The Janus Stone

by Elly Griffiths

  ‘And she had a baby?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what happens, you see.’ He leers at her. ‘I was only a boy, of course. She took advantage of my adolescent urges. She said she loved me. She was a poor thing really. But she had a child, a girl. She called it Bernadette.’

  It. Despite everything, Ruth feels tears rush to her eyes. The baby, stabbed, beheaded and buried under the door was Sir Roderick’s child. And to him she is still ‘it’.

  ‘What about the mother?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh, she went back to Ireland. The land of saints and scholars.’ He gives that chilling giggle again. ‘I buried the body in the garden but when the pater had the arch and the columns built I dug it up and buried it in the hole under the new doorway. An offering to Janus, y’know. Protect our walls and all that. I put the skull in the well. It seemed the right thing to do.’ He smiles complacently.

  ‘But what have I got to do with all this?’ asks Ruth. Even if she gets free, will she be able to get past Sir Roderick? He is old but he looks fit. And he has a knife.

  ‘That detective, Nelson, he’s too close to the truth. I’ve told my son that I’ve got Alzheimer’s. He was only too ready to believe that I was going senile. Fits in with what he and his brainless wife already think about me. Anyway, he speaks freely in front of me. Doesn’t think I understand. I got him to take me to the site. I saw you digging there and I knew you would find out the truth. Then, when I was at the police station, I overheard your call. When DCI Nelson rushed out, he left his phone behind. Very careless.’ Giggle. ‘I read your message and I knew. You were having his baby. So, unless he calls off the investigation, I’m going to kill his daughter. It’s only fair after all.’

  ‘It’s not at all fair!’ Ruth bursts out, in spite of herself.

  Roderick ignores her. He continues speaking, in a self-satisfied tone. ‘I saw you at the Roman site. I was there with the Conservative Association. They’d hired a minibus. Very civilised. Then, when I saw you at the house, I made the connection. I thought I’d try to scare you off. I wrote your name on the stone with the blood of a cockerel. Strong magic. I knew the archaeologist from Sussex would find it and tell you. I thought the dead baby was a nice touch. I knew you’d be there that day because you’d had dinner with him the night before.’

  ‘You’re well-informed,’ says Ruth, between dry lips.

  ‘My granddaughter works on the site,’ answers Sir Roderick airily. ‘She tells me all the comings and goings.’

  ‘Your granddaughter?’

  ‘An uncouth girl. But useful. Then, of course, when Nelson wanted to do the DNA testing, I knew he’d make the link between me and the body. That’s why I had to act. I knew you’d go to the Roman site, to see the stone. I waited for you every morning. I knew you’d come eventually. You were so kind, offering to get something from my car for me. As you were bending over, I hit you over the head with my car torch. A perfectly serviceable tool for the purpose. Then I drove you to the boat.’

  ‘How did you get me on board?’ Ruth remembers the jolly barbecuing families at the marina. Surely one of them will have noticed a man carrying a prostrate body on board. And, come to that, how did Roderick manage to carry her?

  ‘I wrapped you in a carpet. Like Cleopatra.’ Another giggle. ‘I parked my car by the boatyard and one of the men very kindly helped me with my burden. Remarked how heavy the rug was.’

  ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To a house where I have the necessary equipment for libations, et cetera.’ He could be any elderly eccentric talking about his hobby. Except for the knife in his hand and the deranged glint in his eye.

  ‘No one will think of looking where I’m taking you,’ continues Sir Roderick. ‘Nelson will know he’s been beaten by a better man.’

  ‘Have you told him?’ If Nelson knows, he will be on his way. He will move heaven and earth to save her, she knows that. Oh please let him have told Nelson.

  ‘I sent him a text message. A crude form of communication but effective.’

  ‘You should call him again.’ The police can trace text messages, can’t they?

  ‘You’re going to call him.’

  And, in a worryingly swift movement, he is at her side, holding out a phone with one hand and, with the other, keeping the knife at her throat.

  Nelson leaves as soon as Clough arrives to keep an eye on the girls. ‘Never fear, Uncle Dave is here,’ are Clough’s opening words as he settles down on the sofa to watch the American high schools kids battling with the undead.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, keep your wits about you,’ growls Nelson.

  ‘You can rely on me, boss.’

