The Janus Stone

by Elly Griffiths

  Hecate. The three-headed goddess.

  13th June Ides

  I am Agamemnon. I am the master of the house. Magister mundi sum. The responsibility is mine and, naturally, as the Master, I have certain duties. Did Agamemnon enjoy making the sacrifice demanded of him? No, but he did it just the same. Sometimes you just have to do what must be done. It is lonely being the master of the house and I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t wish that it could go back to the way it was. That I didn’t have to do this thing. But the gods must be appeased. That’s what no one understands. Agamemnon needed a fair wind for Troy. I need our walls to be safe. It comes to the same thing in the end.

  CHAPTER 14

  The police pathologist is young and exhaustingly enthusiastic. He is called Chris Stevenson and Ruth knows him only by sight. She knew the previous pathologist better; a charming old-world type who always wore a bow tie and velvet slippers. Stevenson bounds into the autopsy room on puffy American sneakers, his white coat flapping behind him. The old world is obviously gone for ever.

  ‘Dr Galloway! Come to give us your expert opinions?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ says Ruth tightly.

  She knows that today’s post-mortem will be a battle. In a normal autopsy, Stevenson would be the expert. He is a flamboyant practitioner who likes, for example, to remove the internal organs in one block rather than in four groups, as is usual. Nelson describes a previous autopsy where Stevenson gestured so theatrically with his scalpel that two police probationers fainted. Stevenson also likes to talk all the time, a constant stream of information, observation and free-association chat in the manner of a Sunday morning DJ – albeit a DJ primarily concerned with blood, guts and medical incisions. Nelson loathes him, Ruth knows.

  But, today, there are only bones – dry, academic bones. There is no need for any cutting or sawing or dramatic flourishes. And Ruth will be the expert. Stevenson will conduct the examination but he will be forced to defer to Ruth at every turn. No wonder his flow of humorous commentary has a slightly brittle edge this morning. Ruth says nothing. She is looking at the bones already laid out on the dissection table. Such a small skeleton. Such a little life.

  Nelson arrives late, earning him a jokey ‘nice of you to join us’ from Stevenson.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ growls Nelson. He looks unfamiliar in his surgical scrubs, a plastic hat over his dark hair. Probably the most unflattering garments in the world, thinks Ruth, aware that she looks like a large green barrage balloon.

  A technologist photographs the bones which have been laid out in an anatomically correct position. Then Stevenson begins his examination, barking his comments into a handheld recorder. Ruth stands at the opposite side of the stainless steel table, taking each bone from Stevenson as he finishes with it and occasionally adding her own comments. Nelson stands behind Ruth, shifting from foot to foot like a restive horse.

  ‘… epiphyses still detached… cartilaginous plate not yet ossified… size of the long bones indicates a child… would you say that it’s male or female, Dr Galloway?’

  Ruth is looking at the pelvic bones. The female pelvis is shallower and broader than the male but this is not yet obvious in a pre-pubescent skeleton. She examines the sciatic notch, which is shorter and deeper in males. Again, this is barely detectable in a child.

  ‘Female, I’d say.’

  ‘Would you? That’s interesting.’ From this, Ruth concludes that Stevenson disagrees.

  ‘… trauma on sternum and third rib… what would you say that was, Dr Galloway?’

  ‘Looks like a knife mark.’

  ‘A knife mark the lady says, we’ll see…’

  Stevenson turns to the skull. ‘External trauma to the cervical vertebrae…’

  An axe, thinks Ruth. The head was cut off with an instrument like an axe and, like the cat, it was done by cutting from the front.

  ‘Cause of death – decapitation?’ suggests Stevenson.

  ‘Poena post-mortem,’ says Ruth shortly, turning to Nelson.

  ‘Mutilation after death. The head was cut off later. It was cut from the front, death by decapitation is nearly always achieved by cutting from the back.’

  Stevenson grunts. ‘Interesting theory. What do you think Detective Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Stabbed in the chest, beheaded. One thing’s certain; it sure as hell wasn’t suicide.’

