A Room Full Of Bones

by Elly Griffiths

  Stanley shrugs. ‘Didn’t think it was my business. I’m not a nosy parker.’

  Clough drives back to the station elated at having found a possible clue but full of contempt for Stanley and the public in general.

  ‘Didn’t think it was his business. Old nutter. Too busy going on about dog shit.’

  ‘I’d like a dog,’ says Rocky. ‘A Labrador. Labradors are clever.’

  ‘Cleverer than you, certainly,’ says Clough.

  Nelson and Judy are also driving back to the station.

  ‘Bloody Cathbad.’ Nelson is still steaming. ‘Every bloody thing that happens in this county, he’s involved somewhere. I’m beginning to think he can bi-whatsit like that Augustine fellow. Be in two places at once. Remember when he turned up in the snow that time? At Ruth’s place.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Judy.

  Nelson turns to look at her, causing the car to swerve sharply. ‘Are you OK, Johnson? You seem to have taken a vow of silence today.’

  It is very rare for Nelson to ask his staff how they are. Judy realises that he is trying to be kind. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. To distract herself, and him, she looks down at the list of names given to her by Cathbad.

  ‘Jesus, boss. You should see the people Cathbad says he was having lunch with on Saturday. Akema Beaver, Derel Assinewai, Bob Woonunga. Are these people for real?’

  ‘All Cathbad’s mates have weird names. What are their addresses?’

  ‘All local- Bloody hell!’

  ‘What?’ The car swerves again.

  ‘Bob Woonunga’s address. No 1, New Road. He lives next door to Ruth.’

  Back at the university, Ruth goes to the canteen for a restorative cup of coffee. The first person she sees is Irish Ted. Ted is a member of the Field Archaeology Team and Ruth has come across him many times before. He’s almost a friend, although Ruth doesn’t feel she knows him very well. He once told her that his name wasn’t even really Ted.

  Now, though, he greets her enthusiastically. ‘Ruth! Long time no see. Come to join me?’

  Though it’s only eleven o’clock, Ted is tucking into a huge slice of pizza, washed down by a can of lager.

  ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got a lecture at twelve.’

  ‘Why bother? Most of the students can’t speak English anyhow.’

  It’s true that these days most of Ruth’s students come from overseas. She teaches postgraduates and the university needs the money. But in fact their English is usually perfect.

  ‘They speak better English than me,’ she says. ‘How are you, Ted?’

  ‘Fine. Can’t complain.’ He grins, showing two gold teeth. ‘I hear you’re involved with the cursed coffin.’

  ‘What? Oh, Bishop Augustine. Did you find him then?’

  Most of the Field Team’s work is on building sites. Contractors are obliged to call in the archaeologists if they are working on a historic site. However, there is pressure on the team not to find anything so valuable that building work is delayed. Big business tends to outrank historical research.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Ted. ‘It was on the new Asda site. We knew there’d been a church there once, one of the early ones. But we didn’t expect to find chummy there, all sealed up in his coffin. Gave us quite a turn.’

  ‘Did you know who it was?’

  ‘Well, there’s a pretty big clue on the coffin itself.’ The word ‘Augustin’ and a bishop’s staff are carved into the coffin. ‘And we’d heard the legend.’

  ‘What legend?’ asks Ruth, despite herself.

  ‘Old Augustine put a curse on anyone who opened his coffin. It’s all in the records up at the cathedral. If anyone despoiled his body, a great serpent was going to come and devour them.’

  ‘A great serpent?’ A memory stirs in Ruth’s brain.

  ‘Yes. Satan himself, presumably. Augustine was known for being able to cast out devils. His statue in the cathedral shows him with his foot on a snake. Maybe the devil was about to have his revenge.’

  He grins and swallows the rest of his pizza in one easy bite.

  CHAPTER 11

  The setting for the second opening of the coffin is very different from the first. Instead of canapés and wine boxes, a sterile room in the university’s science block. Instead of the press and assorted dignitaries, a small group of people in disposable coveralls: Phil, Ruth, Chris Stephenson, Lord Smith and – to Ruth’s surprise and discomfort – Nelson. She is also surprised that Cathbad hasn’t managed to con his way in; he works in the science department after all. But Cathbad is still not answering his phone. Ted was invited to represent the Field Team who had discovered the coffin, but he had declined. He was scared of the curse, he said.

