A Room Full Of Bones

CHAPTER 5

Nelson drives slowly through narrow wooded lanes. He drives slowly because the countryside always makes him feel nervous, because it has been raining and there are gullies of water running in the ditches and because, every few yards, there are signs warning him to be careful of racehorses. Nelson takes the frequency of the signs to mean that he is nearing Lord Smith’s racing stables. ‘Hope you don’t mind coming to see me down on the farm, so to speak,’ Smith had said on the phone. ‘It’s just that it’s hard to take time off from the yard.’ ‘I’ll come early,’ Nelson had promised. ‘Great,’ replied Smith, ‘I get up at five. The first lot pulls out at six.’ Nelson had no idea what this meant but he knew when he was beaten. He agrees to arrive at seven.

As he takes the turning for ‘Slaughter Hill Racing Stables’ he sees a line of horses coming towards him, jogging gently through the mist. Nelson stops the car as they go past, the horses wearing blankets and catching at their bits, heads flying up, hindquarters swinging out as if they can’t bear this tedious pace for a single second more.

Nelson has come to speak to Lord Smith about the death of his curator. The autopsy on Neil Topham had proved inconclusive (though Chris Stephenson had tried his best not to use this word). Topham had died from acute pulmonary haemorrhage which could, according to the pathologist, be attributed to a number of causes including tuberculosis, lung abscess or Factor X deficiency. ‘What’s Factor X when it’s at home?’ Nelson had barked. It sounded like one of those dreadful TV programmes his daughters watch. ‘It’s a coagulation factor that allows the blood to clot; people with Factor X deficiency are prone to pulmonary haemorrhage.’ ‘But you said it could be caused by all sorts of things?’ ‘Yes. Pulmonary haemorrhage can be brought on by infection, or drug use, or even by shock.’ ‘So we’re no nearer to finding out what killed the poor bastard?’ ‘No,’ Stephenson had admitted.

The body has been released to Topham’s parents for burial but Nelson is still reluctant to close the case. There’s the little matter of the drugs, for one thing. The powder found in Topham’s desk drawer had turned out to be one hundred per cent pure cocaine. The curator’s body had shown clear evidence of drug use. Nothing odd in that, maybe. As far as Nelson can make out, most arty types are on drugs. But were the drugs for Topham’s sole use (there was a hell of a lot there, according to the drugs squad, thousands of pounds worth) and what caused Neil Topham, a man apparently in good health at half past one, to be found dead by two-twenty? And there are the letters too. Someone evidently had it in for Neil Topham and the Smith Museum and Nelson wants to know why.

There are security gates across the track but they open at Nelson’s approach. He parks beside a modern bungalow with a sign saying ‘Visitors Please Report Here’. Nelson rings the bell but there is no reply. There are cars in the car park, among them a showy blue Ferrari, but no one seems to be about. Opposite is a high wall with an archway and a clock tower. After waiting impatiently for a few minutes, Nelson marches through the archway, wishing he’d thought to wear boots. Place will be swimming in mud after all that rain.

He is wrong. The archway leads into a huge quadrangle, lined on three sides with stables. In the middle is a square of grass as smooth and green as a bowling pitch. There is not a speck of mud to be seen. The stalls have a kind of v-shaped rail in the top half, and through this horses’ heads are poking, each one looking as impatient as Nelson himself. He walks up to the first head and the horse rolls an angry eye at him, nostrils flaring.

‘Better not go too close,’ says a voice behind him. ‘He’s a bit of a tinker, that one.’

Nelson turns and sees a woman wearing jodhpurs and a reflective jacket. At her approach the horse neighs, though whether in welcome or anger he can’t tell.

‘Can I help you?’ she says, eyebrows raised. She is tall, with black hair hanging loose over her shoulders. Nelson supposes she is quite-good looking but she’s not his type. She has dark eyes, straight black brows that almost meet in the middle and a decided nose. She also looks rather familiar.

‘DCI Nelson from the Norfolk Police,’ says Nelson. ‘I’m here to see Danforth Smith.’ He’s buggered if he’s going to add the ‘Lord.’

