by Jane Adams
She watched, sadly, as the diggers from the archaeological site gathered silently around and slowly began to fill the grave, shovelling the fine red earth to cover Charlie’s face and suit and stained white shirt.
Beside her, Mrs Chinowski began to cry; to wail, her body shaking until the poppies on the wide brimmed hat waved and stuttered and Rozlyn was forced to reach out her hand and hold them still.
“It’s all right, Inspector Priest. You’ll get the bastard.”
Startled, Rozlyn looked towards the line of rowan. Charlie Higgins stood, smiling at her. In his hand he held a long, green staff and, for some reason that Rozlyn could not fathom, his feet were bare. In an instance of that strange empathy that comes in dreams, Rozlyn could feel the chill as Charlie walked on dew-drenched grass and, as she looked, she saw that the early morning sun illuminated a myriad of spider webs, strung out across the grass and silvered in the early light.
Dazzled by the sight, Rozlyn blinked hard and, as she raised her eyes again, looking back to where the ghost of Charlie stood, it seemed that some persistence of vision carried the pattern of bejewelled webs far up into the open sky.
Rozlyn woke with a startled cry, hands brushing frantically across her face. She sat up and glanced urgently around. The room was just as clean and ordered and as normal as ever, no sign of webs or ghosts or other disturbance. But even so, she had to get out of bed and hurry to the bathroom where, gazing into the mirror, she was finally able to shake off the feeling of chill, sticky web, spun out across her face.
* * *
Monday morning briefing. Rozlyn had arrived early, typing up her report ready for when the shift arrived.
It had been a sad, oddly disturbing dream and Rozlyn could not fully shake the effects of it. The irritating part was, she’d been involved in many murder investigations, seen bodies battered and burned and mutilated beyond belief but she’d rarely dreamed about them, always managing to file her work away when she got home. To shut out the horror and let go of the anger, at least for a little time. She knew that this ability had earned her a reputation for coldness, for inhumanity. That and the fact that she never seemed to share her life outside of work with anyone when the norm was to gather with your peers at least a couple of times a week and chew the fat over a pint or three.
So why was Charlie’s death so difficult to shake?
She copied the report, setting the machine to collate and staple then made her way down to the briefing. The team had started to arrive, helping themselves to coffee, complaining about the football match the night before — the locals had lost, again. At home. The photos from the crime scene had already been pinned to the wall and Rozlyn added the images of the spear and some contextual shots of where it had been found. She also added the names of Thomas Thompson and Donovan and the two addresses Mouse Man had provided.
“What’s all this, then?” DCI Brook peered at the names and addresses. He was slurping thick black coffee from a plastic cup. Coffee so strong that the fumes invaded Rozlyn’s eyes and nose as she moved close.
Briefly, Rozlyn filled him in, drawing his attention to the houses where Charlie cleaned and the transient nature of those staying there. Could this indicate people trafficking, she suggested. Brook raised an eyebrow but made no comment about the information. Instead he said, “Jenny tells me you’ve been visiting old ladies?”
“Mrs Chinowski from the third floor. Charlie paid her phone bill, helped her out in other ways. There’s an old guy called Mr Bishopson, too, lives in a residential home. I want someone to go and talk to him today. Mrs C reckoned Charlie helped him out too and that fits with what Mouse Man told me. He said Charlie had dependants. I’m guessing there could be more.”
“Proper little public servant, our Charlie,” Brook commented. “Snitching to you and helping old ladies with their little problems.” He shrugged. “His cleaning jobs are interesting, though I’d like to check it out before we get immigration involved. You might be right and this might well involve people trafficking . . . but we don’t want egg on our faces, do we?”
We want to get the arrests on our tally and not theirs, more like, Rozlyn thought. “If it checks out, it could be that Charlie saw something he shouldn’t have,” she said. “Then there’s what Mouse said about antiquities. That would fit with where he was found and with the murder weapon.”
Brook didn’t look impressed. “What would the likes of Charlie Higgins know about antiquities?”
