BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1)

by Jane Adams

THEADINGFORD. YEAR OF GRACE 878

  Sitting in the afternoon sun, sharpening his knife, Treven’s thoughts strayed to that last battle. The one that had finally turned the tide against Guthrum and had, eventually, brought him to this place. This place he had already begun to think of as home.

  The night before they fought he had dreamed the battle at Eddington. Perhaps it was the memory of so many skirmishes, so many death fights that caused him to see so clearly, but whatever the cause, Treven knew even before waking how the day would go.

  The previous night they had left their stronghold and travelled by flat boat across the marshes. Then the forced march through ankle-deep mire, the stink of rotting vegetation choking as they disturbed the stagnant water.

  “They’ll smell us coming,” Hugh had whispered. “We will not need to fight, the stench will choke the air from their lungs even before we begin.”

  They had halted an hour or so before dawn. Treven, standing blind in the deep shadows of their encampment, ears straining to catch the night sounds, had heard but not seen the arrival of the others. Men summoned from their fields, from their boats, from their hiding places. Treven himself had gone out as messenger in the days before, calling to the broken stone cross all those who still held to Aelfred’s cause. Praying, even as he spread the word, that those who heard it would come faithfully, praying even harder that they would not betray their king, not at this late time.

  Aelfred had been king of very little on that day. He could claim ownership of only a short stretch of land that had once housed a hunting lodge and been a playground for he and his elder brothers in time of peace. If they had failed on that day, Treven knew that there would be no hope of regrouping. The line of Aelfred’s kin would be finished and men like Treven good as dead.

  A woman’s voice, very soft but clear on the cold air reminded him of his duties should they fail. Aelfred’s children would wait here, beside this once holy place and, should their father fail, then Treven and Hugh and a trusted handful of others would have been responsible for ensuring their escape.

  If they survived,

  If they could make their way back here.

  If . . .

  The night before that final battle Treven had fallen into an uneasy sleep with those thoughts on his mind but when he had roused a scant two hours later, he had woken with a sense of certainty.

  They would succeed. He knew it. Guthrum would fail and Aelfred win out against him.

  Treven had dreamed of the half-blind god. Seen him as he strode across the land of Treven’s birth, his twin ravens flying high above his head and crying back the news to their master’s ears and, as Treven watched, half afraid that Wotan would see him, half afraid that he would not, he heard the sound of a horn and, suddenly, as it often is in dreams, the scene was changed and Wotan no longer walked. He rode astride a powerful, coal-black horse. His battle axe was raised as he charged full pelt across the field of battle and behind him streamed the hunt, gathering the souls of the fallen as the blood soaked and seeped into the land.

  “What do you see?” Hugh had asked him softly.

  “See?”

  “Since we broke camp, your eyes have been everywhere but on the path we walk. What do you see, Treven?”

  Treven had shrugged but glanced again at the line of trees that ran parallel to the track they were taking. He had been aware of them since waking, those others that recalled the nature of his dream. The movement, caught out of the tail of his eye, gone when he looked direct. The soft sound of leather against leather, metal catching against metal, shield scraping against shield and the shush of drawn sword and the creaking of tired bones. Could he hear all of that?

  Treven looked back at Hugh. “I see nothing,” he said.

  “But,” Hugh persisted. “You sense something?”

  Treven could see the unease, the questioning in his friend’s eyes. This otherness of Treven disturbed and troubled him.

  “Sometimes,” Hugh said, as lightly as he could, “I think you have more kinship with the spirits and magic of our enemy than that of Christ.”

  Treven made no reply. He glanced back at the line of trees. Friend or enemy, he wondered, then knew the question to be a worthless, meaningless one. The ones who marched and watched and sometimes ran beside them, half seen, half felt beneath the trees no longer troubled themselves with the rights and wrongs of men, they just were. They waited, they watched, they gathered the dead, trampled the blood-soaked earth beneath their booted feet, but left no track or sign that a living man could follow.

  Treven had shuddered and caught the fear and alarm in Hugh’s eyes. “This day will go well for us,” he had said. “On that score, you should have no fear.”