‘Oh, you want Dad,’ says the woman. ‘You’d better come to the office.’

Surprisingly, given the extreme order of the yard, the office is a mess. There are racing papers everywhere, half-drunk cups of coffee, even a slightly chewed doughnut. A large ginger cat squats by the computer, eyeing the doughnut beadily. The cat – and the doughnut – remind Nelson of Ruth. Racing silks, clashing pink and purple, hang on the door.

‘Sorry about the state of this place,’ says the woman, ‘but I’ve got to get the declarations done by ten.’

‘Declarations?’

‘Saying which horses are running where.’

It’s a foreign language, thinks Nelson. He is experiencing the unusual sensation of being in an entirely alien habitat. A horse and rider pass by the door. To Nelson’s untrained eye, the animal looks magnificent, its plumy tail swishing against silken hindquarters. He is struck by how big the horse is close up. The rider’s stirrups are on a level with the window. Other horses are coming out of their stables now, breath steaming in the cold air. More men (and women, he thinks) in yellow reflective jackets are putting on saddles and swinging themselves up on the narrow backs. Soon the yard is full of sidling, prancing horses parading slowly around the square of grass.

Though he has never told a living soul, Nelson loves horses. He still remembers his father’s horror when, as a child, he had asked for riding lessons. He soon realised that he had made a terrible mistake; ponies were for girls, football was for boys. He had quickly switched his request to football training and had the pleasure of seeing his father’s face when he scored his first goal for Bispham Juniors. Archie Nelson had attended all his son’s matches, yelling himself hoarse on the touchline, though he was a quiet man in all other ways. His sisters had both done ballet, he remembers, but this had not counted in the house the way Harry’s football had counted. He’s sure his father never went to a single dance performance, although his sisters were both meant to be quite good.

So Nelson had suppressed his fascination with horses, had limited it to yearly bets on the Grand National. He even enjoys watching the racing on TV, the horses swirling into the paddock, cantering up to the starting post with the wind in their tails. It seems incredible that the jockeys can stay on, perched up on the necks of these twitchy muscle-bound monsters. Nelson has never been on a horse and it’s too late now.

‘The second lot’s just going out,’ says the woman, who has been checking something on the computer.

‘Where are they going?’ asks Nelson, wondering if this is a stupid question.

‘To the gallops.’

‘For exercise?’

She turns and gives him a slight smile. It doesn’t suit her; her features are designed for tragedy. ‘Six furlongs, uphill. It’s exercise all right.’

The word ‘uphill’ reminds him of something.

‘Funny name this place has got. Slaughter Hill.’

‘There was a battle here ages ago,’ the woman says vaguely. Then, with evident relief, ‘Here’s Dad now.’

Danforth Smith appears in the doorway. He too is wearing jodhpurs and boots. Uniform of the upper classes, thinks Nelson. But it looks kind of impressive all the same.

‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long,’ says Smith genially. ‘Caroline been looking after you?’

‘She has,’ says Nelson. He is surprised to see Caroline blushing.

‘Let’s talk in the house,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll be more comfortable.’

‘Sorry about the mess,’ says Caroline, blushing again. Her demeanour has changed completely with the arrival of her father. ‘Are you declaring Tommy Tuppence for Newmarket?’

‘No,’ says Smith. ‘He’s still not right. I’ll turn him out later on today. This way, DCI Nelson.’

Smith leads the way across the grass to the far side of the yard. The horses are heading out through the archway now, hooves clattering on the tarmac.

‘How many horses have you got here?’ asks Nelson.

‘Eighty,’ says Smith with some pride. ‘Both flat and jump. The flat season’s nearly over but the jump season’s just beginning. We’ve got an all-weather track so we can ride out all year round.’

‘Do the same horses run in flat races and jump races?’ asks Nelson.

‘Good God no.’ Smith stops by a box at the far end of the yard. ‘Completely different game. Look at this fellow now. Classic jump horse. Stands every bit of seventeen hands. Got real bone on him.’

Again, Nelson has no idea what this means but there, in the wood-smelling gloom, is the biggest horse he has ever seen, jet black except for a white stripe running down his face.