  Stevenson laughs, turning back to the skull. ‘No eruption of permanent teeth…’ Ruth looks round at Nelson. No adult teeth – this means the skull is almost definitely less than six years old. ‘Filling on lower left first molar occlusal…’

  This is interesting. It proves for one thing that the body is relatively modern (although fillings apparently existed in ancient China, it is only in the last hundred years that they have been in common use). Also, fillings are rare in such a young child. The composition will give valuable clues about dating.

  Ruth leans forward.

  ‘Thoughts about the filling, Dr Galloway?’

  ‘I’d like a forensic dentistry expert to look at it.’

  ‘Anyone in mind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The examination is almost over. Stevenson takes samples for carbon-14 dating and Ruth fills in her skeleton sheets: post-cranial non-metrics, pathology, conclusions… Her back aches from standing up so long but she doesn’t want to ask for a seat and risk Stevenson’s contempt and Nelson’s suspicion. Does he suspect? She can’t allow herself to think so.

  ‘Do you want a bet on the dating,’ asks Stevenson, ‘five years each way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll take some samples for DNA testing as well.’

  ‘Will you get any DNA?’ asks Nelson sceptically, looking at the dry bones.

  ‘Maybe,’ says Ruth, ‘but DNA can be damaged by immersion in earth. We may not get a good enough sample.’

  ‘We will,’ says Stevenson. ‘Well, show’s over, folks.’

  In the ante-room, Ruth changes out of her scrubs and washes her hands thoroughly. Although there was no blood in this post-mortem she still feels grubby and slightly sordid. Maybe it’s just overexposure to Chris Stevenson.

  Nelson’s head appears round the door. ‘Christ, thank God that’s over. Bloke’s a complete tosser. Fancy a coffee?’

  Ruth hesitates. Though the thought of coffee makes her feel sick, she would like, very much to go to a cosy café with Nelson but she has something else she has to do this morning.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘I’ve got an appointment.’

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  This is a question with so many layers that Ruth is momentarily struck dumb. She is manifestly on her own as she has presented herself at the hospital without anyone accompanying her. But she is doubly on her own as the father of her child does not even know she is pregnant. She thinks of Nelson as she saw him that morning, at the post-mortem, and tries to imagine him at her side, doting and supportive. No, it just doesn’t work. Even if Nelson did know, even if they were, in some unimaginable way, together, he would still spend his time looking at his watch and longing to be back at the station. What about her mum? She tries to picture her mother, cosy and smiling, offering advice and encouragement, telling her not to do too much and to eat ginger biscuits if she feels sick. No, even less likely. Shona? She would spend all her time flicking her hair about and making eyes at the doctors. Funnily enough, the only person she can actually imagine at her side is Cathbad. At least he’d be kind, although the purple cloak might prove a trifle embarrassing.

  ‘Yes. I’m on my own.’

  The nurse ushers Ruth into a room with a bed and a contraption like a TV screen. Another woman stands by the screen, nonchalantly chewing gum. Ruth is reminded uncomfortably of the autopsy room. Only this time she is the body on the slab. Don’t be morbid, she tells herself. This is a perfectly routine procedure. So is an autopsy, persists the voice inside her head.

  The nurse tells Ruth to
undo her trousers, and rubs gel onto her stomach. Ruth squirms. She hates being touched on her stomach and avoids massages and beauty treatments like the plague. ‘Relax!’ she remembers a masseuse once saying to her. Eccentric she knows but, for Ruth, having some manicured stranger kneading your shoulder blades whilst chatting about their holidays is the very opposite of relaxing.

  The other woman now places something like the end of a stethoscope onto Ruth’s stomach, pressing quite hard. Ruth has been told not to go to the loo before the scan and the pressure is really very uncomfortable. For a second she feels like jumping off the bed and heading for the nearest Ladies. But then she sees that the screen is full of what look like wispy grey clouds. In the centre of the clouds something is moving.

