A Room Full Of Bones

‘Did you recognise him?’

‘Not at first but when I turned the body over-’ She stops.

‘Are you OK? Do you want a glass of water?’

Ruth smiles faintly. ‘Is this your softly softly interviewing technique? No. I’m OK. I’d only met Neil once or twice before but I recognised him.’

‘Where was he lying?’

‘Next to the coffin. He was on his side, legs drawn up, one arm over his head.’

‘Was there any blood?’

‘Yes. On his face.’

‘As if he’d been battered around the head?’

‘No. Around his nose. Almost as if he’d had a nose bleed.’ She stops.

‘Did you touch him?’

‘Yes,’ Ruth’s voice is sharp. ‘Of course I touched him. I wanted to see if he was alive.’

‘And was he?’

‘I wasn’t sure,’ Ruth admits. ‘His skin was warm but I couldn’t find a pulse at first. I called an ambulance, then I thought I felt a faint heartbeat. I don’t know anything about first aid.’

‘When did you call the police?’

‘About a minute later. It suddenly occurred to me that someone might have done this to him.’

‘You thought he might have been murdered?’

‘I didn’t know what to think. He looked as if he might have had a fit. Maybe he was epileptic or something.’

‘We’ll find out if so. Chris Stephenson’s on his way to the hospital.’

Ruth grimaces. A dislike of Stephenson is something she and Nelson have in common.

‘Was the window open?’ asks Nelson.

‘What?’

‘The window in the room where you found the body. Was it open?

‘I think so, yes. There was a book on the floor and the breeze was turning the pages.’

‘I’ll get SOCO to look at the book. Might be prints on it, I suppose.’

‘Do you think he may have been murdered then?’

Nelson is about to answer when there’s a peremptory knock and the door opens to admit a man – tall, bronzed, grey-haired with a decided air of command. He has a large, hawk-like nose which seems to enter the room a few seconds before the rest of him. He also looks vaguely familiar. Rocky Taylor is hovering in the background.

‘I said I wasn’t to be disturbed,’ snaps Nelson.

‘Danforth Smith.’ The tall man holds out his hand. Nelson ignores him and looks at Rocky.

‘Lord Smith.’ Henty appears and makes an apologetic introduction. ‘The owner of the museum.’

‘I came at once,’ Danforth Smith is saying in confident upper-class tones that set Nelson’s teeth on edge. ‘Dreadful thing to have happened. Poor Neil. Is it true that he’s dead?’

Nelson’s holds up a hand. ‘How did you know about Mr Topham?’

‘Gerald told me.’

That figures. Gerald Whitcliffe, Nelson’s boss and a friend to the great and good.

‘I was all set to come to the opening when I got the phone call from Gerald. I’ve been trying to reach Neil’s parents. They’ll be devastated.’

‘Sergeant,’ Nelson addresses Tom Henty over Smith’s head. ‘I’m conducting an interview here.’

‘It’s OK, Nelson.’ Ruth stands up. ‘I’ve got to go anyway and we’ve finished, haven’t we?’

She looks at him, her chin lifted.

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘We’ve finished.’

Lord Danforth Smith sits in Ruth’s vacated chair and stretches out his legs as if he owns the place. Which he does. Rocky scurries off to make coffee. Bloody serf. Come the revolution, he’ll be first against the wall. (The aristocrats will have scarpered long ago.)

‘DCI Nelson,’ Nelson introduces himself.

‘I know who you are,’ Smith says affably. ‘Gerald speaks very highly of you.’

‘Does he? Well, Lord Smith, you probably know as much as we do. Dr Galloway arrived at the museum early to find Mr Topham lying beside your ancestor’s coffin. She called an ambulance but he was dead on arrival at the hospital.’

‘How terrible. Does anyone know how he died? I mean, he was a young man.’

‘How young?’

‘Thirties I think. I’d have to check. Thirty sounds young to me these days.’ Lord Smith smiles, showing long, equine teeth. He is a racehorse trainer, Nelson remembers.

‘How long had Mr Topham worked for you?’

‘About five years. Absolutely super chap. Very enthusiastic.’

‘No health problems?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Was he in trouble of any kind? Anything worrying him?’

For the first time, Lord Smith looks slightly uneasy. He crosses and recrosses his legs. Handmade shoes, Nelson bets. Lace-ups.

‘Last time I spoke to him it was about the opening of the coffin. He seemed fine, very excited about having the event here. He hoped that Bishop Augustine could stay in the museum permanently.’

‘Must have been a strain, organising an event like that?’

‘Maybe, but that was Neil’s job. He loved it. He loved getting people to visit the museum. We’ve got a fine collection here and it doesn’t get the recognition it deserves. Look here, Inspector, what’s all this about? Is there something odd about Neil’s death?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’ Nelson looks at him blandly. ‘But you’ll be the first to know if so.’ He realises where he has seen that nose before. It’s in half the bloody oil paintings outside.

After Lord Smith has left, bowed out by Rocky and Tom Henty, Nelson does what he’s been waiting to do: opens the locked drawer in Neil Topham’s desk. The key had been hidden, rather inadequately he can’t help thinking, under the flint paperweight.

The drawer proves worth inspection. Inside, Nelson finds a plastic bag full of white powder and a pile of handwritten letters. No envelopes, but they are all on the same sort of paper, cream notepaper, expensive-looking. Love letters? Well, love is always a good motive for murder. Nelson smoothes out the first sheet and reads the bold, blue handwriting:

You have ignored our requests.

Now you will suffer the consequences.

CHAPTER 3

Ruth drives straight to the childminder’s house to collect Kate. Sandra looks after Kate while she is at work, but this is a Saturday and Ruth feels it is an imposition. Sandra doesn’t seem to mind though, and Kate, up to her elbows in flour making cakes, seems to be having a whale of a time. As usual, Sandra has several other children there, all organised in benign labour – making cakes, sticking things on paper, playing a giant (wipe clean) snakes and ladders in the sitting room. Sandra’s own kids are grown up so these must also be the offspring of mothers too disorganised to arrange weekend childcare. Ruth can’t be the only one, surely? At least she is paying Sandra, which means it’s a clean commercial transaction, unlike those murky arrangements with friends. Could you do me a favour? Are you sure you don’t mind? I’ll do the same for you one day. Much better like this, cash in hand.

Ruth likes Sandra but never knows what to say to her, so she thanks her, picks up Kate – floury hands on her best jacket – and backs out of the small terraced house. Sandra waves her goodbye, a child on each hip.

‘She hasn’t slept, kept going all afternoon, so you might be lucky tonight,’ she says.

There was a time when Ruth wouldn’t have understood this sentence. She is wiser now. Kate hasn’t slept. This