Idol Bones

by D M Greenwood

  ‘Nearly right, my dear,’ Sir Lionel closed one complicitous eye. ‘I didn’t stay on but I did go back. The bronze, you know, it shouldn’t be exposed to frost suddenly after fifteen hundred years in the earth.’

  Theodora reflected that it had been a lot to hang on an alternative translation of young Riddable’s ‘archaeologist gentleman’ but it seemed to have paid off. She didn’t want to appear to be interrogating him, on the other hand she needed times.

  She tried, ‘Wouldn’t it have been rather late?’

  ‘I had a bit of trouble starting the car but she came round in the end,’ he smiled at Theodora. ‘I suppose I got back to the cathedral about a quarter to one.’

  Theodora nodded. Then, to aid the impression of colluding, she risked leaning nearer to him. ‘How on earth did you get into the close?’

  He was delighted. ‘I had my own key.’ He gestured towards the ring on the table. ‘Had it for years. Well, in fact, it was my father’s. They gave him one when he did the initial dig and never reclaimed it.’ He guffawed. ‘Could have had the altar silver safely stashed away before now.’

  ‘You managed to cover the Janus up safely?’

  ‘Yes. I’d brought a bit of sacking and some tape stuff. He looked a lot more comfortable when I’d finished with him.’

  Theodora flung caution to the winds.‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘One-ish. I think I heard it strike.’

  ‘Then you came home?’

  ‘Had a bit of luck as it happened. The lady canon, you know her, thoroughly good sort. Her light was on, so I tapped on her door. Had a noggin to keep the cold out. Then I came home, of course. Can’t stay the night with lady canons.’

  Theodora sighed. ‘That would have been …?’

  ‘I left round twoish, I suppose.’

  Theodora was incredulous. ‘But you must have seen the dean’s body by the Janus.’

  Sir Lionel was composed. ‘No. Why should I? Erica let me out of her front door. Or is it her back door? Well, anyway, she let me out of the door which leads on to Watergate. I didn’t go back via the close. Might have caught the murderer if I had, eh.’

  ‘And who would that have been, Sir Lionel?’

  ‘Not popular the new man. No charm of manner.’ He smiled across at Theodora in the secure knowledge that he had that quality in large measure.

  ‘The dean’s left instructions in his will for a requiem.’ Nick was animated. He was poised to depart, one foot holding open the vestry door, his hands full of choir robes. ‘I’ve never done one.’

  Dennis Noble didn’t like to admit that he hadn’t either. The churchmanship of the last dean but one had not allowed such things. ‘We shall need a bit of practice,’ he said cautiously. ‘The Customary may be a bit out of date.’

  ‘Have you ever done one?’

  ‘Not for a long time. Chapter won’t like it. Except for Bishop Clement. He’ll know what’s right. It’ll be a big do, owing to the …’ He trailed off. ‘Dramatic ending of the dean.’ Nick finished for him. ‘Not popular but

  well known, as you might say.’ The cathedral clock struck six. ‘Right,’ said

  Nick swinging himself nimbly through the door. ‘See you.’ Ten minutes after Nick’s departure, Spruce and Mules walked in. Dennis

  regarded them with distaste. They made him feel guilty. He could not

  think of what. He’d led a blameless life. He felt it was no proper reward to

  have found a murdered body in his own close.

  Spruce had agreed to let Mules handle the questioning. ‘Just a few

  minutes of your time, Mr Noble,’ Mules was murmuring intimately. ‘The

  night of the party.’

  ‘I’ve told you all I know.’

  ‘You left about seven-thirty, before the guests began to arrive, I think

  you said.’

  ‘That is correct.’ Dennis was verging slowly.

  ‘You weren’t needed to serve?’

  ‘The dean only wanted two men. I’d agreed to do the early duty next

  day. Someone had to. The other two might not have been up to it.’ ‘You went back to your lodgings at the Aelfric Arms. That’s the pub just

  opposite the Archgate, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nice and convenient,’ he said defensively. It was a poor do if he had to

  defend his choice of lodgings.

