A Baby's Bones Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also Available from Rebecca Alexander and Titan Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

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  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  “Alexander turns her hand to the historical whodunnit with a strong central image; an ancient well with a dark secret at the bottom and a modern tragedy waiting to happen at the top. Her love of the past, its myths and misdeeds, shines through every page.” CHRISTOPHER FOWLER

  “A deliciously chilling murder mystery which gathers such terrific pace and suspense that it was impossible to break free of its dark and malevolent spell. Enthralling and immensely satisfying.” KAREN MAITLAND

  “I can only admire the skill with which Alexander interweaves dark events of the past with events in the present. A compelling read.” MAUREEN JENNINGS

  “A fascinating story connecting two mysteries centuries apart—a well-realized and haunting story with a vivid sense of time and place.” L.F. ROBERTSON

  “A thoroughly enjoyable read – gripping, atmospheric and emotionally satisfying.” RUTH DOWNIE

  “An expertly crafted dual mystery with a creeping sense of foreboding.” JOANNA SCHAFFHAUSEN

  “An engaging and intricate mystery, steeped in dark drama and rich historical detail” M.L. RIO

  Also available from Rebecca Alexander and Titan Books

  A Shroud of Leaves (April 2019)

  TITAN BOOKS

  A Baby’s Bones

  Print edition ISBN: 9781785656217

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781785656224

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: May 2018

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiousl y, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Alexander. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  TITAN BOOKS.COM

  For my parents,

  JILLIAN ALEXANDER

  who taught me to read and love books, and

  JOHN ALEXANDER

  who told me stories of history that

  still fascinate me today.

  1

  Monday 25th March

  It was a bone from a baby’s arm. Like a twig on Sage Westfield’s glove, the ends crumbled away by the action of the sieve, it was still distinctive to a trained eye.

  ‘I’ll get a second opinion as to date,’ she said, pushing a handful of dark curls out of her eyes with the other hand. ‘I’m certain the bones are contemporary with the spoil filling the well. Sixteenth century, Tudor.’

  The police officer pointed at another small heap of finds. ‘You’re sure they aren’t animal bones, then? Cat, maybe?’

  ‘These are human.’ The afternoon breeze blew across the garden, shivering the evergreen hedges that crowded Bramble Cottage. ‘I think we have at least one adult and a baby, probably newborn or up to a couple of months old. We’ll need an expert to be sure. It’s surprising they’ve survived this long.’

  ‘And you found them yesterday?’

  ‘Actually, one of my PhD students found the first one. Elliott Robinson.’ Sage pointed to the finds table where Elliott was crouched on the ground examining the spoil pile, watched by Steph, her undergraduate student. Elliott didn’t look up, but Steph waved. ‘I just labelled the bones as they brought them out.’

  The policeman made a note of the find numbers on the containers. ‘I’ll let the Home Office know it’s historical.’ He looked at her swollen belly on her otherwise slim frame. ‘Sad, really, a baby. Have you seen many like this?’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Sage placed the bone on a pad of bubble wrap. ‘It’s really unusual to have a burial outside consecrated ground. But to put two bodies down a well, and cover them with the contents of a midden – that’s very rare.’ Her phone beeped but she ignored it.

  ‘Midden?’

  ‘Medieval rubbish dump. We’re finding broken pottery, cooked bones, probably mixed with manure. That’s what’s so disrespectful about it. It does suggest the need for a quick or secret burial. Maybe even murder.’

  The police officer paused at the word, looking down at the handful of dark brown fragments. ‘Care to hazard a cause of death?’

  Sage smiled at him, shaking her head, then glanced at the house. The windows reflected the yellowed, late afternoon clouds. Her smile faded. ‘The owners aren’t going to like this.’

  He followed her gaze up to tiny dormers embedded in the thatch. ‘The house must have cost a packet. They’re new to the Isle of Wight, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. They needed listed building consent and an archaeological survey before they could start an extension. Then we found the well, and they had to foot the excavation bill. Now we have bodies—’ Her phone beeped again. She glanced at it. Marcus. Lunch?

  The officer put his notebook away. ‘We’ll get back to you. But for now, please treat the site as limited. Any remains to be recorded, held together, and secured for further examination. At least until we confirm it is historical.’

  ‘Of course.’ Sage watched him walk around the side of the cottage, on the tarpaulins she had laid down to save the lawn. Little chance of that, now the dig had to be extended. She wrote a message back to Marcus. Busy. She really didn’t have time for his drama today.