  Nelson reaches forty miles an hour before he has backed out of the close but, beside him, Cathbad is calm and serene. He is the only person Nelson has ever met who is not terrified by his driving.

  It is nearly six o’clock. Rush hour time. The roads are thick with traffic and when they reach the outskirts of Norwich Nelson puts the siren on and they weave madly between lanes, forcing other drivers up onto grass verges and scattering bollards like ninepins.

  Cathbad hums a Celtic folk song.

  Outside Reedham, the road is blocked because of an accident, stationary traffic in both directions. Nelson thumps the steering wheel.

  ‘Look at the map,’ he tells Cathbad, ‘find a short cut.’

  Cathbad points to an unmade-up road on their left. A pile of abandoned tyres squats by a broken gate. It looks like it couldn’t possibly lead anywhere.

  ‘Try that way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got a good feeling about it.’

  Nelson swings to the left. The Mercedes bumps along rutted tractor tracks, occasionally descending into vast, muddy puddles.

  ‘If my suspension’s buggered, I’ll blame you.’

  Cathbad keeps humming.

  The lane takes them past deserted barns, abandoned cars and, inexplicably, a smart bungalow offering Bed and Breakfast. Finally, Nelson crashes through overhanging trees and encroaching hedgerows to come to a halt, with his front wheels hanging over the edge of the river bank. He turns wrathfully to Cathbad.

  ‘It’s a dead end. You-’

  But Cathbad is pointing through the trees, where a church tower is just visible.

  ‘Reedham,’ he says vaguely.

  ‘How did you-’

  ‘The flow,’ says Cathbad, ‘you have to go with the flow.’

  But Nelson is already striding off along the river bank.

  At the marina, they find the boat owners in the middle of a party. The wine is flowing and sausages are grilling on the barbecue. Reggae music blasts from one of the boats, a low cruiser called Dreadlock 2. Nelson shoves his warrant card in the face of the large man cooking sausages.

  ‘I’m looking for a boat called the Lady Annabelle.’

  The man looks blank and there are some giggles, hastily suppressed.

  ‘I know the Lady Annabelle,’ says a voice from the reggae boat. A tall man with waist-length dreadlocks smiles up at them. ‘It’s owned by that professor, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you know where it’s parked? Moored?’ asks Nelson impatiently.

  ‘Sure.’ The man sounds as if he has all the time in the world. Nelson grinds his teeth though Cathbad looks approving. ‘Just along the moorings. To the left.’ He gestures. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the last boat.’

  ‘Peace,’ calls Cathbad over his shoulder as he and Nelson march towards the wooden gate.

  ‘Peace and love,’ calls back the dreadlocked man.

  But at the end of the moorings they find only a frayed rope. The Lady Annabelle has gone. From the marina they can hear Bob Marley singing about redemption. The river flows past them, dividing into its two directions, mysterious in the evening light. Midges gather around their heads.

  ‘What now?’ asks Nelson.

  ‘We trust to the flow?’ suggests Cathbad.

  Luckily for Cathbad’s continuing existence, Nelso
n’s phone rings at that moment. He snatches it up. Number unknown.

  The voice, though, is very well-known indeed.

  ‘Nelson?’

  ‘Ruth!’

  Her voice sounds high and strained, like someone much younger. She speaks without pausing or allowing him to answer.

  ‘Nelson, you have to call off the investigation or he’ll kill our baby and me too. He’s serious, he’s the real ringslinger. Please Nelson. Save our baby. I can’t tell you where we are. Please Horatio. Save us.’

  The phone is clicked off.

  Nelson is shaking. He tries to dial the station, get them to trace the call, but his fingers just won’t work. Cathbad grabs his arm.

  ‘What did she say?’

  Nelson just shakes his head. His baby, his unknown beloved baby is in danger. And Ruth – headstrong, feisty Ruth – sounding like a child herself. Ruth, who could be about to die.

  ‘You’ve got to remember her exact words,’ Cathbad tells him sternly. ‘Tell me and I’ll write them down. Come on, Harry. You can’t go to pieces now.’

  Dully, Nelson relates Ruth’s exact words. They sound odd but he is pretty sure that he has remembered them correctly. Cathbad writes them down while Nelson rings the station, trying to get a trace on the call.

