Murder at San Miguel, page 9
“I do. I do like archaeology. Or at least, I like the idea of it. You know, travelling the world, making discoveries. I don’t mind being outdoors, so much. I just don’t like getting dirty. And I really love drawing.”
“Well, Eduardo, I don’t know that you’ll ever get away from dirt if you get into archaeology. Unless you want to be an armchair archaeologist, more into theory than practice. If you like art and archaeology equally, then why not exploit that speciality?”
“Are there even jobs in archaeological illustration?”
“Of course, there are! Photographs can only give us so much information. It’s crucial to have good site drawings, and drawings of artifacts and skeletons too. And as much as I love my husband and would certainly continue illustrating without pay if it came to it — which for years it did — I insisted some time ago that the university start paying me for the work I do on excavations. Well, the university doesn’t so much pay me directly as Bill hires me with funds it provides to pay the excavation team. Either way, illustration is a paid job. Many large and even some small-scale excavations have specialized illustrators on site in order to ensure the best records are kept. Remember what you learned in your first archaeology class: archaeology is destructive; once you’ve dug away the dirt, the context of any artifact is gone forever, and all you’re left with are the drawings, photographs, and written records to tell you the details of where and how the artifact was found. Good documentation is crucial. So if you really like both fields, art and archaeology, I’d encourage you to pursue what you love. It might sound impractical, but the reality is that you can combine both and have a job that you enjoy. Sometimes, Eduardo, the cake and the fork are provided.”
Eduardo smiled at me as though he were Prometheus and I’d just knocked the eagle out with a solid rock and the precise snap of a slingshot. I hadn’t realized these things weighed on him for months or, perhaps, even years. Our students didn’t often open up to us, especially about anything we might have perceived as a weakness in terms of their potential for advancement. It was as though an impenetrable glass of professionalism hung between us and them. We could know them as they projected themselves to us, but those projections were superficial. As a mother, I didn’t mind their dropping the generally expected pretense of civility, as I hoped to have more of an impact on them than simply teaching the impersonal methods of archaeology. It was true that we saw more of the real people behind the façade of academic competence and absolute respectability embodied by most students at university simply by living with them for months on end. Yet, in most cases, I felt we’d merely scratched the surface of who these young people really were, the essence of their characters.
“Thanks, Mrs. Forster. My father won’t like it at all if I take up any form of art, even if it is archaeological illustration. He wants me to follow in his footsteps, to become a Mesoamerican archaeologist, and he thinks most artistic endeavours are a waste of time. He can be really straitlaced, not at all like you and Professor Forster. But I do feel a lot better now knowing that there’s work out there if I decide to change my direction.”
I wondered how much he knew about the conflict between his father and Bill. It certainly seemed he didn’t idolize his father, another reason to doubt his involvement in meddling with the tombs.
“How’s your father’s excavation going in Mexico?” I asked, tucking my pencil behind my ear and focusing my attention on Eduardo. “Does he write to you to keep you updated?”
Eduardo shook his head. “I don’t know, Mrs. Forster. He writes home to my mother, but I think I’ve been a bit of a disappointment to him. He really wanted me to go with him to Mexico this summer. You wouldn’t believe how mad he was when I applied to come here with you.”
Eduardo’s story sounded genuine. He’d chosen to join us of his own volition, and his father hadn’t been pleased. Yet, if raiding the tombs had been premeditated, planned carefully before we left Toronto, Eduardo certainly had time to practice a fib such as a disagreement with his father.
“Why did you choose to come here instead of Mexico?”
He looked away from me and fiddled with the tape measure. “I’ve already been to Mexico so many times, Mrs. Forster, and I’ve never been here. And when I heard that you would be coming on the excavation, I knew I could learn a lot from you, you know, about illustration and that kind of thing.”
He certainly knew how to win me over.
“Goodness, that’s very kind of you to say, Eduardo. I hope the experience has been as you hoped. Now, enough tittle tattle, we have work to do.”
Eduardo removed his black, plastic-framed glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirttail while I began to outline the shape of a rib that was tossed haphazardly on top of the pile of skeletal remains. That’s when I noticed something distinctly modern among the old bones. I sucked in my breath, but Eduardo didn’t notice. A cream-coloured plastic button lay beneath the rib I’d started to draw, resting in the concave blade of a scapula. It was hardly noticeable, the colour of it blending seamlessly into the monochromatic background of the bones. It certainly confirmed that the second sarcophagus had been disturbed recently too, but I didn’t want Eduardo to know the culprit left evidence behind. Not yet anyway. I quickly slipped the button into my pocket before he put his glasses back on. I’d discuss the anachronism with Bill later. It made sense that the remains from the first tomb were tossed into the second one. The question still lingered: who would have done such a thing and why?
Chapter 13
late in the afternoon, I returned to the house to check on Angela again. Though she was still in her room, I was relieved to see she was dressed and looked much better than earlier. Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks, and her long blond hair was brushed neatly and tied back as she usually wore it for work.
“I feel fine now, honestly,” she told me. “Just a bit weak. Miriam brought me something to eat a little while ago, and I feel much better.”
