Dana Cameron - Past Malice: An Emma Fielding Mystery

AN EMMA FIELDING MYSTERY

Dedicated to the memory of my uncle,
Bob Cameron,
who was curious about what went on
behind the scenes at museums.

T O MOST PEOPLE, I LL BET THE OLD PLACE LOOKED nothing at all like a battlefield. To most casual observers, the Chandler House was the epitome of what they imagine the past to have been: a big colonial house by the ocean, a wind-swept lawn leading down to a dramatic cliff, romantic to the n th-degree. The reason that so many people think the past really was the good old days is because of the fine, lovely things that survive. These are the very best, the very richest things that would have inspired pride and a desire to preserve them. Seeing these objects causes people to confide in me how much theyve always loved history, how theyve always wanted to be archaeologists, how they would have loved to have lived back then, whether back then was ancient Egypt, imperial Rome, or, as it was in this case, colonial New England.

I have to smile when I think that theyre imagining big skirts, wigs, and courtly manners. They are not imagining a world without antibiotics or indoor plumbing or the hope of democracy and equal rights. They are forgetting that they might be lost without supermarkets or instantaneous global communication or electricity. They are not thinking of a world where, to paraphrase Monty Python, the king was the only one who didnt smell like crap, which isnt such a bad summary for most of history.

It wasnt even the neat row of trenches by the side of the house that reminded me of a battlefield: I would never have allowed my students to let things get that messy. No, our trenches were orthogonal, hell, even the back dirt piles were clean, made of well-sifted loam, filled with fat worms and sorted pebbles, the sort of thing that sends gardeners drooling. If we didnt have to put it all back when we were finished, I would have brought it back home with me myself. And it wasnt the fencing wed put up around the site to keep the unwary, the unthinking, and the dim-witted from falling into one of our nice, square units and breaking a neck, or worse, disturbing my carefully exposed stratigraphy. Wed even deliberately chosen the portable wooden fencing to blend in with the scenery, so you couldnt even claim that it resembled a military picket. No, Im afraid it was the general background hum of negative emotions that made me feel like I was digging in for my own protection as much as I was trying to learn about the Chandler family.

Im not usually so misanthropic; its just that I was tired of trying to fight to do my job properly and we still had another two weeks of work to go. It would have worn the patience of a saint down to a nubbin, and Im no saint for all my sister claims I am a Puritan. I just knew that I had to bide my time and pick which battles to fight, and which ones to avoid. Anyone who tells you that the Ivory Tower is a quiet retreat from the dirty old outside world doesnt know what shes talking about.

I sighed and stood up from the bench, telling myself that I would be better off for another walk around the property, and another long look out at the ocean behind the house. I was waiting to be invited into the Stone Harbor Historical Societys board meeting to tell them all about the archaeological research Id talked them into letting me do on their property at the Chandler House. I figured thered be another half hour or so of their private businessto which I was pointedly not invitedbefore I had to go in.

The main part of the Chandler House was an early example of a brick Georgian structure, two floors with four rooms each, and an attic with dormers. As I faced the front, there was a small brick addition to the right; there was none on the left. When I walked around to the rear, there was another, later addition, also in brick; its two large cube-shaped rooms faced the ocean that relentlessly crashed against the Massachusetts coast.

I picked up a flat pebble from the path and slung it sidewise, making it skip three times before it lost momentum and sank. The one that followed it only brushed the water twice, then hit a wave with a plop. The next pebble I picked up ached to be thrown at the fat seagull I saw perching on a white-stained piling not too far away from the shore. I told myself that I could hit it, if I wanted to. But my aim is pretty bad and I didnt really want to wreck my karma by taking out my bad mood on the poor bird, no matter how nasty I think gulls are. Besides, my veterinarian sister was staying with me and any slight I inflicted on the animal kingdom would be immediately telegraphed to her, and she would instigate a massive retaliation. So I dropped the stone back on the path and walked up the lawn to the house. After another half-perambulation around the building, I heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel in front of the house.

Evening, Professor.

I looked up to see Justin Fisher, one of three security guards who worked here. A nice kid, maybe twenty-four or so, who looked like he was five years younger. He had straw-colored hair that was cut fashionably short and close to his head, a crooked smile, and a youthfully eager presence that was made positively gawky by the authority of his uniform.

Evening, Justin. You know you can call me Emma, right?

I know, its just that I made the mistake of calling you Emma in front of Mr. Fiske, and he wasnt thrilled. So I figured Id just better. He shrugged. You know.

Just to keep on the safe side. I nodded and we both smiled uncomfortably, trying to find a topic that was a little less awkward.

Hey, that book you told me about, for my paper? Justin was taking classes at night, trying to earn a graduate degree in history.

Was it helpful?

He rocked his hand, mezzo-mezzo. Kind of. It was a little off from what I needed, but there was an appendix with a whole lot of references that really paid off. Archaeologists really do look at things differently than historians, dont they?

I shrugged. Well, I think the main differences are in the scale and focus of what were looking athistorians tend to look at major events on a global scale, and were more often looking at individual families or communities. The materials are different, but I wonder if the distinctions arent really just academic.

Justins face showed he wasnt convinced. Feels different to me. But I like getting the alternative perspective.