The Janus Stone

by Elly Griffiths

  The man straightens up. ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ he says, as if the introduction will make all the difference. ‘I’m Edward Spens.’

  That figures. The famous Edward Spens no doubt considers that Ruth’s trench, like the rest of the site, belongs to him.

  ‘Ruth Galloway.’ Ruth forces herself to smile up at him.

  She feels at a disadvantage being so low down.

  ‘So these are the fateful bones.’

  Fateful, thinks Ruth. It’s a funny way of describing the find but somehow appropriate. She sees Spens’ intelligent eyes fixed on her face. She must be careful not to give too much away.

  ‘This is the skeleton, yes.’

  ‘And have you any idea how old it is?’

  ‘Not yet. We might find some clues in the fill.’

  ‘The fill?’

  ‘The grave,’ says Ruth, thinking how emotive the word is. But that is what they have found: a grave, where a body is buried. ‘We might find bricks or pottery,’ she explains. ‘I thought I saw a shard from a bottle. That can be dated. And we’ll do radiocarbon dating, though that’s less useful when dealing with a modern skeleton.’

  ‘What exactly does radiocarbon dating involve?’ Edward Spens smiles down charmingly.

  ‘It tests the amount of carbon in the bones. When we’re alive, we take in carbon fourteen. When we die, we stop. By estimating when these bones stopped taking in carbon fourteen, we’ll be able to estimate the age of the skeleton.’

  ‘Fascinating. How accurate is it?’

  ‘To about plus or minus five per cent.’ Then, relenting slightly, ‘Other factors affect the carbon dating but we can be accurate to about a hundred years.’

  ‘A hundred years! That’s not very accurate.’

  ‘There are other indicators,’ says Ruth, slightly irritated. ‘Recent bones still contain blood pigment and amino acids, for example. We’ll be able to tell if these remains are medieval or relatively modern.’

  The older man, who has been looking around him with every appearance of pleasure, now says, ‘You know this used to be a church?’

  ‘My father, Sir Roderick Spens,’ introduces Edward. ‘He’s very interested in history.’ He says this in a resigned way, as if ferrying his elderly father to sites of archaeological interest is not his preferred way of passing the time.

  Roderick Spens doffs his hat with a flourish. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  Ruth smiles. She thinks she prefers Sir Roderick’s interest to Edward’s barely concealed impatience.

  ‘They say that a church used to stand here,’ Roderick Spens explains. ‘Probably destroyed during the dissolution of the monasteries, gravestones broken up, stained glass smashed, gold and silver melted down.’

  Ruth thinks of the workman smashing the windows in the conservatory and the momentary regret she had felt for those coloured pieces of glass, for the destruction of anything that was once prized. ‘We found a chalice yesterday,’ she says, ‘probably 1400s or thereabouts. Some beautiful work on it.’

  Sir Roderick’s eyes gleam. ‘Now that I’d like to see.’

  ‘It’s back at the university,’ says Ruth, ‘but I’m sure we could arrange-’

  ‘Now, Dad,’ says Edward warningly, ‘we don’t want to bother Miss Galloway.’

  ‘Dr Galloway,’ corrects Ruth mildly, ‘and it’s no bother.’

  ‘Strange to think, Dr Galloway,’ the older man leans forward, deliberately, it seems, excluding his son, ‘that this church was destroyed by Henry the Eighth yet later became a Catholic children’s home.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ruth is not particularly interested in the age-old struggle between Catholic and Protestant. To her, all religions are as bad as each other. Though at least Catholicism has nicer pictures.

  ‘Do the police think these bones are linked to the home?’ asks Edward.

  ‘As far as I know they’re keeping an open mind,’ says Ruth. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me…’

  She turns back to the bones and, after a second or two, Edward Spens takes his father by the arm and leads him away.

  Nelson does not arrive until late afternoon, by which time Ruth has finished cataloguing the bones and is helping Trace in one of the trenches at the back of the house. They have found some Roman pottery and what looks like a signet ring. So this site, like the one on the hills, was also once Roman. Hardly surprising, thinks Ruth, and yet the link disturbs her slightly.

