The Lovers (Echoes From The Past) Read online

  Dr. Scott smiled ruefully at Quinn. “So, what we have here is a healthy young man, with a predisposition for a long life, who died at an unnaturally young age. We did discover a type of monoamine oxidase enzyme which accounts for impulsive behavior, so he might have been something of a hothead.”

  Dr. Scott paused dramatically to give Quinn a moment to draw her own conclusions as to the type of behavior that might have resulted in someone being locked in a chest while still alive and left to die a slow and agonizing death. Quinn shuddered, imagining what it must have felt like to be buried alive, entombed with no avenue of escape and the knowledge of certain death. She hoped that the man and woman had already been dead and the chest used in lieu of a coffin, but Dr. Scott immediately disproved that theory by pointing to a small baggie containing slivers of torn nails.

  “There were scratches on the inside of the lid, which was what accounted for us finding the broken nails. They were both alive and conscious when they went into that chest.”

  Quinn sighed, longing for this interview to be over. She felt claustrophobic in this windowless room and couldn’t wait to get outside. “Tell me about the woman.”

  “The woman had reddish-blonde hair and light eyes. Her ancestry was Saxon with a few Scots thrown in. She tested positive for the BRCA1 gene, which meant that she would have most likely developed breast cancer at some point in her life, and showed PER2, which would have made her an early riser. She had a vitamin D deficiency and, judging from the condition of her teeth, didn’t get enough calcium in her diet, but otherwise she was a healthy young woman.”

  “Is that all we know about her?” Quinn asked, hoping for something more to go on.

  Dr. Scott gave Quinn a triumphant look that nearly made her laugh. He’d really missed his calling as a stage actor.

  “Sarita and I found traces of a third source of DNA,” he announced, his eyes shining as he allowed this bit of information to sink in.

  “Do you mean you found the DNA of whoever forced them into the chest? Their murderer?”

  “I’m afraid not. What I’m referring to is some additional bones that we found at the bottom of the chest. They were tiny and very fragile.”

  “A baby?” Quinn breathed, suddenly sickened by the scenario playing in her mind.

  “Yes. The woman was pregnant. About fourteen weeks. The child was male, and our man here was his father.”

  Quinn averted her eyes for a moment, embarrassed of the moisture that suddenly blurred her vision.

  “I know. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” Dr. Scott said, having correctly interpreted her reaction. “I was quite overcome myself. And they wouldn’t have died quickly, which made it even worse.”

  “What kind of monster would do that to a young family?” Quinn asked, still feeling weepy. The young woman would have known she was with child by the second trimester, and she would have had to bear the pain of knowing that her child would die with her, never even having drawn breath.

  “A monster that likely wore gloves while he went about his business. We found no traces of anyone else’s DNA. No hair, no nails, nothing.”

  “And what of the material evidence?” Quinn asked, finally tearing her gaze away from the grinning skeletons on the slab. She couldn’t begin to imagine the look of agony these two actually wore at the time of death, their suffering now erased from history by the decomposition of flesh.

  “We found bits of fabric from what we believe to have been the woman’s gown. It was made of heavy damask and might have been a deep blue at one point. The dye was made of indigo, so it was all natural—consistent with the approximate time period, which I would place at mid-seventeenth century, give or take a decade or two. The pieces of leather likely came from the man’s attire. Perhaps he wore a leather doublet and boots. There are no chemicals found on the leather, so again, it’s consistent with the time period when the leather would have been tanned by hand, using only natural methods and organic dyes.”

  “And the metal?”

  “There is a brass belt buckle from the man and two silver shoe buckles that belonged to the woman. And, there is this!” Dr. Scott pulled out a Ziploc bag containing a piece of jewelry and passed it to Quinn. “Here, you can examine it more closely.”

  Quinn opened the bag and reached inside, taking out an ornate brooch. The brooch was made of yellow gold, with a sapphire flower in the center of a filigree background set with small, round sapphires and seed pearls, creating an exquisite and delicate pattern. It must have been pinned to the bodice of the blue gown worn by the young woman.

