saying. “Dry soil. Preserved the bones. And hopefully clothing or personal effects to date them by."
"Would you like me to call the police?” Amanda asked. “Or are the bones old enough to be out of their jurisdiction?"
"We'll notify them, of course. But these bones are very old. It's an archaeological matter, not a judicial one. Other than the usual legalities of digging up human remains."
"There were gangsters running rum on Chesapeake Bay back in the thirties,” someone said. “Maybe this is a revenuer who got rubbed out."
"We'll check the records."
"The Chancellors moved here in the twenties,” said Amanda. “The summerhouse was already a ruin by then."
"Ditto."
"The bones might belong to a slave,” suggested someone else.
"The slave cemetery was over there.” Hewitt waved toward the row of outbuildings beyond the kitchen garden. “The Africans made sure their friends and relatives had proper burials. They almost always added broken pots and such as grave decorations."
"Could it be an Indian from before the European settlements?” asked one of the students. “Or some early settler who died in the Indian attack of—whenever...."
"1622,” said Hewitt.
"And the Armstrongs just happened to plunk their summerhouse down right beside him?” replied one of Hewitt's assistants. “No, I bet this body dates from after 1751, when Melrose was built."
"This type of landscape gardening,” Amanda offered, “the formal terraces and little recreational buildings, was really trendy in the 1770's."
Hewitt stood up, rubbing particles of dirt from his hands. “We'll cover this up with a sheet of plastic tonight. Get back out here bright and early tomorrow. Get the entire body uncovered. It'll have to be moved, with the reconstruction of the summerhouse and everything. Identification, that's the tricky part, legally and otherwise. Might have to call in the Smithsonian."
"What if,” one of the students asked, “the rest of the body isn't in there? What if it was dismembered or something?"
"We're scientists. Leave the sensationalism for the tabloids.” Hewitt's black eyes shot the girl a withering glance. She withered. “Let's get the plastic spread out and staked down. Move."
Amanda wondered how she should enter this on her daily summary—under “associated features?” But it was Hewitt's responsibility to make a formal report. She only had to note the body's existence. As an artifact, not a person. With a grimace of sympathy for the unknown deceased she worked her way back through the group of students and headed toward the house.
The sun set, leaving a thin, greenish twilight. Clouds rose halfway up the western sky. A glowing quarter moon, half a disc, hung high overhead. Each of Melrose's windows gleamed faintly, as though interested in the scene in the garden.
The poor guy, if it was a guy, had probably been stuffed into his makeshift grave late at night. Amanda thought of Scarlett O'Hara shooting the Yankee soldier and burying him in her back yard. No telling how many real-life bodies were lying in odd corners of the Virginia countryside. There'd been enough battles over the years to produce an army of skeletons.
Amanda locked the outer door behind her and turned on the exterior floodlights. She thought of Robert Frost's poem, where the skeleton of the murdered man stands outside the door, chalky fingers scratching chalky skull.... “That's what I get for cramming English,” she said to Lafayette, who was waiting by the cat flap in the apartment door. He tilted his head to the side. If he'd had eyebrows, he would've arched them.
She turned to the next page on her clipboard and made her tour of the interior, Lafayette by her side like a general at inspection. Parlor, dining room, drawing room, library, bedrooms—the period furnishings were all accounted for, the attic and cellar doors were locked, the dehumidifiers were working. She really was hearing thunder now, a mutter rising and falling
"Would you like me to call the police?” Amanda asked. “Or are the bones old enough to be out of their jurisdiction?"
"We'll notify them, of course. But these bones are very old. It's an archaeological matter, not a judicial one. Other than the usual legalities of digging up human remains."
"There were gangsters running rum on Chesapeake Bay back in the thirties,” someone said. “Maybe this is a revenuer who got rubbed out."
"We'll check the records."
"The Chancellors moved here in the twenties,” said Amanda. “The summerhouse was already a ruin by then."
"Ditto."
"The bones might belong to a slave,” suggested someone else.
"The slave cemetery was over there.” Hewitt waved toward the row of outbuildings beyond the kitchen garden. “The Africans made sure their friends and relatives had proper burials. They almost always added broken pots and such as grave decorations."
"Could it be an Indian from before the European settlements?” asked one of the students. “Or some early settler who died in the Indian attack of—whenever...."
"1622,” said Hewitt.
"And the Armstrongs just happened to plunk their summerhouse down right beside him?” replied one of Hewitt's assistants. “No, I bet this body dates from after 1751, when Melrose was built."
"This type of landscape gardening,” Amanda offered, “the formal terraces and little recreational buildings, was really trendy in the 1770's."
Hewitt stood up, rubbing particles of dirt from his hands. “We'll cover this up with a sheet of plastic tonight. Get back out here bright and early tomorrow. Get the entire body uncovered. It'll have to be moved, with the reconstruction of the summerhouse and everything. Identification, that's the tricky part, legally and otherwise. Might have to call in the Smithsonian."
"What if,” one of the students asked, “the rest of the body isn't in there? What if it was dismembered or something?"
"We're scientists. Leave the sensationalism for the tabloids.” Hewitt's black eyes shot the girl a withering glance. She withered. “Let's get the plastic spread out and staked down. Move."
Amanda wondered how she should enter this on her daily summary—under “associated features?” But it was Hewitt's responsibility to make a formal report. She only had to note the body's existence. As an artifact, not a person. With a grimace of sympathy for the unknown deceased she worked her way back through the group of students and headed toward the house.
The sun set, leaving a thin, greenish twilight. Clouds rose halfway up the western sky. A glowing quarter moon, half a disc, hung high overhead. Each of Melrose's windows gleamed faintly, as though interested in the scene in the garden.
The poor guy, if it was a guy, had probably been stuffed into his makeshift grave late at night. Amanda thought of Scarlett O'Hara shooting the Yankee soldier and burying him in her back yard. No telling how many real-life bodies were lying in odd corners of the Virginia countryside. There'd been enough battles over the years to produce an army of skeletons.
Amanda locked the outer door behind her and turned on the exterior floodlights. She thought of Robert Frost's poem, where the skeleton of the murdered man stands outside the door, chalky fingers scratching chalky skull.... “That's what I get for cramming English,” she said to Lafayette, who was waiting by the cat flap in the apartment door. He tilted his head to the side. If he'd had eyebrows, he would've arched them.
She turned to the next page on her clipboard and made her tour of the interior, Lafayette by her side like a general at inspection. Parlor, dining room, drawing room, library, bedrooms—the period furnishings were all accounted for, the attic and cellar doors were locked, the dehumidifiers were working. She really was hearing thunder now, a mutter rising and falling
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