“About as much as he’d know about illegal immigrants but Charlie was no idiot and he kept his eyes and ears open.”
“And came up with naff all. When was the last time anything Higgins told you led to an arrest?”
Rozlyn didn’t reply. She didn’t want to admit out loud that Brook had a point.
“But you still kept paying the stupid old bugger.”
“Charlie wasn’t old. For that matter, he wasn’t stupid. Look, I reckon he was on to something and that something got him killed. Now, whether it was bodies coming into the country or antiques going out, he still got killed for it. I say we have to follow both leads.”
Brook shrugged and turned back to the room, now full and buzzing with conversation. He set his coffee on the edge of a desk and clapped his hands together. “Morning, children.”
“Morning, sir.” The usual giggles from the probationers.
Rozlyn watched. Brook commanded attention. Effortlessly. He’d commanded Rozlyn’s even when she hated the man, instead of, as now, merely disliking him. Swiftly and concisely, he briefed the team, bringing them up to speed on the events since Friday and surprising Rozlyn by showing he’d already read the report she’d prepared that morning. Despite his sneering attitude in their private conversation, he seemed to give equal weight now to the two leads on Charlie’s death. Rozlyn took over, fielding the more detailed questions and assigning tasks. The two addresses were to be kept under surveillance. Jenny Harper was to talk to Mr Bishopson and track down the cleaning lady — the address was vague; they had the street name but no number and Clara Buranou, the woman Charlie had found to clean for Mrs Chinowski, didn’t show up on the electoral register. “See if social services can get you an address,” Rozlyn told her, “but something Mrs C said makes me think she wasn’t on their books. I reckon Charlie fixed things up, so you may just have to knock on doors.”
“And what’s DI Priest going to be doing?” Brook asked as the meeting broke up.
“DI Priest,” Rozlyn told him, unpinning two of the photos from the board so that she could copy them, “is going to see a man about a spear.”
* * *
The address she had for Ethan Merrill was in Stamford, about an hour’s drive away and on the other side of the dig site. Sir Walter Scott had apparently declared the place to be “the finest stone town in England.” Rozlyn had no idea what other delights Sir Walter had available by way of comparison, but she had to admit that the little town, with its winding streets lined with shops and pubs and a proliferation of churches built either of soft golden ironstone or the cooler, gull grey limestone was an attractive one. Rozlyn had been to Stamford only a few times. Twice for the music festival and once to visit Burghley House. She’d taken her grandfather there, knowing the old man’s love of history. The Elizabethan mansion had enchanted him with its sparkling, mullioned windows and odd little towers and cupolas perched high on the roof line which they’d only belatedly realised were elaborate chimneys. She had spent a good hour telling her grandfather about the landscaping of the park by the famous Capability Brown, only to have the old man turn to her with a look of vague disgust and comment “this place was mine, I’d fill this garden with every flower you could think of and a few more besides.” Recalling the overcrowded yard, so full of vegetation it was barely possible to walk from back door to gate without ending up entwined and pollinated, Rozlyn could well believe he’d do just that.
Not sure where she had to go, she decided to park next to the George Hotel and then make her way
on foot. She hadn’t recognised the address but Cheyne Lane turned out to be a narrow and ancient pedestrian thoroughfare, lined with small shops and even smaller eateries. Entering from the main street, Rozlyn instinctively ducked, the upper storeys of the houses jutting out so far that they almost met what seemed like only inches over Rozlyn’s head.
She almost missed the place she wanted. Having been told that Ethan Merrill now ran a shop she’d therefore been looking for a shop front, but Merrill’s, as it was simply known, hardly qualified for that kind of status. The door was set back from the lane and the shop windows restricted to narrow, angled panes forming a porch on either side. Rozlyn peered through dusty glass at vague shapes of vases and clocks and trays of jumble. Perhaps, she thought, if you came to see Ethan Merrill it was because you knew what you were looking for and such wares as he sold didn’t require anything so obvious as display or advertising. Rozlyn pushed the door and eased inside, startled by the jangling of a brass bell fixed to a spring above the entrance.
