A Room Full of Bones (32 page)

‘Hi Nelson,’ Stephenson greets him. ‘Not dead yet?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Bet you can’t guess why I’m here.’

‘Was it to bring me flowers?’

‘Not allowed. Health and safety.’ Stephenson hasn’t brought any sort of present, not even grapes. Nelson guesses that this call is about business rather than concern for his well-being.

The nurses bring tea in chipped green cups. Stephenson makes a big thing about not needing sugar because he’s sweet enough already. For the first time that day, Nelson feels sick.

‘Your friend Ruth Galloway,’ says Stephenson by way of introduction, slurping his tea.

‘What about her?’ asks Nelson cautiously. He doesn’t know how much his colleagues know about his relationship with Ruth. He thinks that Judy has suspicions about Kate’s parentage; Clough has probably never given it a thought.

‘Remember the bishop? The one that turned out to be a tranny? Well, Ruth sent off some of the material to be analysed. The silk stuff that was wrapped round the bones. Results came back today and guess what they found?’

‘Surprise me.’

‘Traces of a fungus called aspergillus.’

He leans back as if expecting a reaction. Nelson looks at him coldly. ‘That doesn’t mean a lot to me, Chris.’

‘They’re spores, incredibly toxic. They can stay alive for hundreds, thousands, of years. As soon as the spores come into contact with the air, they enter the nose, mouth and mucous membranes. They can cause headaches, vomiting and fever. In people with a weakened immune system, it can result in organ failure and death.’

Nelson looks at him, ‘Danforth Smith.’

‘Yes. He was diabetic, you say. That would have compromised his immune system. He died from heart failure. Could have been brought on by contact with these spores. If we’d done an autopsy, we’d have known.’ He sounds regretful.

‘And the curator,’ says Nelson, ‘Neil Topham. If he’d opened the coffin …’ He thinks of the DIY tools in Topham’s office, of the open window and the curtains blowing. If the spores had got into the air and into Topham’s mouth and nose …

‘He was a druggy,’ says Stephenson, with his usual sensitivity. ‘Immune system would have been shot to pieces. One whiff of aspergillus and he’d have been out like a light. Cause of death was lung failure. Spores would have gone straight onto the lungs.’

‘Is this asperthing, this spore, what made me ill?’

‘I think so. You were next to Lord Smith when the coffin was opened. You would have got a direct hit but you’re healthy, you were able to fight it off.’

Only just, thinks Nelson. Another thought strikes him. ‘What about Ruth? She was right there too.’

Stephenson laughs. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. She was about to look into the coffin when she got a phone
call. She moved away and you and Lord Smith were the first to look inside. Whoever phoned Ruth probably saved her life.’

Nelson would be willing to place a large bet on the identity of Ruth’s caller. There’s only one person it could have been. Cathbad to the rescue again.

‘Would these spores … could they give you nightmares, delusions?’

Stephenson looks at him curiously. ‘I suppose so. One of the symptoms is a high fever. Why do you ask?’

‘Lord Smith’s wife mentioned that he had a terrible fever before he died, was seeing things, shouting out in his sleep.’

‘That was probably the aspergillus. Of course, we’ll never really know.’

Did the poison spores give Danforth Smith nightmares about snakes and ghostly horsemen? Did they plunge Nelson into a shadow world of sea and sky and a man calling from a stone boat? As Stephenson says, he’ll probably never know. But it seems that the Aborigines are innocent; it was the bishop who did it, after all.

‘I’m going to ask the docs to do a chest radiograph on you,’ says Stephenson cheerily. ‘Something might show up.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Why should you worry? It’s a rest cure in here.’

Rest? This feels like the busiest day Nelson has ever had in his life. And as Stephenson saunters out of the ward, he sees Michelle and Maureen on their way in, both carrying covered bowls full of nourishing food.

The Necromancer comes galloping around the corner of the all-weather track, the black earth flying up behind him. At the top of the hill, by the trees, a woman is standing. The horse starts violently at the unfamiliar figure, standing on his hind legs, nostrils wide with fear. But the horse’s rider just laughs and shifts his weight slightly in the saddle.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Romilly Smith. ‘Did I scare him?’

Randolph laughs. ‘He’s just playing silly buggers.’ He pats the animal’s shuddering neck. ‘Calm down horse.’

‘I’d forgotten what a good rider you are,’ says Romilly, falling into step beside the horse.

