Free The Bone Garden by Kate Ellis Page A

stuff.’
    Their eyes met. ‘Great,’ muttered Neil, lost for words.
    ‘I’ve just been looking at an old painting of the garden that someone’s brought in to me. It shows a shell grotto quite clearly
     … like a stone summerhouse covered in thousands of seashells. As you seem to be digging on that spot, would it help you to
     see what it looked like in all its glory?’ She inclined her head to one side, a smile playing around her lips.
    ‘Yeah. Great,’ said Neil, aware that he was repeating himself.
    ‘Come on, then. I’ll show you where I work.’
    Claire turned and began to walk in the direction of the stable block. Neil followed, gazing at her glossy black hair, which
     tumbled down her back.
    A few minutes later they were leaning over an eighteenth-century oil painting laid flat on the long trestle table in Claire’s
     office, theirshoulders touching. Neil found it difficult to concentrate on the painted scene before him: his senses were distracted by
     the faint herbal smell of Claire’s shampoo, by the stray strand of hair that touched his cheek, by her very presence. At that
     moment Neil Watson’s mind was straying from the subject of history.
    But he forced himself to look down at the picture. Earlsacre Hall stood proudly in the centre of the canvas surrounded by
     a patchwork of gardens, one seemingly leading into another. But it was the garden directly in front of the hall, the walled
     garden, which drew Neil’s attention. The gatehouse stood out, large and prominent. The original building was quite substantial,
     with a room on either side of the central arch; the present gatehouse was a shadow of its former self. Standing against the
     east wall adjoining the water garden was something that looked like a square stone-built summerhouse. The shell grotto – at
     least he now knew what he was excavating. His eyes travelled upwards to the centre of the walled garden. There, among the
     elaborate parterres and paths, stood what looked like a sundial, a skeleton globe set on a stone pillar. Below it was what
     looked like a large plinth.
    ‘What date is this painting?’ asked Neil.
    ‘It’s there in the corner: 1745.’
    Neil could feel his face redden as he mentally kicked himself. Why hadn’t he noticed the date? It was there, clear enough,
     by the artist’s signature.
    ‘So we know our skeletons must have died before then,’ he said, trying to redeem himself. ‘There’s the plinth. Look.’
    ‘Couldn’t it have been moved?’ Claire thought for a second. ‘No, I don’t suppose it could. It was exactly on that spot and
     it took a dozen men to lift it. I think you’re right. If we can find the date that plinth was put there then we’ve probably
     found the date of the burial. You’ll have heard that one of them was buried alive, I suppose?’
    ‘Yeah. Nasty.’
    Claire looked at him challengingly. ‘How much do you know about the history of this place, then?’
    ‘I was hoping you’d tell me,’ said Neil eagerly. This was his chance.
    Claire took two tattered paperback books off a makeshift shelf supported by bricks and handed them to him. ‘Here you are.
The Manor Houses of South Devon and Their Families
and
Jacob Finsbury’s Account of His Travels around the Houses of England
.The first just gives you the plain facts and the second was written at the beginning of the eighteenth century by an old gossip
     who travelled from house to house freeloading off the local gentry. There’s quite a large section on Earlsacre. He seemed
     to be quite taken with the place … or taken with Lady Lantrist, reading between the lines,’ she added mischievously. ‘He also
     mentions strange goings-on, which is rather pertinent in the light of what’s been found in the walled garden. Take them home
     and read them. Enjoy.’
    Neil clutched the volumes to his chest. ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I’ve got loads of old documents to go through. If I find anything exciting, I’ll let you know. I’ve