Elly Griffiths - A Room Full Of Bones

Phil, though, has something else on his mind. He buys a Smoothie and a banana (‘Shona’s got a real craving for them’) and steers Ruth to a discreet table near the window.

‘Terrible thing at the museum on Saturday.’

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. She bets Phil was gutted to miss the excitement.

‘That poor curator. Do police know how he died?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ says Ruth. ‘They don’t confide in me.’

Phil looks at her curiously. Ruth knows that he has always been intrigued by her relationship with Nelson. She keeps her face blank and takes a sip of coffee. It is thick and bitter and perfect.

‘Anyway,’ says Phil, obviously deciding that there is nothing more to be gained in that direction. He pauses impressively. ‘I had a call last night from Lord Smith.’

‘Oh yes?’ The name means nothing to Ruth. She looks longingly at her doughnut, the grease just starting to ooze through the paper bag.

‘The owner of the Smith Museum.’

‘Oh. Danforth Smith. What did he want?’

‘It’s a delicate matter.’

Phil looks positively delighted. He loves any intrigue. Ruth raises her eyebrows. She is desperate for a bit of doughnut but doesn’t want to look greedy in front of Phil – especially as Shona, even pregnant, is thinner than she is.

‘You know the museum has a large collection of New World artefacts?’

Ruth dimly remembers a room labelled New World. But she had plumped for Natural History and the stuffed animals. ‘Yes,’ she says warily.

‘Well, they contain a number of skeletal remains.’ He lowers his voice. ‘ Human bones.’

‘Human bones?’

‘Apparently Lord Smith’s great-grandfather brought home a number of skulls and other bones from Australia. They’re thought to be the relics of Aboriginal Australians.’

Ruth’s head is like a switchboard, lights flashing, bells ringing.

‘And now a pressure group is demanding the return of these artefacts,’ says Phil.

‘This pressure group, is it called the Elginists by any chance?’

‘How did you-?’

‘Just a lucky guess.’ Cathbad’s interest in the museum is now explained. She also wonders about Bob Woonunga and the mysterious ‘friend’ who recommended the Saltmarsh as a place to live. Isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that an Indigenous Australian should suddenly move in next door?

‘Well, the heads are fairly obvious and Lord Smith is adamant that they’re not going anywhere. But he needs someone to look at the other bones, to check if they really are human. And he asked for you.’

‘Why?’ asks Ruth.

‘Well, you’re our bones expert. I presume he asked around.’

I bet he did, thinks Ruth. And I wonder who he asked.

Back in her office, she makes an internal call to Cathbad. He works in the chemistry department as a lab assistant, though he originally trained as an archaeologist.

‘So, tell me about the Elginists.’

Cathbad laughs, not at all abashed. ‘I knew you’d come round to the Elginists.’

‘Apparently Lord Smith wants me to look at some Aboriginal relics.’

‘Indigenous Australian,’ Cathbad corrects her. ‘And they’re not relics, they are remains of the ancestors, the Old Ones. They need to go back to their own country, so that they can enter the spirit world and be one with their mother, the Earth.’

Ruth marvels anew at how Cathbad comes out with the stuff, just as if he is reciting a chemical formula. She is used to him going on about Mother Earth, though the Indigenous Australian link is new.

‘How come you’re involved in all this? I thought you were a druid.’

‘All the great religions are one,’ says Cathbad impressively, but Ruth thinks it is a typically religious phrase because it sounds good and means absolutely nothing.

There is a scratchy, electronic pause. ‘I got involved with the Elginists when we were protesting about the henge,’ Cathbad says at last. ‘They offered their support. They agreed that the henge should stay where it was.’

Ruth remembers the protests about the henge, Cathbad standing within the wooden circle, staff upraised, defying the tide itself. There had been rumours that the entire archaeology team had been cursed, that anyone who touched the timbers would be dead in a year. Well, Ruth is still here and even Erik survived for a good many years after the dig. Ruth wonders what sort of help the Elginists offered.

‘Cathbad,’ says Ruth. ‘Do you know Bob Woonunga?’

Cathbad laughs again. ‘Bob’s an expert on repatriation. He’s a poet too. He’s written lots of beautiful things about the Dreaming. I met him at a conference.’

‘And you recommended that he move in next door to me?’

‘I thought it would suit him. He’s a good bloke, Ruth. You’ll like him.’

‘I met him last night.’

‘There you are then.’

‘Why do I feel that there’s something you’re not telling me?’

‘Relax, Ruthie. Look, we’re having another meeting next week. Why don’t you come along? There’ll be lots of archaeologists there. It’s all above board, I promise you. Your friend from Sussex is coming. Max Whatshisname.’

‘Max Grey.’

‘That’s the one. It’ll be a laugh. We’re going to end with a real Aboriginal smoke ceremony.’

‘Indigenous Australian,’ says Ruth but her heart’s not in it. She is thinking about Max.

Nelson drives back to the police station thinking about snakes, racehorses and the sheer arrogance of the British upper classes. Lord Smith had been polite, charming almost, but there’s no doubt that he thinks that he has a God-given right to do what he likes with his horses, his museum, his great-grandfather’s grisly trophies. Those heads belonged to my great-grandfather. It’s a short step from saying ‘those slaves belonged to my great-grandfather.’ Nelson can just see Smith as a plantation owner, slaves toiling in the fields, no-good son lolling about on the porch drinking Bourbon – or whatever they used to drink in Gone With The Wind (Nelson’s mother’s favourite film).

Could there be a link between the letters and Neil Topham’s death? Nelson thinks about the open window, the snake in the case, the words ‘now the dead will be revenged on you.’ But Nelson is not going to fall into the trap of assuming that the letter-writer is a killer. Like every detective in Britain, he remembers the Yorkshire Ripper and the infamous ‘I’m Jack’ tapes. The police had wasted valuable time assuming that the voice on the tape was the voice of the Ripper when, in the end, it had just been some nutcase wanting his moment of glory. Nelson has been there too. Years ago he started to receive letters about the disappearance of a little girl. Those letters had haunted his dreams for years. Were they from the killer? Did they contain cryptic clues which, if only he could crack the code, would lead him to Lucy Downey? It had been the letters which had formed the first real bond with Ruth. She had interpreted them, explaining arcane mythological and archaeological terms. Her expertise had almost cost her her life.

But Chris Stephenson thinks that Topham’s death was from natural causes. The coroner will probably find the same way. Neil Topham died from a sudden pulmonary haemorrhage which could have been brought on by his drug-taking. The letters, the snake, the strange tableau with the coffin – it could all be irrelevant. But Nelson knows, knows from the depth of his twenty-odd years with the force, that something is wrong. He saw it in Lord Smith’s face when he looked at the letters, the sudden shock of anger (or was it fear?) crossing the haughty features. He saw it in Neil Topham’s office, amongst the broken exhibits and unread paperwork. He saw it in the room with the coffin, the pages of the abandoned guidebook fluttering in the breeze.