A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘Oh I think so,’ says Danforth airily. ‘The Aboriginals just dumped their dead bodies in the ground, no coffin or anything.’ He sounds disapproving.

  ‘So he dug up the bodies?’ Ruth can’t believe her ears.

  Danforth registers her tone and becomes more defensive. ‘He paid good money for them, I’m told. The Abos probably spent it on drink from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘And now the Elginists want the bones back?’

  Danforth’s face darkens further. ‘They don’t know what they want. Burial of their ancestors and all that tosh. I mean, these…’ He gestures towards the cardboard boxes stacked on the shelves. ‘These aren’t their ancestors. They’re just bones.’

  Ruth doesn’t know where to start. ‘But they’re human bones, human remains. They deserve a decent burial.’ She tries to think of an example that will mean something to Smith. ‘Look at Bishop Augustine. He’s your ancestor. You wouldn’t want his bones kept in a cardboard box. You’d want them treated with dignity and respect.’

  ‘But that’s different. He was a bishop.’

  ‘Well some of these people might be bishops or the equivalent. Holy men and women.’ Ruth pauses, aware that she’s hazy about Indigenous Australian religion. She thinks of Bob Woonunga. My people believe that the world was created in the Dreamtime when the spirit ancestors roamed the Earth. She doesn’t think that there is any point telling this to Danforth Smith.

  ‘So,’ she says briskly. ‘What do you want from me?’

  Danforth, too, seems relieved to have left the spirit world behind. ‘I want you to tell me if these bones really are human. I mean, they could be bloody dingo for all I know. The skulls are staying here, they’re important objects – especially the water carrier. But if the bones are human, I suppose these Elginist people can have them. They’re not doing much good here, after all.’

  ‘All right,’ says Ruth. ‘I’ll take a look at the bones.’

  ‘Righty ho.’ Danforth rubs his head, which he has just knocked against the doorpost. ‘Oh I almost forgot.’ In the corner of the room is a kind of wire cage. Danforth Smith takes out another key to unlock this. Inside is a metal box, rather like a large camera case. ‘Here are the skulls,’ he says. ‘Beautiful aren’t they?’

  Ruth, left alone with the bones, takes off her jacket, wipes her hands on her legs and takes a water bottle from her bag. ‘Why do young people carry these bottles everywhere?’ her mother always asks. ‘I don’t feel the need to gulp down water all the time.’ Maybe not Mum, thinks Ruth, but even you might feel like a drink in these circumstances. She drinks slowly, trying to concentrate. The heat is making her sleepy. Last night hadn’t been a good one. Kate, worn out after the excitement of the didgeridoo, went to sleep at half-past seven. But as Ruth was tiptoeing downstairs at eight she woke up again. And again at ten, at midnight, at half-past three. Today Ruth feels as if she is sleepwalking or seeing everything through thick glass. She puts the bottle back in her rucksack. She’d better get on with it. She has a lecture at twelve. Come to think of it, the heat can’t be doing the bones much good either. Like Bishop Augustine’s coffin, they should really be kept at an ambient temperature. She takes down a box from the nearest shelf. She peers into the nearest box. Bones are piled high inside, yellow-white, some of them with numbers and dates printed on them. At first glance, they are almost definitely human.

  She had planned to lay the bones out anatomically but soon gives up. Danforth Smith’s great-grandfather (such a character) must simply have scooped up everything buried in the soil of the island salt mine. There are adult bones, children’s bones, animal bones, all mixed together in a ghastly colonial stew. There are also a few interesting stone tools, which Ruth puts aside to study later.

  What would Cathbad make of this? she wonders. Cathbad and his Elginist friends who want the bones reunited with Mother Earth. She decides to call him. She wants to hear his voice, to reassure herself that Cathbad, her friend, who has been so kind to her, could never have anything to do with letters that threatened to take a man’s life. A man who subsequently died. Besides, she tells herself, she wants to ask him about the ‘repatriation’ conference. It’s work, she tells herself, nothing to do with Max. So much has happened since she last saw Max, not least the birth of Kate, that she no longer knows how she feels about him anyway. She conjures him up: tall, curly-haired, slightly watchful. She met Max when he was excavating the Roman Villa near Swaffham but their relationship soon became overshadowed by other events, including murder. Cathbad was involved in that case too. He really does seem to have discovered the art of omnipresence.

