days, already looks distinctly unloved. A pile of post has been pushed to one side of the door and cobwebs are starting to shroud the face of the Great Auk.
‘So good of you to come,’ says Danforth. ‘I’m sure you’re a very busy lady.’
Ruth smiles. She doesn’t deny that she is busy or mention that she doesn’t like the word ‘lady’. There’s no point; Smith, like Nelson, is probably beyond re-education. Besides she’s keen to see the infamous collection.
Danforth leads the way through the National History Room, their footsteps echoing on the black and white tiles. Ruth tries not to imagine the glass eyes following them.
‘When’s the museum opening again?’ she asks.
‘Lord knows.’ Danforth Smith stops to examine a particularly mangy badger who stares grimly back. ‘I’ve got to find a new curator and people might not be so keen to work here after what happened to poor Neil.’
‘Have you found out how he died? I found his body,’ she explains hastily, in case she is sounding ghoulish.
Danforth looks at her with new interest. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t realise. No, they haven’t said for certain. DCI Nelson mentioned something about a pulmonary haemorrhage.’
‘Nelson?’
‘Yes. The detective chappie. Rather a rough diamond but bright enough, I think.’
‘I know Nelson.’
‘I suppose you do, in the course of your work,’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Danforth turns back to the badger. ‘I got the impression that Nelson thought that Neil died from natural causes. It’s just that …’
Ruth waits. Knowing when not to speak is one skill that she shares with Nelson.
‘Doctor Galloway, have you heard of the Elginists?’
‘Someone mentioned them to me the other day.’
‘Really?’ Danforth looks up and Ruth thinks that he looks tired, almost haggard. She hasn’t much liked Lord Smith up until now but suddenly she feels almost sorry for him.
‘About a year ago I had a letter from a group called the Elginists demanding the return of the … the artefacts I’m about to show you. It turns out that they also wrote to Neil. Terrible letters, threatening him, saying that his life was in danger.’
Ruth’s head reels. She looks at the stuffed animals, envying them their painted idyll. Could Cathbad and his friends have written threatening letters to Neil Topham? It’s not impossible, and this realisation stirs memories that Ruth would rather have left undisturbed. Could Cathbad be involved in the curator’s death? And what about Bob Woonunga, her charming didgeridoo-playing neighbour? What’s his role in all this?
‘Does Nelson,’ her voice sounds high-pitched and odd,‘does Nelson think that the letters had anything to do with Neil’s death?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Danforth, ‘but it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Very strange.’
‘The whole thing’s odd. Neil dropping dead like that beside the bishop’s coffin. I don’t believe in jinxes,’ he laughs, ‘but still, it’s odd.’
‘What’s happened to the coffin?’ asks Ruth. ‘It’s not still here, is it?’
Danforth Smith seems genuinely surprised. ‘I thought you knew. It’s at the university. Your university. Apparently it needs to be kept in a controlled environment. Phil Trent was talking about opening it next week. Just a low-key affair this time. He said you’d be there.’
Thanks a lot Phil, thinks Ruth. He hadn’t mentioned the coffin when he’d spoken to her in the canteen, too busy going on about bananas and Natural Childbirth.
‘Where are these bones you wanted me to look at?’ she says.
‘This way.’
They pass through the Victorian study where Lord Percival Smith is frozen in the act of writing, wax hand holding wax quill. Danforth Smith leads the way into the long gallery where the portraits of long-dead Smiths look down their noses at them. The door to the Local History Room is firmly shut. Smith sees Ruth looking at it.
‘The police
‘So good of you to come,’ says Danforth. ‘I’m sure you’re a very busy lady.’
Ruth smiles. She doesn’t deny that she is busy or mention that she doesn’t like the word ‘lady’. There’s no point; Smith, like Nelson, is probably beyond re-education. Besides she’s keen to see the infamous collection.
Danforth leads the way through the National History Room, their footsteps echoing on the black and white tiles. Ruth tries not to imagine the glass eyes following them.
‘When’s the museum opening again?’ she asks.
‘Lord knows.’ Danforth Smith stops to examine a particularly mangy badger who stares grimly back. ‘I’ve got to find a new curator and people might not be so keen to work here after what happened to poor Neil.’
‘Have you found out how he died? I found his body,’ she explains hastily, in case she is sounding ghoulish.
Danforth looks at her with new interest. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t realise. No, they haven’t said for certain. DCI Nelson mentioned something about a pulmonary haemorrhage.’
‘Nelson?’
‘Yes. The detective chappie. Rather a rough diamond but bright enough, I think.’
‘I know Nelson.’
‘I suppose you do, in the course of your work,’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ Danforth turns back to the badger. ‘I got the impression that Nelson thought that Neil died from natural causes. It’s just that …’
Ruth waits. Knowing when not to speak is one skill that she shares with Nelson.
‘Doctor Galloway, have you heard of the Elginists?’
‘Someone mentioned them to me the other day.’
‘Really?’ Danforth looks up and Ruth thinks that he looks tired, almost haggard. She hasn’t much liked Lord Smith up until now but suddenly she feels almost sorry for him.
‘About a year ago I had a letter from a group called the Elginists demanding the return of the … the artefacts I’m about to show you. It turns out that they also wrote to Neil. Terrible letters, threatening him, saying that his life was in danger.’
Ruth’s head reels. She looks at the stuffed animals, envying them their painted idyll. Could Cathbad and his friends have written threatening letters to Neil Topham? It’s not impossible, and this realisation stirs memories that Ruth would rather have left undisturbed. Could Cathbad be involved in the curator’s death? And what about Bob Woonunga, her charming didgeridoo-playing neighbour? What’s his role in all this?
‘Does Nelson,’ her voice sounds high-pitched and odd,‘does Nelson think that the letters had anything to do with Neil’s death?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Danforth, ‘but it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Very strange.’
‘The whole thing’s odd. Neil dropping dead like that beside the bishop’s coffin. I don’t believe in jinxes,’ he laughs, ‘but still, it’s odd.’
‘What’s happened to the coffin?’ asks Ruth. ‘It’s not still here, is it?’
Danforth Smith seems genuinely surprised. ‘I thought you knew. It’s at the university. Your university. Apparently it needs to be kept in a controlled environment. Phil Trent was talking about opening it next week. Just a low-key affair this time. He said you’d be there.’
Thanks a lot Phil, thinks Ruth. He hadn’t mentioned the coffin when he’d spoken to her in the canteen, too busy going on about bananas and Natural Childbirth.
‘Where are these bones you wanted me to look at?’ she says.
‘This way.’
They pass through the Victorian study where Lord Percival Smith is frozen in the act of writing, wax hand holding wax quill. Danforth Smith leads the way into the long gallery where the portraits of long-dead Smiths look down their noses at them. The door to the Local History Room is firmly shut. Smith sees Ruth looking at it.
‘The police
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