Inside was as uninspiring at first glance as the window display, though the room was wider than she would have guessed from the poky little entrance. Inside, the shop smelt of old books and bees-wax polish, though there was no evidence of the latter being recently applied if the layer of dust was anything to go by. A cat, stretched out on a table close to the door, turned to stare, then arched its back and hissed at her. It sounded like Mrs Chinowski. Rozlyn ignored it and looked around.
The shop was dimly lit. The lane being narrow and the windows small and filthy, not much light filtered inside. Dust motes swam in the single beam that fought through the glass panelled door and illuminated a space of some two feet wide and three feet long. Small wall lights, of a kind more at home in a living room than a shop, created tiny pools of radiance high up on the walls and revealed shelves of objects too deep in shadow for Rozlyn to properly define. The light lacked the energy to reach the floor.
Warily, she took a further step and called out Ethan Merrill’s name. Hadn’t he heard the bell? Did he always leave this place unattended? Anyone could walk in off the street and help themselves. Or maybe that was what the cat was for. It watched her still, no longer hissing, but the back arched and the amber eyes glittered. Rozlyn raised her hands to where it could see. “Look. Nothing,” she said. “You can relax, go back to sleep.”
“He won’t sleep until you’ve gone,” a soft voice said. Rozlyn nearly jumped out of her skin. She’d heard no one and yet, when she turned, the old man who’d spoken was almost at her elbow.
“Shhi— Sorry. You scared the hell out of me.”
“An American?” The man raised a quizzical brow. “Or no. Something between. The accent is an odd mix. New York . . . Brooklyn, perhaps . . . meets Louisiana and a little home counties English thrown in for good measure.”
Rozlyn laughed uneasily. “Not a bad guess,” she admitted. “Um, I’m looking for Mr Ethan Merrill. I’m Inspector Priest, I was told that Mr Merrill might be the man to give me some information I need.”
“Oh, and what information would that be?”
“Are you Ethan Merrill?”
“So they tell me. Jasper, you’ve already met.”
“Who?” Rozlyn glanced around. “Oh, the guard cat. Right.” She looked curiously at Ethan Merrill. It was hard to guess the man’s age. His hair was white, hanging past his collar in a thick mane that waved at the tip and showed no sign of thinning on top. His skin looked dark in the dim light, but smooth too. There were lines around the eyes, which spoke of good humour, but the rest was soft and clear. He was a tall man, almost matching Rozlyn’s six feet. Straight backed, he looked strong and fit. The hand that reached out to fondle the ears of the brindled cat, transforming the almost subliminal hiss into a purr, was broad at the palm, tapering at the fingers, capable looking and, like the face, tanned nut brown. The rest of Ethan Merrill was covered by a suit. Not quite black, Rozlyn noted, her eyes having adjusted to the low levels of light. The shirt was grey, open at the neck and Rozlyn caught a glimpse of gold as though he wore a chain concealed beneath his clothes.
“I want to ask you about a spear,” she said. “It was used to kill someone.”
“They often were.”
“What? Oh, I suppose so. But this was used to kill a man just a few days ago. His body was dumped at the dig site out at Theadingford. The spear was chucked in bushes close by. We’re almost certain it was the murder weapon.”
“Almost?”
“We’re just waiting for forensics to confirm it. I’m told you’re the man to ask about Dark Age weapons.”
Ethan Merrill looked amused. “I’m probably one of them,” he agreed. “You’ve brought it with you, this murder weapon?”
“Forensics have it. I’ve brought some pictures for you to see. I was hoping you could tell me something from those.”
“Hmm. It would be easier with the real thing, but I’ll do my best.” He reached out his hand again. “Some light, I think.”
Rozlyn blinked. “Yow. You could have warned me.” Three fluorescent tubes burst into life at Ethan’s bidding. Eyes that had become accustomed to twilight now watered painfully in light that would have outshone the average noon. Merrill chuckled, the old man seemingly unaffected by the transition.
