A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  Caroline doesn’t have that problem. She and Tamsin are actually very alike – striking without being beautiful – but where Tamsin’s dark hair is usually pulled back into a neat chignon, Caroline’s is often loose and slightly unkempt. And while Tamsin always looks smart, Caroline slops around in jodhpurs or weird hippy dresses. And Caroline is so intense, always getting into a state about something or another. Animal rights, racehorses shipped off to die in Belgium, abandoned greyhounds, the ageold wrongs of every godforsaken tribe in the world. Her schooldays were one long drama of tears and tantrums, professions of love and hate. Caroline hadn’t gone to university, she’d travelled the world instead and come back with a whole new list of things to care about. That’s all fine, but why does she look at him as if he’s the one responsible for the world’s ills? He didn’t wipe out the bloody American Indians, for God’s sake. And why hasn’t Caroline got a boyfriend? Always hanging out with that shaven-haired girl from the university. Maybe she’s… But Danforth’s imagination doesn’t stretch that far.

  He sighs and goes downstairs to make some cocoa. He’ll put a swig of brandy in it too.

  Randolph is in a bar, a very different drinking establishment from Caroline’s. The lighting is subdued, the ambiance expensive. Two burly bouncers at the door stop passing riff-raff getting further than the gold ropes. Randolph drinks a glass of champagne without noticing, as if it’s medicine. The first glass is free, to soften the fact that the rest of the drinks cost the equivalent of a two-bedroomed house (with garage). Randolph doesn’t really notice the prices either. There’s plenty in the bank, and if there isn’t, what are overdrafts for? He’s thinking about Clary, his current girlfriend. She’s developed an awful habit of ringing him up on a Monday night. Monday nights are meant to be sacrosanct. And she’s been making ominous noises about meeting his parents. Sunday lunch at home with Mummy and Daddy, Dad bellyaching about the cost of hay, Caroline brooding on the world’s wrongs, horse shit all over the place. It’s just not going to happen.

  ‘Drinking alone?’ The question comes from a young man in his twenties, vaguely Russian-looking, with a shaven head and definite biceps.

  ‘Not now,’ says Randolph.

  Romilly Smith downs her beer in one gulp. She’d like another but she has to drive home and, besides, she needs her head to deal with this lot.

  ‘Violence has to be justifiable,’ she says. ‘I’m not against it. I just think we need to choose our moment. And we have to make a case for it.’

  Her audience, two men and a woman, all in their twenties and dressed in various items of camouflage, look at her resentfully. Romilly, in her white trousers and grey cashmere jumper, could not look more out of place in the dingy pub with her dingy companions, but there is an air of authority about her, an indefinable sense of superiority that makes the woman address her almost respectfully as she says, ‘Who do we have to make the case to?’

  ‘To whom,’ corrects Romilly kindly. ‘To the public, of course. And to the press. Something like this can’t be hushed up and we wouldn’t want it to be. We need the publicity.’

  ‘What does it matter what the press think?’ says one of the men. ‘Bunch of Tory tossers.’

  Romilly sighs. The group are really distressingly stupid sometimes. Not that she’s got any time for Tories. She was in the Socialist Workers’ Party before this lot were even born.

  ‘It matters because they control public opinion,’ she says. ‘We have to be clever. We have to play the game. We have to spin things our way.’

  ‘Nothing matters,’ says the woman mutinously. ‘Nothing matters except the cause.’

  She sounds like Caroline in one of her sulky moods, thinks Romilly, except that Caroline would never have the guts for Direct Action. This group, for all their faults, don’t lack guts.

  ‘Of course dear,’ she says soothingly. ‘Nothing matters except the cause.’

  Danforth makes cocoa in the empty kitchen. The time on the stainless steel range says 00.15. Fifteen minutes past midnight. Though the kitchen is deserted, it isn’t quite silent. Various machines whirr and hum. The dishwasher is still ploughing through its umpteenth cycle. Ecologically unsound, says Caroline. She does all her washing up by hand. Well, she’s welcome to it. Danforth rinses a cup, mindlessly rubbing a mark from one of the shiny red units. He’s never been keen on them himself but Romilly insisted. He’d prefer an Aga like his parents had, mismatched cupboards, an old oak table. But their kitchen lies in ruins in the grounds of the park, weeds growing through the sandstone tiles where he used to lie on a summer’s day, watching the ants march under the scullery door.

