Two women, 150 years apart, linked by an enduring archaeological mystery . . .
In 1870s Scotland, Christian Maclagan—one of Britain’s first female archaeologists—struggles for recognition in a world determined to silence her. Emboldened by her acquisition of a rare Neolithic carved stone ball, she becomes obsessed with unlocking its ancient secrets. But as she studies the mysterious artifact, disturbing dreams begin to unravel her. Eventually, Christian must grapple with the shocking truths she has unconsciously buried for decades.
One hundred fifty years later, American graduate student Ellen Byrne arrives in Scotland to research her thesis. Reeling from a devastating betrayal and haunted by her father’s suicide, Ellen discovers a Victorian journal leading her to an extraordinary find—a possible companion to Scotland’s most famous carved stone ball. As Ellen races to authenticate her discovery, her increasing obsession with the stone threatens not only to derail her promising career but also to destroy her faith in herself.
An intriguing blend of historical and contemporary fiction, inspired by a true archaeological mystery, What Time Has Kept explores the interplay of memory and consciousness, the emotional power of objects, and the remarkable resilience of the human spirit. From award-winning author Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard.
Two women, 150 years apart, linked by an enduring archaeological mystery . . .
In 1870s Scotland, Christian Maclagan—one of Britain’s first female archaeologists—struggles for recognition in a world determined to silence her. Emboldened by her acquisition of a rare Neolithic carved stone ball, she becomes obsessed with unlocking its ancient secrets. But as she studies the mysterious artifact, disturbing dreams begin to unravel her. Eventually, Christian must grapple with the shocking truths she has unconsciously buried for decades.
One hundred fifty years later, American graduate student Ellen Byrne arrives in Scotland to research her thesis. Reeling from a devastating betrayal and haunted by her father’s suicide, Ellen discovers a Victorian journal leading her to an extraordinary find—a possible companion to Scotland’s most famous carved stone ball. As Ellen races to authenticate her discovery, her increasing obsession with the stone threatens not only to derail her promising career but also to destroy her faith in herself.
An intriguing blend of historical and contemporary fiction, inspired by a true archaeological mystery, What Time Has Kept explores the interplay of memory and consciousness, the emotional power of objects, and the remarkable resilience of the human spirit. From award-winning author Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard.
My story begins long before the unearthing of the bones. But that May morning,on my knees and face to face with death,I had my first unconscious glimpse of truth. My truth.
The rest remains with the stone.
Recovered from the lost autobiography of Christian Maclagan
CHAPTER 1
Stirling, Scotland
May 1870
"Miss Maclagan, sorry to be disturbin’ ye.”
Sitting up in bed, I glance at the gilt bronze clock on themantelpiece. These days, I must squint to read
its delicately rendered Roman numerals. The hour surprises me—nearly eight. My habit is to rise by seven.
“Coming, coming,” I growl, throwing aside the heavy quilt and swinging my legs down.
Overnight, the peat’s red glow has faded to gray ash and dull embers, and my flesh prickles from the room’s damp chill. Sliding into slippers, I throw a wool shawl over my nightdress, then cross the room and open the door partway. “What is it, Campbell?”
My young housemaid hesitates, looking slightly confused, as she often does. “Didnae want tae wake ye, ma’am, but the gardener’s found somethin’. Says he’s no wantin’ tae do any more diggin’ till ye’ve seen it.”
“Seen what?”
“Some kind of old bones, ma’am.”
She need say no more. “Tell him I’ll be there straight away. What is the lad’s name again?”
“Robert.”
“Very well. Go on then.”
“Ye no be wantin’ me to help ye dress, ma’am?”
“I can manage.”
I shut the door and hurry over to my tall oak wardrobe, avoiding my image in the long mirror. My looks have never pleased me, even when I was young and not so portly.
Having declined Campbell’s assistance, I go about the arduous task of dressing with as much haste as possible. Drawers, bodice, and stockings. Padded petticoat underneath a plain black two-piece frock. Sturdy boots buttoned up to the calf. I draw my graying hair into a tight bun and, assuming myself kempt enough, grab a light cloak and proceed downstairs. Through the open door, I spot the new gardener at the bottom of a gentle slope, only a short distance from the house.