  ‘Did you hear the dean’s guests leaving by any chance?’ ‘You can hear the archdeacon’s XJ out at Quecourt, I should think.’ ‘And what time would that have been?’

  ‘Twelvish. Little after perhaps.’

  ‘Of course you’re very lucky, Mr Noble, living so near you can walk into

  work. Not many people can do nowadays.’ Mules was all sympathetic envy. ‘Now how about your colleagues, Mr Squires and Mr Knight. How

  do they get in?’

  ‘Tristram sometimes walks. Sometimes Nick picks him up on his motor

  bike. Nick has a motor bike and a push bike. Depends how early he gets

  up, I think, as to which he uses.’

  ‘How did they come in on Tuesday night?’

  ‘They didn’t. They came in in the morning and stayed on.’ ‘How did they come in?’

  ‘Nick came in by bike. I think Tristram walked.’

  ‘And how did they go home?’

  Dennis stuck. Like a horse forced to a jump he didn’t fancy, he would

  not move forward. Mules approached the problem from the other end. ‘What time did they get in on Ash Wednesday, the morning when you

  found the body?’

  Dennis lost his nerve. What with the strain and the indigestion and the

  memory of the body which the sergeant’s words conjured up, he just

  wanted to stop these policemen going on and on.

  ‘They didn’t stay the night,’ he burst out. ‘Not Tuesday night.’ Mules looked encouraging.

  ‘It’s true they sometimes do. They shouldn’t, of course. But it doesn’t do

  anyone any harm. It’s a long pull from the bypass, if Nick’s doing the early

  service.’

  ‘You mean they sleep in the cathedral sometimes?’

  ‘Not the cathedral,’ Noble was scandalised. ‘Here.’ He indicated the

  tiny vergers’ office. His eye wandered towards the biggest of the

  cupboards.

  ‘But you don’t think Nick did sleep here on Tuesday night.’ ‘Nick. No.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘One-ish.’

  ‘What were you doing out at one-ish?’

  ‘I wasn’t out. My sitting room is on the top-floor front. I like a pipe before

  I turn in. Mrs Thrigg doesn’t like smoke in the room. I opened the window.

  I was just going to close it when I saw him.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘He was on his push-bike going like the clappers down Watergate.’ Mules nodded sympathetically. ‘How about Mr Knight? Was he with

  him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he didn’t come past later?’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t need to go to his place. He’s the other way up above

  Colgate.’

  ‘We’re very much obliged to you for your help, Mr Noble,’ Mules

  concluded gently. ‘And do you happen to know where your colleagues

  are at the moment?’

  Dennis jerked his head upwards in the direction of the cathedral. He

  felt he’d done enough talking.

  As they left, Spruce glanced approvingly at Mules. He was pleased

  with him. He considered he’d taught him well. There’d been no bullying,

  just a gentle persistence until the man had come good. They made for

  the cathedral, one behind the other up the narrow passage. ‘In their

  original statements,’ Mules threw back over his shoulder, ‘Squires s
ays

  he left the Deanery at twelve-fifteen and Knight says he went at twelvethirty.’

  ‘So who’s lying? And if it’s them, why? They’ve got about forty minutes

  to account for.’

  Spruce found that he was practically running as they emerged from

  the passage into the large space of the silent cathedral.

  The lorry in the centre of the close had a hoist on its back. Round it

  were gathered a knot of knowledgeable helpers. A couple of stronglooking men were padding the hausers where they met the metal of the

  Janus. Others were busy removing the scaffolding at the base of the

  plinth on which he rested. The white beams of two building site lamps

  met and crossed over his head. The light of the early March day was

  beginning to fade fast.