  But despite the bland surroundings there is a definite frisson in the room. The coffin itself, balanced on two trestle tables, looks neither sterile nor scientific. In fact it looks almost sinister, a brooding dark shape amidst the white. Next to the coffin is a table covered with a white sheet, intended for the Bishop’s skeleton. It is this more than anything that reminds Ruth that there is a person inside the wooden box, a direct ancestor of the tall grey-haired man currently chatting to Nelson about horse-racing. Who knew that Nelson was interested in horses? Ruth and Nelson have not yet exchanged one word.

  The door opens and a technician comes in, carrying a hammer and a chisel. These instruments, placed beside the trestles, look far too B &Q-ish to suit the occasion but Ruth knows that the coffin lid may be hard to shift, there are a lot of nails in it.

  ‘Shall we start?’ Phil asks Ruth rather nervously. The technician gets out a camera – he is going to video the whole thing. Ruth prays she won’t end up on YouTube.

  ‘What’s the coffin made of?’ asks Lord Smith.

  ‘Oak,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s good-quality wood. Some coffins from this time are made from lots of small pieces of wood nailed together but these are good, large pieces. Look how the top forms a ridge. That’s quite unusual too. The shape as well, tapering to a point. We’re just starting to see this in medieval coffins. Previously they were basic rectangles.’

  ‘You know your stuff,’ says Smith approvingly. Ruth, who has spent several days reading up on medieval burial practices, tries not to look pleased.

  ‘Is there another coffin inside?’ asks Chris Stephenson.

  ‘No. We’ve scanned it and all that’s inside is a body wrapped in some kind of cloth or shroud. Some bodies from this time were buried in lead inner coffins but it’s rare. There was a body excavated from the site of a monastery in St Bees in Cumbria buried in a box within a box within a box, like a Russian doll. But, like I say, it’s rare. Besides, lead was expensive.’

  ‘But he was a bishop,’ protests Smith, perhaps stung by the suggestion that his ancestor couldn’t afford the best.

  ‘Maybe he gave all his money to the poor,’ says Ruth. It’s unlikely, given what she knows of medieval bishops, but it effectively silences Danforth Smith.

  Phil, rather gingerly (he’s not known for his DIY skills), starts to prise up the nails, which come out easily. Too easily, thinks Ruth, though she keeps this thought to herself. The nails, thick and black, made from badly rusted iron, are laid aside for further examination. The atmosphere becomes tenser, people move closer to the coffin. Then, just when Phil removes the last nail, Ruth’s phone rings.

  She curses inwardly. She’d meant to turn her phone off. She almost does so now, but a glance at it tells her that the caller is Cathbad. Backing away from the main group, she hisses, ‘Cathbad? I can’t talk now.’

  Cathbad sounds amused. ‘Is it the great unveiling?’

  ‘Yes. Why aren’t you here?’

  ‘I wasn’t invited.’

  That’s never stopped you before, thinks Ruth.

  ‘Can we talk later?’ she asks.

  ‘Sure. I’ll come round to your house at about six.’

  This isn’t quite what Ruth had in mind but she hasn’t got time to argue. She sees, to her annoyance, that the lid has been lif
ted and Nelson and Lord Smith are peering into the open coffin. The technician is videoing frantically.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Over to you, Ruth,’ Phil says graciously, though he is probably cross with her about the phone call. Getting closer, she sees that the skeleton is wrapped in something that looks like silk, though it has a strange waxy sheen to it. Next to the head is the crook of a bishop’s crosier, beautifully preserved.

  ‘Bishops were often buried with their crosiers,’ Phil is saying. ‘An interesting survival of the superstition that you take your goods with you into the next life. This one might even have been specially made for funerary use. The crook looks as if it’s made of jet.’ The tip of the staff does indeed have a dull black gleam to it.

  Ruth pulls on her gloves and leans into the coffin. The silk is well preserved due, no doubt, to the thin coating of wax. ‘Beeswax,’ she says, ‘a natural preservative.’ Gently she unwraps the silken shroud. Behind her, there is a sharp intake of breath as the bishop’s skeleton is revealed.

