A Room Full Of Bones

CHAPTER 10

Cathbad’s silence is easily explained. He is helping the police with their enquiries. Or rather, he is entertaining Nelson and Judy in his caravan on the beach at Blakeney. Cathbad seems determined to keep the occasion social, offering them tea and brownies, enquiring after Michelle and the girls. Nelson answers brusquely. He’s annoyed with Cathbad for putting him in this position. Why the hell did his fingerprints have to be found at the scene? Does the man get everywhere?

He doesn’t think that Cathbad killed Neil Topham but he’s mixed up in it somehow. He was at the museum that day and, as for the Elginists, they have Cathbad’s name written all over them. Cathbad loves nothing more than a fight with authority and this one would be right up his street.

‘I expect you know why we’re here,’ is Nelson’s opening gambit.

‘I’m sure you’ll tell me,’ replies Cathbad genially.

Progress through the caravan is difficult. Objects hang from the ceiling and there is furniture everywhere, mostly draped in material so that it is hard to know whether it’s a chair or a table that you’ve just fallen over. Nelson gets tangled up in a dreamcatcher made of seashells and swats at it wildly. It breaks.

‘Sorry,’ he says, not sounding it.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Cathbad. ‘I can make another.’

‘Do you sell them to gullible tourists?’ asks Nelson, landing with relief onto a bench seat.

‘No, I give them to special people in my life,’ says Cathbad. He looks at Judy, who looks away.

Nelson, who is the not-so-proud owner of two of Cathbad’s dreamcatchers, gets straight down to business.

‘We found your prints at the museum. Are you going to tell us what’s going on?’

Cathbad settles himself in a tall wizard’s chair. He smiles. Nelson glowers at him. He distrusts Cathbad’s smile.

‘I was in the museum on Saturday,’ he says. ‘You know that. I came for the opening of Bishop Augustine’s coffin.’

‘But how come your prints were found in the Local History Room, which was closed to the public?’

Cathbad sighs. He turns to Judy. ‘Have you ever been to the Smith Museum?’ he asks her. ‘Fascinating collection.’

Judy is fiddling with her phone. She looks tired again today, thinks Nelson, and she hardly spoke on the drive from the station. Christ, he hopes she isn’t pregnant.

Judy meets Cathbad’s eyes. ‘I went once when I was at school. I thought it was boring.’

Cathbad seems delighted by this answer. He laughs. ‘Then you should look below the surface. There are horrors underneath.’

Nelson has had enough of this. ‘Give me a straight answer,’ he growls, ‘or we’ll conduct this interview at the station. Were you or were you not in the Local History Room that day?’

‘Yes, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Cathbad, with deceptive meekness. ‘I was. I arrived at about two o’clock. There was no one to be seen, though all the drinks and goodies were laid out in the long gallery. I went into the Local History Room to pay my respects to Bishop Augustine.’

‘Why?’

‘He was an interesting character. People thought he was a saint. Apparently he could bilocate, be in two places at once.’

Nelson can see exactly why this would appeal to Cathbad. ‘When you went into the room,’ he asks, ‘did you see the curator?’

‘No. There wasn’t a soul about.’

‘Did you know Neil Topham? Did you ever meet him at one of your weirdy gatherings?’

‘I met him once or twice at events organised by the museum,’ says Cathbad with dignity. ‘I wouldn’t say we were friends.’

‘But you didn’t see him that day?’

‘No.’

‘Was there anything unusual in the room when you went in?’

Cathbad raises his eyebrows. ‘Apart from it having a dirty great coffin in the middle? No.’

‘Nothing on the floor? No exhibits out of place?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’ Cathbad is definitely curious now.

‘Was the window open?’

‘I’m not sure… No, I remember thinking how hot it was in there.’

‘Hot?’

Cathbad looks innocent. ‘Yes, hot. Close.’

‘What else did you do?’

‘Went up to the coffin. Said a prayer to the good spirits. Then I had a quick look round the room. There’s a picture of the henge, you know.’

‘Have you seen this before?’ Nelson holds out a copy of the museum guidebook. It’s not the book found in the room with the dead body (that’s still with forensics) but it’s folded back on the same page.

‘It’s from the museum, isn’t it?’

‘Take a look at this page. Does it mean anything to you?’

‘The Smith Family,’ Cathbad reads aloud in a polite, interested voice, ‘have lived in Norfolk since the middle ages. The first recorded Smith was Augustine, Bishop of Norwich from 1340 to 1362. Bishop Augustine was much loved for his charitable work and when he died hundreds visited his body as it lay in state. There is a statue to him at the cathedral. In the sixteenth century Thomas Smith aided Henry VIII in the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in 1538 was rewarded by the gift of Slinden Abbey, which had previously been a monastery. Thomas reverted to Catholicism during the reign of Mary Tudor but reverted again to become a loyal protestant under Elizabeth I. He was knighted in 1560. In the Civil War, Slinden was the scene of a particularly bloody battle and was renamed Slaughter Hill. Lord Edmund Smith fought on the Royalist side and was killed in the battle. Other prominent Smiths have included Hubert Smith, an actor who performed with Beerbohm Tree, and Sir Gilbert Smith, a Conservative MP in the Eden government. The present Lord Smith is a successful racehorse owner and trainer.’