  Ruth has seen scans before – of bones and other archaeological objects. She knows that the high-frequency sound waves bounce off solid objects. She knows how to look at degrees of light and shade, to assess density and structure. But this – this is something quite different. This collection of dark circles, moving slowly on the screen, this is both completely incomprehensible and suddenly utterly real. This is her baby.

  ‘That’s the baby’s heart,’ says the woman, speaking for the first time and pushing the gum into the corner of her mouth. She points towards four black, pulsating circles.

  ‘That’s its spine.’ Ruth sees a slender white line moving across the screen. For some inexplicable reason, tears come to her eyes. Then she remembers something.

  ‘Can you tell if it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘Not at this scan. We’ll probably be able to tell at the next one, at about twenty weeks.’

  But looking at the screen through swimming eyes, Ruth is convinced that the baby is a boy. There is something masculine, almost jaunty, about the little figure swimming around in her womb. The woman points at another part of the screen. ‘Long legs. Has your partner got long legs?’

  Has Nelson got long legs? Ruth imagines him striding from place to place, impatient, eager to get to the next job. He is tall, presumably his legs are long. Longer than Ruth’s, certainly. Then, suddenly, it hits her for the first time. This baby is half his. Up until this point, she has thought of the baby as entirely hers, has even thought that it is the only thing in the world that is really hers. But it is not hers. For a second she sees the shape on the screen as completely alien – a male, a miniature Nelson. She closes her eyes.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes… just a little sick.’

  ‘That’s OK. It often happens. We’re done anyhow.’ She hands Ruth some scratchy paper towels to clean her stomach and Ruth sits up slowly.

  ‘I’ll print off an image for you to take home.’

  ‘An image?’ Ruth looks at her blankly.

  ‘Of the baby! To show your partner.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

  Ruth drives slowly back to the university, aware that she is doing the whole mirror/signal/manoeuvre thing with more care than at any time since her driving test. She keeps to the two-second rule and is so slow passing a bicycle that the car behind her hoots impatiently. She knows that she is driving like an old lady in a hat but she can’t help herself. She is filled with the overwhelming realisation that she is carrying another human being inside her. A human being, moreover, with its own personality and its father’s long legs. She is its vehicle, carrying it smoothly from A to B, making sure that she gives all the right signals and doesn’t crash into an oncoming lorry. How will she keep it up, a journey of nine months, never exceeding the speed limit, no Little Chef to stop at on the way? Perhaps she’ll get used to it in time…

  Term is over for the students. She sees them everywhere: carrying cases into cars, having tearful farewells in doorways, writing loving messages on each other’s T-shirts. Get over it, Ruth wants to say. You’ll see each other again in September. But she can remember what it’s like to have the whole summer stretching ahead of you: working, travelling, lounging around annoying your parents. Four months is an eternity when you’re eighteen. By the time the students come back, Ruth will be seven months pregnant. According to the printout in her bag, her baby is due on the first of November.

  The students may be on holiday but Ruth isn’t. She has dissertations to mark and lectures for next year to prepare. She climbs the stairs to her office and is touched to find two of her students loitering outside to say goodbye. Ruth teaches postgraduates who are usually on a one-year MA course so this really is the last time she will see them, especially as these two are from the States (she has a lot of overseas students; the university needs the money).

  ‘Goodbye… good luck… keep in touch… come and see us if you’re ever in Wisconsin…’

  Extracting herself, Ruth opens her door and begins collecting papers and books. Seeing her office with its Indiana Jones poster, its piles of books and examination scripts, gives her a genuine glow of pleasure. At least here she’s Dr Ruth Galloway, Archaeologist, not Ms Ruth Galloway expectant mother (elderly expectant mother, she’d been horrified to see on her notes). She is an academic, a professional, a person in her own right. She’ll spend a few restful few days at home, reading about bones, decomposition and death.

  ‘Ruth! How are you?’ It is Phil.

