Dry Bones Page 2

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I said the wine was a Pinot Gris, but now I realise it’s a Chablis, and you – having known from the first sip what it really was – have been wondering whether to correct me or let it pass.’

  My rage returned. ‘Just what kind of a sick bastard are you—?’ I’d begun.

  ‘There’s no shame in not knowing about wines, you know,’ Charlie had interrupted me.

  ‘There might not be in most places, but it certainly looks like there is here,’ I’d replied.

  Charlie had looked around him.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he’d agreed. ‘What I’m really in the mood for now is a pint of best bitter in the Eagle and Child. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘I would,’ I’d told him, still in my pre-gin and tonic days. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  We’ve been best friends ever since, because despite our different backgrounds and experiences, we have plenty to talk about and can make each other laugh. And OK, it could be said that I find something in Charlie that I never found in my icy, non-communicative dad.

  And yes – damn it! – I know that some women are drawn to gays because they know there’s no danger with them of being sucked down into the pit of jealousy, dominance and recrimination. But none of that matters, because I love the man, and his worries and problems are my worries and problems.

  He’s smiling at me awkwardly, as if he doesn’t quite know how to state the purpose of his visit.

  ‘I take it that this isn’t a social call, Charlie,’ I say, in an attempt to kick the conversation into gear.

  ‘No, no, it isn’t social,’ he says, shaking his head rather too emphatically. ‘I’m here to purchase your professional services.’

  Professional services! That makes me seem less like a gumshoe and more like a rather high-class call girl, I think.

  What I actually say is, ‘And what exactly is the nature of the task which requires these special services of mine?’

  ‘Have you ever been down to the cellars under the college?’ he says, going off at what – it seems to me – is a tangent.

  But Charlie has as sharp and analytical a mind as you’re ever likely to come across. He never goes off at tangents! I know that, and he knows I know it. So just what kind of a game is he playing?

  ‘No, I can’t say I have been to the cellars,’ I say, noncommittally, biding my time.

  ‘Most people automatically assume that there is nothing at all aesthetically pleasing about them – and very often they’re quite right in that assumption,’ Charlie says. ‘But there are exceptions to the rule, and St Luke’s cellars are a case in point. The one under the De Courcey Quad is particularly splendid. It was designed by Hubert of Ashby, the late-Medieval theologian. I expect you’ve read his rather important “Ex Natura Dei”.’

  ‘No, I nearly bought the paperback when it first came out, but now I’m waiting for the film to be released,’ I say.

  ‘Paperback?’ Charlie repeats. ‘Film?’ Then enlightenment dawns. ‘Oh, I see, you’re making a joke.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  And it’s even more worrying that he didn’t realise I was joking immediately, because the Charlie I know would have.

  ‘Anyway, Hubert was not only a learned theologian, but also an architect and, by the standards of the time, an engineer of some merit.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Charlie,’ I say, ‘just listening to all this stuff is enough to make me lose the will to live.’

  But what I’m thinking is: why can’t he be straight with his best friend? Why can’t he just tell me exactly what it is that’s on his mind?

  ‘Recently, there was the problem of a smell – probably linked to sewage – which seemed to have its source in that particular cellar,’ Charlie says, speeding up because he’s afraid he’ll lose his audience before he gets to the punchline. ‘The superintendent of buildings – whose judgement on architecture and engineering I’d trust about as much as I’d trust Attila the Hun’s judgement on market gardening – decided it came from a sealed medieval ventilation shaft, and ordered the stonemason to open it up, in order to find out what was going on.’

  ‘I see,’ I tell him, dramatically tilting my head to one side, as if I’ve just hanged myself.

  You get the point? It’s a comic gesture designed to disguise how concerned I’m becoming that my Charlie might have got himself into a real mess.

  ‘The smell wasn’t coming from the shaft at all – as the mason found out the moment he’d made a hole large enough to stick his head through – but what he did discover in the hollow behind the wall was some bones,’ Charlie says.

  Oh Jesus, I think, as the room suddenly grows colder and darker.

  ‘Some bones,’ I repeat neutrally.

  ‘That’s right,’ Charlie agrees.

  Is he being evasive? You could say that. I’ve heard rolling drunks – who could hardly remember their own names – get to the point quicker than he is.

  What he’s doing, of course, is employing the standard police technique of breaking bad news in stages.

  ‘Your husband has been in an accident, Mrs Jones.’

  ‘Oh my God, was he hurt?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid he was.’

  ‘Badly hurt?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not … is he?’

  ‘Yes, I regret to inform you that he’s dead.’

  ‘They are human bones, aren’t they?’ I ask Charlie.

  I’m hoping he’ll say they were chicken bones, but if that were the case, he wouldn’t be here now, would he?

  ‘Yes, they were human,’ he admits.

  ‘Have you reported this to the police?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You must – and as soon as possible!’

  ‘I will report it to the police, I promise you that – but first I need to talk to you,’ Charlie says.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to …’

  ‘Please, Jennie,’ Charlie says, in the voice of a four-year-old who has badly scraped his knees.

  ‘How many bones did he find?’ I ask, against what I already know is my better judgement.

  ‘Quite a lot,’ he replies, and then he sees the look of growing disapproval on my face and adds, ‘Enough for two skeletons, in fact.’

  And this last piece of deliberately specific quantification makes my stomach go into freefall – because I now see what he is doing. He is manoeuvring me into a position in which I have to ask questions that I don’t want to ask and would probably prefer not to know the answer to.