“Good morning, Christian,” calls a breezy, high-pitched voice from the dining room. How does Jessie always manage to be so cheerful? Unless she considers it her duty as my permanent houseguest . . .
“Good morning.” A short answer is all I have time for. At the moment, only one thing occupies my mind—what has this lad Robert discovered in my garden?
Out the door I go, greeted by an overcast sky and the swirling wind whipping at my skirt. I am not a speedy walker but, thankfully, a steady one. At sixty, despite a few extra pounds, it is my zeal for exploring the Scottish countryside—pondering the remains of its many ancient stone circles, brochs, and roundhouses—that keeps me fit.
As I descend the hill towards where the gardener stands waiting, my gaze travels across the familiar landscape surrounding my Ravenscroft estate. Miles of flatlands stretch to the east and west, while the mountains Ben Ledi and Ben Vorlich rise to the northwest. Just beyond those formidable peaks, the rough terrain of the Highlands begins in earnest. But perhaps what draws the eye most persuasively is Stirling Castle, sitting atop a volcanic craig, its thick curtain walls and towers crowned with battlements. Gloriously golden when the sun shines, dark and ominous viewed through a misty rain. Today is one of those in-between days, when the sun hides behind a light veil of clouds, hinting at showers that could come any moment, or not at all.
“What is this I hear about bones?” I say, approaching a lanky young man dressed in a collarless shirt and heavy cotton waistcoat, his brown wool trousers tucked into tall boots. He leans on his shovel next to an open trench.
“Stopped diggin’ soon as I saw it, Miss Maclagan.” He nods towards the gaping hole in the ground. “Knew it wasnae an animal skull.”
“Hand me that shovel, please.” Planting the blade firmly into the soil, I grip the long handle for support and drop to my knees beside the trench. The lad is correct. The skull is human. That much is obvious even with only the cranium and eye sockets exposed. With my hand, I gently brush some loose dirt from the forehead.
“You think it’s old, ma’am? Or . . .” He lowers his voice. “Maybe not so old? Could be a murder, eh? Somebody buried the body here, and—”
“I have a detective tending my garden, do I?”
Robert ducks his head sheepishly. “No, ma’am. I just thought—”
I raise my hand to silence him, impatient to get started. “I need a trowel, a small knife, and a soft-bristled brush. You will find them in the potting shed.”
He scurries off, and I turn back to the partially exposed skull. Touching the smooth, bony surface of the forehead, I ruminate a moment on the fragility of flesh and the endurance of bone. And how quickly the spark of life departs, while the decay of death often moves at a snail’s pace. What time has kept, whether for a hundred years or thousands, matters not a bit to anyone but the curious-minded, among whom I most certainly count myself.
“Yer tools, ma’am.” Robert lays them on the ground next to me. “If ye like, I can take over.” He stares down at me with unblinking eyes.
Is that a look of pity? Perhaps he has noticed my misshapen fingers. “I can manage quite well,” I say, lifting the trowel with my other hand—the good one.
I start by widening the space in a circular fashion to avoid pressure on the skull. Switching to the penknife then a soft brush, I carefully clear any remaining soil around the skull’s edges. Once the front is completely visible, I stop. Sitting back on my heels, I review the mental catalog of my collected knowledge on archaeology. Over the years, finding ways around the rules forbidding women access to libraries, I have read anything I could locate on the subject.
Judging from the relatively shallow burial, I suspect the specimen is not ancient. However, I cannot be certain as soil erosion over time could have removed many layers of earth. As far as the skull’s appearance, I see no trace of soft tissue. Remnants of hair remain but, here again, nothing definitive. Depending on soil composition, hair can persist for decades, centuries, or even thousands of years.
But these observations are secondary to my initially strong impression that I am looking at the skull of a child, perhaps as young as five or six. A child of that age, compared to an adult, has a somewhat smaller skull overall, and the face appears proportionally different with a higher forehead and less prominent jaw. But the outstanding clue is the dentition—in this instance, a combination of baby teeth and the permanent ones emerging to replace them.
I have already decided, for no defensible reason, that the skull belongs to a little girl. I understand full well that the determination of the child’s sex, even if the entire skeleton were exposed, would be speculative at best. Size and general build might be suggestive but not indisputable given significant variation within the sexes at such a young age. Even the pelvis is not sufficiently developed to be a reliable indicator.
