The Bog Page 7

  When he reached the top of the hill he looked up and noticed that a kestrel had caught an air current and was hovering motionlessly high above the moors. The sight made him recall with curiosity the incident involving the bittern a few days previous. As he continued to watch the kestrel he wondered if it too would collide with the apparently invisible barrier, but then it caught another vagary of the breeze and slowly soared off in a different direction. For a moment David wondered again what had caused the bittern’s strange behavior, but as he gazed into the tranquil gray sky he dismissed the incident as just a freak occurrence.

  Then he noticed the kestrel again hovering motionlessly at an even higher altitude, and suddenly jealous of its superior vantage, he decided to move to the top of the next hill. From this new location he could now see a part of the valley that he hadn’t seen before. He scanned it with interest, and some distance away spotted a ramshackle little moorland cottage with a crumbling stone roof and surrounded by a clutter of junk, dilapidated plows and wagons, a chopping block, and several sloppily stacked mounds of wood. Sheep dotted the hillocks around the cottage, and the entire place, although clearly inhabited, had a look of waste and ruin about it. As he continued to gaze at the rustic but peaceful sight, he noticed something else. Not too far from the tumbledown cottage, and strolling dangerously close to one of the seductively verdant arms of the bog, was a little girl.

  She looked to be around six or seven years old, roughly the same age as Tuck. Her hair was a drab brown, and even in the distance he could see strands of it straying across her face in the wind. Her white calico frock also had a look of the hand-me-down and the timeworn about it, and seemed more Victorian than something a contemporary child would wear.

  She walked toward the bog with determination, and strode so close to its treacherous edge that David almost called out to her. But then she stopped and just gazed into the abatis of blackthorn and dead trees. She stood there for many long moments, lost in some apparent contemplation, her dress fluttering sadly in the wind. And then she turned and walked back toward the house.

  As soon as Tuck and Katy were finished with breakfast Melanie herded them quickly into the car. Seeing the amount of cleaning that needed to be done in the house, she wanted to put an ad for a housekeeper in The Little Telegraph as quickly as possible. Fenchurch St. Jude was about six miles from the hunter’s cottage, and as they drove along she noticed there were only a handful of other houses. Nonetheless, she observed that a number of them had people out and about them, and whenever they drove by, their new neighbors would stop what they were doing and stand and stare at them silently as they passed. The appearance of newcomers in the community was clearly something to stand up and take notice of. What disturbed her was the indescribable solemnity of the people. It was not that she expected anyone to wave. But always everyone seemed so grim in their deportment. Nowhere did she see people running or children playing or anyone even striding with anything approaching gusto about life.

  Katy noticed it too. “What a bunch of stiffs,” she said.

  “Don’t judge others until you get to know them,” Melanie chastised, but then, on passing yet another moribund farmer, she said, “Ah, heck, go ahead and judge them.”

  In the backseat Tuck was totally unaware of the entire situation, and from the rocket noises he was making seemed to be somewhere between Jupiter and Mars.

  When they reached Fenchurch St. Jude their reception did not improve. Here and there people dotted the street, and they too all stopped and gaped at them as they drove by. Melanie pulled the Volvo up in front of the village store. As she shuttled the children out of the car, she became aware that in the windows of a few of the shops and in some of the homes, faces pressed unselfconsciously up against the glass and observed their every movement.

  They went into the store.

  Inside, the small establishment was packed floor to ceiling with a carefully but prudently broad selection of just about anything one would ever need for basic survival. In a room off the side of the shop was what appeared to be an office, containing a printing press and a clutter of papers. In here worked a woman with short, plainly cut black hair speckled with gray, and severe features. She was neatly but somberly dressed, and she glared coldly at Melanie as she entered. Melanie gave Katy the shopping list and nodded for her to start collecting the things they needed. Then she approached the woman.

  “My name is—”

  “I know,” the woman cut her off. “Your name is Mrs. Macauley. You’re the professor’s wife. News like your moving in doesn’t take long to travel in a village as small as this. My name is Thoday... Miss Thoday.” She looked down at her hand and grunted when she saw that it was covered with ink. It occurred to Melanie that for a moment maybe the woman had considered shaking her hand, and this seemed like a good sign.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Melanie tried to make the best of the situation and smiled. “Well, as you probably know, we’ve just moved into the hunter’s cottage and it’s a wreck.”

  “No doubt, great ol’ barn of a place.”

  “And I was wondering if I could place an ad in your newspaper for a housekeeper?”

  “Don’t know of anyone who’s up for some extra housekeeping.”

  “Aren’t there any young girls who would appreciate the employment?”

  “A few.”

  “What about them?”

  “Don’t know that their parents would let them do it.”

  “Why not?”

