A Room Full Of Bones

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.

CHAPTER 6

Ruth drives to work on Monday feeling that several hurdles have been overcome. Kate’s birthday party (she knows she shouldn’t think of this as a hurdle, but still) went off OK and the new neighbour didn’t turn out to be a trendy sushi-lover or a weird seaweed collector. True, he had looked a little weird at first with his hair in a sort of sumo-wrestler knot and his feet, despite the weather, in leather flip-flops. And the name! She’d had to ask him to repeat it.

‘Bob Woonunga.’ He had grinned, showing very white teeth in a dark brown face.

‘Oh. That’s… unusual.’

‘It’s an Indigenous Australian name,’ he had explained. They were sitting in Ruth’s kitchen by this time, drinking tea. Kate was still asleep on the sofa.

‘Safe in dreamland,’ Bob had said. ‘Don’t wake her.’

Indigenous Australian? Did that mean Aborigine? Were you allowed to say Aborigine anymore? Ruth had settled for: ‘You’re a long way from home.’

‘I’m a bit of a wanderer,’ Bob smiled. He had an Aussie accent which, Ruth realised, was one of the things that made her trust him. Why? Because of Neighbours and other warm-hearted Antipodean soap operas? Ruth doesn’t like to admit it but it’s probably true. As a student she had been addicted to Neighbours. And now she has a real-life Australian for a neighbour.

She had wanted to ask more about Mr Woonunga’s wanderings but he had volunteered little except that he had a temporary post at the University of East Anglia, teaching creative writing. Or, as he put it, ‘I’ve got a gig at the uni.’ He has rented the house next door for a year.

‘Are you a writer then?’ asked Ruth.

‘Poet mostly, but I’ve written a few novels.’

Ruth was impressed. Like many academics, her ultimate goal is to turn her thesis into a book but so far she hasn’t progressed far beyond the title, ‘Bones, Decomposition and Death in Prehistoric Britain’. To think that someone can be so blase about their success that they can shrug it away like that. ‘I’ve written a few novels.’ And he must be a successful writer if he’s teaching on the UEA course, even if she hasn’t heard of him.

‘What made you choose this place?’ she had asked. ‘It’s quite a way from Norwich.’

‘A friend recommended it,’ said Bob, stroking Flint, who seemed to have become surgically attached to his new neighbour. ‘And I like the place. It has good magic.’