Still, the moment I saw her face, something inside me whispered, “Hello, sweet girl. You are safe here.”
“Cover her up—the way she was.”
Robert pushes back his cap, scratching his head. “But what if it’s somebody gone missin’? Somebody they been lookin’ fer.”
“It is highly unlikely that anyone is looking for her, if they ever were.”
He cocks his head, as though considering what I have said. “She, is it? You sure?”
I bristle at his questioning. “I am, and we shall leave it at that.”
“So, ye dinna think whoever lived here before was the one that buried her?”
I have had enough. “Young man, I built this house myself. No one has lived here before. So, as I said, we are leaving her here.”
He frowns, shifting on his feet like a tethered pony. Can he be trusted? “You are not to say a word about this to anyone. Do you understand? The last thing I need is to have the constable deciding to dig up my entire property.”
“Aye, ma’am. I willny tell a soul. Promise.”
“See that you do not. Now help me up, will you?”
Robert offers a hand, allowing me to rise with a minimum of struggle. “Mind you, be careful not to bump or scrape her with your shovel. Use the smaller one, and go slowly.”
“Aye, ma’am. I’ll be gentle with her.”
“And mark the spot for me with a nice big stone.” I glance around, spotting a good-size boulder nearby, tall and somewhat flat on top. A fine sitting stone. “That one will do,” I say, pointing it out to him.
Satisfied that I have made myself clear, I turn towards the edifice topping the mild slope. It was with great care that I chose three adjoining lots in the fashionable Abercromby district as the site for my Ravenscroft estate—two huge, semi-detached houses facing in opposite directions to guard the privacy of each.
Ah, if only I could be done with the many contentious problems the property has presented of late.
Tramping up the hill, I set my mind again on the morning’s events. I am rather pleased with myself. My assessment of the skull was sound, my decision quick and firm. What would be the purpose of a full excavation? Let the little one rest in peace.
Whoever she was—however she came to be here—she is safe at Ravenscroft.
CHAPTER 2
Aberdeen, Scotland
May 2023
My plane landed at Aberdeen International Airport with a hard thud, then hurtled down the runway. A sharp brake and I lurched forward in my seat, a cynical thought flashing through my mind. If this flight were to end in a fiery crash, would Paul shed even a single tear for me? I had looked forward to the trip for so long. Admittedly, the thought of spending a week with Paul, traipsing the rocky terrain of northeast Scotland, had threatened to overshadow the real reason for the expedition—on-site research for my master’s thesis on Scotland’s Neolithic carved stone balls. Of the specimens on record, the majority were discovered in Aberdeenshire.
No one knew the function intended for these ancient objects, often carved from granite or sandstone. Yet the bizarre feature they all exhibited—protruding knobs, anywhere from three to an astonishing 160, evenly spaced on a sphere no larger than a tennis ball—suggested they had a unique purpose.
Now, finally, I was on my way to the places where these still-undeciphered clues to prehistoric culture had been found, after several thousand years. If all went as planned, I would be granted the privilege of examining the most prized of the rare relics—the Towie ball, named for the Scottish village near which it was discovered in the mid-nineteenth century.
The plane pulled into an empty gate. Over the intercom, a flight attendant welcomed everyone to Aberdeen where the time was 5:07 p.m. My cramped legs begging to unwind, I stood, grabbed my carry-on, and joined the line of passengers waiting to exit the aircraft.
Unbidden, my thoughts again turned to Paul, this time the memory of our very first meeting. I recalled vividly the moment I entered his office and saw him sitting behind a tall stack of books that rose from his desk like a miniature skyscraper. He looked younger than I had expected, considering the formidable list of published research papers bearing his name.
He had pushed aside the pile, nodding toward a chair positioned opposite his. “Ellen Byrne, right?”
“Absolutely.” I was trying a little too hard to seem confident.
When he asked what inspired me to pursue graduate studies in material culture, my entire body tensed—despite having rehearsed my answer ad nauseam.