  Nelson is accompanied by Clough and a sandy-haired man with a furrowed brow under his hard hat. Clough, Ruth is interested to note, peels off immediately to talk to Trace. Nelson and the other man approach Ruth.

  ‘Dr Ruth Galloway,’ Nelson’s introductions are always brusque, ‘Kevin Davies. Mr Davies was once resident at the Sacred Heart Children’s Home.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much left of the original building,’ says Ruth. And there will soon be less, if Edward Spens has his way.

  Davies has a misty, far-away look about him. ‘This was the conservatory,’ he says, ‘and over there we had a swing and a tree house. There was a wishing well too. We used to play football on the lawn. Father Hennessey was a really good player. He could have been a professional.’

  Nelson rolls his eyes. The last thing he needs is to be told that Father Hennessey, on top of all his other virtues, was Norfolk’s answer to Pelé.

  ‘Do you remember a pet cemetery?’ ask Ruth. ‘Or anywhere where pets might have been buried.’

  Davies looks at her with mild blue eyes. ‘No. Sister James was allergic to animals so we couldn’t even have a cat. We had a canary though. Lovely cheerful little thing.’

  ‘Why don’t you have a look round, Mr Davies,’ says Nelson. ‘Refresh your memory.’

  Davies wanders off and Ruth climbs out of the trench. She sees Nelson looking at her strangely and realises that she must, by now, be both sweaty and mud-stained. Well, there’s not much she can do about it. Her back is killing her too.

  ‘If I have to hear once more that Father Hennessey is a saint who walks on water in his spare time, I’m going to go mad,’ says Nelson as they walk away from the trench.

  ‘Bit of a fan, is he?’ asks Ruth, indicating Davies, who is staring at the ruins of the kitchen garden with a rather shell-shocked look on his face.

  ‘A fan! According to him Father Hennessey is a combination of Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela and Winnie-the-bloody-Pooh.’

  Ruth laughs. ‘Have you met him, this Father Hennessey?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Nelson hesitates. ‘Seems a nice enough chap. Big, strong man he must have been when he was young. Strong character too, I think. Razor sharp.’

  ‘So, any suspicious deaths at the children’s home?’ asks Ruth lightly. To her surprise, Nelson answers soberly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, a disappearance. Two children. Martin and Elizabeth Black. Vanished without a trace in 1973.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Twelve and five.’

  They look at each other, thinking of the little skeleton under the door.

  ‘Do you think it’s her?’ asks Ruth.

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

  Ruth thinks of the size of the bones. ‘Yes. But that would mean…’

  ‘That she was killed by someone at the home? Yes.’

  ‘Do you really think that might have happened?’

  ‘Well, we won’t know until you’ve done your dating but… I don’t know, Ruth. There’s something funny about this place. Something’s not right. Something smells funny. And what was all that about a pet cemetery?’

  ‘We found the skeleton of a cat buried by the back wall.’

  ‘Probably just the final resting place of some old moggy.’

  ‘Its head was cut off. No sign of the skull.’

  Nelson whistles soundlessly. ‘Bloody hell. Do you think there’s any connection?’

  ‘Probably not but I’ll have a l
ook at the bones back at the lab.’

  ‘This case gets wackier and wackier.’

  ‘Well,’ says Ruth, not wanting to be drawn, remembering her ridiculous fears yesterday, ‘there could be all sorts of explanations for the bones. In fact, considering that there was supposed to be a churchyard somewhere around here, it’s surprising we haven’t found more.’

  ‘But a decapitated cat,’ Nelson raises his eyebrows, ‘that doesn’t strike you as odd?’

  ‘There’s sure to be a logical explanation,’ persists Ruth. Nelson is still looking at her oddly. She can feel herself going red. Ruth has always had trouble with blushing and it seems to have got worse during the last few weeks. Feeling the blood pumping into her cheeks, she ducks her head. ‘Edward Spens was here earlier,’ she says. ‘With his dad.’

  At least this diverts Nelson’s attention away from her. He kicks viciously at an upended paving stone.

  ‘Interfering bastard,’ he says. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To interfere, I suspect. His dad was sweet though. Very interested in history. He was talking about the church that was meant to have been here.’