  The milk starts to boil and Danforth removes it from the heat. A horse neighs outside, another answers. Danforth pauses, dripping milk onto the floor. It is rare for the horses to neigh at night. A neigh is often a warning, a signal to the rest of the herd. Perhaps he should check the CCTV cameras in Caroline’s cottage? No, it would be impossible for an intruder to get past the electric gates. Danforth pours the cocoa, blinking in the glare. Then he stops again. There shouldn’t be any glare, just the discreet spotlights above the range (Romilly is excellent at lighting). But the room is bathed in an unnatural white glow.

  The security lights are on.

  Danforth goes to the window. He can see through the arch and into the yard, see the horses heads silhouetted in the sudden brightness. Maybe a fox has got in. Only yesterday one of the lads had had some story about seeing a big cat ‘the size of a cheetah’ prowling on the edge of the wood. There are always stories about big cats, lions escaped from the nearby zoo, panthers living wild in suburban gardens. But a loose animal could disturb the horses. They need their sleep too.

  Barbours and boots are kept by the kitchen door. Danforth shrugs on a coat and treads into his gumboots. He walks quickly across the carport where his Range Rover is parked in solitary splendour. Romilly’s Fiat and Randolph’s Porsche are both missing. Romilly is probably watching a dreary film with subtitles and doubtless Randolph is out with some highly unsuitable girl, two-timing that nice Clary. Danforth walks quickly around the house. The stable cat, Lester, appears from the darkness and rubs himself round his legs. Was it Lester who sparked the rumour about the big cat?

  The yard is still lit up. Some horses are peering sleepily out of their stalls but most are hidden. The clock over the archway says twelve twenty-five. The grass is grey in the moonlight, the stable doors ghostly white. Lester runs happily along the plastic-coated hay bales, his tail in the air. There is nothing and nobody to be seen.

  Danforth Smith stomps back to the house. Maybe now he’ll be able to sleep. He’ll definitely have a brandy, perhaps a double. He stops by the back door to take off his boots. It is some minutes before he notices the dead snake on the doorstep.

  CHAPTER 9

  Morning at Slaughter Hill, and the horses are thundering over the gallops. Caroline is clinging to the saddle of a grey gelding and hoping that he’ll stop when she asks him to; she had too much to drink last night and the horse knows it, even if her father doesn’t. Danforth Smith, also feeling slightly fragile after his broken night, is in the office sorting out the declarations. He has told no one about the snake. Lester the cat found the body on the manure pile and has taken it behind the barn to investigate. Head Lad Len Harris is getting the next lot of horses ready, giving a leg up to a young jockey and thinking sourly about the immigration laws. Romilly Smith is in the bathroom, getting ready for a hard day designing curtains. Randolph is still asleep.

  Len Harris looks in through the office door.

  ‘That new boy – Ali Baba or whatever his name is – thinks a lot of himself, doesn’t he?’

  Danforth sighs. He’s not exactly politically correct himself but Len’s casual racism depresses him.

  ‘His name’s Mikelis,’ he says. ‘He’s from Latvia and he’s an excellent jockey.’

  ‘If you say so,’ grunts Len. He’s been at Slaughter Hill for twenty years and Danforth couldn’t
run the place without him. Doesn’t stop him wishing that he could sometimes.

  ‘I’ve got to be at the museum this morning,’ he says. ‘Can you manage here?’

  ‘Course I can, governor.’ Sometimes Len gives a good impersonation of a faithful old retainer. He almost tugs his forelock. It doesn’t fool Danforth for a minute, but he needs Len. Caroline is a good manager but she’s too soft with the horses, and with the owners. Randolph… but Danforth doesn’t even finish this sentence in his own head.

  ‘I’m meeting some archaeologist woman,’ he says, turning back to his paperwork. ‘Hope she’s not the squeamish type.’