“Well . . . the study of prehistoric artifacts has always fascinated me. In the absence of a written record, such objects can be our only connection to the distant past. And. . . and I believe the past has much to teach us. About the present and even the future.”
When he said nothing, I nervously rushed ahead to fill the silence. “I admit to being a diehard science fiction fan, so maybe I get carried away sometimes with all the possibilities. But we’re only beginning to unlock the mysteries of the universe—mysteries that existed long before recorded history. Who’s to say that our ancient ancestors didn’t, in some ways, understand more about the underpinnings of the material world than we do?”
I was relieved when he smiled. “I happen to share your curiosity in that regard. But . . .” Slipping on a pair of rimless reading glasses, he quickly scanned several sheets of paper, which I assumed were my academic transcripts. “Yes, here it is. You started out your undergraduate studies as a criminal justice major?”
I shifted in my chair. “I—I changed my mind.”
“And switched to physics? That’s quite a leap.”
“Yes, I guess you could say that.”
“Why physics?”
I hesitated, worried my answer might seem a bit far-out. But I was starting to sense a receptive ear in Professor Hardy. “Like I said, I spend a lot of time thinking about the way humans perceive reality—our three-dimensional world. I’m not convinced there aren’t other dimensions beyond just the physical space our bodies and objects occupy. Other forms of energy than the ones we know, waiting to be identified.”
“Okay.” His tone was more tentative than I’d hoped. “And then, in your sophomore year, you changed majors again. This time psychology.”
“Actually, it’s parapsychology that interests me. I’ve always felt like—” I stopped mid-sentence, thinking it probably wasn’t a great idea to tell him I believed in the power of precognition and that I seemed to have a touch of it myself.
The premonitions I experienced were nothing I could put into words. They came to me as vague images flashing through my mind, sometimes too quickly to process them. My mother once said we came from a long line of Celtic witches and were bound to be a bit peculiar. I knew she was kidding. Mother was the least “witchy” person one could possibly imagine—an elementary school teacher with frizzy red hair and glasses, hooked on grocery store romance novels and television sitcoms.
So, was something wrong with me?
Paul had a skeptical look, like he was wondering the same thing. “And you finally settled on anthropology.”
I remembered how he leaned back in his chair, removed his glasses, and tossed them on the desktop. “Don’t look so worried,” he said. “It’s okay, you’re allowed to change your mind. I’ve done it a few times myself.”
In retrospect, I was tempted to regard his comment as a veiled warning. But I didn’t see it then. If I did possess any actual powers of foresight, they never worked for me when it came to Paul. Caught up in the euphoria of our year-long affair, I was unprepared for last week’s sudden announcement that he and his wife were going to “try and work things out.” And he would not be accompanying me to Scotland.
I had considered revenge—an eye for an eye. But that wasn’t my style. The only idea I’d come up with was to write the most brilliant thesis Professor Paul Hardy had ever read. To prove I’d never really needed him.
Another five minutes and I was departing the plane, headed for customs. The line was short. Sooner than expected, I was on my way to the baggage claim to meet my guide, Kendra McPherson. Kendra was a PhD candidate in archaeology at the University of Edinburgh. Our areas of interest overlapped. Hers focused on Scotland’s standing stone circles, many of which dated to a similar period as the carved stone balls I had chosen to study.
This would be our first in-person meeting, but our frequent emails mapping out my itinerary had made me feel as though I already knew her. In our last exchange, she’d surprised me by getting personal, confiding her anguish over a recent split with the fellow she’d been dating on and off for a couple of years. I had offered my sympathy, having no inkling I would be next in line for heartbreak.
“How were your flights?” A good-looking fellow standing by the carousel, his T-shirt and khaki shorts showing off well-muscled arms and legs, flashed me a smile.
“Okay.” My reply was clipped. I wasn’t in the market for a baggage-claim buddy.
“You’re Ellen Byrne, right?”
Stiffening, I turned to look at him directly. “How do you know my name?”
“I was told you’d stand out in a crowd,” he said, his cool gray eyes sweeping over me.
“Who told you that?” The only ones in Scotland who knew what I looked like were Kendra McPherson and Sid Waterhouse, who ran the guide agency where Kendra worked. Kendra had seen my Google profile image. Sid had a copy of my passport photo and details. Female. Born January 22, 1999, in Brooklyn. Brown hair. Green eyes.
