Joan Smith (22 page)

I fell asleep with the book in my fingers, and awoke in the morning still grasping it, as a token of the promise made. Alexander was gone. Gone for good, but he had left a part of himself with me, to see me through the next half century or so, until I could join him. What was a half century to us, who had waited this long?

And I still had a job to do. I must find my former body, and prove to the rest of the world what I already knew. That there had been no betrayal between us. Alexander had paid for his temporal sins, and found his second innocence. I wanted the world to know that, and clear his name. I also wanted the world to know I had never stopped loving him.

Chapter Twenty-Three

I felt strangely disoriented when I arose, not quite sure which century I inhabited, but I was not tired. In fact I felt strangely regenerated. Mollie popped in on her way to work while I was lingering over my second cup of coffee, reliving the happiness of Alexander’s final visit. I feared it would fade like a dream, and I wanted to store up the details for future consolation.

Mollie wore a dress of military color and cut, with a double row of brass buttons and epaulets on the big padded shoulders. Her spike heels were khaki to match the uniform.

“And how are you this morning, Belle?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” I didn’t tell her about Alexander’s last visit. Some things are too precious to share.

“All systems are go on the dig,” she announced. “Ivan called last night. He says it’s okay to dig up the spinney, but he wants us to keep it as quiet as possible. We’d have teeny-boppers from here to London if his fans got hold of it. People pooh-pooh things like ghosts, but they come swarming around at the first hint of one.”

“That’s wonderful, Mollie. When can you get away from work? I’m assuming you’d like to be here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’ll get right on to Henry. His time’s more or less his own, and I don’t have any appointments this aft, so let’s make it about two-thirty.”

“I’ll be ready. Do you have time for coffee?”

“Not today, thanks. I’m showing a house at nine, the one you didn’t take.” She waved and teetered off on her high heels.

I could still not settle down to work, or anything else. It seemed impossible that the world was wagging out there, that people were manufacturing cars, buying and selling houses, washing dishes, constructing skyscrapers, making love, and war.

Henry Thorndyke phoned at ten to say he would be here at two-thirty, and to discuss what equipment was needed. As I had no shovels, he volunteered to bring a couple, along with some crowbars and smaller tools.

I spent a morning of mental readjustment, trying to get myself firmly back in the twentieth century to finish the job I had undertaken. Creative work was impossible, but I read over my manuscript, trying to decide how to handle the ending. I would not follow Raventhorpe to Italy and Greece. Those years of debauchery did not exist for me. That was not my Alexander, but a poor soul, demented by losing Arabella. The work had begun as Arabella's story, and it would end with her death. A brief epilogue just mentioning Raventhorpe's transmogrification to Vanejul, and the reason for it, would round off the work. That latter part of his life was well chronicled, for those who were interested in it.

I changed into jeans and another of Dad’s old shirts, smiling to myself to think how Alexander would dislike the jeans. How, in future, all my little actions would be haunted by the memory of his likes and dislikes. Henry and Mollie arrived together at two-thirty, Mollie in sneakers and jeans that were not kind to her figure, yet she wore her clothes with a panache that made them acceptable, and even attractive. Mollie had explained the whole story to Henry; he accepted it without question. In fact, he looked at me with a new respect and camaraderie. I didn’t tell either of them that I was Arabella, however. They might have believed me; I don’t know, and in any case, it didn’t matter. I knew it was so.

We got the tools and a blanket from the back of Henry’s truck and began the trek to the spinney. Up the hill past the whispering weir, with the sun shining in a Wedgwood blue sky and the birds wheeling overhead, along the path into the woods, to the clearing by the old oak tree.

“That’s the place,” I said, pointing to the stone.

“It’ll take some leverage to pry that monster free,” Henry said. “It certainly took more than one man to put it there."

I thought Sir Giles must have helped Robinson. He would not have wanted anyone else to know what it concealed. I wondered if he had ever told William the true story.