  The young Riddables capered about under the feet of the onlookers

  half excited by the process of moving him, half sorry to see him go. There

  was a roar from the hoist and a clanking of chains as they straightened,

  then the wires tightened and began to take the weight of the bronze. Mrs Perfect, leaving the office late, put her shopping down and watched

  as the Janus swung in the air. He spun round slowly first to the north and

  then to the south as though taking leave of his domain. She’d got used to

  him. She’d rather liked him. He was a handsome fellow. She could just

  make out the figure of Oliver Fresh reaching out to guide the frail-looking

  cradle on to the back of the lorry. Lights from the offices and houses

  round the close began to flick on. There was a ragged cheer as the

  cradle bumped gently on to the lorry floor.

  The window over the Archgate flew open and a voice which was not

  used to being ignored shouted, ‘What are you doing? You men, there?’ Theodora who had just stepped through the Archgate and still had

  half her mind on her meeting with Sir Lionel did not immediately grasp

  what was happening. She looked up at the open window directly above

  her. The formidable outline of Canon Millhaven could be made out in the

  gathering gloom as it leant out towards the lorry and its load in the centre

  of the close.

  The lorry revved its engine. The two large men slapped the tailgates

  up and ran the bolts home. The little crowd stood back.

  ‘Goodbye. Goodbye, Janus,’ shouted the young Riddables cavorting

  round the wheels.

  The lorry bumped on its way over the green sward, leaving deep ruts

  in the soft turf. It gathered speed and stability as it reached the gravel

  path and moved with increasing confidence towards the Archgate.

  Theodora stood aside to let it pass. In the cabin she caught a glimpse of

  Kevin from the Hollow. The driver, on the other side, she could not see. As

  the lorry moved past her, Fresh smiled down and raised his hand in

  courteous salute. They had scarcely reached the main road when the

  door at the base of the Archgate flew open and Canon Millhaven burst

  out.

  ‘Stop that lorry,’ she called to Theodora, who felt the canon

  overestimated her powers. ‘They have no vestige of a right to remove the

  Janus. It is the chapter’s decision and chapter has not yet met, never

  mind decided.’

  Canon Millhaven’s many different pieces of clothing swirled round her

  mirroring her agitation. She seized Theodora by the elbow. ‘Find me a

  taxi,’ she commanded. ‘They shall not get away.’

  Theodora looked up the street praying that there would be no taxi to

  be had. An empty taxi edged slowly out of the magistrates’ court park and

  gathered speed as it came towards them. Canon Millhaven raised an

  imperious and effective arm and tumbled Theodora into the passenger

  seat. Then she leaned forward and said to the driver, ‘Follow that lorry.’

  The driver turned a blank face towards her. Theodora caught the glint of

  light on deaf aid and recognised him from her arrival at Bow three days

  ago.

  ‘He’s deaf,’ she said to Canon Millhaven, hoping they could all now go

  home for tea.

  ‘Ah yes, quite so,’ said the terrible woman and signed rapidly and

  explicitly her intentions. The driver smiled broadly and let in the clutch.

  They shot down Watergate.

  Spruce and Mules, emerging on to the steps of the cathedral, were in

  time to see the lorry bump off the turf. Spruce looked up at the driver’s

  cabin as it passed within ten yards of him. The light was almost gone now

  but he recognised the face of the driver though not that of his mate. ‘He’s

  there,’ he said to Mules indicating the rapidly disappearing head of Tristram.

  ‘Get a car and let’s get after him.’

  Nick, descending the steps of the cathedral a few moments later, was

  just in time to bump into Mrs Riddable as she streaked across the

  disfigured turf from the Precentory towards the Archgate.

  ‘They’ve taken Timothy,’ she panted, her thin hair floating out behind

  her. ‘Stop them, oh, stop them.’ She turned to Nick who, whilst finding the

  theatricality a bit difficult to cope with, was rather flattered at her trust in

  him.

  ‘Who? Where?’ he temporised.

  ‘Those gypsies,’ she italicised. ‘Heaven knows where they are taking

  him. In the lorry,’ she concluded.

  Nick considered his options. ‘I’ve only got a motor bike,’ he said

  tentatively. ‘Can you ride pillion?’

  ‘I can do anything for my children!’ Mrs Riddable entered her role with

  zest.

