anyone who was interested in druids. And I thought of Cathbad.'
'Cathbad.' Erik takes a deep breath, she can hear it all the way across the North Sea. 'Cathbad. I haven't thought of him for years. I wonder what he's doing now.'
'What was his real name?'
'Something Irish, I think. He was into the Celtic stuff too. Malone. Michael Malone.'
'Could he have been involved?'
'Cathbad? God, no. He was a real innocent. A simple soul. I think he really had magic powers, you know.'
After they have said goodbye and Ruth is bustling around, feeding herself and the cats, she reflects that Erik has a way of bringing you up short with something like that.
Mentioning magic in the same quiet authoritative way that he talks about carbon dating or geophysics. Can Erik really believe that Cathbad, alias Michael Malone, has magical powers?
She doesn't know but, before she goes to bed that night, she looks up Malone in the local phone book.
CHAPTER 7
Ruth did not intend to go to Sammy's New Year's Eve party. In fact, nothing could have been further from her thoughts. Having successfully pleaded a cold as an excuse to Phil, she planned to go to bed early with the new Rebus, a surprisingly thoughtful Christmas present from Simon.
Shona had been furious with her. 'Please come, Ruth,' she had wailed over the phone. 'I've got to go because Liam's going but he'll be with his wife and without you I'll just get drunk and fall over…' But Ruth had stood firm. She thought Shona would probably get drunk anyway and the thought of an evening discussing aromatherapy with Phil's wife while trying to steer an increasingly unsteady Shona away from Liam did not appeal as a way of marking the New Year. She thinks of the Lucy Downey letters. But with each New Year I think of you. Briefly she wonders how Nelson is spending the evening.
As she lies in bed with Rebus propped in front of her (why are hardbacks so heavy?) and listens to the steady thump of music coming from next door, she feels oddly restless. She makes herself a hot drink but, downstairs, the lights from Sammy's house seem brighter, more tempting.
Like will o'the wisps, she thinks suddenly. She sees Flint's tail disappearing through the cat flap and reflects that even her cat is going out on New Year's Eve. Why was she so pleased to think that she would be on her own? Why is her first reaction to invitations always to think of a way of refusing them? Her mother would say that she is becoming a sad spinster and she is probably right.
Ruth goes back upstairs but the words of the book dance in front of her and she can't lose herself in the wonderfully gothic streets of Edinburgh. Almost without knowing it, she gets up and dresses in black trousers and a black T-shirt. Then, as an afterthought, she adds a red silk shirt given to her years ago by Shona. She collects a bottle of red from her small store of wine and, still almost sleepwalking, she finds herself knocking on her neighbours' front door.
Sammy is thrilled to see her. 'Ruth! How lovely. I didn't think you could come.'
'No. Well, I had a bit of a cold so I thought I'd stay home, then I heard your music and-'
'I'm delighted to see you. We're delighted. Ed! Look who's here!'
Ed, a small, bright-eyed man who seems to be perpetually walking on tiptoe, bounds forward to shake Ruth's hand.
'Well, well, well, our mysterious neighbour. I'm very pleased you've come. I've been wanting to chat to you for ages. I'm a bit of an archaeology buff myself. Never miss Time Team.''
Ruth murmurs politely. Like most professional archaeologists she regards Time Team as at best simplistic, at worst deeply irritating.
'Come through.' Ed steers her into the house. Even with Ruth wearing her flat shoes, he only comes up to her chin.
The weekenders' house is larger than Ruth's because they have added a double-storey extension – she remembers the noise and irritation when it was built, three years ago.
Even so, it is on the cosy side for a party. The sitting room feels crowded even though there are actually only about five or six people in it.
'These are our friends Derek and Sue, up from London,'
says Ed, bobbing up and down beside Ruth. He really does make her feel very large. 'And this is Nicole and her husband Roger who live in Norwich, and this is, well you must know each other, this is our mutual neighbour David.'
Ruth turns in surprise to see David, the warden of the bird sanctuary, sitting uneasily on the sofa, a pint of beer held out in front of him like a shield.
'Hallo,' says David smiling, 'I was hoping you'd come.'
'Oh ho,' says Ed jovially, 'what have we here? Romance blossoming on the mudflats?'
Ruth can feel herself blushing. Luckily the room is dark.
'David and I only really met a few weeks ago,' she says.
'Aren't we dreadful neighbours?' says Ed, striking himself theatrically on the forehead. 'All these years and we're only just getting to know each other. What'll you have to drink, Ruth? Red? White? Beer? I think there's even some mulled wine left.'
'White would be lovely, thanks.'
Ed prances away and leaves Ruth sitting next to David on the sofa, still holding her bottle of red.
'Oh dear,' she says, 'I meant to give this to Ed. Now it looks as if I'm planning to drink it all myself.'
'I was worse,' says David. 'I brought some sloe gin. It was in a Lucozade bottle. I think they thought it was a bomb.'
Ruth laughs. 'I love sloe gin. Did you make it yourself?'
'Yes,' says David, 'the sloes are wonderful in autumn.
And the blackberries. One year I made blackberry wine.'
'Was it good?'
'I think so, but I'm not much of a drinker. And I didn't really have anyone to offer it to.'
Ruth feels a sudden tug of understanding. She too has weekends when she doesn't speak to anyone but her cats.
This is her choice and, by and large, she doesn't mind, it's just that meeting someone else solitary seems odd somehow. Like two lone round-the-world sailors suddenly coming face-to-face at the Cape of Good Hope. They understand each other but, due to the nature of their lives, will probably never become friends.
Ed is back, carrying a huge glass of white wine. Ruth gives him the red and he makes such a fuss of it that she suspects it must be rubbish.
'So, Ruth.' Ed stays standing beside her; she thinks he likes the sensation of looking down on someone for a change. 'Found any buried treasure recently?'
Ruth finds she does not want to tell Ed about the body in the mud or about the torques or even about the henge.
She doesn't know why, she just feels that the secrets belong with the Saltmarsh for just a bit longer. David doesn't count; he is almost part of the marsh itself.
'I teach at the university,' she says at last. 'We don't really do many digs. At least the students do a dig every spring but they always find the same things.'
'Why's that?' asks Ed.
'Because we know what is there,' explains Ruth. 'They have to find something, after all. The Americans would ask for their money back if they didn't.'
'Americans,' says David suddenly. 'Dreadful people. We had some last year, trying to catch a sanderling. Apparently they thought it was wounded.'
'What's a sanderling?' asks Ed.
David looks astonished. 'It's a bird. Quite common.
They run up and down the beach by the edge of the water, trying to catch sea creatures. These Americans,
