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Authors: Lillian Stewart Carl
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nose before she started hyperventilating.
"There's a badge,” said Hewitt. He pointed to the open end of the scabbard. A bronze ellipse was fixed just below the rim, its surface raised in a design.
Amanda leaned closer. “It looks like a pyramid with grass growing out of it. Are those words curving over the top, or smoke?"
"Oh boy.” Carrie took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh boy. It can't be...” She put her glasses back on, plucked the magnifying glass from Hewitt's pocket, and peered intently at the badge.
Amanda braced herself. Incoming.
"I looked that up this morning,” said Carrie, slightly strangled. “It's the crest of clan Grant. A burning mountain—Craigellachie, in Strathspey. The words say ‘Stand Fast.’ Bill, these bones might belong to James Grant."
"Not the James Grant,” Hewitt said warily.
"Yes, the British officer from Melrose Hall. In the miniature portrait reproduced on the front of the brochure. The one Sally Armstrong had a crush on. The one who ran up the stairs with his sword.... Wait a minute. Amanda said there were two Grants in the 71st. This might be the other one. Since they didn't have rank insignia then, I don't know."
Amanda realized she was biting her lip. She released it.
"How about this?” Hewitt produced one more cotton-filled box. “A snuffbox. It was in his sporran. That fur pouch there. Probably badger."
On the cotton rested a small brass box, its lid a bas-relief of a battlemented building. In the harsh light of the lab Amanda could see every incised stone. Beneath the—the castle—a word was etched in flowing script: Dundreggan.
Nothing to do now, she informed herself, but take the bullet. A metaphorical bullet. But this was what she wanted, to give the man his name back again. It was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Carrie turned, her eyes bulging. “It is him! James Grant of Dundreggan! Jesus, what a coincidence!"
"James Grant.” Hewitt nodded, slowly, as though rolling his individual brain cells into their proper holes.
Amanda deflated, sagging backward against the table that held the bones. They stirred behind her, making quick dry rustles on the paper. Cold fingers touched her neck—the draft from the air conditioning duct above her head. Somewhere a door slammed. She repeated, “What a coincidence.” Bless Carrie for saying the words first.
"It's circumstantial evidence, but that's what archaeology is,” said Hewitt. “Odder things have happened. We turned up what might have been Thomas Jefferson's toothbrush several years ago. The context was right. The content was right. Why not?"
"The triumph of curiosity over chance?” Amanda suggested.
Shaking her head, Carrie handed Hewitt his magnifying glass. He turned it thoughtfully in his hand. “Why were you already researching James Grant, Amanda?"
"Carrie and I were talking about romantic illusions, about the story of James and Sally. Then I knocked over the miniature portrait. It was like he threw himself at me.” She grimaced. That sounded so lame.
But Carrie was chuckling. “Can't resist a handsome face, huh?"
Amanda grabbed the bait. “Or a man in a uniform. Clothing as an indicator of class, that sort of thing. And with the oral tradition at Melrose—I mean, stories are artifacts, too."
"True enough,” Hewitt said with a nod.
Maybe not quite true enough, Amanda thought, but she quit while she was if not ahead, at least not behind.
"But why was he buried in the garden?” asked Carrie. “The record, what record we have, indicates he died in the battle at Greensprings Farm. He could have been wounded, I guess, and returned to Melrose."
"Killed instantly,” Hewitt reminded her. “Maybe he was ambushed by local partisans just before or after the battle. They buried him secretly so his compatriots wouldn't come looking for revenge."
"And the other British assumed he was killed in battle,” offered Amanda. “Seems kind of sloppy to lose an officer like
"There's a badge,” said Hewitt. He pointed to the open end of the scabbard. A bronze ellipse was fixed just below the rim, its surface raised in a design.
Amanda leaned closer. “It looks like a pyramid with grass growing out of it. Are those words curving over the top, or smoke?"
"Oh boy.” Carrie took off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh boy. It can't be...” She put her glasses back on, plucked the magnifying glass from Hewitt's pocket, and peered intently at the badge.
Amanda braced herself. Incoming.
"I looked that up this morning,” said Carrie, slightly strangled. “It's the crest of clan Grant. A burning mountain—Craigellachie, in Strathspey. The words say ‘Stand Fast.’ Bill, these bones might belong to James Grant."
"Not the James Grant,” Hewitt said warily.
"Yes, the British officer from Melrose Hall. In the miniature portrait reproduced on the front of the brochure. The one Sally Armstrong had a crush on. The one who ran up the stairs with his sword.... Wait a minute. Amanda said there were two Grants in the 71st. This might be the other one. Since they didn't have rank insignia then, I don't know."
Amanda realized she was biting her lip. She released it.
"How about this?” Hewitt produced one more cotton-filled box. “A snuffbox. It was in his sporran. That fur pouch there. Probably badger."
On the cotton rested a small brass box, its lid a bas-relief of a battlemented building. In the harsh light of the lab Amanda could see every incised stone. Beneath the—the castle—a word was etched in flowing script: Dundreggan.
Nothing to do now, she informed herself, but take the bullet. A metaphorical bullet. But this was what she wanted, to give the man his name back again. It was what he wanted, wasn't it?
Carrie turned, her eyes bulging. “It is him! James Grant of Dundreggan! Jesus, what a coincidence!"
"James Grant.” Hewitt nodded, slowly, as though rolling his individual brain cells into their proper holes.
Amanda deflated, sagging backward against the table that held the bones. They stirred behind her, making quick dry rustles on the paper. Cold fingers touched her neck—the draft from the air conditioning duct above her head. Somewhere a door slammed. She repeated, “What a coincidence.” Bless Carrie for saying the words first.
"It's circumstantial evidence, but that's what archaeology is,” said Hewitt. “Odder things have happened. We turned up what might have been Thomas Jefferson's toothbrush several years ago. The context was right. The content was right. Why not?"
"The triumph of curiosity over chance?” Amanda suggested.
Shaking her head, Carrie handed Hewitt his magnifying glass. He turned it thoughtfully in his hand. “Why were you already researching James Grant, Amanda?"
"Carrie and I were talking about romantic illusions, about the story of James and Sally. Then I knocked over the miniature portrait. It was like he threw himself at me.” She grimaced. That sounded so lame.
But Carrie was chuckling. “Can't resist a handsome face, huh?"
Amanda grabbed the bait. “Or a man in a uniform. Clothing as an indicator of class, that sort of thing. And with the oral tradition at Melrose—I mean, stories are artifacts, too."
"True enough,” Hewitt said with a nod.
Maybe not quite true enough, Amanda thought, but she quit while she was if not ahead, at least not behind.
"But why was he buried in the garden?” asked Carrie. “The record, what record we have, indicates he died in the battle at Greensprings Farm. He could have been wounded, I guess, and returned to Melrose."
"Killed instantly,” Hewitt reminded her. “Maybe he was ambushed by local partisans just before or after the battle. They buried him secretly so his compatriots wouldn't come looking for revenge."
"And the other British assumed he was killed in battle,” offered Amanda. “Seems kind of sloppy to lose an officer like
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