A Cold Coffin. Gwendoline Butler

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СКАЧАТЬ Phoebe, still muttering crossly, had gone, Coffin got back to work on the papers on his desk. He had recently initiated a study of all the clubs in his bailiwick, some of which he suspected of being involved in drug offences and allied crimes. He thumbed through the report: the Cat Lovers’ Club sounded harmless enough, as did Tortoise Friends, but the Ladies of Leisure might need looking into. Several walking and hiking clubs – surely not much trouble there? But he knew from experience you could never be sure. Some were more sinister than others.

      Then he put on a raincoat to go down to look at the flooded excavations.

      The rain had stopped, but it was a damp, dark evening.

      He looked down into the murk and wondered about the babies’ heads, once buried there, now uncovered. Although dark, the water was not quite opaque; reflections shimmered and moved in the lights from the building behind. You could imagine you saw shapes.

      ‘You could almost imagine that was a skull.’ He must have spoken aloud.

      ‘It is a skull.’

      He felt a presence behind him and looked up. There was a tall, sturdily built woman in a raincoat but no hat. Her hair was wet, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was attractive, he found. Coffin moved forward, as if he would try to get the skull out. In fact he wanted to; he disliked intensely the thought of an infant head resting in the mud. He crouched down, trying to get at it.

      The woman put her hand on his shoulder. ‘No, leave it. Let the archaeologists do it. Everything has to be mapped in situ.’

      He stood up; they were about as tall as each other. ‘Dr Murray, I presume?’

      She nodded. ‘And I know who you are, too. I know your wife.’

      ‘You know Stella?’

      ‘She came to a lecture I gave. Introduced herself.’ Dr Murray smiled. ‘You don’t forget Stella once you’ve met her.’

      ‘No. You’re in charge here?’ It was more of a statement than a question.

      ‘I am head of the prehistory and archaeology department at the Second City University. When I got wind of the discovery here, I asked to be involved and they kindly allowed me.’

      No one else wanted to do it was Coffin’s cynical interpretation of this statement.

      ‘But I’m not in charge. A whole team of archaeologists will be doing the real work.’

      And then Coffin got round to what really worried him. ‘I thought you were going to get all the skulls out. Still here, though.’

      ‘That’ll happen. All this rain,’ she said briefly. ‘Water drained in. We thought we would do more damage by rushing. It’ll drain naturally quite soon.’ She smiled. ‘I would be chary of using the phrase “in charge” anyway. Controlling a gang of scholars and technicians is never easy: they argue.’

      ‘I believe you.’ He stared down. Was he imagining a pinkiness down there by one of the skulls? He pointed. ‘Looks different.’ Pinkiness. Just the light reflection. Not blood. Couldn’t be blood. He had had blood on his mind since the Minden Street murders.

      ‘This one is not Neanderthal.’

      He was surprised at her certainty. ‘How can you tell?’

      ‘By the shape. It is much much later. Modern.’

      He wondered what modern meant. ‘How much later?’

      ‘At the moment I cannot be sure.’

      In a car at the kerb, at the wheel, was a young woman, bright blue eyes, a froth of curly fair hair and a broad smile. She was looking at them both with good-humoured amusement. ‘Had enough?’

      Dr Murray ignored this and introduced them. ‘This is Natasha, she drives for me. Well, some of the time. Chief Commander John Coffin, Natasha Broad.’

      Natasha held out a hand. ‘I’m her cousin, but she doesn’t like to admit it. She can’t keep away from this site, can you, Mags? Fascinated by the infant skulls.’

      ‘They are interesting,’ said Dr Murray soberly. She looked at Coffin. ‘You’re interested yourself.’

      ‘Of course, I am,’ observed Coffin mildly. ‘Were the children sacrificed, or did they die naturally?’

      ‘I can’t answer that,’ said Dr Murray. ‘Not at the moment, perhaps never. If I had to make a guess, then I’d say they were sacrificed.’

      Coffin looked thoughtful.

      ‘They probably ate the flesh,’ observed Dr Murray. ‘Neanderthals appear to have been healthy stock, but hungry. Neanderthal man ate what flesh he could get. We have found teeth marks on human bones.’

      ‘The Neanderthals died out, though, didn’t they?’ said Coffin. ‘To be replaced by modern man. Perhaps there weren’t enough babies for them to eat. Or perhaps modern man ate the Neanderthals.’

      ‘Possibly.’

      Natasha laughed. ‘Come on, let’s get home.’

      So they lived together, Coffin thought. Wrongly as it happened. Wonder if it’s a happy household.

      ‘Let me know about the later skull. I’m interested.’

      ‘It’s been there some time. Not a police job.’

      Well, you never know, thought Coffin. ‘I’m not looking for work,’ he said.

      Although he disliked the thought of the dead Neanderthal babies, he found himself even more troubled by the later skull. How did it get there? And why? And who put it there?

      He felt a gust of fury at the thought.

      ‘I don’t think he liked what you said about the date of that one skull,’ said Natasha to her cousin, who was recounting her interview with Coffin in detail as they drove to Spinnergate, where Dr Murray owned a charming late eighteenth-century house that she had restored and renovated.

      Margaret Murray did not respond to this gambit. ‘Odd to think that this was once one of the first homes of the English textile industry,’ she said.

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Spinnergate,’ obliged Dr Murray; ‘Weaver or webster, creating fabrics.’

      ‘Oh you’re always back in the past.’ She drove on deftly. ‘Now, the Chief Commander is not interested in the past.’ She added thoughtfully, ‘He likes a good murder.’

      ‘Only professionally.’

      ‘Well, he’s got quite a choice at the moment.’ The papers had been full of the Minden Street murders, the death of the Jackson family. Horrible, she had thought.

      They drove on with Natasha humming under her breath. Sounded dirge-like. To her cousin, she looked too thin and badly dressed. Margaret didn’t mind that both Nat and her husband only ever wore jeans, but you ought to wear them with style.

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