‘Did people do that?’
‘Not in the Bronze Age. They’re mostly buried in wee chests, crouching. But the Vikings did it. People have found ship burials in Norway, and in England. And deep water was sacred to the Picts, who were here before the Christians …’
‘The burn’s not very deep at the mouth of the Fearn!’
‘They buried him in the peat, below the riverbed. Places where rivers meet are sacred too. He was beneath the crossing of two rivers, downstream of the Drookit Stane. And that killing – the triple death – that’s a sacrifice.’
‘How d’you know all that?’ I exclaimed in disbelief. ‘Old Travellers’ tales passed down from Auntie Bessie?’
Ellen gave her snort of scorn and answered coldly, ‘Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland. But true enough, Auntie Bessie likely has a thing or two to say about it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She put the photographs back in the envelope and got out her pipe and tobacco pouch.
‘Have a draw.’
She gave me the matches. When she’d filled the bowl she let me light it myself, laughing at my incompetence. ‘Why have you no’ been practising?’
‘I don’t want to break the one you gave me. I want to take it to school to rag the other girls.’
We smoked in silence for a couple of minutes, listening to the timeless voice of the burn as it chuckled past the Drookit Stane, thinking about our ancestors.
‘Those spear points,’ I asked suddenly, ‘the ones they keep finding in the pipeline trench. Are they part of it?’
‘Likely buried with him. I looked them up. They weren’t all bronze; the newest is iron, maybe fifteen hundred years old, not more than two thousand. Perhaps they buried him just before the Christians came in to Scotland.’
‘So the boat’s not as old as we thought.’
‘Well, I think the body’s older than anyone guessed. I dinnae think it’s as old as two thousand years, but there’s nae telling. The boat could be older – the folk who buried him could have kent it was there, like we did, and put him in.’
‘There’s no way ever to tell,’ I said. ‘Because we dug it up and chopped it in pieces and tossed them about as if it didn’t matter.’
‘We didnae do that,’ Ellen pointed out.
‘No one can ever prove any of what you just said.’
‘Yon mystified doctor will help. If Strathfearn asks him to consider whether the body’s ancient – well, then it’s a matter for the Society of Antiquaries instead of the High Court.’
‘It is,’ I breathed in agreement.
‘So you dinnae think it’s mad? You think I should tell Strathfearn?’
‘It’ll be the most wonderful, astonishing discovery of his entire life,’ I said. ‘Even if he lives to be a hundred! Of course you should tell Sandy. But all that digging about for a murderer – all for nothing!’
‘Best that way though, aye, Julie?’ she teased. ‘Look, I’ve made you a birthday present.’
She drew it from her pocket in a fold of black velvet. ‘Of course you must gie it back after, but you can wear it to your ceilidh dance wi’ your new gown. You’ll be the first one to wear it since Mary Queen o’ Scots.’
She’d strung together Mary Stuart’s matched Tay pearls to make a necklace. It was like a little strand of moonlight.
‘Crikey!’ I laughed hilariously, and for so long that Ellen started giggling too. ‘I can’t wear these. Do you know what a necklace like this would cost? Even if it weren’t … what it is?’
‘I ken better than you!’
‘Everyone will notice.’
‘But no one will recognise them. Jamie didn’t. Tell a story! You’re good at that. Say they’re on loan from the Murray Estate. That’s true. Hold still … turn around …’
With cool, smooth-tipped fingers she tied the pearls around my neck.
‘I told you my folk don’t care much about keeping things. But it’s pleasure to give.’
She rested her hands on my shoulders for a moment.
‘Let me see.’
I turned to face her, feeling radiant.
She laughed. ‘Och, they suit you, Queenie! Promise me you’ll wear them.’
‘I absolutely will.’
I thought then that I’d give her my own pearl, the one I found in the envelope, the only one that didn’t get stolen. I’d give it to her whether she kept it or not. Because she’s right: it’s pleasure to give. I wanted to give her something that mattered. And I didn’t think she’d take anything else.
With tragic dark rings around her beautiful dark eyes, holding her proud head high, Solange was released into our flood of embraces and floral offerings, which she accepted with grace and tears.
She did not put fresh roses in Dr Housman’s bedroom, nor greet him with forgiveness.
Housman himself seemed none the worse for his misadventures. He slept them off upstairs in the room he’d been given when he first arrived here, avoiding Solange. He’d been immediately sacked by the Murray Estate, but as he hadn’t done any work for them since June anyway, it hardly mattered. His sister was supposed to fetch him back to England sometime soon.
We did not treat the prodigal scholar kindly. Jamie, at Solange’s bidding, took the pearl earrings Housman had given her and used the box to wedge open the door to Housman’s room (I liberated the pearls first; we considered they were probably part of the Murray Hoard, but Solange didn’t need to know they were stolen). I delivered to Housman a copy of the Mercury each evening, carefully folded open to choice stories: the most recent update on the log boat, or on the ancient body discovered on the Murray Estate, or even just an occasional gossipy tale of domestic bliss gone sour. Housman was too much of a coward ever to complain about us to Mother.
Frank Dunbar would not speak to him – they met once on the staircase while I was coming in the house, and Frank actually turned his back on Housman halfway down the stairs to avoid an encounter with him.
Jamie and I took it in turns to be constantly in Housman’s way when he tried to get out of the house, thwarting his pathetic attempts to go after his stolen treasure, which he presumably thought was still hidden in the river at the foot of the Drookit Stane.