I bent down into the coffin again, but it wasn’t until I had hooked up the fibres on the tip of the scoop that I saw it was a clump of matted hair, like what you might extract from a long-neglected plughole.
As I lowered the dripping tangle into the jar, something inside clicked against the plastic. I rotated the jar and saw what looked like a blackened flake of lead dangling from a strand of hair.
Trying to suppress nausea, I quickly closed the receptacle and handed it to Gayle, then removed my mask and helmet and breathed in deeply.
‘Are you OK, Illaun? What’s in here?’
‘Some hair…and what looks like a human fingernail.’
‘Ew, that is just so gross,’ said Gayle, holding the jar at arm’s length and squeezing her eyes shut in case she might be tempted to look inside.
What to do with the samples? Bones I could have sent to the osteoarchaeologist who’d been working with us on the dig up until the previous week. But this?
‘I’m going to see how Terry’s doing,’ I said. ‘One way or another, I’ll take him to St Loman’s – along with those.’
‘You’re bringing them to a hospital?’ she said, puzzled.
‘We’re hardly sending them to the National Museum.’ Then I realised that, while Gayle was repelled by what was in the jars, she wasn’t thinking that it might be a source of disease.
Terry emerged from behind the excavator, drying his close-shaven black hair. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jogging pants donated by one of the team. I stuffed my mask and gloves into one of the paper bags, tucked my helmet under one arm, picked up my briefcase and waited for him to join us.
As he approached, I could see he was pale beneath his tan.
‘How are you feeling, Terry?’
‘Can’t get the fecking pong out of my nostrils. Otherwise, I’m grand.’ Terry was English, but had absorbed numerous idioms from his years of working on and off in Ireland.
‘That was a narrow escape. The whole thing could have crashed down on you. Did you swallow or inhale any of the liquid?’
‘No, dear, I’m trying to give it up.’
Gayle thought that was hilarious.
‘I’m taking you to St Loman’s anyway,’ I said.
‘I had a tetanus jab only a few weeks ago.’
‘It’s not tetanus I’m worried about.’
‘It’s just coffin liquor,’ he said with a swagger. ‘I saw plenty of it when I was working on the Christ Church removals in Spitalfields.’
‘Wow, you worked on the crypt excavations? In the 80s, wasn’t it?’ said Gayle, clearly impressed.
‘Yeah. We lifted the remains out of a thousand coffins, more or less. Mostly eighteenth, nineteenth-century. Touched plenty of that cadaver sauce. Bodies floating in the stuff. Smallpox was a big worry, though, and the level of lead in our blood. But the biggest problems turned out to be psychological.’
‘Be that as it may,’ I said, ‘we can’t be too careful. I want you to get a full medical examination.’
‘You’re worried that it might be a plague burial, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know whether it is or not. But at this stage it’s better to presume that it is and let the medical people assess the danger to your health.’ I pointed to the gate. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What about the other one?’ Gayle asked as we descended the field.
I glanced back at the smaller coffin lying on the grass. ‘We don’t want a repeat of what’s just happened. Let’s regard it as a health hazard for now. I don’t want anybody going near it until I come back.’
Gayle and Terry exchanged glances.
Terry got into my recently acquired dark-green Freelander, which had my name and contact details in yellow on the doors. I put my briefcase in the back alongside a large cardboard box containing waterproof clothing, a kneeling mat, hiking boots and various tools. As I found a space for my helmet, Gayle wedged the jars between the briefcase and the box.
‘What about the mess up at the top of the field?’ she asked, as I got into the car.
‘Get the Hymac guy to haul the damaged coffin back nearer the vault and cover it in heavy-duty plastic. Same with the other. Then cordon off the whole area up there with crash barriers and get some large warning signs put up.’
‘What’ll I put on the signs?’