  It was fully five minutes after the departure of the lorry that Nick and

  Mrs Riddable, her arms locked vice-like round his waist, set off on his

  ancient BMW motor bike down Watergate.

  ‘Which way?’ he asked with as much breath as her grip would allow

  him to draw. She stabbed with her head into the rush-hour traffic

  thickening in front of them. ‘Just keep going, I’ll tell you.’

  With some trepidation he turned the throttle and headed out into the

  darkness.

  Inspector Spruce, had he but known it, was travelling in comparative luxury. He had his own car with the competent Mules at the wheel. ‘Where is it going?’ Mules asked.

  It was a question echoed by each of the other pursuers. Theodora, reflecting on her conversation with Sir Lionel, responded to Canon Millhaven’s inquiry that she thought it might be bound for Quecourt. Spruce conjuring up a memory of lorries with cranes on them lined up beside the entrance to the Hollow, reckoned it might be going back to the Hollow. Young Timothy Riddable, holding Oliver Fresh’s hand as they bumped along in the back with the Janus towering above them, didn’t much mind where he was going, he was so happy.

  In the end it was the earth works which did for the pursuers. A succession of temporary traffic lights and articulateds manoeuvring through inadequately marked coned lanes parted each of them from their quarry.

  ‘We shall press on in faith,’ said Canon Millhaven stalwartly as she signed to the driver to take the Quecourt turning.

  ‘How about using the siren?’ Mules suggested in exasperation after the third red light in a row.

  ‘Can’t see how it would benefit us,’ Spruce answered squinting out at the mounds of paving stones and tarmac stacked on either hand. ‘We need a tank really.’

  ‘I can’t see terribly much,’ Nick flung over his shoulder to his helmeted passenger.

  ‘T
hat man Fresh lives at the Hollow. That’s where they’ll have abducted my boy to. Turn left at the next lights,’ Mrs Riddable returned.

  The lurcher bitch roused herself from her slumbers and gave her contralto bark as she heard the lorry grinding up the path. A fair amount of male shouting stimulated yet more barking. Stella put down her pastry knife and flung open the door. The lorry was reversing cautiously round the side of the hut. The Janus in its rickety cradle was swaying to and fro as though on a rough sea.

  Fresh waved a cheery hand. ‘Safe and sound,’ he said. ‘Not long now.’ ‘Are you going to unload him before you eat?’

  ‘Yes. Fifteen minutes. Put all the lights on inside, can you, we’re a bit in

  the dark out here.’

  ‘How many for supper?’ she inquired peering into the darkness. ‘Three besides us at the moment. There may be one or two more later.

  Hello, sweetie.’ He greeted the bitch weaving in and out of his legs. ‘Now don’t get under our feet, there’s a good girl. Our new god must weigh about a quarter of a ton.’

  It was clear to Stella that Oliver was absolutely delighted to be entertaining the Janus. Indeed she too felt a lifting of the spirit. It was exciting. She turned the oven down and went out to watch operations.

  The lorry had halted as close to the back door of the hut as possible. The plan was to swing the Janus through the door into Fresh’s workshop. A grinding noise signalled Kevin’s attempts to put the hoist into gear. Tristram jumped down from the cabin and unbolted the tail gate. It was nicely judged. There was no gap between the tail board and the threshold of the door. Oliver tapped on the back window of the cabin to alert Kevin. Then he and Timothy watched as the hoist rose and the hausers tightened. Slowly the Janus in his cradle began to rise in the air. Timothy hopped on to the side of the lorry and sat astride it to get a better view as it came down towards the tail gate. At one and the same moment he overbalanced and there was a rending sound of timber splitting. There was an almighty crash and the sound of a car pulling up and a police siren beginning to whine.

  Stella stumbled round the far side of the lorry. The Janus lay on its side, the profiles of both its faces clearly etched in the light from the house. Timothy was crouched beside it crying. Under it, pinned by head and shoulder could be seen the undoubtedly dead figure of Tristram Knight.

  CHAPTER TWELVE