“It was one of the Morten boys,” she said. The Mortens were not a well-respected family. “And he tried to take a skull, not a vertebra. Who would want a vertebra that wasn’t their own?”
“Don’t you worry, Daisy,” Mrs. Dowden said, patting me on the shoulder. “We’ll make sure all those bones get back to you.”
I was sat down for refreshments, and a village teenager, who was hoping to become a journalist, was summoned to interview me.
“How did you feel when you realized all the bones had been washed away?” he asked me, and I had to consider my answer carefully because once the initial horror had worn off, my first thoughts were of Lennie and what had become of his body.
“I was mortified,” I said. “I know now that it’s just the usual ravages of time that caused it, but when I first saw them, I felt somehow responsible.”
He nodded somberly. “Do you know how many bodies were affected?”
Including or excluding Lennie’s? “No,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“How long will it take to get them collected and put together again?”
I referred that one to the archaeologist, who answered with, “How long’s a piece of string?” James wouldn’t be pleased to hear that.
Then he asked me a few questions about life in Langley Hall, which I answered with, “It’s loads of fun,” “It’s a lot of work,” and “The time just flies.”
“Next time you come, you’ll be able to read what he writes,” Mrs. Dowden said as we finished the interview. “Now, do you need any more of these?” She was brandishing her etchings again. “You must have a lot of rooms needing plaques up in that big house.”
I bought “The best things in life are free” from her, thinking I could give it to James for his birthday. He’d hate it. Then I went around the craft stalls and bought samples from every one. Maybe James wouldn’t think my homemade clothes were so bad when he saw these.
I was about to leave when there was a kerfuffle at the door and in came another journalist, one whose words would be published inTheWestern Bugle Online, not just theUpper Iffley Pages. It was Emma Beddoe, the reporter I had met on the day I went to Great Beadington.
Emma looked around the room, smiling, looking hopeful. Her bright-pink hair was tied back, she was wearing combats and an orange T-shirt that still didn’t go with her gaudy tresses, with a rucksack slung over her shoulder and camera on a strap around her neck.
“Hi,” she said to Mrs. Faulkner, who was the first person to make eye contact with her. “I’m fromThe Western Bugle Online. I heard you had a do going on down here. I thought I’d check it out.”
The Western Bugle!It caused quite a stir and Emma was given much the same welcome as I had been treated to only an hour earlier. I could hear Mrs. Faulkner telling her about the coach trip from Great Beadington and the woman who had—allegedly—tried to steal a vertebra.
“Goodness!” Emma said.
I moved toward the door, but as I neared it:
“Hi! Wait!”
I should have ignored it and pretended I thought she was talking to someone else, but the volume of her voice made me look round. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?” she said.
For a moment I wondered how she’d known, my hair had been hidden under my cap when we’d met and the cap had obscured my face. Then I realized she was looking at my T-shirt; it was the same one I was wearing on the day we met. My heart sank. It wasn’t even one of my most distinctive ones, although apparently it was distinctive enough.
“I like your skirt,” she said. It was a patchwork arrangement, made from countless leftover scraps that would otherwise have been thrown out.
“This is Daisy,” Mrs. Faulkner told her. “From Langley Hall.”
“Langley Hall,” Emma said, and suddenly all her attention was on me. “Do you live there?”
“Yes, that’s her ladyship,” Mrs. Faulkner said. “Married to the village billionaire.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “You must have had a shock when that tomb-thing came down.”
“The mausoleum,” I said. “Yes.”
“How many bodies washed out?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What did you think when you first saw it?”