  ‘Father Hennessey mentioned it too. Said it used to cure lepers.’

  Ruth thinks of St Hugh’s decapitated skull, performing miracles on its own, of St Bridget’s cross, holy fires and sacred wells. Fairy tales all of them but, like fairy tales, curiously compelling.

  ‘They’re Catholics, you know,’ says Nelson suddenly, ‘the Spens family. Edward Spens was telling me. His grandfather converted sometime in the fifties.’

  ‘I thought there was something odd about him,’ says Ruth.

  They are walking back towards the archway, where Kevin Davies is now standing, looking sadly at the devastation all around him. Ruth stops and takes a gulp from her water bottle.

  Nelson puts his hand on her arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  The sudden kindness in his voice makes the blood rush to her head again.

  ‘Fine,’ she snaps, ‘just hot.’

  ‘Hot?’ says Nelson. ‘It’s never hot in Norfolk.’ And he bounds away across the rubble.

  11 June Day sacred to Fortuna Virgo

  I suppose I have always known that I am special. Even before all this happened and the curse fell upon us, I always knew that the Gods had something special in store for me. It’s not just that I am clever (though my Intelligence Quotient is in excess of 140), it is more that I understand. When I read Pliny or Catullus the gods are not just names to me, they are real. Their power and might overshadows all that comes after – the puny love-feast of Christianity, the ridiculous modern gods of horoscopes and hypnotism and the moving pictures. The Roman gods are logical and that is why I like them. If you kill, you must make amends in blood, a life for a life. Blood can be cancelled out but only by blood. The gods demand their sacrifices but, unlike modern gods, they do not demand more than their due. If you sacrifice correctly, the past is wiped out, made clean.

  Soon I will be alone in the house (well, apart from the women and children who do not count) and then maybe I will have the chance to do what must be done. In the meantime I must keep my strength up, eat healthily, more meat and less potato. Caesar himself would not have been able to function on the diet I eat. Must speak to Cook about this.

  CHAPTER 11

  By the time Ruth gets in her car, her back feels like it is splitting in two. She wedges her jumper at the base of her spine and thinks that it is only a matter of time before she has a little corduroy lumbar cushion and thus becomes officially middle-aged.

  She drives to the university to drop off the animal bones. As she gets the box out of the car she wonders whether lugging bones about is ideal behaviour for a pregnant woman. Funny but they don’t mention that in the books. Ruth estimates that she is now thirteen weeks pregnant. She is having a scan next week which should, apparently, give a more accurate date. Maybe then, at last, the whole thing will start to seem real.

  She is so deep in thought that she doesn’t notice the white-coated figure coming in the other direction.

  ‘Sorry!’

  Thank goodness, she doesn’t drop the box but the effort causes her to fall to her knees. The white-coated man helps her up.

  ‘Ruth! Are you OK?’

  It is Cathbad.

  When he is in his full Druid outfit, complete with flowing purple cloak, Cathbad can look impressive, even magnificent. Now, with his greying hair drawn back in a ponytail, white coat, jeans and trainers, he looks like any other ageing hippy who has finally found a nine-to-five job. Ruth is pleased to see him though. Despite everything, she is fond of Cathbad.

  ‘I’m all right.’ She gets to her feet rather slowly, annoyed to find herself slightly out of breath.

  ‘Are you taking those to the lab? I’ll help you.’

  Ruth hands over the box though still keeps hold of her precious rucksack.‘Did you get my email?’ asks Cathbad as they walk along the deserted corridor. It is nearly six o’clock and most of the students, and a lot of the lecturers, have gone home.

  ‘About Imbolc? Yes.’

  ‘Are you going to come?’

  ‘Yes. Is it OK if I bring a friend?’

  ‘Of course. The beach belongs to everyone.’

  He smiles modestly but Ruth knows that Cathbad regards this particular stretch of beach, where the henge was discovered, as very much his personal property.

  ‘He’s an archaeologist. I think you’ll like him.’

  ‘Is he the chap from Sussex? I’ve heard good things about him.’

