The Janus Stone

CHAPTER 35

It is June the twenty-first, the longest day. In the evening Max is holding a party at the Roman site to celebrate both the summer solstice and the end of the dig. Cathbad will be there, complete with dowsing rod, mistletoe crown and oak staff. Ruth is also invited, along with most of the staff from the archaeology department. But Nelson, though invited, is instead on his way to Sussex to visit Father Patrick Hennessey.

He is not quite sure why. Over the phone, he told Hennessey that he wanted to ‘clear up some loose ends’ but, in truth, all the loose ends in the case of Bernadette McKinley have been well and truly laid to rest. Two weeks ago, Father Hennessey himself conducted the funeral service for the little girl who died over fifty years ago, at the hands of her father.

Bernadette’s mother was not at the funeral. When Judy turned up at the convent, on the morning after her interview with Sister Immaculata, she was told that the nun had died in the night. ‘Did she see a priest?’ Father Hennessey asked urgently when he was told. Yes, Judy said, Father Connor was with her at the end and administered the last rites. Judy knows, and Nelson knows too, the importance of this. Sister Immaculata may have confessed to Judy but this is not the confession that would matter most.

Although neither parent could be present, the little dusty church was not quite empty for the short ceremony. Nelson was there, as were Clough and the newly promoted Detective Sergeant Judy Johnson. Ruth, Max and Cathbad also attended, the latter dressed quite conservatively in a black shirt and jeans. Irish Ted and Trace were also there, Trace wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her lacy purple top.

Edward and Marion Spens sat in the front row, staring straight in front of them. ‘After all,’ said Edward afterwards, rather unsteadily, to Nelson, ‘she was my half-sister. It just seems unbelievable that…’ His voice trailed off. Nelson sympathised with the unspoken words. Almost unbelievable that Edward’s father turned out to be a murderer who killed a child while in his teens and attempted murder again as a seventy-year-old? Almost unbelievable that the crime lay buried for over half a century, while the killer’s son planned to dig up the land for profit? Almost unbelievable that, on the same site, a children’s home would provide a refuge for hundreds of children and yet two would run away, one dying soon afterwards? All of it is unbelievable, yet all of it is only too true. Nelson grasped Edward Spens’ hand briefly then walked away through the tombstones. There was nothing else left to say.

At the church gate he stopped and spoke to Trace, who was still mopping her eyes.

‘I’ve just been speaking to your uncle.’

She looked up at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said Nelson though, in truth, the connection escaped him for a long time, even after he saw the names on Judy’s family tree. Charlotte Spens, children Tracy and Luke. Though, of course, Trace’s surname isn’t Spens, which made it less obvious. Still, her presence explained why Sir Roderick was able to know so much about what went on both at the Swaffham dig and at Woolmarket Road.

Trace looked shell shocked, much as her uncle had done. ‘I can’t believe that Grandad… Mum quarrelled with Uncle Edward, you see, so we didn’t really see the rest of the family. But I’d always liked Grandad. He always seemed such a sweet old thing. We used to talk about history, about the Romans. It was something we had in common.’

‘Let’s hope it’s the only thing,’ said Nelson soberly, turning away to talk to Ruth.

Ruth had looked pale and tired but otherwise in good enough health. Her pregnancy was now obvious, even in the unflatteringly baggy black suit.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she smiled rather shakily. ‘I’m glad we had this funeral. It feels right.’

‘Yes,’ Nelson agreed, ‘it feels right.’

He was about to say more when Clough bore down on them, suggesting a visit to a nearby pub. ‘It’s the proper thing to do after a funeral. Ask any Irishman.’ In the background, Irish Ted was nodding vigorously.

‘I’d better get back to work,’ said Ruth. ‘Goodbye, Nelson.’

And she had leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. It was their first physical contact since their child had been conceived.

