Remember the Colorado Beetle scares? A parish magazine dated August, 1953. Instructions for a vacuum cleaner – much use he made of that. And some out-of-date supermarket offers.’
‘I expect the parents are buried in the churchyard.’
‘Probably. Is that any use to us?’
‘I suppose not. May I see the box?’
Diamond pushed it across to her. ‘Be my guest. I want to put a call through to Chepstow. It’s high time I fired a broadside at forensic.’
While he was on the phone demanding to be put through to the people carrying out the work on the Tormarton samples, Julie sifted through the papers. She took out the old parish magazine and skimmed the contents. The Church was St Mary Magdalene, Tormarton. In a short time she discovered why Daniel Gladstone had kept this copy. Towards the back was a section headed ‘Valete’, a list of recent deaths, and among them appeared Jacob Gladstone, 1881-1953. A few lines recorded his life:
Jacob Gladstone, farmer, of Marton Farm, passed away last January 8th, of pneumonia. A widower, he lived all his life in the parish. For many years he served as sidesman. In September, 1943, Mr Gladstone unearthed the Anglo-Saxon sword known as the Tormarton Seax, and now in the British Museum. He is survived by his beloved son Daniel.’
Julie read it again. She leaned back in her chair, absorbing the information. If Gladstone’s father had made an archaeological find during the war, perhaps it had some bearing on the case. Eager for more information, she scanned the rest of the magazine and found only a piece about the meaning of Easter, written by the vicar, and reports on the Mothers’ Union and the Youth Club.
Diamond was still sounding off to Chepstow about the urgency of his inquiry. Through sheer bullying he had got through to someone actually at work on the case. He stressed several times that this was now upgraded to a murder, and surely it warranted a higher priority. ‘Can’t you even give me some preliminary findings?’ he appealed to the hapless scientist on the end of the line. ‘Like what? Well, like whether anything so far suggests the presence of someone else in the farmhouse. You don’t have to tell me it was a Welsh-speaking Morris-dancer with size nine shoes and a birthmark on his left buttock. I’ll settle for anyone at all at this stage.’ He rolled his eyes at Julie while listening. ‘Right, now we’re getting somewhere,’ he said presently. ‘Two, you say, definitely not the farmer’s. What colour?…Brown? Well, you could have told me that at the outset. Male or female?…How long?…Yes, I understand…No, we won’t. We’re not exactly new in this game…Thanks. And sooner if you can.’ He slammed down the phone. Julie looked up.
‘They have two hairs from the scene that didn’t belong to the victim,’ he summed up. ‘Brown, three to four inches. They warned me that there’s no way of telling how they got there. They could have come from some visitor weeks before the murder. They’re doing some kind of test that breaks down the elements in the hair.’
‘NAA,’ said Julie.
‘Come again.’
‘Neutron Activation Analysis.’
‘Sorry I asked.’
‘It was part of that course I did at Chepstow last year. You can find up to fourteen elements in a single inch of hair. If you isolate as many as nine, the chance of two people having the same concentration is a million to one.’
‘Could be that,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But it’s the usual story. What it comes down to is that whatever the result it’s bugger-all use without a hair from the suspect to match.’
She shrugged. ‘We can hardly expect them to analyse a hair and tell us the name of the person it came from.’
He grinned. ‘Take all the fun out of the job, wouldn’t it?’
She showed him the piece in the magazine and it was as if the sun had just come out. ‘Good spotting,’ he said when he’d studied it. ‘His old dad had his fifteen minutes of fame, then. The Tormarton Seax.’
Julie said, ‘Thinking about those holes-’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I was thinking about them. If there was a sword buried on the site, there could have been more stuff. And someone may have done some excavating.’
‘Wouldn’t they have organised a dig in 1943 when it was found? I can’t imagine anything of interest would be left.’
‘Of value, Julie. Bugger the interest.’ He glanced at the page again. ‘Well, this was the middle of the Second World War. People had other things on their minds than Anglo-Saxon swords. I reckon archaeology took a back seat.’
‘But later, when the war ended, wouldn’t they have wanted to explore the site?’
‘Possibly. It seems nothing else was found, or it would have got mentioned here. I just don’t know. What happens if the landowner doesn’t want a bunch of university students scraping at his soil for weeks on end? By all accounts, Daniel Gladstone wasn’t the friendliest farmer in these parts. If his dad was equally obstructive, it’s quite on the cards that nobody ever followed up the find.’
‘Until just recently.’
‘Right.’
‘It could explain the digging.’
‘It could, Julie.’ He closed the magazine and tossed it back into the deed-box. ‘Do you know, I’ve thought of someone who may throw some light on this.’
Down in the reception area, the desk sergeant was under siege.
‘If you won’t let me through,’ Ada Shaftsbury told him, ‘I’ll go straight out to the car park and stand on top of his car. I know which one it is. He’ll soon come running when he looks out the window and sees his roof cave in.’
‘Mr Diamond isn’t dealing with it any more,’ the sergeant explained for the second time. ‘He’s on another case.’
‘Don’t give me that crock of shit.’
‘Madam-’
‘Ada.’
‘Ada, if you’ve got something material to say, I’ll make a note of it. There are other people waiting now.’
‘If gutso isn’t dealing with it, who is?’
‘Another officer in CID.’
‘Well, is it a secret, or something?’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of him.’
‘Try me. I know everyone in this cruddy place. I spend half my life here.’
‘I know that, Ada. Chief Inspector Wigfull has taken over. ’
She grimaced. ‘Him with the big tash. God help us!’
‘Now if you’ll kindly move aside…’
‘I’ll have a word with Wigfull, then.’
‘We’ll tell him you called.’
‘You won’t. You’ll take me to see him pronto. I have important information to impart.’
At this sensitive moment the interior door opened and Peter Diamond stepped into the reception area on his way out.
‘Mr Diamond!’ Ada practically embraced him.
‘Can’t see you now, Ada. I’m on an emergency.’
‘Is it true you’re off the case?’
‘What case?’
‘The missing woman, my friend Rose.’
He said with deliberate obtuseness, ‘I’m dealing with a murder. An old man. Right?’
Ada said bitterly, ‘Nobody bloody cares. You’ve written her off, haven’t you? She’s off your list. They moved a new woman in last night. It’s like she never existed. And how about poor little Hilde?’
He crossed the floor and went through the door, leaving Ada still defiantly at the head of the queue. She would presently get upstairs to torment Wigfull, he thought with amusement. Offloading the Royal Crescent case had been a wise decision. But halfway up Manvers Street he grasped the significance of something Ada had said.