‘The Necromancer,’ says Smith, in awed tones. ‘Just come from Dubai. He’s a real prospect for next year’s National.’

‘I’ll remember,’ says Nelson.

The black horse looks steadily at them for a moment and lowers his head to his food.

As they pass through another, smaller, yard, Nelson is surprised to see two rather different animals eating from a haynet tied up inside a barn.

‘Are those… donkeys?’

Smith laughs. ‘Some horses don’t like the company of other horses. The Necromancer for one. But they’re herd animals. They don’t like to be alone. So we brought in these little fellows to keep them company. They’re from a local horse rescue place. We call them Cannon and Ball because they’re such jokers.’

Nelson doesn’t see that this follows at all. He pats one of the donkeys, marvelling at how soft its fur is. He sees that both animals have cross-shaped markings on their backs. His mother once told him that all donkeys carry this mark because it was a donkey that carried Christ into Jerusalem. These two don’t look as if they are too bothered by religious significance. They carry on tearing at their hay, large ears twitching.

‘Jolly little fellows,’ says Smith with casual affection. Cannon (or Ball) looks at him out of large long-lashed eyes. Their feet are tiny, like goat’s hooves.

Leaving the jolly donkeys behind, they pass another barn stacked with hay and cross a concrete carport to a large, modern-looking house. Nelson is disappointed. He’d expected a Lord to live in a mansion at least.

‘Is this the country seat?’ he asks.

‘Afraid not,’ says Smith. ‘Slaughter Hill House was pulled down. You can see the ruins in the grounds.’

Again, Nelson is struck by the strange, rather sinister name. He asks Smith about it.

‘There was a battle here in the Civil War. King’s Lynn was Royalist, you know, and the Earl of Manchester attacked the place for the Parliamentarians. There was a great battle hereabouts. Hundreds died.’

Nelson bets he knows which side Lord Smith would have been on. He’s ambivalent himself – he can’t see any particular harm in the Royal Family (he was quite shocked when Ruth once referred to them as ‘parasites’) but he has always admired Cromwell’s warts-and-all approach. And he likes the sound of the Earl of Manchester. He imagines him looking like Sir Alex Ferguson.

‘It’s the hill that gets me,’ he says now. ‘There are no hills in bloody Norfolk.’

‘There’s a slight rise in the park,’ says Smith, ‘that’s why I put the gallops there. It’s good for the horses to go uphill. Builds stamina. But I believe that the name derives from the great mound of bodies after the battle.’

Charming, thinks Nelson. Name a house after a great pile of festering bodies. Aloud he says, ‘Why was the house pulled down?’

‘It was falling to pieces,’ says Smith sadly. ‘Too far gone to save. It was demolished in the Sixties. Great shame. It was the house I grew up in, lots of memories.’ He stares up at the modern house, frowning slightly, then visibly pulls himself together. ‘But this is better in many ways, far more convenient. And it’s near the horses. I can come over if there’s a problem in the night. My daughter Caroline lives in the cottage by the gate.’

‘Caroline works for you, does she?’

‘Yes. She’s my yard manager. Good girl. Does all my paperwork and still rides out three times a day. She’s never caused me a day’s worry.’ There is a slight emphasis on the ‘she’.

They enter through a back door into a gleaming red and white kitchen.

‘Coffee?’asks Smith.

‘Please.’ Nelson had not expected Lord Smith to be making him coffee. Surely there’s an elderly retainer around somewhere? He asks.

‘No,’ says Smith. ‘There’s a housekeeper but she’s not here today. My wife’s out at work. Most of the time it’s just me and Randolph.’

‘Randolph?’

‘My son. Would you like biscuits? I’m diabetic so I’ve got some ghastly sugar-free rusks. But there are some Hobnobs somewhere.’

Nelson thinks he would like a Hobnob very much indeed. He is just wondering about the mysterious son (maybe he’s locked in a turret room somewhere) when the door opens and a handsome, dark-haired man bursts into the room.

‘Morning all.’