  Quinn felt a tremor as she looked at the brooch. She was grateful for the layer of latex between the brooch and her skin. She would examine the brooch more carefully later, when she was alone, but for now she needed to return it to the bag. The brooch, more than anything else, would serve as a bridge between herself and the unknown woman whose mortal remains now rested on the slab. It had belonged to her and was an item that she touched and valued, more so than shoe buckles or bits of fabric. The brooch was the key, as was the belt buckle. The man would have handled it regularly, so the buckle would be imprinted with his memories.

  “Thank you, Dr. Scott. I’d just like to get a copy of the test results and take some photos of the skeletons and the chest. You’ve been very thorough.”

  “It’s not often that I work with people who died hundreds of years ago. I suppose I felt some strange need to give them something of their identity back,” Dr. Scott replied. “Although, it won’t make a jot of difference to them now.”

  Quinn nodded, overcome by a wave of sadness.

  Chapter 6

  After leaving the morgue, Quinn wasn’t ready to return home, so she decided to walk to the institute, which was located in Gordon Square. It was a lovely October day, and the sun caressed her face as she strolled at a leisurely pace. The square was strewn with a quilt of colorful fallen leaves, the old trees providing welcome patches of shade for those who chose not to sit on the lawn. Several students were busy studying, their noses in books, while other visitors to the square just reclined on their rugs in the sunshine. Some were reading, others listening to music, and some enjoying a brief nap during their lunch break.

  Quinn found a spot beneath an overgrown maple and sat down, her back against the trunk. The visit to the morgue affected her more that she cared to admit. She supposed that she chose archeology and history as her field of study because she lacked a history of her own, and seeing those two nameless skeletons brought home once again the importance of having a name and a past. She’d spent years trying to come to terms with her own lack of one and thought she’d gotten a handle on her desperate need to know where she came from, but today the layers of acceptance and denial had been stripped away, leaving her as emotionally fragile as she had been the day she learned the truth of her origins.

  Quinn had been eight years old the day her world imploded. She’d come home from school, excited to begin her project over the weekend. She’d always liked stories, especially ones that took place in the past, and the idea of working on her family tree deeply intrigued her. Her mother was in the kitchen, preparing their tea, and her father was watching a game on the telly, having come home early from work as he did most Fridays. The house smelled of roasting meat and vegetables, and there was an apple tart her mother had baked that morning. The aroma of apples and cinnamon wafted from the table, making Quinn’s mouth water.

  “How was your day, darling?” her mum asked as Quinn settled herself at the table and reached for a piece of carrot.

  “Grand. We’re doing a school project. I’m going to need your help.”

  “What type of project?” her mother asked without looking up from the potatoes she was mashing.

  “It’s a family tree, so I need information about past generations of both Allenbys and Grants. I’d like to see some photos too, if you have any.” Quinn bit into her carrot and chewed happily, thrilled to have two days off school in which to work on her pro
ject and read The Secret Garden, which she’d just started the night before.

  Quinn looked up to find her father standing in the doorway, his expression odd. Her mother’s eyes flew to her husband’s face, her eyes wide with anxiety. “No, Roger,” her mother said, her eyes locked with his. “Not yet.”

  “There’s never a good time, Sue, but I think this is the opening we’ve been waiting for.”

  Quinn’s mother looked dejected, as if she had suddenly shrunk a few inches, her shoulders hunched and her lips pursed. Whatever her parents were talking about distressed her a great deal, and she suddenly pushed away the bowl of mash and sat down heavily on the kitchen chair.

  “You do it, then,” she said, her tone bleak.

  “What are you two talking about?” Quinn demanded, suddenly anxious. They hadn’t openly mentioned her name, but it was clear that whatever they were arguing about had to do with her. Why was her mother so upset? And what was it that her father wanted to do? Was this about the puppy she’d been asking for? That was the only thing she truly wanted for her birthday, but if it caused her parents so much distress, she’d just wait a few years until she was able to take care of it all on her own. Quinn grew very still, her eyes shifting from one parent to the other. The tension in the kitchen was thick as her father left the doorway and approached her slowly, his forehead creased.