‘Hmm…’ Coffin liquor is classified as clinical waste, but that might not have sounded scary enough. ‘“Danger: Toxic Waste.” Ask Peggy to print them up in the office for you. It’ll only be temporary – the Council will be officially responsible for the site in’ – I checked my watch – ‘about half an hour. But it’s only fair we do that much for them – they weren’t bargaining on having a problem like this land on their laps on a Friday afternoon.’ I turned on the engine.
‘Right, let’s get Typhoid Terry seen to,’ said Terry, putting on a brave face. But as we got closer to the hospital his chirpiness evaporated. ‘Are you insured for this kind of thing?’ he asked.
‘Accidents on site? Sure.’
‘If there’s a charge to be paid at the hospital, you’ll look after it, won’t you? I’m flat broke.’ He gave me a thin smile and began to hum a familiar tune ending with the words, ‘And I spent all me tin on a lady drinking gin…’ Terry liked to garnish his conversation with snatches from old ballads and folk songs.
‘I hope she was worth it,’ I said. All my team had received a generous bonus for completing the project ahead of time. It had been in their paychecks just the previous day.
He looked at me enigmatically. ‘Mind if I smoke?’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, letting down the window on my side. Then I wondered if the packet had been in his clothing. ‘Sure they’re not contaminated?’
‘Nah. Wouldn’t light then, anyway.’ He cackled and cleared his lungs before inhaling. His mood had changed again. ‘I heard a story from a mate on the Spitalfields excavation. Something that happened after the Great Fire of London. Two inquisitive gentlemen decided to drink the remains of a Dean of St Paul’s who’d been buried in a lead coffin a hundred and fifty years earlier.’
‘Ugh.’
‘It seems the broth had been heated up by the fire as it passed.’
‘They really drank the stuff?’
‘Apparently so. Tasted of iron, that’s wha—’ He started coughing and threw the cigarette out of the window. ‘Fecking cancer sticks,’ he said.
I shot him a brief glance. Terry looked like someone who’d been force-fed the coffin broth he had just described. His face was grey underneath his tan and his eyes were bloodshot.
‘I seen some odd things in Spitalfields myself – empty coffins, one filled with stones, a few with double burials – but nothing like what we unearthed today, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You didn’t take a look at the other coffin, then?’
‘No. Why?’
We were just entering the gates of the hospital. Terry smiled knowingly. ‘You’ll see.’
Chapter Three
While Terry was being triaged in A&E, I saw one of the doctors on duty passing by the waiting room. Cora Gavin and I had been at school together in Castleboyne and were still friendly, if not close, so I took the opportunity to explain what had happened to Terry and to put it in the context of our work at the graveyard. We sat down together in the waiting room. There was no one else there. St Loman’s was a small local hospital; its facilities and staff were of a high standard, but A&E was seldom busy.
Cora listened closely. She had a long face with a small undershot mouth, features that were emphasised by the way she scraped her hair up from her forehead and temples into a high bunch on top.
‘I doubt that the coffin was harbouring bubonic plague, even if its inhabitant was a victim of the disease,’ she said when I’d finished. ‘Our main concern at this stage would be lep and hep. We’ll take some blood samples to keep for analysis in case something develops.’ Leptospirosis and hepatitis A are hazards occas
ionally encountered by archaeologists where soil has been contaminated by sewage, or water by rat urine.
‘I think he’s more rattled by what happened than he’s letting on,’ I said.
‘Then maybe, to get him over his fright, we’ll hold on to him for a few hours and keep him under observation.’
‘Good idea. Can I leave these with you?’ I said, picking up the sample jars from the seat beside me. ‘I guess, to be sure we’re doing everything by the book, this stuff should be screened for the plague bacillus – and maybe smallpox and anthrax. Just in case.’ I handed her the jars.
‘Hey, when did you guys become lab scientists?’ she said, peering at the jars. The way it came out, it sounded like a put-down. Cora was one of those unfunny people who on occasion choose to attempt banter, often with disastrous results. Her most redeeming feature at school had been her passion for justice and human rights, and if she was on your side in a dispute you could have no better advocate, albeit a rather humourless one.
