‘Well,’ said the superintendent, ‘be that as it may, ma’am, what about these Bitton-Bittadon skeletons? Seems as though we’ve let them slip through our fingers, and no doubt Sir Jeremy and his “lady mother”, as he always calls her, will be expecting us to get them back. Not that it’s our job to deal with the bones of the Bitton-Bittadon ancestors, but there it is.’
‘If the bones of his ancestors had anything to do with Sir Bathy’s own death, I suppose it is our job, sir,’ said Callon. ‘Well, a word with the landlord here is indicated, I think. If anything – and that includes skeletons – has been removed unlawfully from his premises he ought to know something about it, and if they haven’t been removed unlawfully he’s got some explaining to do. Wittingly or unwittingly he’s been a receiver of stolen goods and he’s got to account for their appearance and also their disappearance, I reckon.’
‘Well, that part of the operation has nothing to do with me,’ said Dame Beatrice, ‘and you will be glad, no doubt, to dispense with my presence at the interview. I think I will take a short stroll and, if you have no need of me when I return, I shall then retire to my room with a book.’
Her stroll took her in the direction of the church. She had had no previous intention of passing underneath the roof of the lych-gate and did so, in a sense, involuntarily, guided, no doubt, by a subconscious association of ideas. To her surprise, the tackle for raising the lid of the Bitton-Bittadon mausoleum was in position again and Sir Jeremy himself was directing operations. He raised his hat as Dame Beatrice came up and said:
‘Thought I’d take a look at my last resting-place, don’t you know. Didn’t want a lot of pop-eyed villagers and their offspring getting interested, so I paid the workmen double overtime for leaving the job of raising the lid until the evening when, with any luck, everybody is indoors, even in lovely weather like this, watching the TV. As I’ve had a tip that the missing ancestors have been traced and may shortly be reinstated, I decided to open up in readiness for their return. My men have only just gone home.’
‘Do the police know that you have opened the catacomb?’ asked Dame Beatrice, standing beside him and peering into the depths.
‘I haven’t said anything yet. Thought I’d go down and take a look round and make sure there’s been no more vandalism. Care to join me?’
‘By vandalism do you mean you suspect that some more of the skeletons may have been stolen?’ asked Dame Beatrice, postponing her answer to his question.
‘I was thinking more along the lines of rude inscriptions or people carving their names or obliterating the names and dates which are already there. The grave was open for some time when the skeletons were taken and these village yobs nowadays have no respect for anybody or anything. Why, in my great-grandfather’s time, everybody would have stood still when he drove down the street and touched their hats or curtsied, but there’s nothing of that kind now. “We’re as good as you are, or better,” is the slogan, “and if you don’t like it there’s nothing you can do about it, so you’ll have to lump it.” Of course the pendulum had to swing, but in my opinion it’s swung a sight too far. All this egalitarianism is a bit tough on us grand old crusted Tories, you know.’
‘Have you come to any conclusions about your late father’s association with the zodiac people?’ asked Dame Beatrice, not committing herself to any political alliance.
‘Oh, those lunatic yokels!’ said Sir Jeremy impatiently. ‘I had a letter signed Leo, regretting that my father’s place was already filled and my own birthday doesn’t fit, anyway.’
‘Yes, your father’s place has been filled, I think, by a mischievous anti-social youth who has taken – or had thrust upon him – the horns of the ram.’
‘A Jewish boy, do you mean? I didn’t know we had any Jews in the village.’
‘I was merely referring to a youth who happens to have been born under the sign of Aries, and whose identity I wish to uncover.’
‘I may be able to help you there. As I expect you know by this time, it was my uncle who began all this zodiac nonsense. He took a great interest in such matters. In fact, although I’ve nothing much to go on, I always suspected him of being Pytho of the Daily Bulletin, and I know he used to draw horoscopes and sell them. It was commissioned work, of course, and it lost him a good many friends, I believe, because he used to badger people into letting him do one for them and then charging them the earth for it.’
‘In what way could you help me to identify this youthful Arian?’
‘Oh, ah, yes, I was coming to that. My somewhat besotted father also got sold on this zodiac thing and he used to keep a list of all the villagers who were born under Aries, as he was, and send them a good luck card on their birthdays. There must be a list somewhere. How old is this yobbo you want to find?’
‘Somewhere between seventeen and twenty, I imagine, and I have an idea that he is now the only Arian in the village, otherwise he seems hardly the best choice to fill your father’s place.’
‘Well, shall we inspect my ancestors?’
They descended the steps.
‘Opened it up again, ma’am?’ said the superintendent. ‘But why would he want to do that?’
‘To be in readiness to