  When he has finished, he looks at Cathbad who is squatting down, frowning at the dirty scrap of paper in front of him. To Nelson’s relief, he doesn’t mention the ‘our baby’ part, instead he says, ‘“He’s the real ringslinger”. What did she mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And why did she call you Horatio? Is Harry short for Horatio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s giving us a clue,’ says Cathbad. ‘Well done, Ruth. Attagirl. We just have to work it out. Ringslinger. Ringslinger. There was a Hroerekr Ringslinger, a mythical king of Denmark. Erik used to talk about him.’

  ‘What was his name?’ It sounds like gargling to Nelson.

  ‘Hroerekr. Roderick in English.’

  ‘What?’

  Cathbad looks up in surprise.

  ‘That’s it!’ shouts Nelson. ‘She’s telling us that it’s Roderick. Sir Roderick Spens.’

  Briefly, he tells Cathbad about the Spens family. When he gets to the part about Annabelle Spens, Cathbad stops him.

  ‘What was the boat called?’

  ‘Lady Annabelle.’

  ‘Could it belong to the Spens family?’

  ‘Of course! Max Grey is a friend of Edward Spens. He told me when I interviewed him. Edward must have lent him the boat. That’s why Ruth called me Horatio. To remind me of the other Nelson. The famous one. The Admiral. She’s telling us that she’s on a boat.’

  ‘And what about Max Grey?’ asks Cathbad. ‘Where’s he got to?’

  ‘I’m here,’ says a voice at their feet.

  30th June Day of Aestas

  … The infant screams and keeps on screaming. Even the knife in her chest doesn’t seem to stop her. Clearly the child is possessed of an evil spirit. Closing my eyes and muttering a prayer to the Lady, I stab and stab. When I open my eyes there is blood over the bed, the walls, everything.

  She is dead but the screaming goes on.

  CHAPTER 33

  ‘Why did you call him Horatio?’

  ‘Harry’s short for Horatio,’ lies Ruth. ‘He doesn’t like people to know. I called him that so he would know it was me.’

  Roderick nods, satisfied. Ruth holds her breath, hoping that he doesn’t query ‘ringslinger’ but perhaps Roderick regards it as an example of young people’s slang (he has already lectured Ruth at length on the decline of literacy amongst the youth of today) because he doesn’t comment further. Ruth knows it’s a long shot but maybe Nelson would be sufficiently intrigued to Google Ringslinger and find the Danish king, the grandfather, according to Erik, of Hamlet. Cathbad would have known, she thinks, but she has no idea where Cathbad is.

  ‘You’re a fallen woman,’ says Roderick chattily, removing the knife from Ruth’s neck. ‘Just like the Irish whore.’

  Ruth says nothing. If she hadn’t been tied up, she would have kicked him in the balls.

  ‘You knew Nelson was married but you still lay with him. You’re a whore.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Well,’ says Roderick as if they have just finished a cosy chat over the cucumber sandwiches, ‘I’d better get back to the helm.’

  Max is, in fact, sitting in a dinghy. With the ease of long practice, he ties the boat to the landing stage and scrambles ashore.

  ‘I think Roderick Spens has kidnapped Ruth,’ he says. ‘I went to the site this morning. I though she might be there, to see the Janus Stone, but it was deserted. I was going to ring you but I got a call from the boatyard to say that someone had taken the Lady Annabelle. An elderly man. He was loading something heavy on board. They thought it was suspicious.’

  ‘Did they say where he was going?’ asks Cathbad.

  Max looks dubiously at Cathbad, whose purple cloak is wet and muddy from the trek along the river bank.

  ‘Cathbad’s helping with the enquiry,’ says Nelson brusquely. ‘We need to know Ruth’s whereabouts. We think she’s in serious danger.’

  Max still looks suspicious but he answers quickly enough,

  ‘ They said he was asking about the height of Potter Heigham Bridge.’

  Nelson and Cathbad look at him blankly.

  ‘It’s a bridge over the Thurne,’ says Max. ‘Very low. Lots of boats get stuck. If they’re going that way, I think they’re heading for Horsey Mere. The Spens family have got a cottage there.’

  More blank looks.

  ‘It’s a little-known stretch of waterway,’ says Max, ‘on the North Rivers.’

  ‘Which way will he go?’ asks Nelson.