  No, this couldn’t be about the puppy. This was something else. Something serious. Something she wished would just go away, whatever it was. Quinn was only eight, but she knew at that moment that whatever her father was going to say would change everything. Are they getting a divorce? she suddenly wondered. Her heart fell. No, it couldn’t be. They loved each other, and they loved her. She was sure of it. But there were several children in her class whose parents were divorced, and they were shuffled from one parent to the other on weekends and for school holidays. Quinn wanted to cry, but she was a big girl, so she bit her lip instead and forced herself to meet her father’s troubled gaze.

  “Quinn, I want you to know that we love you very much,” her father began as he squatted in front of her. “You must always remember that.”

  “I love you too,” she replied, her voice shaking with suppressed tears.

  “The thing is . . . Well, this family tree project . . .” Her father grew silent, his face tense as he searched for the best way to break the news he felt compelled to share with her.

  “What is it, Dad?” Quinn cried, now truly alarmed.

  “Quinn, we always meant to tell you. We just wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand. Your mother and I adopted you when you were a baby.”

  Quinn stared from one parent to the other. Adopted? She’d never for a moment suspected that she wasn’t their child. She even looked like her father; everyone always said so.

  “So, who were my parents, then?” she asked, her voice barely audible. She supposed she was glad that her parents weren’t getting a divorce, but this news left her utterly gutted. Her entire existence tilted on its axis, her center of gravity suddenly shifting so alarmingly that she thought she just might slide off and fall into some dark void from which there was no return. If there was one thing she’d been sure of in life, it was that Susan and Roger Allenby were her parents. They were ordinary people, who lived an ordinary life, a life of which she had always been the center. She’d wished for a brother or a sister from time to time, but she loved having her parents all to herself and being the focus of all their love and attention. How was it possible that she wasn’t theirs?

  “We don’t know,” her mother chimed in as she reached for Quinn’s hand, but Quinn pulled it away. She felt too betrayed to allow her mother to touch her just then.

  “Did they not want me?” Quinn persisted, her voice shaking with apprehension.

  “We don’t know anything about them, sweetheart. We only know that we wanted a child very much and were happy when you came along. You made us a family,” her father explained as he searched her face for understanding.

  “Did you try to have a baby of your own?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes, but we couldn’t,” her mother said sadly. “We tried for years.”

  “So, I wasn’t your first choice. You settled for me.”

  “No!” her parents cried in unison.

  “Never that,” her father continued. “We loved you from the moment we saw you.”

  “Right,” Quinn replied bitterly, unable to look at her father for fear of crying. She slid off the chair and ran to her room.

  “Tea is in ten minutes,” her mother called out after her, but Quinn just ignored her.

  “Let her be, Sue. She needs a little time to think this through,” she heard her father’s voice say.

  Quinn spent most of that weekend in her room, reading her book and trying hard not to let the conversation with her parents upset her, but she was upset and confused. Everything she knew about herself was a lie, a fabrication. The school project no longer held any interest for her. These weren’t her relatives—they were the relatives of her parents, people who had no biological connection to her. Of course, lots of people were adopted and lived a perfectly normal life, but to do that she’d need more information. She needed to fill in the blanks in order to make peace with this newfound knowledge.

  Quinn finally emerged on Sunday afternoon. Her mum was in the kitchen again, baking Quinn’s favorite chocolate chip biscuits. She’d been trying to cajole her to come out all weekend, bribing Quinn with her favorite foods and the promise of a new bicycle for her birthday. She didn’t want a bicycle. She wanted a puppy, one that would be hers and hers alone. It would belong to her, and she would belong to it; they would be each other’s true family. Quinn sat down at the kitchen table and accepted a biscuit. It was hot, straight from the oven, but she ate it nonetheless, enjoying the familiar taste of chocolate. At least that hadn’t changed.