  Ruth is not the squeamish type but she does hope, as she parks in front of the museum, that all traces of Neil Topham’s final agony have been cleared away. She has had roughly four hours’ sleep and doesn’t think she could cope with bloodstains or police tape. But as she approaches the entrance, the building has the smug, shuttered look of a place that has been empty for years. A sign on the door says ‘Closed Until Further Notice’.

  It doesn’t seem possible that anyone could be inside, but almost as soon as Ruth has pressed the bell the door is opened. Almost as if someone was lying in wait for her.

  ‘Dr Galloway? Danforth Smith. Do come in.’

  Ruth recognises Danforth Smith from Saturday but she can see that he has no recollection of ever having met her before. He’s polite though, almost gracious, as he ushers her through the dusty entrance hall. The museum, although it has only been closed for two days, already looks distinctly unloved. A pile of post has been pushed to one side of the door and cobwebs are starting to shroud the face of the Great Auk.

  ‘So good of you to come,’ says Danforth. ‘I’m sure you’re a very busy lady.’

  Ruth smiles. She doesn’t deny that she is busy or mention that she doesn’t like the word ‘lady’. There’s no point; Smith, like Nelson, is probably beyond re-education. Besides she’s keen to see the infamous collection.

  Danforth leads the way through the National History Room, their footsteps echoing on the black and white tiles. Ruth tries not to imagine the glass eyes following them.

  ‘When’s the museum opening again?’ she asks.

  ‘Lord knows.’ Danforth Smith stops to examine a particularly mangy badger who stares grimly back. ‘I’ve got to find a new curator and people might not be so keen to work here after what happened to poor Neil.’

  ‘Have you found out how he died? I found his body,’ she explains hastily, in case she is sounding ghoulish.

  Danforth looks at her with new interest. ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t realise. No, they haven’t said for certain. DCI Nelson mentioned something about a pulmonary haemorrhage.’

  ‘Nelson?’

  ‘Yes. The detective chappie. Rather a rough diamond but bright enough, I think.’

  ‘I know Nelson.’

  ‘I suppose you do, in the course of your work,’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well,’ Danforth turns back to the badger. ‘I got the impression that Nelson thought that Neil died from natural causes. It’s just that…’

  Ruth waits. Knowing when not to speak is one skill that she shares with Nelson.

  ‘Doctor Galloway, have you heard of the Elginists?’

  ‘Someone mentioned them to me the other day.’

  ‘Really?’ Danforth looks up and Ruth thinks that he looks tired, almost haggard. She hasn’t much liked Lord Smith up until now but suddenly she feels almost sorry for him.

  ‘About a year ago I had a letter from a group called the Elginists demanding the return of the… the artefacts I’m about to show you. It turns out that they also wrote to Neil. Terrible letters, threatening him, saying that his life was in danger.’

  Ruth’s head reels. She looks at the stuffed animals, envying them their painted idyll. Could Cathbad and his friends have written threatening letters to Neil Topham? It’s not impossible, and this realisation stirs memories that Ruth would rather have left undisturbed. Could Cathbad be involved in the curator’s death? And what about Bob Woonunga, her charming didgeridoo-playing neighbour? What’s his role in all this?

  ‘Does Nelson,’ her voice sounds high-pitched and odd, ‘does Nelson think that the letters had anything to do with Neil’s death?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Danforth, ‘but it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very strange.’

  ‘The whole thing’s odd. Neil dropping dead like that beside the bishop’s coffin. I don’t believe in jinxes,’ he laughs, ‘but still, it’s odd.’

  ‘What’s happened to the coffin?’ asks Ruth. ‘It’s not still here, is it?’

  Danforth Smith seems genuinely surprised. ‘I thought you knew. It’s at the university. Your university. Apparently it needs to be kept in a controlled environment. Phil Trent was talking about opening it next week. Just a lowkey affair this time. He said you’d be there.’

  Thanks a lot Phil, thinks Ruth. He hadn’t mentioned the coffin when he’d spoken to her in the canteen, too busy going on about bananas and Natural Childbirth.

  ‘Where are these bones you wanted me to look at?’ she says.

  ‘This way.’