  Phil now knows about her pregnancy and is being supportive. He expresses this by talking in a hushed voice and asking her how she is at every opportunity.

  ‘How was it?’ He means the scan (she had to tell him as attending meant she missed the end-of-term lunch) but Ruth chooses to misunderstand.

  ‘The post-mortem? OK. The new pathologist is a bit over-keen, jumps to conclusions too much-’

  ‘I meant… the hospital.’

  ‘Oh, fine thanks.’

  ‘No problems?’

  ‘No.’

  Phil stands in the doorway, smiling annoyingly. Ruth longs to get rid of him.

  ‘Going away this summer?’ asks Phil.

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Well…’ Phil looks embarrassed. ‘Sue and I might get away to our place in France for a few days.’ Ruth wonders what Shona thinks about this. The latest from Shona is that Phil will leave his wife ‘after the final examiners’ meeting’. Why this fairly arbitrary date was chosen, Ruth has no idea; she only knows that Shona clings to it like the promise of the second coming. And if Phil does leave Sue, she thinks cynically, Shona’s problems are only just beginning.

  ‘Are you planning to drop in on the Swaffham site today?’ asks Phil, changing the subject with alacrity. ‘I hear they’re coming up with some interesting stuff.’

  ‘I might do.’ In fact, she is planning to go straight home. Her back aches and she longs to lie down. But Phil is enthusiastic about Max’s dig. The Romans are always worth a lottery grant or two, maybe even a TV appearance.

  ‘Great. Could you pick up some soil samples?’

  Damn, now she will have to make the detour into Swaffham and spend ages faffing about with sample bags. Why can’t Phil do it? Probably off to meet Shona.

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  It is almost dark by the time she reaches the site. There are no cars parked on the churned-up earth at the bottom of the bank and Ruth is not sure if she feels pleased or disappointed. She hasn’t seen Max since the Imbolc night and wonders whether it will be awkward when she does. Did the kiss mean anything to him? Probably not, probably in Brighton they kiss each other at every opportunity. But she knows she has been thinking about it. Not all the time, she has too many other things on her plate, but certainly more than is comfortable. All in all, she is pleased to have the place to herself.

  Getting a torch from her car, she climbs the slope to the site. Clearly the students have been working hard. Three new trenches have been dug and small piles of stones indicate that new buildings have been discovered. It looks as if there really was a small settlement here or, at the very least, a villa and surrounding buildings. Intrigued, Ruth moves closer.

  She realises that she is in the very trench that M
ax first showed her but now it has been extended to expose a corner of a wall, plus what look like the remains of under-floor heating. This must mean that this was an important house. She also sees a corner of mosaic. She spares a thought for the people who settled here, on this exposed hillside, two thousand years ago. Were they Romano-British or Romans in exile? No wonder they had wanted heating, thinks Ruth, shivering in the evening air.

  She is about to leave when, out of habit, she runs her torch along the foundation level of bricks, looking for anything strange or unusual. And then she sees it. Tiny reddish brown writing, less than an inch high. At first she can’t make it out, though the letters look very familiar. Then she realises that the words are written upside down. Craning her head round, she reads: ‘Ruth Galloway’.

  Afterwards she is not sure quite why this spooked her so much. In a funny way it was the very size of the words, as if some tiny, evil creature has crept in amongst the stone and rubble and written her name. Why? She has only the most tenuous link to this site. Why would anyone go to the trouble of writing her name, upside down, in letters so small they can hardly be seen, on the wall of some obscure archaeological site? She doesn’t know but she knows she isn’t about to hang around and meet the poison dwarf in person. She stands up, heart hammering.

  As she does so, she has the strongest sensation that someone is watching her. She swings round, the torch making a wide, panicked arc around her. ‘Who’s there?’

  No answer but footsteps, definite footsteps, coming towards her, walking over the gravel in one of the trenches. Ruth scrambles out of her trench and shines her torch out into the darkness. Now she hears another noise. A slow, steady panting. Someone is breathing, very near her.