“Julien,” the marquise continued, “I think that was your father’s way of terrorizing me. I always assumed—even hoped—that one day we would discover older remains on the property, predating our family’s time here. As a girl I was quite enthralled with archaeology. Of course, I hoped it would convince my father to take me somewhere exotic. Persia was my dream, but I would have settled for Egypt. I ended up in France.”
When they reached the stair to the outside door, Madame Puguet stepped from the kitchen and asked if anyone had seen Mimi. No one had seen her since she was put to bed the night before. Agnes sympathized. Her oldest son had spent a good part of one summer hiding. It was hard to make children understand why their parents were desperate with worry. She and George had spent more hours than she liked to recall searching across roads and creek beds, every time finding their son holed up safe and sound, often thrilled with the search he had watched from a high perch. Not knowing enough about the girl’s favorite hiding places to be of help, she ignored the family discussion and studied the lawn. She knew these were not ancient bones, but the marquise would see that for herself quickly enough.
Once outside, it was clear that the temperature hadn’t risen and the air, though still, was bitter. Agnes shivered despite her coat, but the marquise was well bundled in furs and Vallotton appeared oblivious. They made their way in near silence. Doctor Blanchard was standing at the edge of the gaping hole, stomping his feet to warm them. Agnes thought he was lucky he’d been in his outdoor farm clothes when he arrived at the chateau. Personally, she didn’t think she’d ever be warm again, but perhaps that was only the feeling in her heart. At the last minute she saw Carnet standing waist deep in the hole. She stopped, unable to speak, barely able to see through a mist of emotion.
Through the haze she heard Blanchard chatter, clearly delighted that the marquise was interested in the skeleton. He launched into an explanation of his process. After photographing the area, he and Carnet had used a small broom to expose the parts of the skeleton that were on the surface. Tattered fragments of fabric covered a small portion of the remains. He had brushed the dirt from the hips, part of one arm, and the skull as well as a leg. The femur Winston had removed lay in place again. The rest of the bones were trapped in the frozen earth.
“This was not a proper grave,” the marquise said when the doctor paused.
He agreed. “It’s hard to know how deep the body was when buried. A grave may have been dug. I know the village well, but not this landscape. Does anyone remember details of the terrain before the tree fell and dislodged the ground?”
“Flat, or nearly, out from the bench to the tree,” said Vallotton.
“There is a continuous low slope up to the chateau,” Agnes said, rousing herself. Vallotton and the marquise studied the area as if it was new to them, and Agnes added, “The bones might have started out nearer the surface. A small mound might have blended with the slope, then add irregularities expected at the base of the tree and you might overlook it, thinking it was roots near the surface. Leaves pile up in a grove and the ground thickens over time.” She felt Carnet studying her and avoided his eyes. Was it possible that two days ago she was so ashamed about her imagined role in George’s death that she didn’t want to see him? Where was his shame?
“For most of my life this grove was a dense wood,” said the marquise. “It was planted when the mansion was built in the 1840s. That particular Madame Vallotton thought herself a very modern woman and she hated the sight of the chateau and intended for the wood to block the view. It did, growing up over time and thickening into a dense miniature forest. My brother was of the opposite mind-set. He liked the view between the two residences and thinned the trees about fifteen years ago. Before that it would have been possible for a shallow grave to go undetected.”
“The grove would also have concealed someone digging a deeper one,” added Agnes, imagining the hate or fear that would fuel the digging of a secret grave. For a second she allowed herself to bury Carnet. To cut him from their lives. To backtrack and stop the forward motion leading to disaster.
“When I was a boy, Daniel and I would pretend to hunt wild boar here,” said Vallotton. “It was a dense wood then.”
“With the damage to the area around the bones I can’t fully evaluate the grave site,” said the doctor, “but she appears to have been deliberately wrapped in a covering. I hesitate to qualify it as anything more than material or fabric and can’t tell yet if it was a simple cloth or formed into a shroud or clothing or designed for some other use. I’ll collect everything, taking photographs as I do, and we’ll see if there are other clues as it is uncovered. The ground is frozen solid and I risk damaging anything we find if we dig more. Best to do some preliminary investigations—what’s available at the surface—and preserve the rest of her until the temperature rises.”
“Her?” asked the marquise.