  Except today. Cathbad isn’t answering his phone. This is unusual because, although he claims that using mobile phones causes brain cancer, he’s usually pretty quick to answer a text or voicemail. Where can he be?

  Ruth puts aside the bones and opens the box containing the skulls. There are three of them, more or less intact. Beautiful, Danforth had said, and, in a way, Ruth can see what he means. A human skull is a gift to an archaeologist, telling so much, free from the trappings of flesh. But it’s also a person, as Ruth always tells her students, and three people, three real people who were born and died thousands of miles away, have ended up with their heads locked in the basement of a Norfolk museum. Why? How?

  The fourth object in the box makes Ruth catch her breath. It’s the top half of a skull, the iliac crest, scooped out to resemble a bowl. This must be the famous water carrier. What sort of person would want to drink out of someone else’s head? She turns the object round in her hands, wondering about its owner. Without carbon-14 dating it’s almost impossible for her to tell how old it is, or even if it belonged to a man or a woman. The complete skulls are easier, the sloping brow-ridge and the pronounced nuchal crest at the back tell her that they are all male. One has scars which may be indicative of syphilis. But it is the last skull that makes her sit back on her heels, as shocked as if she had suddenly come face-to-face with Smith Senior and his grave-robbing friends.

  The skull has cut marks all over it. Clean cut marks unhealed, which shows that they were made at the point of death or soon after. The position of the cut marks indicate that the head has had the skin cut from it. It has been scalped.

  CHAPTER 10

  Cathbad’s silence is easily explained. He is helping the police with their enquiries. Or rather, he is entertaining Nelson and Judy in his caravan on the beach at Blakeney. Cathbad seems determined to keep the occasion social, offering them tea and brownies, enquiring after Michelle and the girls. Nelson answers brusquely. He’s annoyed with Cathbad for putting him in this position. Why the hell did his fingerprints have to be found at the scene? Does the man get everywhere?

  He doesn’t think that Cathbad killed Neil Topham but he’s mixed up in it somehow. He was at the museum that day and, as for the Elginists, they have Cathbad’s name written all over them. Cathbad loves nothing more than a fight with authority and this one would be right up his street.

  ‘I expect you know why we’re here,’ is Nelson’s opening gambit.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me,’ replies Cathbad genially.

  Progress through the caravan is difficult. Objects hang from the ceiling and there is furniture everywhere, mostly draped in material so that it is hard to know whether it’s a chair or a table that you’ve just fallen over. Nelson gets tangled up in a dreamcatcher made of seashells and swats at it wildly. It breaks.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, not sounding it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Cathbad. ‘I can make another.’

  ‘Do you sell them to gullible tourists?’ asks Nelson, landing with relief onto a bench seat.

  ‘No, I give them to special people in my life,’ says Cathbad. He looks at Judy, who looks away.

  Nelson, who is the not-so-proud owner of two of Cathbad’s dreamcatchers, gets straight down to business.

  ‘We found your prints at the museum. Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’
/>   Cathbad settles himself in a tall wizard’s chair. He smiles. Nelson glowers at him. He distrusts Cathbad’s smile.

  ‘I was in the museum on Saturday,’ he says. ‘You know that. I came for the opening of Bishop Augustine’s coffin.’

  ‘But how come your prints were found in the Local History Room, which was closed to the public?’

  Cathbad sighs. He turns to Judy. ‘Have you ever been to the Smith Museum?’ he asks her. ‘Fascinating collection.’

  Judy is fiddling with her phone. She looks tired again today, thinks Nelson, and she hardly spoke on the drive from the station. Christ, he hopes she isn’t pregnant.

  Judy meets Cathbad’s eyes. ‘I went once when I was at school. I thought it was boring.’

