dead…’ he begins. Ruth thinks of Bishop Augustine who was also, of course, a member of the Smith family. There is already a battle royal over his (or her) remains. Randolph wants them to be buried in the cathedral, near the statue with the warning about the great snake, but Janet Meadows and the other local historians want a private burial in accordance, they say, with the Bishop’s own wishes. The coffin will find a home in the Smith museum, though Ruth, who has heard about the poisoned spores from Nelson, thinks that she will probably give visiting it a miss. She looks at Phil, standing proudly beside Shona. Was his flu also courtesy of the Bishop? Trust Phil to come into contact with a deadly virus and still only suffer from man flu.
‘On behalf of the Smith family alive and dead,’ says Randolph, Lord Smith, ‘I would like to apologise, here and now, for the actions of my ancestor in removing these bones from their sacred place of rest.’ He pauses and looks at Caroline. ‘Our ancestor was wrong to remove the bones and my father was wrong to keep them here, in the museum, when they should have been returned to the fields of their fathers.’ That’s a nice phrase, thinks Ruth. Did he get it from Bob, who is smiling encouragingly, or from Caroline, who is gazing fiercely into the middle distance? Is she thinking that she is the one who should have made the speech? She was the one, after all, who lobbied for the return of the relics. Why should Randolph take centre stage, just because he’s a man? That much, at least, hasn’t changed since Bishop Augustine’s time.
‘We return the ancestors to Mother Earth and to the arms of their people. We remember those who have died, especially my father Lord Danforth Smith.’ He falters slightly and looks at Caroline again. Then his voice strengthens. ‘We also remember Neil Topham, who loved the museum and who, in his own way, honoured the ancient dead.’ He looks straight ahead, as proud as a French aristocrat making a speech at the foot of the guillotine. ‘We ask,’ he says, ‘that our family, the Smith family, should be free from the curse brought down upon the head of our father. We ask that we be free, as the ancestors are now free.’
There is some applause, faint and tinny in the open air, but most people seem rather baffled by the mention of the curse. Ruth sees Phil laughing with Shona behind his hand and some of the reporters smiling as they think of an amusing new slant to give their articles. But Caroline squeezes her brother’s hand with what looks like genuine gratitude and Bob Woonunga smiles at them benevolently.
Whitcliffe now begins an interminable speech about understanding between nations. Nelson, who has to stand at his side looking supportive, wishes that an Aboriginal thunderbolt would fall from the sky and transform his boss into a toad. He looks for Ruth in the crowd and sees her next to that other archaeologist, the one who gave him so much trouble a few years ago. Are they together now? He supposes he should wish them well; Ruth could do with some company and, after all, he’s married, more married than ever it seems, after his illness and miraculous recovery. Michelle seems to have moved on from jealousy and resentment; now she is almost terrifyingly strong and optimistic. She has even agreed to let him see Katie. At the thought of Katie, Nelson’s face softens.
Whitcliffe finally draws to a close. Bob make a brief but poetic speech, welcoming the ancestors back to the sacred land. Of course, strictly speaking they are not repatriated yet. Their journey will not end until the Qantas Airbus delivers them to Brisbane airport in two days time. Even then, the relics face another journey by road and sea to Minjerribah, the islands in the bay. But to all intents and purposes the handover is now complete. Bob shakes hands with Randolph and Caroline, Derel raises the didgeridoo to his lips, and a new tune breaks out – a happier, more joyful sound. Cathbad lights the fire and the smoke reaches up into the winter sky (Stanley rings later to complain). The little girl, who turns out to be Alkira’s daughter, carefully places the feather on the bonfire.
Perhaps because of the smoke, starlings roosting on the nearby rooftops rise into the air in their own inky cloud. Murmuration, thinks Nelson. Now why does he know that word? As the crowd disperses, he finds himself next to Randolph Smith.
‘How’s everything at the stables?’ he asks.