No mention of a turned-up Irish nose and the freckles I’d hated ever since I was a kid.
“Sid Waterhouse,” he said, confirming what I had already figured out. “By the way, I’m James Duncan. Sid sent me.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting Kendra McPherson.”
“I know you were expecting Kendra but—”
“Where is she?” I didn’t like the idea of a sudden switch.
“I’m her replacement. Sorry you weren’t warned. Kendra tested positive for Covid yesterday. But don’t worry, the agency briefed me on your itinerary. I know all the areas you’re wanting to visit. Grew up not far from here. Local lad,” he added, a slight Scottish accent the evidence of his claim.
I struggled to process this new wrinkle in my plans. Given Kendra’s background in archaeology, she would have been a tremendous resource—especially now that Paul was out of the picture. What could this fellow offer beyond taxiing me around from one spot to the next? Academically speaking, I was on my own.
“I hope Kendra will be okay,” I said, moving past my disappointment long enough to feel a modicum of concern for my guide-in-absentia.
“Her sister’s taking care of her.”
“Good that she’s got someone.”
I turned to the carousel just in time to grab my suitcase before it sped by. No sense wishing things were different. All I could do was hope my new guide would prove adequate to the task.
“This is my only suitcase, so we can go,” I said, pulling up the long handle. “I’m staying at the Bay Hotel. It’s a decent place, right?”
“Aye, decent enough. And not too long a drive. We should be there in twenty minutes.” He nodded toward my suitcase. “Let me take that for you.”
“I can manage, thanks.”
“Mind if I help with these?” he said, proceeding to scoop up my camera bag and small carry-on.
Following him to the exit, my mixed emotions resurfaced. I would have preferred Kendra, though apparently this fellow was also a native of the area. Still, it was disconcerting that nothing had turned out as planned.
A fresh wave of apprehension swept over me. What else would go wrong? Maybe this whole trip was destined to be one giant bust.
And my thesis not so brilliant after all.
What Time Has Kept by Elizabeth Hutchinson Bernard is not only a suspenseful and informative dual-era mystery featuring ancient carved stone balls uncovered in Scotland, but an emotional tale of two academic women separated by more than 100 years earning their spots in history. In the late 1800s, Christian Maclagan, an antiquarian in Stirling, Scotland, struggles to get a foothold in the male-dominated field of archaeology, while performing immaculate and extensive research into the ancient stone structures that stand across the Scottish landscape. Her life and many of her experiences mirror the contemporary story of Ellen Byrne, a graduate student in archaeology from the US, who is in Scotland to further her thesis on the mysterious and ancient tennis-ball-sized carved stone balls that had been uncovered in the same region. Both have tragedy marring their pasts and must face their memories to overcome current challenges in their way.
The author has crafted an engrossing dual timeline tale that is both suspenseful and full of history and speculation about the mysterious carved stone artifacts: an example of which is the “Towie Ball” found near Aberdeenshire, Scotland. The challenges the two women face, operating in a male–dominated field, are skillfully woven into each woman’s story as they strive to belong, participate, and reach their goals. Living over 100 years apart, the attitudes they face are unfortunately quite similar.
At the time of the story, Christian is a strong, single woman in her 60s, experienced in dealing with the prevailing attitudes of the time, and because she has the financial means, is not shy about going head-to-head with her male opponents or funding her own research trips. Ellen, in her early 20s, is just breaking into the field and has up till now depended upon her academic advisor, who is also her lover, to help open doors. When he abruptly breaks things off with her on the eve of her big research trip to Scotland, she is momentarily left adrift. However, she gathers herself, despite additional setbacks in her arrangements and forges on, gradually learning to determine her own fate on her own terms.
The dual-era plot is compelling, and the descriptions of time and place are vivid and full of atmosphere. While Christian can be a prickly character and Ellen gullible at times, they are engaging and easy to get behind. Both women faced tragedy as children, including loss of a parent and sexual assault, so readers who are sensitive to these topics should take this into consideration. I recommend WHAT TIME HAS KEPT to readers of historical mysteries and fiction, especially those who enjoy dual timeline tales and archaeological themed stories