When the police boarded the Lady Annabelle that night in early June, they had found Ruth sitting huddled on the deck, holding the gun. ‘I killed him,’ she kept saying, ‘I killed him.’ Nelson, had he been there, would have told her to keep this thought to herself. But Nelson was, at the time, sitting in an ambulance wrapped in a silver foil blanket and babbling about his daughters. The reinforcements, two police cars and an ambulance, had arrived almost as soon as Max pulled Sir Roderick’s dead body out of the water. The Lady Annabelle had drifted harmlessly onto the river bank. The policemen, local boys, boarded the boat easily, leaving their squad car parked in the reeds, its lights flashing eerily in the mist.

Ruth was convinced that she had killed Sir Roderick Spens. After all, didn’t she pull the trigger and see him fall, arms flailing helplessly, through the wooden railing of the boat? But the post-mortem (performed by an indecently cheery Chris Stevenson) showed that there were no bullet wounds on Sir Roderick’s body. Cause of death was a blow to the head, probably sustained when he fell. The bullet was later found, wedged into one of the Lady Annabelle’s bench seats. Ruth was relieved but the verdict does not alter her fundamental belief that she was the cause of the old man’s death. She had wanted to kill him. Isn’t intent to kill the same as murder?

This is something that Nelson could discuss with Father Patrick Hennessey. He knows, as he joins the traffic edging over the Dartford Bridge, that his visit is about more than police business. The Woolmarket Street case is closed. Whitcliffe is, if not happy, at least satisfied that none of the details have made it to the press (though the local papers did report the death of Sir Roderick Spens in a boating accident). Edward Spens is going ahead with the building development. ‘Life must go on,’ he said sententiously to Nelson, as if Nelson might be about to dispute the fact. He plans to call the apartment block ‘Bernadette House’.

But Nelson knows, in his heart, that nothing is over. They may know who killed Bernadette, they may know what happened to Elizabeth Black (forensics have uncovered the bones buried in the school playground – Father Hennessey will have another funeral to conduct) but the feelings stirred up by the deaths of these little girls (Annabelle Spens too) are not so easily buried. Fathers and daughters, this is the phrase that keeps running through Nelson’s head. He will shortly be the father of three daughters. This is the thought that now keeps him awake at night, the thought that has sent him speeding down the motorway towards the retired Catholic priest.

Confession? He hasn’t said the word aloud to himself but when he greets Father Hennessey and the older man suggests a walk in the secluded part of the garden, he knows that this is what he has come for. Once a Catholic… he smiles grimly to himself. Father Damian would be proud of him.

At first they discuss the Woolmarket Street case.

‘Have you any idea why Sir Roderick Spens did this terrible thing?’ asks Father Hennessey.

‘Edward Spens found his diaries,’ says Nelson, following the priest down a path overgrown with lavender and lemon balm. ‘He kept a diary from when he was a child. It’s all there, the murder and everything. Weirdest thing you ever read. Like a cross between Adrian Mole and Jack the Ripper.’

‘He must have been a very troubled soul.’

‘Troubled? Yes.’ Nelson gives a bark of humourless laughter. ‘But he managed to go through life without anyone suspecting. I mean, Edward Spens knew his father was odd. That was why he lived with them, to keep him out of trouble. But he never suspected that he was a murderer.’

‘And yet it came to light in the end,’ murmurs Hennessey. ‘Evil can’t stay hidden for ever.’

They have reached a sunken garden, out of sight of the house. They sit on a low bench, still warm from the sun. In front of them is a fountain, a mere trickle of water descending from the mouth of a stone fish. The dappled light overhead turns the spray into a hazy rainbow, yellow, green and blue.

Father Hennessey turns to face Nelson. ‘Why did you want to see me, my son?’

Nelson takes a deep breath. ‘I wanted to ask your advice.’

Hennessey inclines his head but says nothing. The silence trick. Nelson recognises it but that doesn’t stop him from falling into the trap and singing like a bird.

‘I’m a married man, Father. I love my wife and I love our two daughters.’ He pauses. Those terrible few hours when he thought his daughters were in danger have impressed on him just how much he does love them. He would do anything for them, even (at Michelle’s insistence) invite Laura’s boyfriend for Sunday lunch.