  Hugh had relaxed, his shoulders losing their tension and his eyes became less troubled. Treven shifted his attention to the road ahead. What was it he was seeing? What was it that had caused him to see? Sometimes he thought that Hugh must indeed be right. He had been baptised into the religion his father served, but at times the faith and beliefs of his pagan mother seemed more fiercely burned into his soul.

  Now, sitting beside his own Hall, the land that was now in his care stretching out in all directions, Treven breathed deep of the cool, fragrant air and gave thanks. This would be home, this was where he would begin again and, he promised himself, none would stand in the way of that.

  CHAPTER 12

  Rozlyn drew a blank with the first contact, Mr Ed Foulks being away for the summer according to his housekeeper. She seemed deeply affronted at the idea he might have had any part of his collection stolen without her knowledge.

  Rozlyn left, Foulks’s name on her reserve list should she be unsuccessful elsewhere, but if the housekeeper was to be believed, the man hadn’t even been in the county for the past six weeks. It was always possible, of course, that a theft and murder had taken place on his property and that the housekeeper had merely tidied up after it, so as not to inconvenience her employer . . . somehow, Rozlyn couldn’t see it.

  Besides, she had the feeling that Ethan Merrill fancied Mark Richards for ownership of the spear and, having nothing to contradict that, Rozlyn was prepared to give that notion its head.

  She was within a half mile of Richards’ place when Jenny called her on the mobile. Irritated at having forgotten, she groped about on the passenger seat for her headset, her attempts to position it almost landing her in the hedge as the car swerved on the narrow road. She was still cursing and muttering as she pressed the button to take the call.

  “You OK?” Jenny asked. “You sound out of breath.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. What’ve you got for me?”

  “Well, I found the old man. Mr Bishopson.”

  “And?”

  “He’s in a home over on Westbury Close. The Larks, they call the place. Local authority, but it seems nice enough. Old Mr Bishopson won’t be much help to us, I’m afraid.”

  “Why’s that then?”

  “Gone gaga,” Jenny told her. Rozlyn winced. “Senile dementia. Tends to wander off if they don’t watch him. That’s how Charlie got to know him, apparently. The old boy’d got out one day and Charlie Higgins found him wandering, brought him back. He’s been visiting about once a week ever since. Brings little bits in for him; apparently the old man likes chocolate and lemonade and he’s no family to provide the extras.”

  Extras. Chocolate and lemonade. Rozlyn shook her head at how pathetic that sounded, thinking about the extras she had provided for her grandfather; wondering if he actually noticed them anyway. “OK, so what about the cleaning lady. Any joy on that front?”

  “Um, sort of. You were right, she’s not from social services. They knew nothing about her. They remembered Mrs C, though. The home help they appointed refused to go back after the first couple of months. They sent another and she lasted a week.”

  “Don’t tell me, she kept them in the hall?”

  “At first. Yes. Then when they got into the flat, she stood over them and nagged. Nothin
g was right. She managed to reduce the first one to tears three times before she finally threw in the towel and the second just decided she wasn’t going to be . . . what was it . . . oh yes, treated like a skivvy.”

  “Rings sort of true, from what I’ve seen of Mrs C,” Rozlyn mused. “Did they remember Charlie?”

  “Um, yes. Said he came around to discuss things after the second home help struck out. He tried to persuade them to try again, but, no go. The woman I spoke to . . . Mrs Marriot, one of the supervisors, she said what a nice man Charlie was and she was sorry they couldn’t help. That was three, nearly four months ago.”

  “So, this Clara Buranou?”

  “Was definitely someone Charlie found.”

  “You have an address?”

  “Not on the electoral register, so, like you said, I had to knock on a few doors. I found her eventually. Mrs C was right, she’s in a bedsit on Mortimer Street but there was no one home when I called.”