The way to deal with Cora was just to answer her straight. ‘If we think we’ll be taking samples of non-solid organic material on a site, we come prepared.’
‘Well, we won’t be able to analyse this ourselves. I’ll send them off to CRID in Dublin.’
‘CRID?’
‘The Centre for Research in Infectious Diseases. They have Bio-safety Level Three containment facilities there. Just in case, as you said.’ She put the jars into the pockets of her white coat and stood up. ‘Now, I’d better go and talk to Mr Johnston.’
At the entrance to A&E she turned around. ‘Why don’t we play a game of tennis one of these days?’ she called out.
Like her, I was a member of the local tennis club, but I hadn’t played for the best part of a year. ‘Sure. I’d like that,’ I answered. In the back of my mind I recalled Cora stretching up to serve and then a cannonball coming over the net in my direction.
Cora continued on her brisk walk into A&E. I looked at the clock on the wall. 12.05. I was already late for the meeting with Dominic Usher, Manager of the Town Council. I turned on my mobile phone and texted him to say I was running late. Then I turned it off again.
Minutes later, Terry joined me in the waiting room.
‘They’re taking me in for observation,’ he said, sitting beside me.
‘I’ve been talking to one of the doctors. You’ll be well looked after. I presume you told the nurse I would be paying the hospital charges.’
He nodded.
‘And did you tell them who to contact if there’s any treatment to be discussed?’
He shook his head, smiling grimly. ‘My childhood friends and my own relations,’ he murmured, ‘have all passed on now, like melting snow…’
‘A ballad, I take it?’
‘“Carrickfergus”. One of the best. By the way, could you lend me a few shekels? Just in case I need to make a phone call.’
‘Sure,’ I said. I rummaged in my purse and gave him whatever change I had, as well as a fifty-euro note.
‘I’ll pay you back,’ he said gratefully. ‘When the kangaroo comes in.’
‘The kangaroo?’ Was he raving?
‘My ship. The good ship Kangaroo. Could be sooner than you think.’ He raised his voice and sang:
I’ll bring you tortoises from Tenerife
And toys from Timbuktu,
A China rat and a Bengal cat
And a Bombay cockatoo…
‘Yes, Terry.’ I stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the cemetery. Take care now.’
I got into my 4x4 and checked my mobile phone for messages. Two texts. One from Dominic Usher, saying OK. The other was from my fiancé, Finian Shaw, to say he had some news. Finian was the creator of Brookfield, a showpiece garden of international repute that he had developed from scratch on the family farm.
I rang him. ‘You were looking for me,’ I said when he answered. ‘I’m at St Loman’s, so I had the phone turned off.’
‘Why are you at the hospital? Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine, my love.’ I told him about the accidental spill and what I’d found in the coffin.
‘Yuck. But did you have to put yourself at risk like that? I’ll bet not many of your colleagues would consider scraping up liquefied human tissue as part and parcel of archaeology.’
‘I know lots who would. It’s not all roses in your business either, is it? How many gardeners do you know who would turn up their noses at a supply of horse manure if it landed on their doorsteps?’
Finian sighed audibly. ‘Clearly, I’m not going to win this one. Now, can I tell you the news?’
‘Yes, of course. I should have asked you straight away.’
‘It’s even more gruesome than your experience, if that’s possible. While my father was out for a walk a couple of hours ago, he came across a woman’s body in the stream.’
‘Oh, my God – how awful! Poor woman. And what a terrible thing for Arthur. How is he?’
‘Well, you know the old man. Not much fazes him. I think I’m more put out about it. The fact that it was found on our property, too.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Near the footbridge. It had probably floated downstream and got caught at the bend there.’
‘Any idea who she is?’
‘No. According to the Gardaí, there are no reports of any missing persons in the area. But it’s early days. In fact, they’ve only just confirmed that it was actually a woman’s body.’
‘Why? Was she badly decomposed?’
‘Hmm…that’s only part of the problem. But you’ll be able to find out why they were unsure. Your pal Malcolm Sherry is on the way to do a post-mortem.’