  Impressed by Cathbad’s spy system (or sixth sense), Ruth asks, ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘Oh, that he’s got an open mind. That he’s respecting the spirits. That sort of thing.’

  Ruth wonders which spirits Cathbad means. Earth spirits, nature spirits, household spirits – there’s a wealth of choice for the truly open-minded. She decides not to enquire further. They have reached the lab and Ruth locks the animal bones in the safe. Tomorrow she will clean them and examine them further.

  Cathbad is waiting for her outside. ‘You look tired,’ he says as they walk back towards the car park.

  ‘I’ve had a long day. Been working on site.’

  ‘Even so,’ Cathbad reaches out to take her rucksack, ‘you ought to be careful, in your condition.’

  Ruth stops dead. The rucksack, which she had not quite relinquished, falls to the floor.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Cathbad looks back at her innocently. ‘Just that you should be careful. Especially in the early months.’

  Ruth opens her mouth and then shuts it again. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s fairly obvious,’ says Cathbad, ‘to the trained eye.’

  ‘Since when have you had a trained eye?’

  ‘Well, I’m a scientist,’ says Cathbad, sounding offended, ‘and an observer.’

  ‘And you guessed just from observing me for a few minutes?’

  ‘Well, I saw you the other day on campus and I thought… maybe. When I saw you today, I was sure.’

  Ruth does not like the implications of this. If Cathbad has noticed, who else has realised? Phil? Her colleagues? Nelson?

  ‘How far on are you?’ Cathbad asks chattily, as they push through the swing doors.

  ‘Thirteen weeks.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Cathbad is obviously doing the sums. ‘A Scorpio baby.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Ruth is never sure which star sign is which. She is Cancer, home-loving and caring according to the books, which proves that it’s all crap. They have reached Ruth’s car and Cathbad hands over the rucksack.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ruth slings it into the back seat. ‘See you on Friday.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Cathbad. ‘Tell me, Ruth, does Nelson know?’

  ‘Does Nelson know what?’

  ‘About the baby.’

  Ruth looks hard at Cathbad who stares guilelessly back. There is no one on earth who knows about her night with Nelson. Cathbad
must surely be fishing in the dark.

  ‘No. Why should he?’

  ‘No reason.’ Cathbad raises his hand in a cheery gesture of farewell. ‘Take care of yourself, Ruth. See you on Friday.’

  After her brush with Cathbad’s sixth sense, Ruth is in the mood for solitude as she negotiates the narrow road across the marshes. But even from a distance she can see that she has company. A low-slung sports car is parked by her gate and a flash of brilliant red hair is visible in the driving seat.

  Shona. Once Shona was Ruth’s closest friend in Norfolk, perhaps her closest ever friend. But then the Saltmarsh case came up and, along with everything else in Ruth’s life, her friendship with Shona was thrown into disarray. Ruth discovered things about Shona’s past that made her wonder if she had ever really known her friend at all. Worse, she felt betrayed. But somehow they have survived. Shared grief over Erik, a shared sense of regret and a desire to salvage something positive from that terrible time, have drawn them together again. Perhaps they are not quite as open with each other as they once were. Ruth can’t forget that Shona lied to her, by omission at least, for almost ten years. Shona feels that Ruth judged her too harshly for those lies. But they need each other. Neither has another close confidante and friends are precious. Ruth’s slight sense of irritation at the disruption of her solitude has almost dissipated by the time that she has parked her car behind Shona’s.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Shona hugs her. She is wearing a witchy green dress that billows in the wind from the sea. Her hair flies out in fiery points. Shona’s beauty sometimes makes Ruth feel almost angry; at other times it makes it possible to forgive her anything.

  ‘At the university.’

  ‘You work too hard.’

  Shona is also a lecturer at the university, in the English department. Over the past ten years she has embarked on a series of disastrous affairs with married colleagues and is currently involved with Ruth’s boss, Phil. Ruth hopes that she is not in for an in-depth analysis of Phil’s prowess as a lover and the likelihood of his leaving his wife. The thought of making love to Phil would make her feel sick even if she wasn’t pregnant and in her opinion his marriage to Sue, a dull aromatherapist, will endure for ever.