Smith does not turn round but plunges the cafetière with unnecessary violence.

‘What time do you call this?’ he says.

‘I don’t know,’ says the man pleasantly. ‘What time do you call it?’

‘You’ve been out all night. Your mother was worried sick.’

‘I doubt that,’ says the man who must, surely, be the errant Randolph. ‘Ma never worries about anything. Ah, coffee. Superb. I could murder a cup.’ He turns and seems to register Nelson for the first time.

‘Hallo there,’ he says. ‘I’m Randolph Smith.’

‘DCI Nelson.’

‘DCI Nelson’s come to talk to me about Neil’s death,’ says Danforth, speaking loudly and clearly as if to someone deaf or deficient in understanding. It’s almost as if he wants to convey a message. Or a warning. Nelson watches Randolph with interest. For a second he looks wary – almost scared – then the cheerful unconcern is back in place.

‘Oh, the mysterious death at the museum. Does the detective suspect foul play?’

‘It’s not a laughing matter’ says Danforth Smith reprovingly.

‘No.’ Randolph rearranges his handsome features. ‘Desperately sad. Poor Neil.’

‘Yes indeed,’ says Smith, putting cafetière and dark green cups on a tray. ‘I’ve written to his parents of course. And we should all attend the funeral.’

‘Will it be here or in Wales?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll take our coffee into the study, Detective Inspector.’

Nelson follows Lord Smith out of the room, wondering how Randolph Smith knows that Neil Topham’s family comes from Wales.

Smith ushers Nelson into a luxurious study with sofa, drinks cabinet and vast mahogany desk. The walls are lined with shelves containing leatherbound volumes and plastic files. In the occasional clear space, there are photos of horses, some standing in fields, some sweaty and magnificent after winning a race. A glass cabinet is crammed full of trophies.

‘Do you have children, Detective Chief Inspector?’ asks Smith, seating himself behind the desk.

‘Two daughters,’ says Nelson, sitting in the proffered visitor’s chair, which swivels rather alarmingly. He hates saying this; it feels as if he is denying Katie. At least he sent her a birthday present, he thinks. He couldn’t bear to let the day go completely unnoticed.

‘Daughters are easier. My two girls have never given me a day’s trouble. Caroline you saw. She’s a real hard worker. Tamsin’s a lawyer, lives in London, husband, two children. But Randolph! He hasn’t done a day’s work since leaving university. Caroline’s travelled all over, seen the world. All Randolph seems to see is the inside of night clubs. And he drinks with the most dreadful people…’ He stops himself with an effort. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear about my domestic problems.’

‘It must be hard work, running an operation like this.’

‘Bloody hard work. Up at five every day. The horses have holidays but we don’t.’

‘Do you have much time left for the museum?’

Smith’s face becomes serious. ‘Not as much time as I’d like. I left all the day-to-day running to Neil. Poor chap.’ He looks up and meets Nelson’s eyes. ‘Have you discovered anything about how he died?’

‘Earliest indications suggest that death was the result of pulmonary haemorrhage,’ says Nelson cautiously. Is it his imagination or does Danforth Smith relax slightly?

‘How ghastly. Did he have weak lungs?’

‘We won’t know until we’ve looked at his medical records but it’s quite possible. But I wanted to talk to you about another matter.’

‘Yes?’ Smith leans forward across the acres of polished wood. His tone is one of polite interest but Nelson notices that one hand is clenched tightly around a fountain pen. As Nelson watches, Smith seems consciously to relax his grip, letting the pen roll across the desk.

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘Were you aware of any letters sent to Neil Topham?’

‘Letters?’

‘Threatening letters.’

Nelson places a file on the desk. He takes out some loose papers and pushes them towards Danforth Smith, who puts on a pair of half-moon glasses and peers at the hand-written pages. Nelson watches him intently. At first Smith seems to show only polite interest then something makes him look harder. It’s almost a classic double take. What has Lord Smith seen in the letters that surprises him so much? Nelson continues to watch as, once again, Smith seems deliberately to calm himself. When he speaks, his voice is completely steady.

‘Where did you get these?’