‘I’d forgotten too,’ says Randolph, loosening the reins so that The Necromancer can stretch his neck. ‘Not that I could ride but how much I enjoyed it. I was devastated when I got too tall to be a jockey. ’

‘You wouldn’t want to be a jockey, darling. All that dieting plays havoc with your skin.’

Randolph laughs and turns the horse towards the stables. Romilly again falls into step beside them. There
is still frost on the ground and her smart boots crackle over the grass.

‘Are you really going to run the yard?’ she asks.

‘I’m going to give it a go,’ says Randolph. ‘Do you mind?’

‘Not at all. I think I’m going to move out. Give you some space.’ Romilly looks up at her son, sitting so loosely on the great black horse. He really is lovely, she thinks. I’m glad I don’t have to share him with another woman.

‘Are you still involved with them? The group?’

Romilly pauses with her hand on The Necromancer’s neck. ‘Well, the group’s rather gone into hiding … after that tip-off last night.’

For a few minutes they walk in silence. Both know that it was Randolph who told the police. Eventually, Randolph says, almost apologetically, ‘You just can’t go round doing things like that, you know. Sending poisonous snakes to people.’

‘I know,’ Romilly sighs. ‘It would have shaken things up a bit though. Make people take notice.’

‘Do you think the police suspect you?’

‘Oh, I’m sure they suspect – I’ve got a record after all – but we’ve all got alibis for last night. Pity it didn’t come off. We’d been planning it for ages.’

‘An innocent man could have been killed.’

‘Innocent animals die every day,’ Romilly counters. But she says it without real heat, as if her mind is elsewhere.

‘And that Vicar person,’ continues Randolph. ‘He’s a psychopath.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ says Romilly triumphantly. ‘He absolutely refused to kill Neil.’

Randolph reins in so sharply that the horse stumbles. ‘What?’

‘I asked him to give Neil some contaminated drugs but he refused. You see, he’s quite moral really. For a drug dealer.’

‘You asked him to kill Neil? Why?’

Romilly looks up at him. ‘Because Neil got you into drugs. I’ll never forgive him for that.’

‘He didn’t. We spent a couple of nights together, that was all. I’d started taking drugs at school, for God’s sake. Neil was just a supplier. Like your mate the Vicar.’

‘I don’t care,’ says Romilly calmly. ‘He was a bad influence. I was glad he died. I tried to scare him off before. That’s why I wrote him those letters.’

Randolph looks at his mother, her silvery hair blowing back in the wind. She looks beautiful but somehow frightening, as if he doesn’t really know her at all.

‘Which letters? The ones the police kept going on about?’

‘Oh, did the police find them? Yes. I wrote Neil some letters about the skulls, trying to scare him. I got the idea from the letter that was sent to Dan by those Elginist people. I wanted Neil to leave, to go back home. He wasn’t worthy of you.’

‘But you can’t just …’ Randolph’s voice fades away. They have reached the yard and The Necromancer’s hooves clatter on the tarmac. Randolph pulls him to halt.

‘I’m off drugs,’ he says. ‘You can’t combine running a yard with taking drugs. Too many bloody early mornings. Human beings can only take so much.’

Romilly smiles up at him. ‘Humans are horrible. They’re not nearly as nice as animals.’

Randolph takes this in, realising that this philosophy has been the guiding force of his mother’s life. Is this why they are all so mixed up – him and Caroline and Tamsin? Because, deep down, their mother preferred animals to them?

‘Are you going to go on with the animal rights stuff?’ he asks. ‘If the group ever reforms?’

‘Oh, I’m going to start a new group. Strictly non-violent. Demonstrating at hunts etcetera. I’m going to buy a little cottage somewhere and really devote myself to it.’

Great, thinks Randolph. He hasn’t told his mother that he’s decided to join the hunt. He has always loved hunting (he used to sneak off to go cubbing as a child) and it’s excellent exercise for the horses. He looks forward to seeing her at the barricades. He’s not sure he believes the non-violence either.

‘Do you think Dan knew?’ Romilly asks suddenly. ‘About the other men?’

Randolph dismounts and loosens The Necromancer’s girth. Steam rises up from the horse’s hot body.

‘No,’ he lies. ‘I don’t think Dad knew a thing.’

‘I hope not,’ says Romilly, moving out of the way as a stable boy comes past leading two horses towards the walker. ‘I never wanted to hurt him. I was just … bored.’