Henry oversaw the operation, and put his back into the job as well. We dug three holes along one side of the rock, pushed our crowbars in as far under it as possible, and heaved. It was a long, hard, heavy job. Our arms were aching and our brows were dripping before we were done, but eventually the rock rolled over, and a scattering of insects fled from the light. After we had rested a moment, we began digging with the shovels. The earth was dry, pale brown, and surprisingly soft.

“Dig carefully,” Henry said. “We don’t want to disturb the bones.”

I thought of Shakespeare’s gravestone.

Good friend, for Jesus sake forbeare

To digg the dust encloased heare

Arabella was not much further removed in time from Shakespeare than from our present generation. It seemed truly incredible that we were about to see a body that had been interred so long ago. Yet I hadn’t a single doubt in my mind that we would see her remains. Nor did I entertain any thought that we would be cursed for our efforts. This is what she wanted. I would try to get the present Lord Raventhorpe to have her buried beside Alexander in their family plot, where his remains had eventually found their final resting place, when they were brought back from Greece. That would round out the circle as they would both like.

Sir Giles had buried his sins deep. There were four feet of earth covering the mortal remains. The skeleton of a hand was the first thing uncovered. We switched to trowels and worked with extreme care. The other hand lay beside the first. Neither hand wore a ring. She had removed the band of diamond baguettes William had given her before going to meet Raventhorpe that fatal night. As the skull appeared, I moved the earth away gently with my fingers. Henry handed me a soft whisk to remove the last of the clinging earth.

Her golden hair was completely gone. A hideous grinning skull stared back at me across the centuries. The cavities that had been her eyes were holes, filled with the soft, dun-colored earth. Her teeth, still intact, were the more frightening thing. Their curved shape suggested a rictus-like grin. The flesh had dwindled to a flaky brown substance that clung to the bones. When I saw the discolored pearls lying in the earth where her ears once were, I knew this had been Arabella. They were the same teardrop pearls she wore in Thorndyke’s portrait at Chêne Bay.

We were all silent, gazing at the skull, thinking our own thoughts. I had thought I would feel as if I were at my own funeral, but it wasn’t like that. I felt strangely detached. There was a terrible aching sadness in the air, but I had already lived through the outrage and desecration of it all, and come to terms with it. Now I must get on with the job of moving these bones to rest beside Alexander’s.

“You were right, Belle,” Mollie said quietly.

Henry said, “Those are the eardrops she wore in the picture my ancestor painted. We’ll leave them. It will help prove who she is. We’ll leave her just as we found her and let the experts do the moving."

“Yes, we’ll leave her just as she is,” I replied, as he was looking to me for instructions. “I want those experts to see if they can find the bullet that killed her. It should be there, under the ribs. Now, who should we call, Henry? The police, I suppose. Will Ivan mind, Mollie?”

“The police won’t let the hordes come in. That’s all he’s concerned about. I’ll phone him, though. He mentioned his uncle would want to know. Professor Thumm—he wrote a book about Vanejul and Arabella.”

I disliked to hear Alexander called Vanejul. “Ivan is Professor Thumm’s nephew?” I asked, wondering at such disparate talents in one family.

“Yes, his mum’s older brother. That’s how Ivan got interested in Chêne Bay in the first place. His uncle wanted to buy it, but of course, he couldn’t afford it.”

“I thought Professor Thumm would be dead by now,” I said.

“No, he’s an active seventy. He wrote that book when he was fresh down from Oxford. He’s written dozens of historical biographies since then. He might arrange to have an archaeologist from the university come along to look at the body, and remove it carefully.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Henry remained with the body while Mollie and I went to Chêne Mow to call the police. She also called Ivan, who had no objection to our plan, and said he would join us as soon as possible. He said his uncle would certainly want to come as well. Ivan would notify him.

There was a great deal of excitement at Chêne Bay over the next few days. Reporters and TV newsmen descended on us. Dr. Thumm did indeed have archaeologists and other experts examine the find. The bullet was recovered, as I hoped. I was questioned as to why I suspected Arabella was buried in the spinney.