  Mortimer, Rozlyn thought. A mile, maybe, from the Queen’s. Close to the University and, until the Uni had instituted its latest building program, known for its cheap student lets. “Well, I think we’ll have another go later.” She was pulling up outside Mark Richards’ place. Estate, she thought. That was probably the word for it, rather than mere house, or even residence. “Thanks, Jenny,” Rozlyn said. “I’ll get back to you on Clara Buranou.” She signed off, tucked the phone into her pocket and removed the headset then sat for a moment surveying Mark Richards’ domain.

  High walls surrounded what must be a substantial chunk of land. Rozlyn had followed the wall for the last several minutes until she’d reached the gates. The iron gates were closed and an intercom on the wall indicated that she would have to request entry.

  “Rich bugger, aren’t we?”

  Rozlyn drove the car as close as she could to the gates, but still had to get out of the car to use the intercom. She buzzed three times before getting a reply.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see Mr Mark Richards.”

  “You have an appointment?”

  “No. I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector Priest. I’d appreciate a few minutes of his time.” She was aware as she spoke that cameras mounted on the high gate posts swivelled to stare down. Rozlyn resisted the impulse to wave.

  “One moment.”

  Somewhat more than a moment passed before the voice returned. “You have identification, I take it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you may enter.”

  “Well, whoop de do,” Rozlyn muttered beneath her breath, her paternal grandmother’s favourite indicator of annoyance coming naturally to her lips. She returned to the car and drove through before the guardian of Mark Richards’ privacy changed his mind, then followed a long, tree-lined drive up to the house. It took a full five minutes. Rozlyn was suitably impressed.

  The house itself was neo-Georgian, the gold of local stone, visible as she glimpsed the side view of the house, faced at the front with smooth, pale limestone. A man stood at the head of a flight of steps. He was dressed in knife-creased grey flannels and a dark blazer. His well-trimmed hair was white and sparse on top and Rozlyn placed him in his sixties or even a little older. Could this be Mark Richards?

  As Rozlyn approached, the man held out his hand, but not to shake. Rozlyn recognised the voice of the gate keeper as he asked formally to see her identification and he studied it carefully, glancing several times from Rozlyn to the photograph as though hoping to find something amiss.

  Finally, he handed it back and turned towards the double doors. “This way,” he said and Rozlyn followed obediently, leaving the autumn sun behind and passing through the shadowed door. She found herself in a tall, square hall, the floor of which was tiled with coloured marble. An impressive staircase leading to a double landing lay straight ahead. Her guide led the way upstairs and to the left, finally pausing at the third identical wooden door and knocking lightly. He went inside leaving Rozlyn out in the cold. Rozlyn was getting heartily tired of this. Grasping the smooth brass handle, she pushed the door open and followed the gatekeeper. The man in the black blazer was standing by a desk talking to a younger man. They both looked up as Rozlyn made her entrance, the older one frowning in annoyance and making to move towards her, hand outstretched again, this time to chide and then dismiss.

  “It’s all right,” the younger man rose and came around to the front of the desk. “You must forgive Albert,” he apologised. “He knows how much I hate being disturbed when I’m working. You must be Inspector Priest?”

  “Working?” Rozlyn queried. This man actually did something to earn all this.

  “Yes,” Richards indicated a laptop sitting atop the desk. Open but with the screen turned away from Rozlyn. He didn’t elaborate. “What can I do for you, Inspector.”

  “I was given your name as someone who might be able to help me with a little information.”

  “Oh?” Mark Richards raised an eyebrow. “Always glad to help the police, of course, but what kind of information?”

  “I understand you’re a collector of antiquities. Dark Age antiquities?”

  Mark Richards frowned. It didn’t suit him, Rozlyn thought. He was the sort of man that relied upon good humour for his looks. Though, maybe with his money, that didn’t matter. “I collect many things. Why?”

  “Items like this?” Rozlyn withdrew the printouts of the spear from her pocket and laid them on the table. She got the feeling that neither Mark Richards nor his guardian appreciated her getting that close . . . to them? To the laptop?

  Richards picked up the images and skimmed through.