  If Melanie had nurtured any hopes of the woman being friendly they were now dashed, for the woman broke into a contemptuous glower. “I know you just moved in, but there’s something you should know. In the village of Leeming, about fourteen miles from here, a couple of nights ago a woman was murdered, shot twice, and in the back, no less. I hope I don’t have to tell you that such things are unheard of in this part of the country. This is a small community and we just don’t have that kind of crime here. It’s got people quite shaken. So if your reception is less than warm here, it’s because people are quite leery of strange faces right now.”

  “Do they have any idea who killed her?”

  “No idea. They don’t even know why. She wasn’t even robbed. She was just walking home from work one night when somebody shot her, neat as you please, two bullets right through the base of her spine.”

  Melanie looked across the store and was pleased to see that both Tuck and Katy were out of earshot. She turned back to Miss Thoday. “And you think people will be reluctant to allow their daughters to work for us because of this crime?”

  “I do.”

  “Well why should they blame us for it?”

  “It’s not that they blame you, it’s that they don’t want their daughters walking home at night.”

  “Oh,” Melanie returned. “Well I suppose we could drive them to and from work.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  Melanie sighed exasperatedly. “Well could I place the ad in your paper anyway?”

  Miss Thoday considered the matter for half a moment. “I suppose. It’s your money. Just as long as you are aware that you are not likely to get much of a response.” Melanie nodded as she reached into her purse for the copy. “We’ll see,” she said optimistically.

  As Miss Thoday surveyed the copy the silence was suddenly broken by a loud and grating sound, and both women looked out the window to see a young man on a motorbike tearing through the village. He parked the bike before the pub and got off. As he was loosening his helmet, a small wiry woman with artificially blond hair came out to meet him.

  “That’s Luther Blundell,” Miss Thoday informed. “And that’s his mother, Winnifred Blundell. She’s one of my best friends.”

  As Melanie continued to look out the window she noted that Winnifred Blundell wasted no time in alerting young Luther to their presence in the village, jabbing a bony finger repeatedly in the direction of their car, her mouth flapping at an astonishing rate. From the p
ursed expression on her face it did not appear that she was organizing a welcoming committee for them.

  Melanie turned to Miss Thoday one last time. “When will the ad appear in the paper?” she asked, still keeping half an eye on the scene taking place in front of the pub.

  “I’ll put it in the edition I’m working on now. It’ll be out by late afternoon today.”

  “Very good,” Melanie said, as she paid for her purchases, gathered her children, and left the store. Outside, both the blond woman and the young man on the bike paused in their dialogue and gazed coldly at them as they got into the car and pulled off.

  Driving back home, Melanie found that she could not take her mind off their strange reception. The gloomy cloud of apprehension that she had felt about moving to Fenchurch St. Jude started to build once again in the pit of her stomach. Her moody reverie broke only when she realized that Tuck had sat up in the backseat and was leaning forward, his small elfin face poised right beside her own.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, Tuck?”

  “Are you sure there was no bug in my cereal this morning?”

  “Yes, Tuck. Katy was just teasing you.”

  “’Cause I can feel something moving in my stomach.”

  “It’s nothing, Tuck,” she assured him as she cast a condemning glance at Katy, who was smirking like a Cheshire cat at the success of her ploy.

  David arrived back at the site to find Brad busy excavating the pit containing the second body. “Did you know there’s a cottage just over the hills back there?” he asked when he reached the spot where Brad was working.

  “Ya, I’ve seen it,” Brad said, glancing up and wiping his brow. “It belongs to someone the locals call Old Flory. The first time I went into the pub in town and mentioned to that wretched blond woman, the one who calls herself Winnie, where I had set up my camp, she remarked that it was near Old Flory’s place. Apparently he sells firewood to the people around here.”

  “Did you know that he had a little girl?”

  “Can’t say that I did,” Brad returned, grimacing. “That’s too bad.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’ll see when you see Old Flory,” he responded cryptically.

  When the time came for them to drain the first bath of liquid, they both went back into the tent. The first thing David did was examine the coloration changes in the young girl’s flesh. Then, when he saw that they were to his satisfaction, he started to siphon off the Formalin and acetic-acid solution. As it flowed off they passed it through a filter, mixed it with alcohol, and then routed the liquid back into the drum perched beside the body. David looked down at the glistening but still sediment-encrusted cadaver. In the next step they would allow the liquid to wash over her with enough force to rinse away the last of the peat that still obscured the finer details of her anatomy, and David was excited, for he hoped that at last they would decipher what had brought her life to a close. He looked over at Brad. He could tell that the younger man was also filled with anticipation, and this caused David to once again look down at the rubber tubing that he held in his hand. At times like these, during the final moment of reckoning when they were about to reveal some important aspect of the past for the first time, archaeologists often became very competitive and self-seeking, and David was not unsusceptible to these feelings himself. There was nothing more he wanted than to be the one to wash away the final patina of mud from the body of the young girl. But, in spite of Brad’s withdrawn nature and occasionally grating humility, David knew he was very lucky to have him as an assistant. He was not contentious. He was totally devoted and hardworking, and he was bright, but quiet about his brilliance. David fought down his own selfish feelings and decided it was only right that he allow Brad the honor of washing away the last bit of dirt.