“That’s good news,” I said gently, sitting down on Miriam’s cot so that I could face Angela. “But you didn’t look well earlier, so please take it easy for the next few days. You don’t want to overtire yourself.”
“I will, Mrs. Forster.” Angela touched her stomach as though recalling the pain from that morning. “I think it must’ve been something I ate because I’m okay now. It seems to have passed.”
It seemed unlikely it was something she ate, given the circumstances, but if she was on the mend now, the cause of the acute illness was of minimal importance unless the rest of us also got sick.
“Good. When you’re ready you can join the others in the lab, if you feel up to it. Professor Forster will be showing the priests some of the things we’ve recovered from the cemetery. You can get up to speed on today’s activities as well.”
“Oh, Miriam already told me. About the snakes and the commingled bones and everything. I’ll go down right away. Thank you, Mrs. Forster.”
I left Angela in her room and went to the lab myself. The first room that we’d appropriated for our work was full of warm bodies milling about while trying not to disturb the skeletons that were laid out with care on the tables. When the students first arrived from Toronto, they’d been careless at times in the lab, bumping tables and causing all the tiny bones of the hands and feet to roll out of position, sometimes even falling to the floor. The little mishaps ended quickly enough when Archie reprimanded them for their clumsiness. He made them put each of the bones back exactly where they’d come from, using textbooks and handouts from their lectures as references in the early days before they’d mastered all the bones of the skeleton and their correct placement in anatomical position. They’d certainly come a long way in the time we’d been at San Miguel, but despite their great strides, Bill preferred they work under supervision.
I decided that an additional plump body in the room wasn’t going to help the issue of space. Bill kept me up to date on all findings anyway, so I didn’t need to hear the information intended for the priests and students again. I nodded to Bill to indicate my departure and stepped out of the first room and into the second. Here, there were two more tables with skeletons on them. I glanced around the room. The electric bulbs were dim, but the bright afternoon sun still generated a diffuse light through the grimy window, illuminating the cobwebs that were missed when we first cleaned these rooms on arrival. Or perhaps they’d been created since. I didn’t spend much time in the lab, so I couldn’t be sure. A quick scan of one of the skeletons laid out told me that this person, in life, might have suffered back pain or numbness of the limbs. Bony growths protruded from the vertebrae. I put my hand on my lower back, wondering if I had similar growths on my own spine and to what extent they’d formed. Certainly, I already experienced pain and stiffness, especially at night. The terribly thin mattress on the cot didn’t help matters much.
“Happens to the best of us,” I commiserated with the skeleton lying before me. “At least you can’t feel it anymore.”
I walked over to the window, looking out over the valley bathed in the glow of the late afternoon light. I heard the clanging of a bell and looked just below to see a few horses scrutinizing the flora that grew behind the house. I loved the horses, heavyset and plodding in comparison to the lean, nimble horses used for riding. Sadly, I knew that their ultimate destination was an abattoir. People here ate a broader range of foods than what we were used to in Toronto. Maite told me that people had even eaten cats when times were particularly bad. I didn’t like the idea much, but I could fully understand the desperation of an empty stomach. We ourselves lived through the thirties, the mass exodus of the farmers on the Canadian prairies, the drought that seemed endless. None of us who’d suffered during that time could cast judgement on others who’d endured even greater trials.
A sudden bang emanated from the hallway and roused me from my thoughts. Startled, I clutched my hands to my chest. Recovering my composure, I consciously relaxed my shoulders, took a deep breath, crossed the room, and gingerly stepped into the darkened hallway. Then I flicked on the lights. To my relief, despite their blinking and sputtering, they came on and remained on. I could hear Bill talking about medieval coins in the other room. Had they not heard the noise?
I tiptoed down an adjacent hallway that had rooms we didn’t use for lab space. Ignacio said that these rooms were used as storage for the sanctuary and that the students should keep out of them since they contained old furniture and hadn’t been cleaned in years. I thought everyone followed the rules and stayed out, but the noise suggested otherwise. I paused to listen again, but all was quiet once more. I opened the first door on my right. The air smelled of dust and mildew. A narrow beam of light filtered through one small pane of glass in the window on the far side of the room. The other glass panes were replaced with wood and allowed no natural light to pass. As expected, cobwebs hung from every corner, dangling wispy, dust-enshrouded threads reaching toward old wooden tables and chairs stacked up against the walls, which glistened with moisture that accumulated on the bubbled, peeling, discoloured paint. Among the amassed furniture were broken panes of glass scattered over the wooden floor, creating a labyrinth of sharp edges that posed a danger to anyone careless enough to venture too far into the room. There were several pairs of footprints of varying sizes on the dusty floor, suggesting more than one person was in the room recently, despite its overall appearance of years of disuse.