  Cathbad seems delighted by this answer. He laughs. ‘Then you should look below the surface. There are horrors underneath.’

  Nelson has had enough of this. ‘Give me a straight answer,’ he growls, ‘or we’ll conduct this interview at the station. Were you or were you not in the Local History Room that day?’

  ‘Yes, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Cathbad, with deceptive meekness. ‘I was. I arrived at about two o’clock. There was no one to be seen, though all the drinks and goodies were laid out in the long gallery. I went into the Local History Room to pay my respects to Bishop Augustine.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was an interesting character. People thought he was a saint. Apparently he could bilocate, be in two places at once.’

  Nelson can see exactly why this would appeal to Cathbad. ‘When you went into the room,’ he asks, ‘did you see the curator?’

  ‘No. There wasn’t a soul about.’

  ‘Did you know Neil Topham? Did you ever meet him at one of your weirdy gatherings?’

  ‘I met him once or twice at events organised by the museum,’ says Cathbad with dignity. ‘I wouldn’t say we were friends.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him that day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was there anything unusual in the room when you went in?’

  Cathbad raises his eyebrows. ‘Apart from it having a dirty great coffin in the middle? No.’

  ‘Nothing on the floor? No exhibits out of place?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Cathbad is definitely curious now.

  ‘Was the window open?’

  ‘I’m not sure… No, I remember thinking how hot it was in there.’

  ‘Hot?’

  Cathbad looks innocent. ‘Yes, hot. Close.’

  ‘What else did you do?’

  ‘Went up to the coffin. Said a prayer to the good spirits. Then I had a quick look round the room. There’s a picture of the henge, you know.’

  ‘Have you seen this before?’ Nelson holds out a copy of the museum guidebook. It’s not the book found in the room with the dead body (that’s still with forensics) but it’s folded back on the same page.

  ‘It’s from the museum, isn’t it?’

  ‘Take a look at this page. Does it mean anything to you?’

  ‘The Smith Family,’ Cathbad reads aloud in a polite, interested voice, ‘have lived in Norfolk since the middle ages. The first recorded Smith was Augustine, Bishop of Norwich from 1340 to 1362. Bishop Augustine was much loved for his charitable work and when he died hundreds visited his body as it lay in state. There is a statue to him at the cathedral. In the sixteenth century Thomas Smith aided Henry VIII in the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in 1538 was rewarded by the gift of Slinden Abbey, which had previously been a monastery. Thomas reverted to Catholicism during the reign of Mary Tudor but reverted again to become a loyal protestant under Elizabeth I. He was knighted in 1560. In the Civil War, Slinden was the scene of a particularly bloody battle and was renamed Slaughter Hill. Lord Edmund Smith fought on the Royalist side and was killed in the battle. Other prominent Smiths have included Hubert Smith, an actor who performed with Beerbohm Tree, and Sir Gilbert Smith, a Conservative MP in the Eden government. The present Lord Smith is a successful racehorse owner and trainer.’

  The words ‘died’, ‘Slaughter’ and ‘killed’ have been underlined.

  ‘A fascinating family,’ says Cathbad.

  ‘Have you seen this guidebook, with these words underlined, before?’

  Cathbad looks up from examining an engraving of Slinden Abbey. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘It was found in the room with Neil Topham’s body.’

  ‘It wasn’t there when I went into the room.’

  Nelson glares at Cathbad, who looks back at him with wide, innocent eyes. The dreamcatchers sparkle overhead.

  ‘What did you do next?’ asks Nelson. ‘When you left the Local History Room.’

  ‘Had a look round the other rooms and then went to meet some friends for a spot of lunch.’

  ‘You can give their names and addresses to Detective Sergeant Johnson later.’

  ‘I’ll be glad to.’

  Cathbad smiles at Judy, who looks down at her phone again. Nelson says, ‘Cathbad, are you a member of the Elginists?’

  Cathbad doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes I am.’

  Nelson counts to ten and gives up on five.

  ‘You didn’t think it was worth mentioning this?’

  ‘You didn’t ask.’