  He laughed. “I’d love to own a piece like that,” he said with feeling. “I take it that’s a replica?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Well, the condition, for one thing.” He lifted the pictures closer to his eyes and peered at them, then reached onto the desk for his glasses before holding the pictures away and studying them again. “It’s too good,” he said. “Nothing stays in that condition after a thousand years or so.”

  “Unless it was never in the ground?”

  Richards looked up sharply, then laughed. “Not very likely, Inspector. This isn’t the kind of thing people keep in their ancestral attics.”

  “Was it in yours?” Rozlyn couldn’t be bothered to pussyfoot.

  Again, that sharp look and, she sensed, a sharper intake of breath — albeit metaphorical — from Albert. Disapprobation at her unrefined manners, Rozlyn wondered, or something more?

  “Why would you think that?”

  “It was found not far from here. You’ll agree it’s an uncommon item. You’re known to be a collector.” Rozlyn shrugged. “So, logic dictates it might be yours. I’ve heard there’ve been a number of thefts in the area. Unusual stuff taken.”

  This last was a pure fiction so far as Rozlyn knew but Mark Richards nodded slowly. “I understand that’s so,” he conceded. “Which is why I have a very expensive security system here, Inspector. I like to protect my interests . . . and my privacy.”

  “That, I can understand,” Rozlyn told him. “May I ask what kind of security system you have in place. Aside from the walls and fence, of course.” And Albert, she added silently. The man was watching her with predatory attention.

  “No doubt you noted the cameras?”

  “Outside, yes. What about in the house itself? Perhaps I could get one of the crime prevention team to come and give you some advice?”

  Albert straightened and began to move towards the door. Clearly, he felt it time for Rozlyn to leave. “I really don’t think that’s anyone’s concern but Mr Richards’,” he said. “You may be assured that it is more than adequate.”

  Mark Richards was still examining the pictures. “What’s the staining on the tip,” he asked. “It’s a shame when the rest is so pristine.”

  Rozlyn took the picture from him and looked at it as though for the first time. “Oh,” she said. “That w
ould be blood. The spear was used to kill a man.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Rozlyn left after another half hour. She had finally been granted reluctant access to Richards’ collection, housed in a first-floor room that extended practically the width of the house and whose tall sash windows gave views out onto rolling grassland and aged stands of trees. At some distance away, Rozlyn could just glimpse the wall that she had followed along the road.

  Richards’ collection gave the impression of being a private museum, glass cased and catalogued. Albert, acting as escort, pointed out the items from the period Rozlyn was interested in and stood over Rozlyn as though afraid she might touch. Rozlyn found herself putting her hands behind her back in unconscious response as she admired the pot shards and mangled metalwork. It reminded her of the stuff she had seen at the dig site but there was nothing even remotely like the spearhead.

  Rozlyn glanced about, hoping to see something in the room that might look as if it were worth stealing. “Any of this stuff actually worth anything?”

  Albert bristled. “To an educated individual, yes.” He avowed. “These pieces are of great historical significance.”

  “I’m sure they are, but I’m talking commercial value. Are these cabinets alarmed?”

  “Presently, no.”

  “Presently? Are there plans then?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Albert told her. Rozlyn waited for more, knowing that Albert had just caught himself saying the wrong thing.

  “Maybe I should ask your boss?” She sensed Albert wince.

  “It has been discussed,” he admitted reluctantly. “As you reminded us, there have been robberies in the area.”

  “Have there?” Rozlyn mused. “Oh yes. I did say that, didn’t I?” she could almost feel the waves of irritation and dislike rolling from the older man. She glanced around again, noting the Egyptian antiquities. Shabti, she recognised, and seal stones and faience jewellery. Roman mosaic and pottery too, were familiar, recalling their cousins seen on museum trips with her mother and grandfather. From the number of cabinets dedicated to it, it was clear that Anglo Saxon was Richards’ period of choice. In a small display by the window was a selection of jewellery. Amber and glass beads, laid out to give the impression of being strung and a pair of cruciform brooches, one set on either side. There were rings, too and small fragments of enamel work placed carefully in position on a slab of rusted metal that Rozlyn presumed must be a sword.