Read Online The Strange Fate of Kitty Easton by Elizabeth Speller, Georgina Capel - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Speller, Georgina Capel
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to be anything left of it at all.’
‘Are you glad to be back?’
‘I am back, so I suppose I must be. No, I’m not being entirely truthful. Families—well, in my case what remains of them—you know how it is: it can be damned awkward. And I already miss Crete.’ He gave another quick smile. ‘But I’m fortunate in that what I have been doing is something that gives me enormous pleasure and Sir Arthur Evans’s enthusiasms tend to sweep one on.’
Was it arrogance that led Patrick to assume that Laurence knew his profession already or merely an accurate assessment of family talk?
‘Working with him must be extraordinary,’ Laurence said and meant it.
For over a year the papers had been full of Howard Carter and Tutankhamun’s gold, but to Laurence the idea of stripping back the earth in Crete, layer after layer, not to discover glittering treasure but mysteries—walls, paths, fortifications, which needed patience and imagination to reconstruct—was far more thrilling. Not in order to stock museums, but to try to discover how these ancient people lived, what they hoped for, what they feared. He knew that on Crete they had found inscriptions in an unheard-of language, a tantalising, unreadable clue to these long-gone people.
‘I wasn’t there for the crucial bit, sadly. The excavations started at the turn of the century. The most famous finds—the tablets, of course, and the figurine of the snake goddess—were early on.’
Patrick stopped and waited to see whether Laurence understood what he was referring to.
‘I read Sir Arthur’s account,’ Laurence said.
Patrick nodded. ‘I went out there once in the vac but not full time until I left university. I missed the boat really because all that soon stopped in the war, of course, so I only managed a month or so. I went back to Sir Arthur’s house near Oxford to help write up the finds. Since then, the last five years, it’s mostly been reconstruction.’ He got up and went over to the fire. ‘Some of it more like getting the decorators in,’ he said as he poked the coal into life.
‘But to be right there. At the heart of such a great discovery—’
Patrick turned back to him. ‘I know who you are now,’ he said, almost as if they were at a Belgravia cocktail party. ‘You’re the churches man. The expert. You wrote a book.’
Laurence must have looked surprised as Patrick said, ‘Frances wrote. There was a letter waiting in Paris. She said you were coming down to give St Babs the once-over. You’re a friend of the architect chap who is trying to sort out the cottages.’
‘William Bolitho.’
‘Bolitho, yes. And his wife? A clever friend of clever Frances?’
Laurence nodded. ‘William is in a wheelchair,’ he said. ‘He lost his legs in 1917.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I gathered. Difficult. I’m glad he’s here. It was good of him. But what do you make of our church? Beyond the extraordinary carvings round the door?’
‘They’re astonishing. The best I’ve ever seen.’
Patrick was nodding vigorously as Laurence continued, ‘As for the interior, I’ve scarcely had more than a quick look but there are certainly some intriguing anomalies. Actually that’s where I was going.’ He took his compass out of his pocket and held it up.
Patrick put down his cup, which he had been almost nursing in his lap, suddenly alert.
‘Anomalies? I’m always drawn to anomalies.’
‘It’s nothing much, possibly odd orientation, and the floors have been resurfaced rather clumsily and I can’t see why.’
‘May I come too? Watch for a while? Before everybody gets back?’
Patrick had dropped his guard and looked genuinely interested.
Laurence’s heart sank. He preferred to think in peace, especially when trying to make sense of a puzzle, but it was he, not Patrick, who was really the stranger here. Patrick had every right to visit his own family’s church.
‘I won’t interfere, I promise,’ Patrick said, still sounding
‘Are you glad to be back?’
‘I am back, so I suppose I must be. No, I’m not being entirely truthful. Families—well, in my case what remains of them—you know how it is: it can be damned awkward. And I already miss Crete.’ He gave another quick smile. ‘But I’m fortunate in that what I have been doing is something that gives me enormous pleasure and Sir Arthur Evans’s enthusiasms tend to sweep one on.’
Was it arrogance that led Patrick to assume that Laurence knew his profession already or merely an accurate assessment of family talk?
‘Working with him must be extraordinary,’ Laurence said and meant it.
For over a year the papers had been full of Howard Carter and Tutankhamun’s gold, but to Laurence the idea of stripping back the earth in Crete, layer after layer, not to discover glittering treasure but mysteries—walls, paths, fortifications, which needed patience and imagination to reconstruct—was far more thrilling. Not in order to stock museums, but to try to discover how these ancient people lived, what they hoped for, what they feared. He knew that on Crete they had found inscriptions in an unheard-of language, a tantalising, unreadable clue to these long-gone people.
‘I wasn’t there for the crucial bit, sadly. The excavations started at the turn of the century. The most famous finds—the tablets, of course, and the figurine of the snake goddess—were early on.’
Patrick stopped and waited to see whether Laurence understood what he was referring to.
‘I read Sir Arthur’s account,’ Laurence said.
Patrick nodded. ‘I went out there once in the vac but not full time until I left university. I missed the boat really because all that soon stopped in the war, of course, so I only managed a month or so. I went back to Sir Arthur’s house near Oxford to help write up the finds. Since then, the last five years, it’s mostly been reconstruction.’ He got up and went over to the fire. ‘Some of it more like getting the decorators in,’ he said as he poked the coal into life.
‘But to be right there. At the heart of such a great discovery—’
Patrick turned back to him. ‘I know who you are now,’ he said, almost as if they were at a Belgravia cocktail party. ‘You’re the churches man. The expert. You wrote a book.’
Laurence must have looked surprised as Patrick said, ‘Frances wrote. There was a letter waiting in Paris. She said you were coming down to give St Babs the once-over. You’re a friend of the architect chap who is trying to sort out the cottages.’
‘William Bolitho.’
‘Bolitho, yes. And his wife? A clever friend of clever Frances?’
Laurence nodded. ‘William is in a wheelchair,’ he said. ‘He lost his legs in 1917.’
Patrick nodded. ‘I gathered. Difficult. I’m glad he’s here. It was good of him. But what do you make of our church? Beyond the extraordinary carvings round the door?’
‘They’re astonishing. The best I’ve ever seen.’
Patrick was nodding vigorously as Laurence continued, ‘As for the interior, I’ve scarcely had more than a quick look but there are certainly some intriguing anomalies. Actually that’s where I was going.’ He took his compass out of his pocket and held it up.
Patrick put down his cup, which he had been almost nursing in his lap, suddenly alert.
‘Anomalies? I’m always drawn to anomalies.’
‘It’s nothing much, possibly odd orientation, and the floors have been resurfaced rather clumsily and I can’t see why.’
‘May I come too? Watch for a while? Before everybody gets back?’
Patrick had dropped his guard and looked genuinely interested.
Laurence’s heart sank. He preferred to think in peace, especially when trying to make sense of a puzzle, but it was he, not Patrick, who was really the stranger here. Patrick had every right to visit his own family’s church.
‘I won’t interfere, I promise,’ Patrick said, still sounding
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