The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [651]
“It’s a thought,” Jamie said, and one corner of his mouth quirked in a faint smile. “But I think I’ve a better one, Sassenach.” He turned to look thoughtfully at the house. A few windows were dimly alight, but everyone was inside, cowering.
“Come on, then,” he said, with sudden decision. “There’ll be a sledgehammer in the stable, I expect.”
THE FRONT OF THE MAUSOLEUM was covered by an ornamental grille of black wrought iron, with an enormous lock, its metal decorated by sixteen-petalled Jacobite roses. I had always considered this to be merely one of Jocasta Cameron’s affectations, since I doubted that grave-robbers were a great threat in such a rural setting. The hinges scarcely creaked when Jamie unlocked the grille and swung it open; like everything else at River Run, it was maintained in impeccable condition.
“You really think this is better than burying or burning him?” I asked. There was no one nearby, but I spoke in a near whisper.
“Oh, aye. Auld Hector will take care of him, and prevent him doin’ harm,” Jamie replied matter-of-factly. “And it’s blessed ground, in a manner of speaking. No a matter of leaving his soul to wander about, makin’ trouble, aye?”
I nodded, a little uncertainly. He was probably right; in terms of belief, Jamie understood the slaves much better than I did. For that matter, I wasn’t sure whether he was speaking only of what the psychological effect on them might be—or whether he was himself convinced that Hector Cameron ought to be capable of dealing with this ex post facto threat to his wife and plantation.
I lifted the torch so Jamie could see what he was doing, and set my teeth in my lower lip.
He had wrapped the sledgehammer in rags, so as not to chip the marble blocks. The small blocks of the front wall, inside the grille, had been expertly cut to fit and lightly mortared in place. The first blow knocked two of the blocks a few inches out of place. A few more blows, and a dark space showed, where the blocks had given way enough to show the blackness inside the mausoleum.
Jamie stopped to wipe sweat from his forehead, and muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“I said, it stinks,” he replied, sounding puzzled.
“This is surprising, is it?” I asked, a little testily. “How long has Hector Cameron been dead, four years?”
“Well, aye, but it’s no—”
“What are you doing?” Jocasta Cameron’s voice rang out behind me, sharp with agitation, and I jumped, dropping the torch.
It flickered, but didn’t go out, and I snatched it up again, waving it to encourage the flame. The flame rose and steadied, shedding a ruddy glow on Jocasta, who stood on the path behind us, ghostly in her white nightgown. Phaedre huddled behind her mistress, no more of her face visible than the brief shine of eyes in the darkness. The eyes looked scared, flicking from Jamie and me to the dark hole in the facade of the mausoleum.
“What am I doing? Disposing of Lieutenant Wolff, what else?” Jamie, who had been as startled as I had by his aunt’s sudden appearance, sounded a little cross. “Leave it to me, Aunt. Ye needna concern yourself.”
“You are not—no, ye mustn’t open Hector’s tomb!” Jocasta’s long nose twitched, obviously picking up the scent of decay—which was faint, but distinct.
“Dinna fash yourself, Aunt,” Jamie said. “Go back to the house. I’ll manage. It will all be well.”
She ignored his soothing words, advancing blindly over the walk, hands groping in the empty air.
“No, Jamie! Ye mustn’t. Close it up again. Close it, for God’s sake!”
The panic in her voice was unmistakable, and I saw Jamie frown in confusion. He looked uncertainly from his aunt to the hole in the mausoleum. The wind had dropped, but now rose in a small gust, wafting a much stronger scent of death around us. Jamie’s face changed, and ignoring his aunt’s cries of protest, he knocked loose more blocks with several quick blows of the padded hammer.
“Bring the torch, Sassenach,” he said, setting down the hammer, and with a sense of creeping horror,