‘I love my wife,’ he repeats, ‘but a few months ago I… slept with someone else. I’m not making excuses, I knew it was wrong, but it was at a very difficult time… for me and for the other woman. We just came together, didn’t think about the consequences. But now she’s pregnant. She’s expecting my baby, a girl. And I don’t know what to do.’

Nelson stares at the fountain, the water falling endlessly into the stone bowl. Father Hennessey’s voice is calm.

‘You say you love your wife. Do you love this other woman?’

Nelson is silent for a moment and then he says, ‘I don’t know. I care about her. I care about her and the baby. I want to look after her.’ He laughs, rather harshly. ‘My wife does too. That’s the weirdest thing. She knows this woman and wants to help her. With the baby and everything. My wife wants to befriend the woman who’s having my baby. You couldn’t make it up.’

‘Love is always a force for good,’ says Hennessey gently. ‘Your love for your wife and daughters, for this woman and her unborn baby. Even your wife’s kindness towards her. These are all good things.’

Nelson turns towards him, his eyes are wet. ‘How can it be good? If my wife finds out, our marriage will be over.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘You think I should tell her then?’

‘I can’t give you advice,’ says Hennessey, ‘although I know that’s what you want. I can only tell you that a baby is always a blessing, love is always a blessing. You care about these people, you will find a way.’

Nelson nods. He stares ahead, watching the light play on the water. He hardly notices when Father Hennessey puts his hand gently on his head and murmurs a blessing before walking away, back to the house.

Evening and Max’s party is in full swing. The lonely hill, where once the Roman occupiers had huddled together against the cold Norfolk wind, is now full of people. Someone has set up speakers by one of the trenches and Leah’s uncle has brought barrels of beer and cider from the pub. Irish Ted and Trace are dancing amongst the mounds of soil and stones. Ruth sees Clough, wearing a Manchester United shirt, cut in and dance with Trace, showing surprisingly good hip action. If Clough has come, why isn’t Nelson here?

Ruth wanders away. She feels tired and wishes there was somewhere to sit down. Another five months of this! At least the baby seems to have suffered no adverse effects from that terrible night on the Lady Annabelle. Ruth has had a checkup and another scan and the baby was fine, dancing happily in the grey clouds of Ruth’s womb. ‘A large baby,’ the technician had said. Typical. Nelson gets her pregnant with a giant baby and then buggers off. She will definitely insist that she supports Arsenal.

Ruth herself has recovered rather more slowly. She still can’t shake the idea that she killed Roderick Spens. In her dreams, she sees herself pulling the trigger and Roderick’s face disintegrating in a horrific shower of blood and bone. The actual events, with Roderick falling almost in slow motion, the wooden rail splintering and the long wait before the body hit the water, seem less real than the nightmare. She didn’t kill him but she wanted to. And this, she knows, is the reality. She knows that she would have killed a man to save herself and to save her baby.

‘Ruth!’ She looks up to see Max approaching. So far he has been circulating, showing the ability to schmooze required of any successful archaeologist (one reason, perhaps, why Ruth will never reach the top in the profession). He has chatted heartily with Phil, hand in hand with a glowing Shona (the deadline of the final examiners’ meeting is still a month away), grasped the hands of all the volunteers and spent an intense fifteen minutes with the local press. He will go far, there’s no doubt about it.

Ruth has been happy to watch Max from a distance. The last thing she wants is to talk to the press – or to Phil. Her own relationship with Max, the bond she feels with him, has been strengthened by Max’s appearance on that fateful night. It was Max who turned up in the police car to tell Ruth that he, Cathbad and Nelson had been following her in an electric boat. He told her about Nelson’s kamikaze dive into the water. ‘When he thought you were hurt, he just went crazy.’ They had looked at each other and Ruth knew that Max knew that Nelson was the father of her baby. Neither of them said anything though. Max held Ruth’s hand all the way to the hospital.

Now he is smiling. The dig has been successful. He will be going back to Sussex to write up the results. Even the Lady Annabelle has been saved and Edward has offered him the use of the boat whenever he wants. Somehow he doesn’t think Ruth will be joining him on board.

