Midnight is a Lonely Place. Barbara Erskine

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      Kate was stacking the dishes in the sink next morning when she happened to glance out of the window and saw Alison appear from the wood. The girl had a fluorescent green haversack over one shoulder and in her hand she carried a large red radio cassette player. Still exhausted and angry after her disturbed night Kate waited for her to approach the cottage, but Alison veered off the path and headed straight towards the shed.

      Drying her hands Kate went outside. The storms of the night had passed and the day was bright and crisp with only the lightest wind blowing from the south.

      ‘Good morning.’ She stopped behind Alison as the girl groped inside the shed.

      Alison jumped. She turned, her spade in her hand. ‘Hi.’ She did not look pleased to see her.

      ‘I thought you might be going to drop in and say hello,’ Kate said.

      Alison shrugged. ‘I thought I’d get on.’

      ‘Fair enough. But first, haven’t you got some explaining to do about last night?’

      It had not been easy to sleep after the disturbances. Even with the front door locked and bolted and the lights on throughout the house Kate had only dropped off an hour or so before dawn and then her sleep had been restless and light.

      ‘Last night?’ Alison turned back to the shed and retrieved a trowel and a broom.

      ‘It was you who came up to the cottage.’

      ‘Me?’ She had the girl’s full attention at last. ‘I didn’t come up last night. What on earth would I do that for?’

      Kate frowned. The wide eyes looked genuinely puzzled.

      ‘Someone came to the cottage last night. About three in the morning and let themselves in. They must have had a key.’

      ‘Weird.’ Alison shook her head. ‘Did they steal anything?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why did you think it was me? I’m not a thief.’

      ‘I know.’ Kate tried to lighten the mood by laughing. The sound came out tightly; it betrayed her sudden misgivings. ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you, because if it wasn’t you, I need to know who it was.’

      ‘Perhaps it was Greg. He’s probably still got a key.’

      ‘No, it was a woman. And she had earth on her hands. I thought perhaps you had been digging again.’

      ‘At three in the morning?’ Alison gave her a withering look. ‘If it was a burglar you’d better tell the police or something. We’ve never had burglars here before.’ The implication in her tone was that Kate had obviously brought the trouble with her. ‘You’d better ring Dad.’

      ‘Yes, perhaps I’d better.’ Kate frowned. ‘In fact I’ll drop in and see him when I pick up the car. I need to go into Colchester this morning.’

      She wasn’t sure when she had decided she needed to go back to the museum. The idea had come so firmly, so ready-formed it was as though she had had it planned all along.

      ‘He’s not there now. They’ve gone to Ipswich for the day.’

      ‘Oh.’ Kate felt let down. Ever since she had woken up that morning she had kept a picture of the gentle, reassuring face of Roger Lindsey firmly before her. He would know what to do. ‘Are you going to be all right here by yourself?’ She turned to Alison who was juggling all her tools into her arms with her ghetto blaster.

      ‘Of course. I always come up here by myself.’ The voice was jaunty, firm. It belied the moment of uncertainty in Alison’s eyes.

      The museum was comparatively empty as Kate threaded her way through the Bronze Age and Iron Age exhibits towards the staircase. Over on her left she could hear the video playing to itself. Someone had pressed the button, activating the sequences and then they had left, leaving the sound to echo disembodied around the deserted gallery.

      Marcus Severus Secundus stared blankly at the glass cases around him from dead stone eyes. His face was stereotyped – handsome, classic, the hair formally curled. Was there any likeness there, or had the statue been purchased off the sculptor’s shelf by an admirer or a descendent – his son perhaps – to stand in memoriam near his tomb? She stood staring at him for a long time, trying to get behind those blank eyes. Then, gently, aware that she was breaking museum regulations, she raised her hand and ran her fingers across his face, touching the mutilated nose, tracing the line of his cheekbones, his jaw, his shoulder.

      The glass case which contained the surviving contents of his grave was close by. She stood and stared down at it with a sense of shock. She had not expected to see bones.

      ‘In an inhumation, rare at this period, excavated on site B4 at the third Stanway burial mound were found the remains of Marcus Severus Secundus and his wife Augusta Honorata. A survivor of the Boudiccan attack on Colchester in A.D. 60, Marcus Severus was a leader of the rebuilding of the town. In the grave were found symbols of his office, jewellery and small grave goods.’

      Kate stared through the glass. The bones lay in heaps, displayed in a plaster replica of the grave. Neither skeleton was complete. Had they died together then, Marcus Severus and his wife? She squatted nearer the case to see better the jewellery which was displayed there. Two rings of gold, a necklace of turquoise and amber, two brooches, one silver, one enamelled and several hairpins. Those must have been hers. And his was the heavy signet ring, mounted beneath a magnifying glass through which she could see the engraving. It showed a rearing horse. And his also, presumably, was the large silver brooch with an intricate design and long embossed pin. Consulting the information cards at the far side of the display she read: ‘Exhibit 4: A curvilinear brooch of native silver, Celtic. Probably dating from the first century B.C. An unusual find in a Roman grave.’ So, what was Marcus Severus of the Roman Legion doing with a Celtic cloak broach? Had he bought it? Or looted it? Or was he given it as a gift?

      Leaving the museum at last she turned into the town centre. Having stocked up with fresh food, a couple of films for her camera, a large torch with two spare batteries and after treating herself to a glass of wine and a plateful of fettuccine and salad at a wine bar off the High Street she made her impulse buy – a bottle of silver polish. The weathered silver of the brooch in the glass case had given her the idea. That too must once have been a corroded unrecognisable lump of metal. It was probably wrong to clean the torc herself. She should leave it to the trained restorers at the museum, but if she were gentle, and very careful – she wanted to see if she could achieve that same soft radiance. The torc itself was locked in her car. She had not wanted to leave it in the cottage, giving Alison all day to look for it. Now suddenly she wanted to get back to it, to make sure it was safe.

      A cold wintery sunshine flooded across the town as she retraced her steps to the car. To reach it she walked past the theatre and through the surviving arch of the Roman Balkerne Gate. There was a wonderful view of the Roman wall here, as she walked, laden with her parcels, across the footbridge over the scar which was one of the main dual carriageways into town, towards the multi-storey car park.

      The drive down the track to Redall Farmhouse was alarmingly slippery. Twice the car slid out of control sideways, where somehow it had clawed its way out this morning. Presumably other cars had made the track worse. She hoped that meant that the Lindseys had changed their minds and come home early, but СКАЧАТЬ