Tamsin Smith and Len Harris have both been remanded in custody pending trial. Tamsin is denying everything and, as she has employed an expensive and unscrupulous QC, it promises to be quite a battle. Nelson’s looking forward to it; he hasn’t had a good fight for ages.
‘Not too bad,’ says Randolph. ‘Some owners have taken their horses away but we’ve got some who’re loyal to us. And we’ve got the horses that Dad owned, like The Necromancer. He’s a terrific prospect. I’m going to enter him for next year’s National.’
‘Did you hear that?’ says Nelson to Clough, who is hovering nearby, eating crisps. ‘Your favourite horse is going to run in the National. You must have a bet.’
‘I never want to see that horse again,’ says Clough with dignity.
Randolph laughs. ‘He’s a reformed character, Sergeant. You should see him. I’ve been riding him out twice a day and he’s a lamb.’
‘I’ll take your word for it,’ says Clough.
Ruth and Max are watching the birds wheel and turn in the darkening sky. Ruth thinks of the Saltmarsh, of the lonely, beloved landscape, of walking with Kate and Max on the beach.
‘Do you want to come for Christmas?’ she blurts out. ‘It’ll be quiet, just me and Kate, but we could get a tree, roast some chestnuts.’
Max’s face breaks into a smile worthy of Bob Woonunga himself. ‘I’d love to,’ he says.
He reaches out and takes her hand. Ruth is rather taken aback. It’s been so long since she’s been in a relationship that she’s forgotten how couples behave. Do they really hold hands like this? It feels rather odd but she’s willing to try anything once. She lets her hand rest in his.
‘Hallo Ruth.’
‘Hi Nelson.’ She tries to remove her hand but Max’s hold tightens. ‘Do you remember Max Grey?’
‘Yes,’ says Nelson, without enthusiasm. ‘How are you? You’re a long way from… Brighton, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve come for the ceremony’ says Max. ‘And to see Ruth of course.’
‘Well, I don’t blame you for giving Norfolk a miss,’ says Nelson. ‘Not much of a place is it?’
‘On the contrary,’ says Max, smiling warmly at Ruth. ‘I like Norfolk very much. I have a feeling I’m going to be spending a lot more time here. In fact, I’m coming to Ruth for Christmas.’
It ought to be easy, thinks Ruth, watching Nelson disappear into the crowds and the smoke. Nelson is happily married, Ruth is about to start a relationship with a man she really likes. Nelson can see Kate; perhaps, in time, all four adults can become friends.
It ought to be easy. But it isn’t.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The Smith family and the Slaughter Hill Stables are completely fictitious. However, in order to see how a racing stable operates, I spent some time at the incredible Cisswood Racing Stables in Lower Beeding and would like to thank Jayne and Gary Moore for their hospitality and help. Special thanks to Lucy Moore for showing me round and answering all my questions. I need hardly say that Jayne and her wonderfully talented family have absolutely nothing in common with Danforth Smith and co.
Similarly, the Smith Museum has no counterpart in real life, though many British museums do hold human remains, and there are pressure groups demanding their return. For details of one such repatriation, I am indebted to John Danilis’s marvellous book
Bishop Augustine is fictitious although Pope Joan apparently did exist.
Thank you to Michael Whitehead for the Blackpool background and apologies to Sarah Whitehead (who looks lovely in tangerine) for the football joke. Thanks to Andrew Maxted and Dr Matt Pope for their archaeological expertise and to Keith Jones, equine vet extraordinaire, for the information about horses. However, in all these cases, I have taken the experts’ advice only as far as it suits the plot, and any resulting mistakes or inaccuracies are mine alone.
I didn’t get his name but thanks to the lovely guide at Norwich Cathedral who showed me Mother Julian’s cat. Thanks to Becki Walker for her help with proof-reading.
I’m very grateful, as ever, to my editor Jane Wood, my agent Tim Glister, and all at Quercus and Janklow and Nesbit, for their continued faith in me. Heartfelt thanks to all the publishers around the world who have taken a chance with Ruth.
Love and thanks always to my husband Andrew and our children, Alex and Juliet.