  It is a perfect skeleton, laid out on its back, arms crossed across the chest. There is a ring on one of the fingers and below the feet something that looks like a shoe. But, looking closer, Ruth realises something else.

  Bishop Augustine is a woman.

  ‘So the old boy was really an old girl. How priceless!’ Cathbad leans back in his chair and laughs uproariously. Kate, who is watching him closely, laughs too. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ says Ruth with some asperity. ‘Female pelvic bones are quite different from male. The female pelvis is shallower and broader, the pubic ramus is longer. It was a woman’s skeleton all right.’

  ‘Do you think the bodies were switched, or was Bishop Augustine a woman all along?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was meant to be a pope who was a woman, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Pope Joan,’ Cathbad nods, taking a swig of wine. ‘She was only found out because she gave birth in the middle of a public procession.’

  ‘Well, that would tend to give it away,’ says Ruth, filling up their glasses. She hadn’t really wanted Cathbad to come over (entertaining is too much of a pain these days) but now he’s here it’s surprisingly pleasant. Cathbad had spent the first ten minutes playing wildly with Kate and now she looks satisfyingly sleepy, though she is keeping her eyes fixed on him in case he does anything fun. He also brought wine, which is always welcome. Ruth offers to make some pasta. She’s not much of cook but she’s hungry and Cathbad is hardly a demanding guest. He’s a vegetarian (of course) so all she has to do is shove some pesto on top. Kate loves pesto too. Then, with any luck, she’ll go to sleep.

  ‘What did Lord Smith say?’ asks Cathbad, pulling a funny face at Kate behind his wine glass. ‘Was he shocked that his famous ancestor turned out to be a cross-dresser?’

  ‘He was flabbergasted,’ says Ruth. ‘He kept asking if I was sure. Phil was delighted. It makes more of a story for the press.’

  Cathbad pulls another face, not entirely for Kate’s benefit. ‘Typical. He’s a publicity junkie, that man. Poor Shona. I don’t know how she puts up with him.’

  Cathbad’s affection for Shona and antipathy towards Phil go back a long way but Ruth isn’t about to let him get away with this. ‘She puts up with him because he does everything she tells him. She’s not exactly downtrodden.’

  ‘I know. She’s a warrior maiden at heart. But what about the bishop? How are you going to solve the mystery?’

  ‘I’m going to go to the cathedral, look at the archives. And there’s a local historian who’s meant to be an expert on Bishop Augustine.’

  Cathbad nods. ‘Janet Meadows. Yes, I know her, she’d be the perfect person to ask. I bet the bishop was a woman though, otherwise why would she be buried with the bishop’s staff?’

  ‘The crosier? Yes. And she had the bishop’s ring on her finger. There was a single shoe in the coffin too. I don’t know what that was meant to signify.’

  ‘That she was a left-footer?’ suggests Cathbad, grinning.

  ‘They were all Catholics then,’ says Ruth dismissively. ‘I’d better go and get the pasta on.’

  But just as Ruth has wrestled Kate into her high chair and put the pasta on the table, there is a knock at the door.

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Cathbad, jumping up.

  He seems very keen to greet the visitor and Ruth isn’t altogether surprised to see Bob Woonunga’s smile coming through the front door.

  ‘I hope I’m not intruding, but I heard Cathbad’s voice.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ says Ruth, ‘the noise he and Kate were making.’

  ‘I’ve brought some fireworks.’ Bob holds up a small, brightly coloured box. ‘That’s traditional here, right? I thought Kate might enjoy them.’ It is firework night. Ruth’s drive home was punctuated by explosions and random flashes of red and green light. She is rather frightened of fireworks and intends to keep Kate as far away from bonfires as possible. Still, it’s a nice thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That’s very kind. Would you like to stay for some supper?’

  ‘If you’ve got enough.’ Bob sits at the table and waves at Kate, who screws up her face and blows an impressive raspberry.

  ‘Kate!’ Ruth doesn’t know where to look.

  ‘She’s playing the didge,’ says Bob. ‘She remembers. That’s one bright kid you’ve got here.’

  ‘She’s very clever,’ says Cathbad, pouring more wine (Ruth has produced a second bottle). ‘She’s an old soul.’

  ‘You said that about my cat once.’

