Chapter 4
FOUR
Despite Rhys’s best efforts, they weren’t able to learn anything more from the hotel staff.
The two employees besides Terry who were local were too young to recall any incidents of young women going missing, and none of the others were overly interested in regional history.
Lynn Michaels stopped by their table to exalt the talents of her French chef, but she had nothing more to add regarding the case and soon left them to their dinner.
Back in her room, Quinn enjoyed a long soak, then got into bed and rang Gabe.
She filled him in on the details of the case, and they theorized for a few minutes, but with such scant information there wasn’t much to work with, and they eventually said good night.
The bed was cozy, the sheets soft, and the mattress firm.
A pleasant breeze from the open window carried with it the scent of freshly cut grass and the tang of the sea.
But Quinn couldn’t rest. She spent a restless night filled with dark, menacing dreams, and was relieved when the sky began to lighten and she could finally get up.
She called down for a pot of coffee, then settled in a comfortable wingchair by the window, folded her legs beneath her, and watched the sun rise over a restless sea as she enjoyed her drink.
Once Rhys was ready, they grabbed a light breakfast in the dining room, thanked Lynn and promised to keep her up to date on their findings, then checked out and headed into Ravenglass.
It was a lovely autumn day. The sun shimmered through a gossamer haze that hovered in the air and blurred the sharp edges of the manor house and the outbuildings as they faded from view.
The road was devoid of traffic, and only birdsong filled the air, but despite the beauty of the morning, neither Quinn nor Rhys was in a very talkative mood, and they made the drive to the mortuary in near silence.
As she looked out over the landscape that had hardly changed over the centuries, Quinn could almost imagine a group of Roman soldiers coming over the rise, their horses snorting and their breastplates and helmets glinting in the light of the morning sun as their standards snapped in the breeze.
She knew she was being fanciful and that generations of Britons had walked upon this land since the Roman occupation, but she thought it would be fascinating to look through the eyes of a person who’d lived back then.
But she wouldn’t know for certain when the woman had lived until Colin had run a battery of tests to date the remains.
And until Quinn was in possession of the ring.
Once they reached Ravenglass, Rhys drove along the main street until they spotted the mortuary—a squat whitewashed building just down the road from the parish hall.
The frosted windows ensured that no passersby could glimpse what lay within.
Rhys pulled over, and they stepped inside.
The reception area smelled sharply of carbolic and seemed to echo with the accumulated misery that had seeped into the very walls.
No one came to a mortuary willingly—sometimes not even the staff.
The man who emerged to greet them was tall, Black, and impressively fit. Intricate tattoos wound across his forearms, and a gold hoop glinted in his left ear. He wore a printed cap over his curly hair, and a surgical mask hung loosely around his neck.
“Good morning. I’m Jared Harrison,” he said and extended his hand to Quinn before offering Rhys a firm handshake. “Ms. Michaels phoned to tell me you were on your way.”
“Good morning, Dr. Harrison,” Quinn said. “We were hoping to see the body from the well.”
“Of course. I trust you intend to make arrangements for the removal of the remains? No postmortem was ordered by the police, so there’s no reason to hold on to the body. We’re a small outfit and don’t have the space to store unclaimed remains for years,” he explained with an apologetic smile.
“The body will be shipped to a forensic pathologist in London at our expense,” Rhys replied.
Dr. Harrison smiled, clearly relieved to have that sorted. “You will need to fill out a few forms before the body can be released, but it’s all fairly straightforward.”
Rhys nodded, but it was obvious to Quinn that his attention wasn’t on the bureaucratic aspect of the case.
He’d fill out the forms in due course, but first he needed to see the star of his next episode.
He was probably already framing the first shot in his mind, the moment the viewers would see “The Lady of the Well.”
“If you would step this way,” Dr. Harrison said, and led them to a windowless room at the end of the corridor.
It was small and equipped only with a gurney and a narrow cabinet filled with metal implements and several vials.
The counter was bare, except for a thin file folder.
The body on the gurney was zipped into a black bag, a string attached to a yellow tag looped through the pull.
The pathologist did not ask them to put on gowns or offer gloves or masks. The deceased was not the subject of an ongoing police inquiry, so there was no fear of cross-contamination of evidence.
“I thought it best to leave her inside the bag,” Dr. Harrison said. “Since the body had not been exposed to air since the well was sealed, coming in contact with oxygen would accelerate decomposition, and I assume you will be ordering a postmortem and tests to date the remains.”
“Were you the one to examine the body when it was first brought in?” Quinn asked.
“I was, yes,” Dr. Harrison confirmed.
“And what were your findings?”
“I did not locate any fatal wounds or defensive injuries, but without opening her up I can’t speculate as to the cause of death.”
“How long do you think she was down there?” Rhys asked.
“I really couldn’t say with any certainty and would prefer not to guess.”