I couldn’t see anything that would’ve caused the banging sound, so I decided not to go farther. At the entrance, however, there was a closet next to the door where I stood. I was concerned that some trapped animal might burst forth the moment I opened the doors, so I stood aside, inching the folding doors open little by little until I was certain that nothing with teeth nor claws would suddenly emerge. I peeked around the corner to find it full of ceremonial robes worn by the clergy. They’d been long forgotten, despite the luxuriousness of the fabrics, with creamy ivories, radiant greens, and brilliant gold adornments set off against rich crimson tones. They were dusty and smelled of decades of abandonment, but the garments were striking. Above the hanging robes, I could see strips of white sheets stuffed into the back corner of the top shelf. I lifted my heels from the ground and drew myself to my maximum height to pull at the ragged, torn edges that were within my reach. They tumbled down to the floor before me in a heap. It was clear they were stained with blood, and the blood was fresh, the stains still reddish in colour rather than of the rusty brown tinge they took on when exposed for some time to the air.
“Goodness me,” I mumbled as I looked down at the tangle of stained cotton.
Was it the closet door banging shut that I’d heard? Who would hide bloody, torn sheets here? I couldn’t help but think of the bloody sheets from the legend of Teodosio.
Uncertain what to do, I stuffed them back into the closet and closed the door. I went back into the hallway and tried the next brass doorknob I came across. It wiggled in my hand, but I couldn’t turn it. It was locked. The door was weak and I decided not to force it.
With questions churning in my mind, I returned to the safety of the lab, still full of lively chatter.
Chapter 14
after dinner, with everyone present, Maite, Ignacio, and the priests left the kitchen while the students and I all settled into our work as agreed upon at dinner the previous evening. I stayed behind in the kitchen with Eduardo, Angela, Miriam, and Patrick, who’d changed his mind about going to the lab to work instead on some of the illustrations of the skeletons uncovered that week. The other students followed Archie upstairs to the lab, and Bill set out on a short evening walk.
The students and I sat around the kitchen table, tracing and graph paper strewn before us. Through the window, I could see it rain was falling, heavy droplets rapping intermittently against the glass, patiently seeking entry into the warmth of the kitchen. The grey clouds intercepted the last rays of sun, making the use of the electric lights necessary to see our work. I hoped it wouldn’t rain into the morning hours; if it did, the students would have to work indoors the next day. They always got a bit quarrelsome when they were cooped up inside for too long, and I supposed I couldn’t really blame them.
We spoke little, the crackling flames of the fire creating a cozy atmosphere as we focused on the task assigned: adding details to sketches started in the field. When the wind was blowing, which happened frequently on the mountain, field drawing was a miserable activity. The air currents mulishly aspired to rip the pages from the clipboard while the illustrator battled to take measurements with one hand and keep everything from flying away into the abyss with the other. It could be unpleasant, to say the least. I’d learned many years ago that sometimes it was best to take down only the essential information in the field and complete the drawings indoors, where the greatest foes to archaeological illustration were sticky fingers and cups of coffee.
I left the students, their pencils scratching across the transparent paper, and went to the stove to heat some water for tea. A soothing, warm drink with a splash of milk before bed helped me to sleep in the dank room I shared with Bill. As soon as I was away from the table, the students began to talk in low voices. I couldn’t help overhear.
“How are you feeling, Angela?” Eduardo asked. “Miriam said you were worse off than she and Helen were.”
Angela smiled sweetly, her eyes leaving her work momentarily to meet Eduardo’s concerned gaze. “Much better, thanks, Eddie. Whatever it was seems to have passed now.”
“Let’s hope the guys don’t get it next, right, Patrick?” Eduardo looked over at Patrick, who lifted his head at the sound of his name but said nothing, maintaining his sullen silence despite Eduardo’s efforts to lure him into conversation. “Helen was telling me today about her chauffeur dropping her off for school each day,” Eduardo changed the subject to the gossip du jour. “Did she mention that to anybody else?”
“Of course,” Miriam said. “Do you think she’d miss an opportunity to flaunt her family’s money to the rest of us? I swear that girl has a new mini dress on every night for dinner. How did she even manage to get here with so much luggage?”
“No clue with those skinny arms,” Eduardo replied. He sighed heavily. “The things I could do with that kind of bread. I mean, not that my family is poor or anything, but I most definitely walked to school every day of my life. It was a real bummer in the winter, that’s for sure. A nice, warm car would’ve made all the difference.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t mean anything by it,” Angela intervened, tapping her pencil against the table. “For her, it’s just a normal thing. She doesn’t know any different. Helen just wants people to like her. Remember she’s the youngest one here. She just wants to have friends, like anybody else would.”
“You’re too nice, Angela,” Miriam scolded, flipping her dark curls over her shoulder and away from the paper in front of her. “One day you’ll get into trouble for being nice to everyone. It may seem like the right thing to do, but people will take advantage of your kindness and belief in their goodness. Not everyone’s intentions are pure. They aren’t all like you.”
“That’s a bit of a dark opinion, Miriam,” Eduardo said. “I’d like to think that good things happen to good people.”
“Then I’d say you’re a bit naïve, Eddie. Then again, you’re a bit like Angela, taking lost souls under your wing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, please. You know I mean your best buddy Graham. I don’t know what you see in that kiss-up. He’s a bit of a panty-waist if you ask my opinion.”
“Miriam, you don’t need to be so cruel,” Angela chided her friend.
