again towards Susannah. He had sat with her in the parlour for several minutes without any awkward silences, and she seemed to find him interesting; she wantedto tell him things, and to hear what he had to say. He was too anxious to feel delight, but there was something like happiness there, unfurling like buds after a Canadian winter. He folds his spectacles and puts them, for want of a bedside table, on the floor beside him, where, he hopes, he won’t stand on them in the morning.
After the initial shock, I realise I am not in imminent danger. The man in the doorway is at least sixty years old, his bearing is bookish, and, most importantly, he isn’t armed. He looks distinguished more than anything, with smooth white hair brushed off a high forehead, a thin face and aquiline nose. His expression strikes me as kind. In fact, for a man of his age, he is (the word surprises me but it is right) beautiful.
I have got into the reprehensible habit, common here where accent is no longer a reliable guide, of checking off a list of items in a stranger. Whenever I encounter someone new I glance at cuffs, shoes, fingernails and so on, to establish station in life and financial security. This man is dressed in a flamboyant coat that is well cut but has seen better days, and though he is neat and clean-shaven, his shoes are disgracefully worn. In the moment it takes to reach these conclusions, I notice he has been taking much the same sort of inventory of me, and so presumably has concluded that I am the wife of a reasonably prosperous farmer. Whether he goes any further and decides that I am a faded and probably bitter former beauty, I really could not say.
‘Excuse me …’ His voice is pleasant, with a Yankee twang. My heart slows its frantic hammering.
‘You gave me a shock,’ I say severely, aware that there is flour on my dress and probably in my hair. ‘Are you looking for Mr Jammet?’
‘No. I heard …’ He gestures towards the bed and bloody blankets. ‘A terrible thing … a terrible waste. Excuse me, ma’am, I don’t know your name.’
He smiles gravely and I find myself warming to him. I do appreciate nice manners, especially when someone is questioning my presence at a scene of crime.
‘I am Mrs Ross. His neighbour. I came to sort out his things.’ I smile regretfully, indicating the unpleasantness of the task. Is it my imagination, or has he quickened at the mention of Jammet’s things?
‘Ah, Mrs Ross, I apologise for disturbing you. My name is Thomas Sturrock, from Toronto. Lawyer.’
He extends his hand, and I take it. He bows his head.
‘You are here to see to his estate?’ Lawyers, in my experience, don’t turn up on their own, snooping around after dark, getting their hands dirty. Nor do they tend to have frayed cuffs and holes in their shoes.
‘No, I’m not here on business.’
Honest. Not a typical lawyer at all.
‘It is a personal matter. I’m not sure who I should apply to in this, but, you see, the fact is, Monsieur Jammet had an object which is of some importance to my research. He was going to send it to me.’
He pauses, assessing my reaction, which is one of bemusement. Having searched the cabin from top to bottom I can think of nothing that could be of any interest to anyone, especially a man like this. If Jammet had had such a thing, I assume he would have sold it.
‘It’s not something of value,’ he adds, ‘just of academic interest.’
I continue to say nothing.
‘I suppose I must place myself in your hands,’ he says with a diffident smile. ‘You can have no way of knowing whether what I say is true, so I will tell you everything. Monsieur Jammet had acquired a piece of bone or ivory,about so big …’ He indicates the palm of his hand. ‘With markings on it. It may be that this object is of archaeological significance.’
‘You said you were a lawyer …?’
‘A lawyer by profession. An archaeologist by inclination.’
He spreads his hands wide.