‘Yeah,’ says Randolph, lifting off the saddle. ‘Boredom has a lot to answer for.’

‘But you won’t be bored now, will you? You’ve got the stable to run and Caroline’s got the museum. I’ve never
seen her so happy. Not since she came back from Australia.’

Not that you ever did anything about Caroline’s unhappiness, thinks Randolph, because she’s not a beagle or a laboratory rat. The Necromancer rubs his head against his shoulder and suddenly Randolph, too, feels a great surge of love towards all animals. The Necromancer doesn’t care if he’s gay or straight, on drugs or clean. As long as Randolph feeds him and takes him out on long gallops, it’s all the same to him. Randolph rubs the horse’s ear affectionately and turns to his mother.

‘There’s going to be a big party at the museum,’ he says. ‘Caroline’s organising it. To celebrate the skulls going back. Will you come?’

Romilly reaches up a gloved hand to touch his cheek. ‘No darling. I think I’ll give it a miss. One way or another I’ve rather had enough of the museum.’

The repatriation ceremony is held on the fifteenth of December. Ruth has, that morning, opened the fifteenth window on Kate’s advent calendar. She ate the chocolate herself to save Kate’s teeth. What a good mother. Christmas suddenly seems to be uncomfortably close. It is the last week of term and the department noticeboard is groaning with parties and carol concerts. Phil and Shona are having a party on Christmas Eve (‘our last fling before the baby’s here’) and Ruth is already thinking of ways to avoid it. She is wondering whether she has the nerve to invite Max for Christmas. They have had one weekend together since the Elginist conference, and even to Ruth’s over-critical eye it seemed to go rather well. She knows that Max has no family left alive and, as for her, she’d do anything to avoid Christmas with her parents and brother.

Driving from the university to the Smith Museum, she allows herself to think about Christmas on the Saltmarsh with Max and Kate. She could buy a tree. She’s forty-one years old and she’s never bought her own Christmas tree.
How pathetic is that? She has a vision of herself and Kate decorating the tree. They could make the decorations out of salt dough (something which, like potato prints, seems to Ruth the very pinnacle of mothering). They could go into town to see Father Christmas, though she loathes shopping malls – and Father Christmas too for that matter. She remembers the time, two years ago, that she saw Nelson Christmas shopping with his wife and children. It had been her first glimpse of Michelle and Ruth had disliked her on sight. So much has changed since then. Ruth herself has changed, she thinks, almost beyond recognition.

Michelle has agreed that Nelson should see Kate once a month and the first meeting, on the bouncy, neutral ground of a soft play area, had been predictably awkward. Nelson had played with Kate while Michelle and Ruth drank coffee and talked about Christmas and families and aren’t home-made mince pies nicer than shop-bought ones. When Kate is used to him Ruth is going to let Nelson have her on his own. That should be easier all round. Maybe Kate will gain a much-needed aunt figure in Michelle. She’ll need someone to take her shopping when she’s a teenager.

Will Kate gain a father figure in Max? That remains to be seen. Even in Ruth’s festive fantasies, Max is relegated to the background, mulling wine and roasting chestnuts. Despite everything, she doesn’t seem to want a man around all the time. Still, Max will be there today and maybe she can broach the subject of the holidays. Nothing like an Indigenous Australian Repatriation ceremony to remind you of Christmas.

Ruth parks in the museum car park, remembering the day, just over a month ago, when she came here to find Neil Topham lying dead in the Local History Room. The curator has not been forgotten by the Smith family. The Local History collection will be renamed The Neil Topham Collection, and, according to Cathbad Randolph is talking about sponsoring a Topham history prize at the university.

Cathbad is the first person that Ruth sees as she walks into the entrance hall. He is standing looking at the stuffed figure of the Great Auk. The moth-eaten bird is the only survivor of Caroline’s enthusiastic modernisation. The lobby has been freshly painted, the map of King’s Lynn and the oil painting of Lord Percival Smith have been replaced by computer screens asking visitors to rank their experience from ‘Awesome’ to ‘Disappointing.’ Instead of the dusty chandelier, modern light fittings snake across the ceiling and, in honour of the Indigenous Australian guests, the Aboriginal flag, bands of black and red intersected by a glowing yellow sun, covers one wall.

Ruth blinks. ‘Blimey. This is all a bit different.’

Cathbad turns and smiles. ‘I know. These days, if you stand still long enough, Caroline either paints you or plugs you in.’