State pathologist Malcolm Sherry wasn’t exactly my ‘pal’, but we were acquainted. I reckoned that Finian was just hoping to keep his father in the loop, since he was the one who had found the body. Even so, it was unlikely Malcolm would share much information with me – nor did I particularly want it.
‘Well and good, if I bump into him. I’ll see you later, Finian.’
‘There are lots of visitors here today, but no VIPs expected tonight, thank God. Drinks at seven suit you?’
‘Can’t wait. Dining al fresco again, are we?’ I laughed. Finian and I had eaten out in the garden for the past three evenings, with all the food prepared by him.
‘I’m spoiling you. One of these days you’ll have to cook something.’
‘When the weather changes. I promise.’
‘When hell freezes over, more likely.’
I had several reasons now to telephone Dominic Usher. ‘Sorry if I held you up,’ I said when he answered with his pedantic, each-syllable-emphasised version of his name. ‘First of all, I’m not going to make it there before lunchtime. So can we arrange the handover for, say, three o’clock?’
No response. Come on, Dom-in-ic, don’t make it difficult.
‘All right. I’ll still be here,’ he said in a slightly pained tone.
‘Second, there’s been a spill at the site. We found a lead coffin from which some fluid escaped. One of my guys got splashed, but most of it soaked into the ground. We’re putting up signs and crash barriers. Samples are being sent to the Centre for Research in Infectious Diseases, and the digger – his name is Terry Johnston – is being checked out at St Loman’s. I’d suggest placing the immediate area around the spill off limits until the results come back.’
Usher grunted under the impact of an unexpected problem.
I drove back to the cemetery with my head full of speculation about the lead coffins. The Maudlins, as it was commonly called, had originally been a burial ground for lepers. The Magdalene hospital, or lazar house, associated with it was situated on the outskirts of the town – standard practice in the Middle Ages. We had proven beyond doubt during the excavation that lepers, though few in number, had indeed been buried in the graveyard – the way in which the disease eats away bone is unmistakeable. But we had also shown that in the mid-fourteenth century the place h
ad been used as a plague-pit, the corpses buried there in the space of a year by far outnumbering the lepers laid to rest in the previous hundred.
But neither leprosy nor plague victims had been buried in coffins of any kind, let alone expensive lead ones. So who were the inhabitants of these caskets? When had they been interred in the vault, and why?
I could rule out the period in which most of the lepers had died. Lead-lined coffins only started coming into use among the wealthy in Ireland in the mid-to-late 1300s, a time when leprosy seemed to have been extinguished by the plague – a side effect of little consolation to the people of the time. But coffins made of lead need to be ordered, constructed and delivered; a suitable location has to be set aside to accommodate them – not the kind of activity that took place when the Black Death was raging. In Castleboyne in 1348, the lucky ones got wrapped in a sheet.
Burial in a church, near the high altar or elsewhere, was the preserve of the pious and the powerful. It was called burial ad sanctos – meaning near whatever saints’ or martyrs’ relics the church had been able to acquire. But the chapel of the lazar house was the least prestigious among the many places of worship in medieval Castleboyne. And yet two people – possibly a man and wife, judging by the relative sizes of the containers – had contrived to be buried in lead-lined coffins in a tiny vault there. It smacked of delusions of grandeur.
Chapter Four
When I arrived at the Maudlins I saw that, while crash barriers had been put in a circle around the area of the spill and the collapsed vault, there were still no warning signs visible. But I was more concerned when I saw that the second coffin was still on the grass where it had been lying when I left. For some reason there was a blue tarpaulin draped over the upper section of it.
Gayle ran across the largely filled-in site to meet me at the gates. ‘We’re still waiting…on the signs,’ she gulped.
‘Hey – take it easy. There’s only so much you can do.’ I gave her time to catch her breath. ‘But why have you left the other coffin there?’ I pointed up to the slope.
The Lazarus Bell, an Irish Murder Mystery Page 2