  Max points to the fork in the water. ‘If he’s going to the North Rivers, he’ll go that way. Along the Yare to Yarmouth.’

  ‘Can we catch him at Yarmouth?’

  Max looks at his watch. ‘The boatyard said he went past at four o’clock. He’ll be through Yarmouth by now.’

  Nelson looks at his watch. It is half past seven.

  ‘Can we catch them by road?’ he asks. ‘I drive fast.’

  Max shakes his head. ‘Our best bet is to try to get to Potter Heigham before them. He’ll have to take the canopy off the boat before it can get under the bridge. That’ll slow them down a bit.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ says Nelson.

  The boat is moving. The rocking motion becomes unpleasantly violent and Ruth is afraid that she will be sick. She can’t be sick. She needs to escape from this lunatic with his frightening Victorian language and his terrifyingly modern knife. He killed his own child, now he wants to kill her baby. Well Ruth is not about to let that happen.

  If she can just get across to the other side of the boat, she can reach the kitchen cabinet where there are sure to be knives and other sharp implements. It’s so close, just an arm’s length away. If she can get herself free, she thinks she should be a match for Roderick Spens, knife and all.

  Gingerly, she rolls over so that her legs, tied tightly together, are on the floor. Then, without warning, she is hit by a wave of nausea so intense that she knows she must be sick. It is awful having her hands tied behind her back because she can’t move her hair out of the way. All she can do is tilt her head as far away as possible so that the vomit doesn’t land on her feet. She continues to retch feebly until her stomach is empty and then she lies back on the bench with her eyes shut. She hopes that Roderick hasn’t heard her but the noise of the engine is surprisingly loud. She realises that they must be travelling fast. If so, that might be a good thing. It might alert the river police, other sailors, anyone.

  She lies still, listening. Above the engine noise, she can hear Sir Roderick singing snatches of opera. Nutcase. Slowly she slides her legs over again and tries to stand. Another spasm of nausea grips her stomach but she isn’t sick again. She waits, breathing hard, and
then, holding on to the edge of the table behind her, starts to hop towards the knives.

  They find Sir Roderick’s car by the boatyard. This is hardly difficult as it is a maroon Rolls Royce with the licence plate SPENS2.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Nelson. ‘He was hardly travelling incognito.’

  ‘He’s not supposed to drive at all,’ says Max. ‘Edward says he has Alzheimer’s.’

  ‘Edward is wrong,’ Nelson tells him.

  Max chews his lip. ‘Even so, Sir Roderick has always been strange. When we were at university, Edward used to mention his father doing odd things. Being obsessed with certain Roman gods, offering sacrifices and such like. He once broke into Fishbourne Roman Palace and started strewing herbs and flowers around. Edward used to worry about him.’

  ‘With good reason,’ says Nelson. ‘I’ll get some uniforms down to look at the car. I’ll call the river police too.’

  ‘They’re going to the North Rivers,’ says Max.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The river police don’t cover the North Rivers. There’s a ranger but they’ve only got one car and they don’t work at night.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Nelson raises his eyes to the heavens and curses the day that he ever heard of Norfolk, the river, or Ruth Galloway. Max watches him narrowly. ‘Come on,’ he says at last, ‘we’ve got to get to Potter Heigham before they do.’

  Three hops and she’s there. She leans against the sink, feeling ill and faint. Her head aches, presumably where Roderick whacked it with his ‘perfectly serviceable’ torch. Probably right on the spot where she hit it once before, when Roderick left a model foetus in the trench as a ‘warning’. If she gets out of this alive, she swears she is going to kill him.

  Opening the sink drawer with no hands will be the next problem. She looks around for anything sharp left lying around but everything is irritatingly tidy. Damn Max and his anal archaeologist habits. Where is Max anyhow? How come Roderick has got his boat? The truly dreadful thought, which has been hovering at the back of her mind for hours, now pops, fully formed, to the surface. What if Max is in league with Sir Roderick? After all, Max and Edward Spens were friends at university. Max could easily have helped Roderick leave those grisly offerings at the site. Max could even have given him the idea. He is another classicist, another fan of the Roman gods. He knows all about Hecate, all about Janus and Nemesis and the rest of the bad guys. Could Max really be plotting to kill her?