A Room Full Of Bones

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 lifted 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.’

‘Well, perhaps Danforth Smith will change his mind,’ says Ruth. ‘He can’t display the relics after all. What’s to be gained from keeping them shut up in a storeroom?’

‘You’d be surprised, Ruth,’ says Bob. ‘You must come to the meeting at the weekend. We’ll tell you stories about whole tribes being wiped out. About Victorian adventurers who hunted the Aborigine like animals. Fine gentlemen like Lord Danforth Smith.’

‘It’s incredible,’ says Ruth. ‘I had no idea.’

‘I once knew a whitefella who kept an Aborigine skull on his mantelpiece. Boasted about it. Used to put a Santa hat on it at Christmas. Funny old Abo head to amuse the children.’

‘What happened to him?’ asks Cathbad.

‘He’s dead now,’ says Bob. ‘The ancestors are powerful.’

Ruth feels a real shiver running down her spine. For a moment she is sorry that she ever saw the cellar room at the Smith Museum, with its boxes of bones. Did she handle them with enough reverence? Will ancestors be after her next? She is glad that penne with pesto contains no bones. She is about to say something – anything – to break the mood, when Kate causes a distraction by falling asleep with her head in her pasta.

When Kate has been put to bed, Bob and Cathbad go into the garden to light the fireworks. Ruth watches from the window. Her excuse is that she wants to hear if Kate wakes up, but really she wants to keep away from the frightening little packages with their warnings of death and disfigurement. One large rocket even has a skull and crossbones on it. Surely this should warn any sensible person to steer clear? Besides, it’s freezing out there.

Cathbad and Bob are having a great time though. Bob seems to have got over his moment of darkness. Ruth remembers how completely his face seemed to change when he talked about curses and ‘bad juju’. Ruth has known Cathbad long enough to understand that some people do believe in curses, in ill-wishing, in bad karma, but nevertheless the concept still disturbs her. Can there really be these malignant forces out there just waiting to strike or, worse, waiting to be directed? And can Bob, her smiling next-door neighbour, really direct death itself by pointing a bone? Ruth, who has spent years resisting her parents’ beliefs, is a resolute rationalist but, still, there is something troubling about a man who believes he can visit bad luck upon another human being. Or does he believe it? Maybe it’s all an elaborate joke. She watches Bob laughing as he hammers in a stake for the Catherine wheels. Who was Catherine and why did she have a wheel? Ruth has a feeling that the answer is sure to be nasty. She decides against asking Cathbad.

But surely Bob is harmless. He’s just a passionate man, a poet, someone who believes in honouring the past and respecting the dead – just like Cathbad. And like Erik. Ruth wishes she could stop thinking about Erik, especially on the Saltmarsh late at night, times when, as Erik would have said, the restless spirits walk the earth looking for the light. She wishes she could just remember Erik as a brilliant archaeologist and her beloved mentor. But darker memories insist on emerging. A stormy night, lightning illuminating the sky like fireworks, a hidden room, a terrible secret. Ruth pushes these images aside with an effort. She must only think about the good things. With Bob too. He’s a good neighbour, a kind creative person who plays the didgeridoo and likes children. And Flint, whose judgment Ruth trusts, adores him. Flint is currently asleep on the spare-room bed. He hates firework night.

Cathbad bends to light a fuse. Nothing happens. He goes back to try again. Ruth opens the back door.

‘You shouldn’t return to a lighted firework.’ She learnt that from Blue Peter.

‘It’s OK, Ruth.’ Cathbad brandishes his taper. ‘Fire always obeys me.’

Famous last words, thinks Ruth. But she shuts the door again. The wind is getting up, making the whole lighting business more hazardous than ever. Maybe they’ll give up soon. She wonders if they’d notice if she sneaked off to watch Newsnight.

But suddenly there is a slight hiss and a little gold tree springs up in front of her. The tree spins, shedding gold and silver leaves. Bob laughs aloud and Cathbad performs a rudimentary, capering dance. Ruth smiles, despite herself. This sort of firework seems harmless enough, rather beautiful, in fact. A few more like that and she can put the kettle on.

In fact, there are many many more. How can Bob’s little box hold so much? Fountains, stars, spinning wheels, shrieking rockets – Ruth watches them all from the back door. What is it, this desire to fill the night with noise and light? It goes back hundreds of years before poor old Guy Fawkes. Probably another attempt to stave off the horrors of the night and of winter, like cockerels crowing at dawn. And like the cockerel, there seems to be a certain element of macho posturing involved. Bob and Cathbad are determined not to come back indoors before every last touch paper has been lit. Ruth doesn’t know a single woman who really likes fireworks.

But, finally, they do come back in, smelling of gunpowder and the sea.

‘How about that?’ says Cathbad triumphantly.

‘Amazing,’ says Ruth. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘I’d like something stronger.’

‘I might have some brandy left over from last Christmas.’

‘Perfect.’

So they sit in front of the fire and drink brandy and talk about bonfires, paganism and Aboriginal smoke ceremonies. Ruth feels her eyelids drooping but she enjoys sitting there, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation. If only she didn’t keep thinking that Kate would wake up any minute. Surreptitiously, she looks at her watch. Eleven-thirty. Even at the most optimistic assessment Kate will be awake in six hours. Ruth stifles a yawn, feeling her jaw lengthening.

‘We should go,’ says Bob. ‘Ruth has to be up in the morning.’

‘Oh, Ruth’s a night owl,’ says Cathbad, pouring more brandy.

‘I used to be,’ says Ruth. ‘Now I’m a lark. A reluctant one, I grant you.’

‘Come on Cathbad.’ Bob stands up, turns to Ruth. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening.’

‘Thank you for the fireworks.’

Bob grins. ‘Well, the sun god needs his sacrifice. Isn’t that right, Cathbad?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Can I give you a lift?’ It hadn’t occurred to Ruth that Cathbad didn’t bring his car. He rarely drives. He has a car but it is the oldest vehicle that Ruth has ever seen. Erik used to speculate that it dated from the Bronze Age.

‘No, I’m fine. I like walking at night.’

‘I’ll give you a lift as far as Snettisham.’

‘OK.’

Ruth watches them go. The Saltmarsh is dark and silent, the Gods of night still reigning. As Bob’s tail lights disappear into the blackness, Ruth goes back inside and bolts her door.