  “Would you like to take over from here?” he said, offering him the hose.

  Brad looked at him unbelievingly. “You mean it?”

  David nodded and smiled.

  Overwhelmed, Brad took the rubber tubing and positioned it over the woman’s abdomen as David went behind the table and once again released the spigot. The clear liquid quickly snaked through the translucent tubing and gushed out the other end.

  As it streamed out Brad moved the hose back and forth in slow and rhythmic sweeps, and both men watched closely as the last remaining peat broke away from the woman’s flesh and collected at the bottom of the polyurethane tub.

  At first they saw nothing, just larger and larger portions of the eerily preserved and sloe-black skin, but finally, when Brad moved the stream of the solution up around the woman’s neck, the first unusual features began to appear.

  “This is strange,” Brad said, leaning closer.

  David’s own interest grew keener, and he moved a second portable light into position so that they could get a better look.

  What drew their attention was not the extent of the deterioration, but the form that it had taken. When he had first looked at the body, David had assumed that the area had simply rotted away before the tanning processes of the bog could fully take grip. Now, however, he was able to see that the damage was far more regular than would have occurred by rotting alone. Scooped out of the woman’s flesh was a profusion of strange, half-moon-shaped gouges. Most notably, the gouges clustered around what had been the woman’s jugular, and indeed, large chunks of her flesh were missing here. Over the woman’s upper breast and sternum the craterlike holes were fewer and less deep, as if whatever had caused them had languished here, choosing instead to concentrate primarily on the neck.

  As they continued to wash away what debris remained in the wounds, they saw something else. Some of the gouges on her upper breast had rasped away the flesh entirely and cut deep into the bone. Here, as David looked closer, he was able to make out a little circle of furrows lining the edge of each wound, and like the gouges, these striations were also very regular in shape and arrangement. They appeared to be teeth marks.

  “What do you think could have made those?” Brad asked.

  “I don’t know,” David said, frowning and shaking his head. “I’ve never seen teeth marks like that before.” As he continued to stare at the wounds he was also bothered by the size and shape of the bites. Whatever had made the incisions had obviously had very sharp teeth to be able to slice so neatly into the bone, but the wounds themselves were too small to belong to any large predatory animal that he could think of. He was also troubled by the shape of the gouges. If she had been bitten by an animal like a wolf or any similar carnivore with opposable jaws, it would have ripped at her flesh and left puncture wounds, but not the strange, sickle-shaped hollows that they now saw before them. However, the wounds were also too large and regular in shape to have been made by any small gnawing animals that he knew of. They were anomalous bites, as if whatever had attacked her had had a small but powerful mouth and had rasped away at her flesh instead of biting away chunks of it.

  In light of this recent discovery both men looked once again at the rope marks on her wrists.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Brad asked, disconcerted.

  David looked at the younger man, but said nothing. Both knew that they were thinking the same thing. The conclusion was inescapable that the woman’s hands had been bound together shortly before her death, probably around an upright stake, and that something had been allowed to feed upon her. If that had been the case, and if she had been alive during this occurrence, it would certainly go a long way to explaining the look of unspeakable horror wrought on her face.

  David’s mind was reeling. If they had in fact found evidence of the Celts sacrificing a young woman to an animal of some sort, it was a stupendous archaeological discovery. This excited him greatly, but he was also filled with disquiet. Not only was he horrified at the idea that the people who had lived in these hills might have sacrificed a young girl in such a manner, but even more he was baffled at what species of animal could have possibly created such unus
ual wounds.

  These questions still weighed heavily on his mind when he and Brad arrived back at the cottage that evening for dinner. What had turned into puzzled brooding for David momentarily dispersed when Tuck came bursting out the front door to greet them.

  “Dad!” he squealed as he catapulted his little body through the air and into David’s waiting arms. Although the feat had taken David somewhat by surprise, it was an often enough repeated ritual for David’s arms and body to just reach out and catch whenever there was the slightest indication that Tuck was about to blast off. However, an equally ingrained part of the ritual was that Ben was usually barking exuberantly close behind, and it did not escape David’s attention that the retriever was nowhere to be seen. Nonetheless, he refrained from mentioning it, because he did not want to make Tuck unduly aware that there might be a problem.

  “How are you, Tuckaroo?” he greeted his son as he hoisted Tuck’s diminutive body into a more secure position in his arms.

  “Fine. Mom’s making hamburgers.”

  “She is? Great!” he said as he nodded for Brad to follow him into the house.

  In the kitchen they found Melanie standing at one of the counters patting ground beef into patties. Katy sat at the table reading, and David noticed that Ben was still in his position in the corner, but had at least stopped his incessant whimpering.