Drowned Lives

35

So I bit the bullet. I phoned the police station and reported that I might have some information on the body found at Fosseway Wharf. After a moment on hold, I was asked to come straight in to the station and ask for DS Graham. Of course it would be him.

I was put back in the same interview room where I’d made my statement about Samuel’s death. At least this time I had the attention of someone more senior. Did this mean that Graham was taking me seriously?

‘Mr Buckley. You’re getting quite a regular customer, aren’t you?’

‘Not out of choice, I promise you.’

‘Have you got over the attempted burglary? Did our chap come round to take fingerprints?’

‘Oh yes, you’ve gone through all the motions.’

‘And the lady, your neighbour? I hope she’s recovered from her ordeal.’

‘She’s quite well.’

‘She seems a useful sort of neighbour to have. It’s nice when you get on well with your neighbours.’

‘I came about the body that was found at Fosseway,’ I said.

‘Ah yes. An interesting case.’

‘I wondered if you’d established the cause of death?’

‘Well, we don’t normally give out such information. But we’ve recently released details to the press, so I suppose I can tell you. First of all, we’re fairly certain the remains are those of an adult male.’

‘He was murdered, wasn’t he?’ I blurted.

‘Well, hold on,’ said Graham, looking at me curiously. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time.’

I forced myself to appear relaxed. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

He looked happier. ‘Well, we may know a bit more when the forensic anthropologist has finished his work. But one thing is clear. The back of the victim’s skull had been smashed with several heavy blows. Then his body was concealed in a heap of lime, which must have preserved it for a while. It looks as though the lime was never moved. There were the remains of some wooden barrels nearby too.’

‘A forensic anthropologist? I know there are all sorts of specialities these days, but I’m not sure what that one involves.’

‘Oh, we call him in when it’s a question of old bones. You see, there was nothing left but a skeleton. We’re talking about an ancient crime here. Two hundred years, by initial estimates.’

I felt nervous, and had to swallow rapidly before I said: ‘I think I know who it is.’

‘I thought that might have been what you were getting to. You have some information for us?’

‘Well, it’s more of a deduction.’

‘Deduction?’

‘I’ve been putting two and two together. And I think the remains you found may be those of one of my ancestors.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘William Buckley.’

Graham wrote it down. ‘A distant ancestor, I take it?’

‘He disappeared in mysterious circumstances in 1800.’

‘I see. I presume you have some particular reason to think he might have been at Fosseway Wharf?’

I told him the known facts about William Buckley’s disappearance and Rachel’s theory to explain it. What had once seemed far-fetched when she first aired it had slotted into place when the remains were unearthed, as if the proof had been produced on cue. But now, as I repeated it in that soulless room to DS Graham, it all felt horribly tenuous again.

‘I’d say that wasn’t so much deduction as guesswork,’ he said when I’d finished.

‘Well — it seems a possibility. I’d thought I’d better tell you.’

‘Oh, quite right. But you understand that, due to the age of the remains, we aren’t able to identify them in any of the usual ways?’

Despite his cool response, I blundered on with an idea that had occurred to me when he mentioned the anthropologist.

‘Yes, obviously. But there is one way you could establish for certain whether the victim is my direct relative, isn’t there?’

Graham tapped his pen on the desk and stared at me. ‘How is that, Mr Buckley?’

‘A DNA test.’

‘Well, but I’m not sure...’

‘According to what I’ve read, all you need is just enough marrow left in the bones of the skeleton to get a DNA profile. If I give a sample of my DNA, then you can see if there’s a familial match. That would prove it fairly conclusively. Of course, if there isn’t a match...’

‘Well, in theory it might work.’

‘Absolutely. In fact, it was done in the case of the Tsar Nicholas II and his family, the Romanovs. You know — the Russian royal family?’

‘Of course.’

‘I read about it in one of the Sunday papers. They were killed following the Bolshevik uprising in 1918. Their bodies were left buried in a mass grave for years and years, because the Communists didn’t want to know about them. But with perestroika and all that, people got interested again, and the bodies were dug up. Some said they weren’t the Romanovs at all. But in the end they were identified by a DNA match to a blood sample from the Duke of Edinburgh, no less. He’s a distant relative of the Romanovs via Queen Victoria. I’m a bit weak on the history of the royal family, I’m afraid.’

‘I believe Prince Philip is related to the Tsarina Alexandra, Nicholas’s wife,’ said Graham, surprising me.

‘There you are then,’ I said. ‘It works all right. If it’s good enough for the Duke of Edinburgh...’

He smiled. ‘Nice try.’

‘Can we do it?’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s any justification for it at the moment. But we’ll bear your suggestion in mind.’

I sagged back in my chair. ‘You’re not interested in finding out who it is.’

‘It’s purely of academic interest. There’s hardly going to be any prosecution. On that basis, we couldn’t justify the cost.’

‘I see. It all comes down to money, in the end?’

I got up, ready to go.

‘By the way,’ said DS Graham, looking as if he suddenly felt sorry for me, ‘would you be interested in knowing what possessions were found with the remains?’

‘I doubt it.’

He shrugged. ‘Well, there wasn’t much, admittedly. A few coins, pretty worn away. Part of a shoe, a buckle. I’m sorry they’re not more interesting.’

‘No.’

I was already putting on my coat to leave.

‘But there was this. It’s the best preserved item of all.’

He was holding a small leather pouch, wrinkled and rotting into holes.

‘It doesn’t look very well preserved,’ I said.

‘I meant what’s in it. It’s survived pretty well.’

‘What has?’

‘The water has got to the handle a bit,’ he said. ‘But it’s basically okay, even after all this time.’

‘But what is?’ I was aware that I was starting to sound like a parrot, but I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

And then I had a blinding surge of conviction. I knew what was in the pouch.

‘It’s a key, isn’t it?’ I said.

But DS Graham frowned. ‘A key? Why would you think that? No, it’s a hand stamp. The SOCOs tell me it’s made of rosewood and brass. Look, Mr Buckley. It’s a stamp for making wax seals.’