn’t thought of the cottage as home before, but for now that’s what it was. She could draw the curtains against the coming darkness, have tea and a hot bath and do a couple of hours work before setting out on the walk back through the dark.
Opening the door she dumped her bag on the floor and glanced round, unconsciously bracing herself against signs that anyone had been inside. There were none. The cottage was as she had left it. The kitchen was spotless, the doors and windows closed and the air smelt faintly of burned apple wood. Relieved, she unpacked her shopping and went to light the woodburner, then slowly she went upstairs.
Pulling open her cupboard she looked through the clothes she had brought with her. Since she had arrived in north Essex she had worn trousers and thick sweaters, but she wanted to change into something a little more formal tonight. More formal, but still practical, bearing in mind that she had a long walk through the muddy woods. She pulled out a woollen skirt and a full sleeved blouse and threw them on the bed.
It was then that she remembered her promise to Alison to photograph the grave. She glanced at the window. It would soon be getting dark and the sky was already heavy with cloud. Perhaps she could leave it until tomorrow. But she wanted to keep her promise. She needed to win the girl’s trust, for the sake of what was left of the site. She hesitated for a moment longer, then reluctantly she went to find her camera. She loaded a new roll of film and with a wistful glance at the fire she grabbed her anorak and set out into the cold.
The beach was very bleak. Turning up her collar, she put her head down into the wind and walked as swiftly as she could back towards Alison’s dig, firmly resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder at the coming darkness. The wind had blown the sand into soft ridges, rounding the sharp corners, drying the surface of the soil so the different strata were harder to see. Squinting against her hair which whipped free of its clip into her eyes she raised the camera and peered through the viewfinder. She doubted if anything would come out even with the flash, but at least she would have tried. She took the entire roll, shooting the dig from every angle, and trying, rather vainly, to get a few close-ups of the sand face itself. She did not see the dark, withered stumps which had been a man’s fingers; nor the black protrusion which was his femur, broken and splintered and already crumbling back into the sand.
Safely back inside the cottage she locked the door with a sigh of relief and, taking the film out of the camera, put it into its plastic case and tucked it into her shoulder bag. She was damp and thoroughly chilled. Slotting a tape of Vaughan Williams’ Fifth Symphony into her cassette player and turning it up loudly, she climbed the stairs and went back into her bedroom, pulling off her scarf and shaking out her wet hair as she began slowly to undress. Putting on her dressing gown she paused, listening, as the music downstairs grew quiet. She could hear a strange buzzing from the spare room. She frowned. For a moment she hesitated, biting her lip. What was it about this damn house which made her so jumpy? It was a fly, that was all, awoken by the morning sunshine. Taking a deep breath she flung open the door and switched on the light. The room was deserted. A quick glance showed that her cases and boxes were undisturbed; Greg’s pictures stood where she had left them, face to the wall behind the door, and she was right, a couple of bluebottles were crawling across the window. As the light flicked on they buzzed angrily against the glass. Shaking her head she backed out and closed the door. Tomorrow she would deal with them.
The bathroom was very cold. With a shiver she pulled the cord to switch on the wall heater and, putting the plug in the bath, she turned on the hot tap. As the windows steamed over she closed the curtains then she tipped some foaming bath oil into the steaming jet of water and stood back, twisting her hair into a knot on the top of her head as she watched the bath fill with fragrant froth. Lying back in the warmth was ecstasy. With a groan of pleasure she submerged all but her head and closed her eyes.
She hadn’t noticed the bluebottle in the corner of the window frame. As the light and warmth woke it up it crawled from beneath the curtain and buzzed angrily towards the strip light over the basin. She opened her eyes and watched it, irritated. The discordant buzzing spoiled her mood. After dashing itself several times against the mirror it took off and made a low swift circuit of the bathroom. Involuntarily she ducked as it swooped over her head. ‘Damn and blast!’ She flicked foam at it. She would not let it spoil her bath.
As the water began to cool she turned on the hot tap hopefully, knowing before she did it that the tank would not yet have heated up again. As she expected it was cold. Heaving herself to her feet she stepped out onto the bath mat and wrapped a towel around herself. Wiping the steam from the mirror she peered at her face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the bluebottle on the frame of the mirror. She flipped at it with her hand and it took off, swooping up to the light. It was then the phone rang. Wrapped in the towel she picked it up in the kitchen.
‘Kate, I was worried. Are you OK?’
‘Jon?’ Her heart leaped as she sat down, shivering. ‘God, I wish you were here.’
‘I thought so. Something is wrong isn’t it? I could hear it in your voice yesterday.’
She could have bitten out her tongue. Why had she said it? It was over between them. Anyway, what was the use of worrying him when he was so far away? ‘Nothing is wrong,’ she said hastily. ‘I just meant you’d like it here. The big skies, the sea, the silence. They would appeal to you.’
‘Perhaps I’ll come and see you when I get back.’ There was an echo on the line this time – a pause between each sentence; it made them both sound awkward and they didn’t talk for long. After she put the phone down she sat looking at it thoughtfully for several seconds. If it was all over between them, why did he keep ringing?
At a quarter to eight she switched off her computer and the desk lamp and standing up, she stretched. As she worked she had been conscious of the wind rising outside the cottage. It rattled the windows and from time to time she heard the spatter of rain against the glass.
Carefully she built up the fire and shut the doors as tightly as she could, closing the dampers right down so the stove would be snug and still alight when she came home later, then reluctantly she began to pull on her jacket and boots. With one glance behind her into the living room where she had left the single lamp on the side table burning to welcome her home, she stepped out into the night and pulling the front door shut behind her, she turned the key in the lock. For the last hour, she realised, she had been hoping that the phone would ring and Roger would suggest he came to fetch her. It would only take him ten minutes in the Land Rover. She sighed. Clutching her torch firmly she switched it on and directed the beam up the muddy track into the trees.
It took her half an hour to walk the half mile through the wood. The track was muddy and slippery and the wind had scattered the springy resinous branches of the pine trees on the ground, making the path treacherous in the unsteady torchlight. Several times she stopped and glanced around, shining the torch into the trees. The narrow beam showed only wet, black trunks, deep shadows and a tangle of matted undergrowth.
Diana opened the door with an exclamation of surprise. ‘Kate, my dear, you haven’t walked! Greg said he was going over to pick you up half an hour ago.’
Greg, she thought. I might have guessed. She smiled, realising suddenly that her face was so cold it was hard to make her muscles work. ‘I wish I’d known, I would have waited for him,’ she said. She followed Diana inside, shed her wet outer garments and found herself ushered towards the dreamed of inglenook. Within minutes she had been settled into the warmest corner of the sofa with a whisky in her hand and a cat on her knee.
The room smelled gloriously of burning apple logs, and cooking; she sniffed in anticipation; garlic, oregano, tomatoes – something Italian then. Lying back with her head against the cushions she smiled at Roger who had seated himself opposite her. ‘This is heaven. It’s not worth cooking for myself. I’ve been living on baked beans and tinned soup for the last few days.’
‘So, how is your book going?’ Roger smiled. At the Aga Diana had lifted the lid off a pan and was stirring