  “Are you still my mum?” she asked, her voice cracking.

  “Of course I am, and I always will be. Quinn, I didn’t want to tell you, but your father is right. You need to know the truth. If we withheld it from you, you’d find out later and then accuse us of lying to you. We felt it was best to be honest.”

  Quinn nodded. She didn’t question her parents’ logic; she understood their reasons for finally telling her the truth. She supposed that it would have come as a shock at any age, even if she were a grown-up. Finding out that you weren’t who you thought you were could never be easy.

  “Mum, I’d like to know something about my real parents. I love you and Dad, but I’d like to know where I really came from.” Quinn knew it would hurt her mother, but she needed to know. She’d tried all weekend to envision the woman who’d given birth to her, but all she saw was a pale oval where a face should have been. Was she young or older, was she dark haired like Quinn, or had she been fair? Did she have green eyes like her daughter, or did Quinn get those from her father? Had they loved each other, or had she been the result of a mistake that neither person wished to repeat? She’d just recently learned about where babies came from, and it was still a shock to think of two people doing that willingly—even more so knowing that the gross act adults indulged in could result in an unwanted child.

  “Quinn, I’m afraid we don’t know anything about them at all, and neither does the adoption agency. You were found in Leicester Cathedral. Someone left you in the front pew wrapped in a blanket.”

  “Who found me?” Quinn exclaimed, shocked to learn this new version of the truth. Left. Abandoned. Not even given up for adoption, but discarded like an empty coffee cup or a newspaper.

  “The Reverend Alan Seaton. He heard a baby crying but thought nothing of it until he came out of the vestry and spotted you there. He called the police, of course, but they had nothing to go on.”

  “Nothing?” Quinn whispered.

  “There was a note tucked into the blanket. I have it if you’d like to see it. I saved it for you. I knew you’d want answers one day, but I’m sorry to say,
that’s all we have.”

  “Yes, I’d like to see it,” Quinn replied. She imagined she’d be able to see something in the note everyone else failed to notice, but it was just a scrap of paper, torn out of some notebook. Quinn stared at the writing on the note. It was in pencil and said very little:

  Quinn

  Born September 27, 1983

  “Is that it?” Quinn asked, disappointed.

  “Yes, that’s it. Social Services had no idea whether Quinn was your last name or first name, but they passed the note on to us, and we decided it must have been your given name, so we kept it.”

  Quinn. Someone had bothered to name her and provided her date of birth. At least she knew that much, but it was very little to go on. It was a dead end, and she had to learn to live with this new reality.

  Over the years, Quinn tried to put a different spin on the story of her birth, but the uncertainty of what really happened tore at her soul, refusing to let her find peace. She tried to pretend that her mother was a young girl, who was frightened and alone and couldn’t afford to keep her, so she left her in a church where she knew the baby would be found by someone trustworthy and passed on to the authorities. But the fantasy wasn’t enough. She longed to know the truth, no matter how painful it might be, especially once she discovered her ability to see into the past.

  Quinn supposed that she had it all along, she just never realized it, not having known anyone who died before. She’d been almost eleven when Grandma Allenby died. Ruth Allenby had been Quinn’s favorite grandparent, the one she spent the most time with given that she lived only a few streets over. Her mother’s parents were good, loving people, but they lacked the imagination and sense of fun Grandma Allenby seemed to possess. At nearly ninety, she had been spritely and young at heart, not like any other old person Quinn knew. Quinn loved having sleepovers at Grandma Ruth’s. They spent hours listening to wartime jazz, looking at old photo albums, and telling ghost stories by the light of the old spirit lamp. Quinn’s favorite ghost story was about Grandpa Joe, who died long before she was born. Grandma Ruth said that Grandpa’s spirit lived in the house and would look after her until she went to join him in heaven. She looked forward to seeing him again after all this time.