“Call it an intuition,” I said vaguely. I did not announce that I was Arabella. That was not the point
of the story. “I’ve been studying the history of Arabella and Raventhorpe for a book I’m
writing. Mrs. Millar found some of Raventhorpe’s letters to Arabella in a desk she got from Chêne Bay. They led me to suspect Sir Giles Throckley of the murder. Since the body was never found in the weir, I felt he must have buried it on the estate. It was a process of elimination. It would have been buried in some secluded spot, to avoid accidental detection.”

“You’re writing a book?” one of the reporters asked. “When will it be published?”

“I haven’t finished it yet, but I hope the publisher who did my first novel will be interested in it.”

When the interview was aired, I had several calls from publishers and editors, including Anne Morrissey from Crowley. She was surprised at my change of direction, but interested. We arranged a mutually satisfactory deal. Anne also asked about
Rebel Heart.
I felt some eagerness to be getting on with it, too. I had my hero now. There would be some trace of Alexander in all my heroes for a long time to come. The physical details would change, of course, but his passion was heroic. That was the necessary item for a hero.

Chapter Twenty-Four

There was so much commotion at Chêne Mow that it was impossible to get on with my writing. I sublet the cottage and rented a room at Emily Millar’s. Beezle was happy to get home. I wanted to stay in the New Forest to finalize the book, there where it all happened.

Emily, as usual, was very helpful. She gave permission to publish the letters, and even allowed me to keep the locket, which I never remove. I keep it on me constantly, as some brides refuse to remove their wedding rings.

“It belongs to you,” she said, with her secret smile.

“You know, don’t you, Emily?” I said hesitantly.

“That you are Arabella? I always suspected it,” she replied. “Did you notice, at the May Day séance, how the whirlwind that brought Raventhorpe rushed all around the circle, then straight to you? When we discovered the spirit was Raventhorpe, I began to suspect who you were.”

“I didn’t notice. It was all so strange and frightening.”

“It was a new experience for you, dear,” she said forgivingly. “Mollie told me you had some familiarity with Chêne Mow. Then when you came to me, so curious about Arabella, and so eager to have the locket... Let us just say it felt right, if you’re uncomfortable with clairvoyance.”

“I’m not uncomfortable with it. How could I be, now?”

“Clairvoyance just means clear vision. Nowadays people don’t see clearly. They only look with their eyes. You have to use your heart, too. The name Belle was a curious coincidence, and there were the family records from Chêne Mow. One thing led to another. When did you come to realize it yourself, Belle?”

“Not until he told me—Alexander. He recognized my soul.”

“That would be it, of course.” She nodded. “There’s not much resemblance in the face, though there is a little something. That pointed chin is pure Comstock.”

Over the days, we had many conversations, and Emily told me her thoughts on life. We were in the garden, admiring the flowers one sunny afternoon.

“They’re so beautiful, they seem a kind of miracle,” I said, idly flicking a pure white rose that nodded in the sun.

“They’re part of the miracle of life,” she said. “We’re all part of it. The mystery is all around us, and especially within us. We are like the flowers. The seed of new life is released in the death of the old. Dear me, I’m raving. Pay no heed to the ramblings of an old lady.”

Over tea one afternoon, we talked about the present Lord Raventhorpe. Selecting a Fig Newton, Emily said, “I had hoped that Adam might be Alexander reincarnated and fall in love with you, Belle—he’s a bachelor. But that was too much to hope.”

“I wondered myself. We met a motorcycle head-on that day, on the bus coming here from Stratford. The driver seemed to stop and stare right at me. He nearly hit the bus. Then I heard on television that Lord Raventhorpe’s accident occurred that same day near Stratford.”

“And Alexander appeared at about the time Adam was in coma. Yes, that looked extremely fortuitous. Just one of those coincidences, I daresay. I expect you’d like to meet him before you leave England?”

“That would be nice. Do you think the Raventhorpes would let Arabella be buried in their family plot?”

“I’ll ask Lily, Lady Raventhorpe. She is back at Oldstead with Adam now. He was having bouts of coma, but is recovering nicely. The Throckleys will be glad to be spared the bother of the burial. They’re old, you know, and in Portugal—enjoying
your
money,” she added with a sniff, as if the crime were of recent vintage. The English have long memories.