  She looked at the blank eyes of the cottage. They stared over the hedge and across fields that ran west, up the slight hill to the ornate chimneys of the manor house b
eyond. Banstock village sat on a promontory with the sea on three sides, and she’d loved to come here as a child. She had never been to the manor house; perhaps she was too young to appreciate it before they moved off the Island. She glanced up back at the stone walls of the cottage. Under its thick coat of thatch it should have been picturesque, but the place gave her the creeps. The yawn of the well drew in the darkness that had gathered under the hedge, and she pulled her coat around herself. She could only hope the baby had been dead when it was thrown into the water. She touched her bump. Her emotions were definitely getting the better of her nowadays.

  * * *

  ‘Hello?’ Sage called in the front door, left slightly ajar despite the cold weather. ‘Mrs Bassett?’

  The owner of the cottage padded into the flagstone hall. She seemed insubstantial in a sweater that hung from bony shoulders. ‘Come through to the lounge.’ Even her voice was thin.

  Sage considered her splattered boots, sat on the step to unlace them and went into the hall in her socks. The staircase beside her was blackened oak, smoothed to a pale brown on the treads, curved by five hundred years of feet. A child’s coats hung on brass pegs, the bright colours incongruous against the reproduction coffer and pine hall table. A wicker dog basket under the stairs held a tartan blanket, clean and folded.

  She followed Mrs Bassett into the plainly furnished living room, where an unlit woodburner sat in the inglenook fireplace. The beam over the opening was blackened by hundreds of years of open fires. Sage ran her hand over the timber, feeling tool marks along its length. Her host looked through the French doors to the havoc wreaked on her garden.

  ‘So, it is actually a well,’ the faded woman said. She turned to look at Sage with an assessing expression. In the half-light she appeared older than the thirties she probably was, shadows gathering in the hollows of her face and her eye sockets. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.’

  ‘It’s OK. My mother’s from Kazakhstan. No one believes I was born on the Island.’ Wide cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes had always given Sage’s Turkic heritage away.

  Mrs Bassett sighed. ‘Is the well recent or old?’

  ‘We think it’s an original Tudor well, very rare and brilliantly preserved. It’s been filled in with material from a rubbish pit, that’s why we’re getting so many bits of old pots and glass. Wonderful finds.’ Sage let her enthusiasm colour her voice. She knew, if she could get the site’s owner motivated, the knotty problem of funding the dig would become easier. ‘But there’s more to it than just the pottery. We’ll have to dig deeper.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, it will cost more money. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. Milk, no sugar. Mrs Bassett—’

  ‘Judith.’ The woman twisted a smile, which quickly sagged. ‘You’ll need to be here longer, I suppose. Come through to the kitchen.’

  Like the living room, the kitchen was bland: white walls; a cream Aga that wasn’t lit; and plain oak cupboards. A draught blew in from the door to the hall. Judith filled an electric kettle, the water splashing into the silence.

  Sage decided that there was no good time to break the news. ‘I’m afraid there is a problem with the well itself.’

  Judith’s shoulders tensed but her voice was level. ‘What kind of problem?’

  ‘When we sifted some of the spoil from the excavation, we found bones. Some of them appear to be human.’

  The woman froze, a teabag suspended between finger and thumb, for several seconds. Then, as if the music had started again, she dropped the bag into the mug. ‘Human?’

  ‘It appears that at some point, probably centuries ago, someone buried two people in the well. There appears to be at least one adult and a baby. I asked the police along to document the finds but they are happy it’s historical.’

  Judith placed a mug decorated with bright cartoon robins onto the granite work surface in front of Sage, then surveyed her over the rim of her own cup. ‘Is this going to be a big problem?’

  ‘We’ll be in contact with the Home Office,’ Sage said. ‘Then we can definitively establish that these are historical remains. I’m afraid we’ll have to excavate the rest of the well, to ensure we have recovered all of the bones.’ She softened her tone, but Judith appeared unmoved. When she spoke, her voice was harsh.

  ‘My husband’s in the hospice. They say there’s little chance of survival. I can see he’s dying. Eight months ago we were a normal family, looking forward to moving to the Island, changing schools. He’s only forty-three.’

  That explained the woman’s remoteness. She looked overwhelmed.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.’ Sage wrapped her cold hands around her mug. ‘This must be dreadful for you.’ She shivered as a draught brushed her neck, and she found it hard not to flinch.

  ‘I hate this house,’ Judith said. She looked out of the front window, to the drive and the road beyond. The whole property was bordered by a yew hedge, gnarled and twisted with age. ‘I hated it from the day we moved in. It’s cold, it’s dark. Maybe it’s haunted.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The house. Everything started to go wrong when we moved here.’ Judith sat on a kitchen stool. ‘It’s like what happened to the dog.’