“But the coroner ruled this a historic burial, if you could call it that,” Rhys reminded him. “So he must have based his decision on something.”
“She called in a forensic expert, who was of the opinion that the well had been sealed for decades, if not centuries, which means that the body was in there prior to that event. But given the absence of context, it’s impossible to date the remains just by looking at them.”
Dr. Harrison clearly preferred not to commit himself, perhaps because he realized that anything he said might be quoted on television and possibly disputed. “Are you ready to meet the deceased?” he asked as he approached the gurney.
“Yes,” Quinn croaked.
She was suddenly nervous, her mouth going dry and her heartrate accelerating at the prospect of seeing the deceased.
The woman’s face would haunt her visions for the foreseeable future, and she would once again be plunged into someone else’s tragedy.
She had willingly agreed to this, but now that the moment was upon her she wasn’t sure she was ready.
Rhys seemed to sense her anxiety and draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close.
Dr. Harrison’s eyebrows lifted at the intimacy of the gesture, since he knew them to be coworkers, but Quinn welcomed Rhys’s support.
It calmed her, and she nodded to the pathologist, ready at last.
He did not unzip the bag all the way but just enough to reveal the face. The three of them stood in silence as they gazed upon the features of the dead woman.
“Blimey,” Rhys said. “She looks like she’s sleeping. I was expecting something a lot more unpleasant.”
“It really is quite amazing, isn’t it?” Dr. Harrison agreed. “I’m not an expert on bogs, but I read up on the phenomenon after the body was discovered.”
“I doubt anyone would dig a well in a bog, so the well must have contained fresh water at one time,” Rhys said.
“Yes, it would have, but as the surrounding ground shifted, the water would have become increasingly peaty. Runoff from the moorland would filter through pockets of sphagnum and blanket bog before reaching the well, carrying with it humic acids and organic particles that would darken the water and cover the stones in a reddish-brown film. Apparently, this was typical of upland wells, especially those below long, wet slopes. Eventually, the water would no longer be fit for human consumption, and the well would either be filled in or sealed up.”
Quinn hardly heard another word the two men exchanged.
All her attention was fixed on the deceased.
It was difficult to determine the woman’s age, but if pressed Quinn would have guessed anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five.
The skin had taken on a waxy texture and a nut-brown hue.
In life her complexion would have been lighter, but the brownish water had tinted it over time.
Her eyes were closed, but her lips were parted slightly, revealing strong, even teeth.
The enamel appeared stained, the discoloration likely also the result of long immersion.
Short dark hair framed an oval face, and the woman’s neck was long and graceful.
“Was she wearing anything?” Quinn asked.
“Yes. She was wearing a sheath dress. I did not remove it. No shoes,” Dr. Harrison added. “But they may have come off.”
“Can we see the rest?” Rhys asked, and when Quinn didn’t protest, the pathologist unzipped the bag all the way to reveal a firm, slender body dressed in a mud-colored slip.
“She really is a beauty,” Rhys said, his voice tinged with awe. “We will need to get some footage of the body before Colin slices into her.”
Quinn wasn’t ready to focus on viewers or ratings.
She wanted only to find out who this woman was and what had happened to her.
She didn’t appear to be the victim of a violent crime.
Perhaps she had committed suicide by drowning herself in the well.
That may have been the reason the well had been sealed up.
Perhaps someone who’d loved her had decided to preserve her final resting place without admitting that she had taken her own life.
Suicide wasn’t considered a shameful act these days, but in years past it had been a cardinal sin, and the deceased as well as their family would have been shown little compassion or respect.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Quinn told Rhys. “Dr. Harrison, if you would get the ring the woman was found wearing?”
“The ring is still on her finger.”
“Did anyone examine it?” Rhys asked.
“It’s covered in slime.”
Quinn helped herself to a pair of latex gloves from a box on the counter and pushed aside the vinyl of the body bag to reveal the woman’s left hand.
Bog bodies didn’t swell like the remains of drowning victims, so she had no difficulty sliding the ring off the finger.
Quinn noted that the woman’s nails were also stained dark brown, which wasn’t unexpected since the nailbed was porous.
She checked the other hand. None of the nails were broken, so, if the deceased had been murdered, she didn’t appear to have fought for her life.
Quinn pulled off her left glove and used it to wrap the ring before putting it in her bag.
She would clean it once she got home. She pulled off the other glove and tossed it in the rubbish bin.
Dr. Harrison zipped up the bag and led them to the reception area, where he handed Rhys several forms to fill out.
“Shall we ring Dinah Wilson and ask if we can come round?” Rhys asked once they finally stepped outside.
“Let’s leave it for now,” Quinn said, and climbed into the car. “I’d like to hear what Colin has to say first. There’s no sense upsetting an elderly woman if this has nothing to do with her.”
“Point taken,” Rhys agreed, and got behind the wheel. “Let’s go home.”