The words ‘died’, ‘Slaughter’ and ‘killed’ have been underlined.

‘A fascinating family,’ says Cathbad.

‘Have you seen this guidebook, with these words underlined, before?’

Cathbad looks up from examining an engraving of Slinden Abbey. ‘No. Why?’

‘It was found in the room with Neil Topham’s body.’

‘It wasn’t there when I went into the room.’

Nelson glares at Cathbad, who looks back at him with wide, innocent eyes. The dreamcatchers sparkle overhead.

‘What did you do next?’ asks Nelson. ‘When you left the Local History Room.’

‘Had a look round the other rooms and then went to meet some friends for a spot of lunch.’

‘You can give their names and addresses to Detective Sergeant Johnson later.’

‘I’ll be glad to.’

Cathbad smiles at Judy, who looks down at her phone again. Nelson says, ‘Cathbad, are you a member of the Elginists?’

Cathbad doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Yes I am.’

Nelson counts to ten and gives up on five.

‘You didn’t think it was worth mentioning this?’

‘You didn’t ask.’

‘Did you write the letter to Lord Smith demanding the return of the Aborigine relics?’

‘I was one of the people who drafted it, yes.’

‘Can you give me the names of the others?’

‘I suppose so. We’ve got nothing to hide. The group’s quite open and above board. We’ve even got a website.’

But that, as even Nelson knows, proves nothing. These days every nutcase has got a website. Nelson leans forward, trying to force Cathbad to take him seriously. But Cathbad is still looking at Judy with that infuriating smile on his face.

‘Cathbad, did you, or anyone in the group, write letters to Neil Topham?’

Cathbad is still smiling. ‘To Neil? No. Not that I know of. Why?’

‘Because threatening letters were sent to him. Handwritten letters.’ Nelson glares at Cathbad, remembering other handwritten letters, death threats written in flowery poetic language but no less sinister for all that. Cathbad drops his eyes first.

‘’I don’t know anything about any letters to Neil Topham,’ he says, ‘I helped draft the letter to Lord Smith, that’s all.’

‘You helped draft the letter that threatened Smith with the vengeance of the Great Snake?’

Cathbad frowns. ‘I think we put it better than that. More poetically.’

‘Stop taking the piss,’ says Nelson. ‘These are serious accusations.’

Cathbad opens his eyes wide. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of?’

That’s the problem; Nelson doesn’t know. But he does know that something went on in the museum that day. Henty and Taylor delivered the coffin at half-past one. If he is to be believed, Cathbad visited the museum at two but didn’t see Neil Topham. Ruth arrived at two-sixteen, by which time Topham was already dead.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he says, standing up. ‘Don’t leave the country.’

Rocky and Clough are not having much luck with their door-to-door enquiries. Most of the buildings around the Smith Museum are offices and so are closed on Saturday. The people in the garage opposite didn’t see anything, nor did the owner of the corner shop. They are just about to give up when the shopkeeper suggests they talk to ‘old Stanley’.

‘Who’s old Stanley when he’s at home?’ asks Clough, who is stocking up on chocolate.

‘He’s the caretaker of the flats behind the museum. He’s always in the grounds, sweeping up leaves, doing odd jobs. Old Stanley sees everything.’

‘Then we’ll see him,’ says Clough grandly. ‘Come on Rocky.’

Stanley lives on the ground floor of the mansion flats directly behind the museum. His flat is crammed with pictures of his children and grandchildren but his main interest seems to be keeping the grounds clear of dog mess.

‘They used not to allow dogs in the flats,’ he explains. ‘But the residents complained and now their bloody dogs crap everywhere.’

‘Don’t they use pooper scoopers or whatever they’re called?’ asks Clough. He’d like a dog but Trace is asthmatic, or so she says.

‘Don’t talk to me about pooper scoopers,’ Stanley’s face darkens. ‘Little plastic bags full of crap everywhere. There’s no respect.’

‘Right,’ says Clough. ‘Look, Mr… er, Stanley. We’re investigating an incident which happened at the museum on Saturday. We wondered if you were in the grounds on Saturday between about midday and two-thirty.’

‘Might have been,’ says Stanley cautiously.

‘Did you see anything suspicious? Anyone entering or leaving the museum.’

‘There was that one man.’

Clough sits up straighter and even Rocky looks interested.

‘What man?’

‘He was in the car park. Must have been after two o’clock because I always have my radio with me and Any Questions had just finished. Then it’s Any Answers, all these busy-bodies ringing in. Haven’t they got anything better to do?’

‘The man,’ prompts Clough. ‘What was he doing?’

‘Just walking through the car park. I watched him. He went up to the recycling box and put a shoe in. One shoe! What’s the good of that to some poor bastard?’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I only saw his back. Tall. Wearing a dark suit and a hat. I thought he looked like a businessman. People don’t wear suits so much these days. There are no standards.’

Clough, wearing jeans, ignores this. ‘What did he do next?’

‘Just walked off. I think he turned right, towards the town. A few minutes later there was all the excitement. Ambulance, police cars, the lot.’

‘Why didn’t you come forward with this earlier?’

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.