  ‘I noticed the basket—’

  ‘He ran out into the road the day we got here. He was killed by a delivery van. We didn’t tell Chloe, she thinks he ran off. I couldn’t tell her the truth.’ Judith’s voice wobbled, and she swallowed hard. ‘It was also the week James was diagnosed. I had to tell her Daddy had cancer. She’s only nine.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t have to add to your burden at such a bad time,’ Sage said. No wonder Judith thought the house felt haunted. ‘Do you think you’ll try and move?’

  ‘James is too ill. He’s the one who wanted a conservatory in the first place.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sage said. ‘We’ll try to get the work done as fast as we can.’

  Judith turned, and the smile on her face was distorted into a grimace. ‘I don’t care what you do outside. We aren’t going to bother with the extension now, anyway. Do your excavation, write your reports. Will it cost us a lot more?’

  ‘More than we originally anticipated, I’m afraid. Your planning application fee covers the basic excavation uncovering the well. Your home insurance may help, and some costs may be borne by the Home Office as we’ve found human remains.’

  ‘Human remains,’ Judith said. ‘How long will it take, with just the three of you?’

  Sage drained the last of her tea. ‘We’ll work as fast as we can. In the meantime, I have to ask you not to go near the excavation – it isn’t safe. I’ll board it up before I go. I do hope you get some good news about your husband soon.’

  ‘Me too.’ Judith switched the hall light on as she escorted Sage to the front door. In the yellow glow she seemed younger, but ill and exhausted. ‘Maybe when the bones go, our bad luck will stop.’

  Sage looked around. The cottage did seem like the archetypal haunted house: dark passages; lots of odd corners; creaking timbers; and bone-scouring draughts. She shivered as the wind from the open door found its way down her collar.

  ‘There’s an evil presence here,’ Judith said. ‘I can feel it.’

  Sage stepped into her boots, and stood up, laces trailing. ‘I don’t really believe in ghosts, Mrs Bassett.’

  Judith leaned forward. ‘Neither did I.’

  2

  29th June 1580

  Two yards of fine linen for a baby’s shroud, for Lady Banstock two shillings and four pence Wages for Mistress Agness Waldren, who nurses the sick of red pox at Banstock four shillings Quarter’s wages for Mistress Isabeau Duchamp, for embroideries to your lordship’s daughter Elizabeth’s bride clothes, of three loose gowns and two kirtles eleven shillings and nine pence

  Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582

  It is a pious woman that sews her baby’s shroud while it still kicks within her. Baron Anthonie Banstock tups his second wif
e each spring and she brings forth a stillborn lamb each autumn. He has more hope this time; the last one mewed like a kitten for a day before it succumbed. Five babes lie in the vault, each in its hand-sewn winding sheet, at the will of a merciful God.

  It seems to me that Elizabeth shall never wear her bride clothes, as she raves in delirium within her chamber. Already Lord Banstock has come to me to hint at a new betrothal to the younger sister, if the elder perishes. I am concerned. Fourteen years makes a poor bed-mate for nine-and-twenty, and the man Solomon Seabourne has a reputation for being a radical, perhaps even a papist. He waits at Ryde and his manservant, Edward Kelley, rides over each day for news of Elizabeth. The man Kelley is young and as sharp around the manor as a fox, asking this and that of the men, and the maids.

  Mistress Agness, the rector’s sister, adds spinster’s vinegar to her tongue as she scolds our Viola: her hair should be bound and covered; her skirts are too short; she laughs immodestly.

  When she was born, the travail took away Viola’s mother, Lady Marion. The baron might have cast the seven-month babe aside, but instead he ordered the whole castle to rally unto her. I first saw her by the kitchen fire, at the breast of a wet nurse. She was tiny, a red face in loose swaddling, for she was deemed too weak to risk tight wrapping. She stopped her suckling, and beheld me, as I leaned in curiosity over this daughter of the manor. We stared at each other, and I swear she knew me. They say babies are as blind as kittens, but wherefore are their eyes open? She gazed at me, then lowered her gaze to the milky nipple and fed as heartily as a lamb upon the ewe.

  From that day, I found times to observe the child, and she grew accustomed to me. The baron carried her around the manor, so devoted was he, that we often sat over the accounts while she babbled on his lap or mine. As she grew older, she was confined to her nursery more, but still found hours to visit me in my office and play with my seals and keys. As she grew older she learned letters and numerals in my office, and traced her first words in ink on scraps of vellum from the rent rolls. Now fourteen, she is the darling of the castle, except for sour Mistress Agness.

  It is she who chides Viola for visiting me, and none was more argumentative in the matter of Seabourne’s betrothal to Elizabeth. But a betrothal does not a marriage make.