  ‘Flint? Well, he’s an old soul too.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agrees Bob. ‘He’s a wise one, all right.’

  At last, reflects Ruth, collecting garlic bread from the kitchen, Cathbad’s found someone who speaks his language. The last person who had seemed entirely on Cathbad’s wavelength was Erik. Come to think of it, there’s something about Bob that reminds her of Erik in his gentler moments.

  ‘How did you two meet?’ she asks, sitting down beside Kate.

  ‘At a conference to discuss cultural repatriation,’ says Bob. ‘Cathbad was interested in some bones found near Stonehenge, I was just beginning to find out how many of our ancestors were in private hands. That’s when we decided to form the Elginists.’

  ‘I saw Lord Smith’s collection the other day,’ says Ruth, thinking that ‘collection’ is entirely the wrong word. What is the right one? Ossuary? Mausoleum?

  Bob seems instantly to become more alert. He flicks a glance at Cathbad. He has dark eyes with very long eyelashes which give the impression of great innocence. Ruth isn’t sure though. She thinks Bob, like Flint, is a wise one.

  ‘Did you see the skulls?’ asks Cathbad. ‘Is it true that one’s been turned into a water carrier?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s a horrible thing.’

  Bob leans forward. ‘Were you able to tell how these people died? I know you’re an expert.’

  Ruth is aware of the flattery but it has its effect all the same. ‘I couldn’t tell the cause of death. The skulls were all male. One showed signs of disease, probably syphilis. One…’ She stops. Should she tell Bob about her other, even more gruesome, discovery? She doesn’t owe Smith or his ancestors any discretion after all, and it might help the case for repatriation.

  ‘Yes?’ says Bob.

  Ruth sighs. ‘There were cut marks on one of the skulls. It looked to me as if the head had been skinned shortly after death. Scalped.’

  Bob and Cathbad look at each other. Bob makes an odd gesture, holding his hand, palm outwards, against his forehead. He looks genuinely shaken. For the first time since she’s met him, the smile has disappeared altogether.

  ‘Scalped,’ says Cathbad. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘It was a trophy,’ growls Bob. His face has darkened, his brows drawn together. He looks quite frightening. ‘This wasn’t a fellow human to him, it was a hunting trophy
. Like a stag’s head on a wall.’

  Ruth thinks of the fake Victorian study at the museum, the waxwork figure at the desk, the stag’s head on the wall. She wonders if Danforth Smith’s ancestral mansion is full of such objects. She feels compelled to say, ‘Well, this wasn’t Smith himself. It was his great-grandfather. It was a long time ago. Attitudes then-’

  ‘Were exactly the same as now,’ Bob bursts out. ‘To a man like Danforth Smith black people aren’t human. He venerates his own ancestors but ours are nothing to him. We’re animals. Less than animals. I hear he worships his horses. We’re less important to him than his horses.’

  ‘I did try to reason with him’ says Ruth, feeling rather ashamed at having provoked such an outburst. ‘I said that your ancestors were as valuable as his. Bishop Augustine, for example, you know, the medieval bishop whose coffin we were due to open that day.’ She looks at Cathbad, warning him not to say anything more.

  Cathbad smiles and contents himself with muttering something about ‘mother church’. He seems far less shocked than Bob by the scalping revelation. Ruth, watching him, can’t imagine that Cathbad would be so incensed about the museum keeping the skulls that he would write and threaten Neil Topham’s life. But someone did.

  ‘It’s to do with ownership,’ says Ruth. ‘Smith thinks the bones are his because they were taken by his great-grandfather. It’s a really fixed mindset.’

  ‘Typical British upper classes,’ says Cathbad, still smiling. ‘You should point the bone at him, Bob.’

  ‘Point the bone?’ says Ruth. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s an Aborigine curse,’ says Bob, shooting a glance at Cathbad. ‘It brings about certain death.’

  ‘You don’t believe that though?’

  Bob shrugs. ‘Plenty of people do. You know, there are tourists who take rocks from Australian national parks. Weeks, months, later they send the rocks back saying that they’ve had nothing but bad luck since they took them. When the rocks are back on native soil, the curse is lifted. Think how much worse it is to take the very bones of our ancestors and keep them on the other side of the world. That’s a lot of bad juju.’