  ‘Did you write the letter to Lord Smith demanding the return of the Aborigine relics?’

  ‘I was one of the people who drafted it, yes.’

  ‘Can you give me the names of the others?’

  ‘I suppose so. We’ve got nothing to hide. The group’s quite open and above board. We’ve even got a website.’

  But that, as even Nelson knows, proves nothing. These days every nutcase has got a website. Nelson leans forward, trying to force Cathbad to take him seriously. But Cathbad is still looking at Judy with that infuriating smile on his face.

  ‘Cathbad, did you, or anyone in the group, write letters to Neil Topham?’

  Cathbad is still smiling. ‘To Neil? No. Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘Because threatening letters were sent to him. Handwritten letters.’ Nelson glares at Cathbad, remembering other handwritten letters, death threats written in flowery poetic language but no less sinister for all that. Cathbad drops his eyes first.

  ‘’I don’t know anything about any letters to Neil Topham,’ he says, ‘I helped draft the letter to Lord Smith, that’s all.’

  ‘You helped draft the letter that threatened Smith with the vengeance of the Great Snake?’

  Cathbad frowns. ‘I think we put it better than that. More poetically.’

  ‘Stop taking the piss,’ says Nelson. ‘These are serious accusations.’

  Cathbad opens his eyes wide. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of?’

  That’s the problem; Nelson doesn’t know. But he does know that something went on in the museum that day. Henty and Taylor delivered the coffin at half-past one. If he is to be believed, Cathbad visited the museum at two but didn’t see Neil Topham. Ruth arrived at two-sixteen, by which time Topham was already dead.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says, standing up. ‘Don’t leave the country.’

  Rocky and Clough are not having much luck with their door-to-door enquiries. Most of the buildings around the Smith Museum are offices and so are closed on Saturday. The people in the garage opposite didn’t see anything, nor did the owner of the corner shop. They are just about to give up when the shopkeeper suggests they talk to ‘old Stanley’.

  ‘Who’s old Stanley when he’s at home?’ asks Clough, who is stocking up on chocolate.

  ‘He’s the caretaker of the flats behind the museum. He’s always in the grounds, sweeping up leaves, doing odd jobs. Old Stanley sees everything.’

  ‘Then we’ll see him,’ says Clough grandly. ‘Come on Rocky.’

  Stanley lives on the ground floor of the mansion flats directly behind the museum. His flat is crammed with pictures of his children and grandchildren but his main interest seems to be keeping the grounds clear of dog mess.
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  ‘They used not to allow dogs in the flats,’ he explains. ‘But the residents complained and now their bloody dogs crap everywhere.’

  ‘Don’t they use pooper scoopers or whatever they’re called?’ asks Clough. He’d like a dog but Trace is asthmatic, or so she says.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about pooper scoopers,’ Stanley’s face darkens. ‘Little plastic bags full of crap everywhere. There’s no respect.’

  ‘Right,’ says Clough. ‘Look, Mr… er, Stanley. We’re investigating an incident which happened at the museum on Saturday. We wondered if you were in the grounds on Saturday between about midday and two-thirty.’

  ‘Might have been,’ says Stanley cautiously.

  ‘Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone entering or leaving the museum.’

  ‘There was that one man.’

  Clough sits up straighter and even Rocky looks interested.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘He was in the car park. Must have been after two o’clock because I always have my radio with me and Any Questions had just finished. Then it’s Any Answers, all these busy-bodies ringing in. Haven’t they got anything better to do?’

  ‘The man,’ prompts Clough. ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘Just walking through the car park. I watched him. He went up to the recycling box and put a shoe in. One shoe! What’s the good of that to some poor bastard?’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I only saw his back. Tall. Wearing a dark suit and a hat. I thought he looked like a businessman. People don’t wear suits so much these days. There are no standards.’

  Clough, wearing jeans, ignores this. ‘What did he do next?’

  ‘Just walked off. I think he turned right, towards the town. A few minutes later there was all the excitement. Ambulance, police cars, the lot.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward with this earlier?’