White slivers of clouds passed across the stars. Kate followed the yellow glow of Simon’s lantern through the towering ribs of the skeleton church. Simon stepped around blocks of heavy stone long fallen in the collapse of the old chapel. Swathed in his long frock coat, he seemed no more than a grim shade in the night. Winston walked behind them, followed by another servant carrying shovels and picks. Ahead, a high, wrought-iron gate was hanging from a single hinge, tall spikes askew. Inside the fence were gravestones, some tilted and broken and colored black with age. Simon tugged the gate back with a horrid screech of old iron and strode into the field of tombs.
He stopped before a sizeable cenotaph. It consisted of a broad granite base about four feet high, topped by a beseeching angelic figure. The base proclaimed Elizabeth Archer 1781–1822. Simon laid a hand on the monument and stared down at the sunken mound of dirt. There was clearly space for a plot next to her.
Kate whispered, “Is your father here?”
“No, but she wanted a place for him.” Simon knelt next to the grave and set the lantern on the ground. The wind tossed his hair and shadows increased the intensity of his face.
“Must you exhume her?” Kate asked.
“Yes.”
“If Barnes took her, there’s nothing to be done. We’re going after him in any case. Why put yourself through this?”
“I must know.” He stood and reached out toward Winston.
“No sir.” The butler flinched, pulling the pick he carried tight against his chest. “That isn’t a fit job for you.”
“It’s my honor, Winston.” Simon’s voice was firm but pained. When the servant begrudgingly handed him the pick, he slid out of his heavy coat and motioned everyone back. Then Simon hefted the tool high over his shoulder and drove the iron point into his mother’s grave. Loose chunks of cold earth rolled back. He slammed the pick down over and over, grunting in pain from the curse, but pausing only to kick dirt clods aside. He was silent but for sharp exhalations with each swing. Sweat began to drip off his face and coils of steam rose from his head into the freezing air.
“What the hell are you doing?” came a shout from behind.
Simon had hoisted the pick up and was nearly toppled by the momentum as he spun around. Winston turned and exclaimed in shock as a figure ran toward them from the abbey.
“It’s Greene, sir. The man who discovered the trouble.”
“What is he about?” Simon growled.
The new groundskeeper, Greene, was young, perhaps twenty years old, and thin. He was wearing old tweed and had a scarf looped around his neck and partially around his face. He pushed past Winston and actually pulled the pick out of Simon’s hands. The servants were shocked by the lad’s inexplicable temerity. Even Simon just watched the young man with surprise. Winston stepped forward quickly and grabbed the groundskeeper by his collar, pulling him away.
Kate exclaimed, “I’ll be God damned.”
Her voice was so incredulous that Simon looked at her. She was staring at Greene, but her expression was not shock at his odd behavior; it was complete disbelief.
Greene snapped at Simon, “I didn’t send for you so you could dig up your mother, you idiot.”
“Quiet!” Winston shook the man. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll have this wretch dealt with immediately. I—” Now he looked down at the figure in his grip who was no longer the young groundskeeper, but was rather an older man, broad-faced and worn with years, eyes that were dark and bottomless. The butler released the man and stepped back. He looked from the stranger to Simon, with alarm. “I’m sorry, sir. I thought it was Greene. I could have sworn.” He looked at the other manservant for support, but that chap was nonplussed and clutching shovels in defense.
Simon felt his own shock of disbelief. Before him stood his old friend, Nick Barker.
Nick straightened his jacket and smiled snidely at Winston. “I’m surprised you don’t remember me, Winston. I was up here a few years ago. I’m Mr. Archer’s particular friend.”
“Mr. Barker, sir? I’m terribly sorry. I could have sworn it was … I could have sworn.”
Simon went to his butler, without taking his surprised gaze off Nick. “It’s all right, Winston. Both of you go back to the house. Don’t worry.”
Winston turned without speaking and started off into the dark, stooped. He was followed quickly by the other servant.
“Leave the tools,” Simon called. The servant dropped the shovels and practically ran away.
Nick started laughing and threw his arm over Simon’s shoulder like two pals out for a night on the town, as the two servants trudged away. Simon tossed the arm aside roughly and rounded on his old friend.
“What is wrong with you?” Simon shouted. “Why are you here? You said you were leaving England months ago.”