  They pass through the Victorian study where Lord Percival Smith is frozen in the act of writing, wax hand holding wax quill. Danforth Smith leads the way into the long gallery where the portraits of long-dead Smiths look down their noses at them. The door to the Local History Room is firmly shut. Smith sees Ruth looking at it.

  ‘The police have finished with the room now. There’s nothing to see.’ But he doesn’t open the door.

  At the far end of the gallery is the curator’s office, and at the opposite end a little door that Ruth hadn’t noticed before. Smith opens it now. ‘The storerooms are down here.’

  The staircase leads down into a brick-lined cellar. Ruth has never liked underground spaces and now, after the events of two years ago, finds them almost unbearable. As she descends the stairs, the air seems to get thicker and hotter. Heating pipes snake overhead making a low humming noise. She takes a deep breath and tries to feel professional. This is a museum, not a dungeon. At the foot of the stairs, Danforth Smith stops to fumble for a key. Ruth only just avoids crashing into his tweed back.

  ‘Ah, here it is.’

  In front of them is a plasterboard wall with two doors. Danforth is unlocking the left-hand door and reaching for a light switch. Rather reluctantly, Ruth follows him.

  A flickering fluorescent light illuminates a narrow room with brick walls and cement floor. The walls are curved, a half-circle bisected by the plasterboard wall. The straight side of the room is lined with metal shelves and the shelves are stacked with cardboard boxes. Each box is scrawled with a single word. Bones.

  The room is full of bones.

  Ruth is an expert on bones; her students even once presented her with a life-size cardboard cutout of Bones from Star Trek. She has excavated mass graves, dug up prehistoric bodies, but she has never seen anything like this. Boxes of bones just piled up together in a cellar. No names, no dates, just ‘bones’. Are they all human? she wonders. There must be fifty, maybe sixty, boxes here.

  She suddenly realises that Danforth is speaking to her and, incredibly, there is pride in his voice.

  ‘My great-grandfather was a real character. Travelled to Australia in the 1800s, the pioneer days. He was after gold. Did you know that gold was discovered in Australia in the 1850s? My great-grandpa started a gold mine in New South Wales. Had a few clashes with the old Abos over the land, but he must have been a fierce old codger because he stuck to it and made a mint. Came back to England in about 1870 but he was never the same again, apparently. My pa remembered him as quite dotty. Anyhow, he brought his collection back with him, God knows how. There’s some wonderful stuff. We’ve got some of it in the museum downstairs: snakeskins, dingo traps, branding irons, convict-made bricks.’

  Great-grandpa must be Lord Percival Smith, adventurer and t
axidermist, thinks Ruth. Clearly his collecting extended beyond slaughtering and stuffing local wildlife. She was right when she thought he looked an ugly customer.

  ‘Where do the bones come from?’ asks Ruth. She is starting to feel seriously uncomfortable. There isn’t much room to stand in the space between the boxes and Danforth Smith seems to be looming over her. He has to duck his head under the curved ceiling. She can see the sweat on his forehead. It’s very hot and there’s a faint smell of gas in the air.

  ‘They’re Aboriginal bones. And the skulls too. I think the old man had the idea that the Abos were put together differently from us, that they were linked to cave men or some such. So he started collecting bones. There must be hundreds here.’

  Ruth shakes her head. As an expert in prehistory she detests the term ‘cave men’, but that almost fades into the background compared with the mind-boggling idea of a man who collected human bones for fun and a great-grandson who seems almost proud of the fact.

  ‘Where did he get the bones?’ she asks faintly.

  ‘From all over. Some of them come from one of the islands. Those are the ones that these Elginist nutters are on about. My great-granddad had a share in a salt mine on one of the islands.’

  The word ‘island’ rings a faint bell. Does salt come from mines, wonders Ruth irrelevantly. It sounds like something from Alice in Wonderland, one of Cathbad’s favourite books. She remembers how, the first time she visited the museum, she had felt like Alice, plunged into an underground world, faced with arbitrary but somehow sinister choices. The little door or the big one. Eat me. Drink me. Aloud, she asks, ‘But where did they come from? I mean, did he just dig them up or…’ Or what, she thinks.