‘It’s a great party,’ says Ruth.

‘You know what party animals archaeologists are.’

Ruth looks over to where two earnest women are discussing Roman pottery, and smiles.

‘Let me know when the hard drugs start circulating.’

‘I’ve got something to show you,’ says Max.

Ruth looks at him warily. She feels that she has had enough surprises to last her a lifetime. But Max is smiling and the party is going on all round them. Surely the underworld is far away.

Max takes her hand and leads her to his car. The front window is slightly open and on the back seat is a large black dog. When the dog sees them it goes mad with delight, wagging its entire back end. It is a slim, slinky animal with a whiskery, smiling face. Ruth finds herself smiling back.

‘Do you remember the breathing you heard on the site? I said I thought it might be a dog?’ asks Max, leaning in to pat the now delirious dog. ‘Well, this is her. She’s a stray, been hanging round the site for weeks, so I thought I’d take her in.’

‘A dog is for life…’ says Ruth, pointing to the car sticker.

‘Well, exactly. And I think I need some company.’ Max’s face darkens momentarily but lightens when the dog leaps through the window and flings herself on him.

‘She wants to join the party,’ says Ruth, who is thinking that the dog is more gregarious than she is. A party animal.

‘I’d better put her on the lead,’ says Max. ‘She might get overexcited with so many people about.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Claudia.’ Max grins. ‘It’s a suitably Roman name and she does have claws, as I know to my cost.’

Ruth pats the leaping, wriggling dog. ‘Will you have room for her in Brighton?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a garden and I’m looking forward to long walks on the seafront. It’ll keep me fit.’

He looks pretty fit already but Ruth does not say this. Max hands her Claudia’s lead (slightly to her alarm) and rustles around in the boot of the Range Rover.

‘I’ve got something for you.’

He emerges with a carrier bag which he hands to Ruth.

‘What…?’

‘Look inside.’

Ruth looks and sees another dog. A stuffed one this time, rather battered by the years, but still smiling.

‘Elizabeth’s dog,’ says Max, rather thickly. ‘She called it Wolfie. I thought your baby should have it. It’s ridiculous me keeping it, after all.’

Ruth looks from the stuffed dog to Max, holding Claudia on the lead, and her eyes suddenly fill with tears.

‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I’m very honoured.’

‘No doubt Nelson will say it constitutes a health hazard,’ says Max, more briskly, ‘but I’m sure you won’t listen to him.’

‘Why change the habit of a lifetime?’

They rejoin the party and Ruth unbends sufficiently to dance with Irish Ted. In the distance, she can see Cathbad building the inevitable bonfire.

‘You’re a good mover for a pregnant lady,’ says Ted.

‘Thank you.’

He smiles, gold tooth glinting, and Ruth remembers what she has always wanted to ask him. Leaning forward, she whispers, ‘Why are you called Irish Ted?’

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ whispers back Ted. ‘I am Irish but I’m not really called Ted.’

It is past midnight but the bonfire is still glowing. Ruth walks slowly down the hill. She is exhausted but it was a good party. Cathbad has danced in honour of the Sun God, Max has finished his dig and gained a companion, and she isn’t going home alone. She smiles at the woman walking next to her. It had been Cathbad who suggested that she invite her mother – ‘Gaia the Earth Goddess, you know. The eternal mother. It’s all linked’ – and, rather to Ruth’s surprise, her mother had readily accepted. She has spent the evening talking to Max about mosaics, singing madrigals with the Druids, and dancing with both Clough and Ted. Now, she puts an arm round Ruth.

‘Tired?’

‘A bit.’

‘We’ll go home and have a nice cup of tea. Then you should go to bed. You need your sleep when you’re pregnant.’

Roman mothers, thinks Ruth, were probably saying the same thing to their daughters on this same site, two thousand years ago. Come in and sit by the hearth, have some herbal infusion and pray to Hecate for a safe delivery.

Everything changes but nothing is destroyed.