“You have the pictures?”
“Yeah, right here.” Rozlyn slid them from her inside pocket. “I’ve brought some context shots, too, so you could see where and how it landed after the killer chucked it away. I did wonder if it might be a replica and if so, who’d have made it? If it’s real, could you give me some idea where it might have come from? They’re adamant it didn’t come from the dig.”
Ethan Merrill shuffled through the pictures and then laid them out on Jasper’s table. The cat sniffed at the images, then moved aside, seating himself on one corner and tucking his tail neatly out of the way. Merrill produced a hand lens from the table drawer and peered more closely. He was silent for so long that Rozlyn felt she had almost been forgotten.
“If you could tell me anything, I’d be grateful,” she said, to remind the old man of her presence.
Merrill straightened and turned to look at her. “If it’s a copy I’d be amazed,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll be running tests? Dating it?”
“I suppose,” Rozlyn said doubtfully. “I really don’t know. Our main concern is to verify that it’s the murder weapon and figure out where the killer got it from and why use that anyway. It seems . . .” Rozlyn felt for the words “I don’t know. Kind of pretentious, I guess.”
Merrill laughed. “I suppose it is unusual as murder weapons go. In this context, I mean. Frankly, I doubt whether this particular spear ever saw action, as it were. My guess is that it was a status symbol, though, of course, I could be wrong. The Anglo Saxons made the most beautiful swords. Works of art, woven from strands of tempered metal, and yet they were designed to kill in battle and very efficient they were too.”
“Woven?” Rozlyn was confused.
Ethan smiled. “I’m using poetic metaphor, I suppose,” he said. “You see, steel was an unpredictable metal back then. You needed a sharp, tempered edge. Something hard enough to cut, but not so brittle that the sword would shatter. They achieved their aims by a process called pattern welding. You’d begin with many layers of metal, laid together and then heated in the forge. The strands would then be twisted and drawn out to form the shape of the sword. Sometimes there’d be several layers of these twists, elaborate patterns that would show up on the sword blade once it had been finished and treated with acid. A good swordsmith would actually be able to replicate a particular pattern of twists. Some patterns even had names. Weavers of metal, Inspector Priest. Swords that had flex and spring at the heart and tempered steel at the edge. It’s a wondrous art.”
“But this is a spear. You’re saying that was made in the same way?”
Merrill nodded. “It’s unusual, but not unknown. Ceremonial spears of this type have been found, though t
he condition of this one is little short of miraculous. If it’s been in the ground, then conditions must have been very unusual. If it’s a replica, it’s still a major work. I’d need to see the real thing to tell you. I would date it to perhaps the seventh or eighth century, but I’d need to see the item to tell you more accurately.” He gathered the photographs and handed them back to Rozlyn. Rozlyn felt that she was being dismissed, no longer of interest.
“Where would this have come from?” she persisted. “If I’m right and this was stolen . . .”
“By rights it should be in a museum,” Ethan Merrill told her sternly. “A find like this should be recorded, researched.”
“But there are collectors out there who don’t care about provenance?”
Merrill frowned. “There are,” he acknowledged.
“Local collectors?”
Merrill considered. Rozlyn felt that not only was he considering the question, he was weighing Rozlyn as being worthy, or not, of an answer.
“Two that I can think of,” Merrill said at last.
“Names? Addresses?”
Merrill sighed. Jasper stretched himself and arched his back again. Rozlyn guessed that the hiss was imminent. She took out her notebook and stood with pen poised. Finally, Ethan gave her two names and she wrote them down.
“The second is the man to look at,” he said finally, turning away and switching off the main lights. Rozlyn’s eyes protested at the adjustment. It was like being plunged into utter blackness. She blinked rapidly, trying to get her eyes to adapt.
“Mark Richards,” Ethan told her from the darkness. “The man has money to burn and an absence of any sort of conscience. Be careful, Inspector Priest.”
* * *