‘From Neil Topham’s desk. Have you seen them before?’

There are three letters in total. The first is dated August 2009:

To whom it may concern,

You have something that belongs to us, something that belongs to the spirit ancestors. If you do not return it, you are violating the harmony of the spirit world. Remember that the spirits are strong and can exact revenge. I advise you to think carefully about your actions. Every event leaves a record on the land and, if you continue to disrespect our dead, your life may well be in danger.

In the brotherhood of the spirit.

The second letter is dated September 2009:

You have chosen to disregard our first warning. In your arrogance you think you can ignore the wrong that you have done to us but the spirits are everywhere and they see all and know all. You cannot escape. The spirits cry out for vengeance. If you persist in defying us, the wrath of the Great Spirit will destroy you. Consider carefully.

The third letter is dated October and reads simply:

You have ignored our requests. Now you will suffer the consequences. You have violated our dead. Now the dead will be revenged on you. We will come for you. We will come for you in the Dreaming.

Nelson looks at Smith, who has taken off his glasses and is rubbing his nose.

‘Lord Smith, have you any idea who sent these?’

Smith says nothing. Outside a horse neighs and a woman laughs. The silver cups glint in the autumn sun.

‘We have some heads,’ says Lord Smith at last. ‘At the museum.’

‘Heads?’

‘Aborigine skulls. They were originally acquired by my great-grandfather. We used to have them on display but now they’re kept locked up. About a year ago I got a letter from a group calling themselves the Elginists. They demanded the return of the skulls. Said they should go back to Australia and be buried in their ancestral ground… said they needed to enter Dreamtime, or some such rubbish. I gave them short shrift. Those heads belonged to my great-grandfather. They’re very rare. One’s been turned into a water carrier. I couldn’t just turn them over to some bunch of nutters. I mean, these artefacts are valuable, they need special care.’

‘Have you still got the letter?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll look.’ Smith gets up and starts to search in a steel filing cabinet. What is it filed under, wonders Nelson. N for Nutter? I for Ignore?

‘Here it is.’ Smith puts a single sheet of paper in front of Nelson.

This letter looks very different from the missives found in Neil Topham’s desk. It’s typewritten for one thing and is on actual headed notepaper, with a logo that seems to represent the moon above a meandering river.

Dear Lord Smith,

We are writing on behalf of the Elginists, a group dedicated to the repatriation of sacred artefacts. It has come to our attention that your museum currently holds four Indigenous Australian skulls which have been forcibly removed from their ancestral ground. As you may know, it is an important tenet of Indigenous Australian belief that the remains of the ancestors should be returned to Mother Earth so that they may enter the Dreaming and so complete the cycle of nature. We respectfully request that you return these skulls, which were unlawfully removed and which, therefore, can only bring bad fortune to you and your family. Be warned that the Great Snake will have its revenge.

Please contact us at the above address to arrange repatriation.

There is no signature just ‘The Elginist Council.’

Nelson looks at Smith. ‘Did you reply?’

‘No.’ Smith looks haughty. ‘I wouldn’t dignify it with a response. If you ignore these sorts of people, they go away. I’ve learnt that over the years.’

‘And did they go away?’

‘I assumed so. They didn’t approach me again.’

‘Did you know that Neil Topham had received these letters?’

‘No.’ Smith looks genuinely shocked but there’s something else there too, thinks Nelson. Anger? Fear? ‘I’m surprised Neil didn’t tell me,’ he says now. ‘We spoke every week. I felt that we had a good working relationship. I trusted him.’

‘When you last spoke to him Neil didn’t seem disturbed? Worried?’

‘No. We talked about Bishop Augustine. He was really excited about having the bishop’s relics at the museum.’

Nelson looks back at the letter. On the face of it, there’s nothing too alarming in it, except maybe the mention of ‘bad fortune’ to the Smith family. But Nelson’s eye is drawn to two things: the logo, which he now perceives to be a snake slithering under the moon, and the words, the Great Snake will have its revenge.

And he thinks of the room with the coffin and the open window and the single glass case containing the stuffed body of a snake.