  And beyond that, by making me ask the questions, he is attempting to transform me into some kind of accomplice in his conspiracy – to drag me, in other words, into the swamp where he himself is just about treading water.

  If it was anyone else but Charlie, I would ask him to leave immediately – but it is my beloved Charlie, and so I sigh and say, ‘Are you telling me there were two bodies behind the wall?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two complete bodies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I asked one of the college proctors – Patrick Harland Gray – to take a look at them.’

  ‘You asked a man who invigilates examinations and handles complaints to look at these bones of yours.’

  ‘He’s not just a proctor; he’s also an anatomist of some considerable international standing.’

  It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?

  ‘By what twisted logic did you reach the conclusion that you had to consult me before you informed the police?’ I ask.

  ‘Among my many duties and responsibilities, one of the most important is to protect St Luke’s,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Against what?’

  ‘Against whatever happens to threaten it. In this particular case, it is to protect it against excessive claims for compensation that might be made by the greedy relatives of the two dead men.’r />
  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘It’s very likely. Everyone knows the college is rich – and therefore fair game – and since we failed to prevent the interment on college ground of men who died under suspicious circumstances – and were possibly even murdered …’

  ‘Possibly?’ I interrupt.

  ‘Given that both their skulls had been stove in from behind, it’s more than likely,’ Charlie admits.

  ‘Their skulls had been stove in!’

  ‘Didn’t I mention that at the start?’

  ‘No, you bloody well didn’t!’

  ‘Well, anyway, that’s exactly what happened,’ Charlie says glibly, ‘and, as I was explaining, there is a good case for arguing that we have been, at the very least, negligent. That is why I need to know the victims’ identity even before the police do – because it will give me time to look into their respective backgrounds and, based on their domestic circumstances, plan out the nature and extent of our pre-emptive financial offer.’

  ‘So all you want me to do is find out who they were?’ I ask, in a tone which is probably a mixture of sarcasm and incredulity.

  ‘That’s right,’ Charlie agrees.

  ‘And what clues will you be providing me with to assist me in this relatively simple task?’

  ‘Clues?’ Charlie says, as if he’s never heard the word before, and is repeating it so he’ll be sure to remember it the next time someone uses it.

  ‘Clues,’ I agree. ‘An envelope with an address on it would be a great help, but I’m willing to settle for a clothes label, or a ring with the jeweller’s identifying mark inside it.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing like that,’ Charlie admits. ‘All we have is the bones themselves.’

  ‘Then why have you been wasting my time?’ I demand angrily. ‘You talk as if the bones have only been there for a short while, but without other evidence, you’ve no idea how long they’ve been there. How old is the cellar?’

  ‘It was constructed in 1214.’

  ‘So these bones of yours could actually have lain there for over eight hundred years!’

  ‘No, they couldn’t,’ Charlie says quietly. ‘And I know that for a fact, because I took the left radius from each skeleton over to the science labs.’

  The swirling fog thickens; the nightmare tightens up a notch!

  ‘So you’ve not only messed with the bones at the crime scene, you took some of them away to be experimented on,’ I say, just to make certain that – however ridiculous it seems – I’ve got it right.

  ‘Our labs are better than the police labs,’ Charlie says, almost sulkily. ‘Our labs are some of the finest in the world.’

  In the movies, the scriptwriter or director (or whoever else it is who takes the decision) always portrays the men as calm and collected in situations like this one, while the women – obviously more prone to attacks of hysteria (bastard scriptwriters, bastard directors!) – rummage around helplessly in their handbags for a packet of cigarettes. And as my fingers tunnel through a morass of compacts, perfume, and God knows what else, I am annoyed to realise how closely I am shadowing the stereotype.

  I extract my cigarette packet, place a B&H firmly between my lips, click my lighter, inhale, and let the calming, deadly smoke snake its way poisonously around my lungs.

  ‘So what have your labs discovered?’ I ask, because, since the damage has already been done, we might as well reap the benefit.

  ‘Both men were middle twenties to middle thirties,’ Charlie says, ‘but they were interred at different times.’

  ‘Different times?’

  ‘The first one – let’s call him Body A – was dumped there somewhere between fifty-five and sixty-five years ago, and Body B joined him between thirty and forty years ago.’

  Two bodies = two completely distinct crimes?

  Now that was something I hadn’t seen coming.

  I do a rapid calculation. Body A was put there between 1909 and 1919, Body B between 1934 and 1944.

  ‘Your scientists are sure about this, are they?’ I ask.

  ‘They wouldn’t bet their mothers’ lives on it, if that’s what you mean,’ Charlie replies. ‘They’re working with new techniques here, so they may well be wrong – but they’re convinced that if they are, they’re not that wrong.’

  I slide the phone across the desk to him.

  ‘Call the police now, while I’m here to advise you,’ I say.

  He pushes the phone back.

  ‘I can’t – not until I’ve identified the two dead men.’ Charlie pauses. ‘Look, if I’m in trouble with the police …’

  ‘Believe me, there’s no “if” about it.’

  ‘Then I’m not likely to be in any more trouble in three or four days from now, than I am at the moment, am I?’

  ‘They could charge you with obstructing justice …’

  ‘Say one of the men was murdered in 1909 and the other in 1939. What difference is a few days going to make to anybody’s investigation, after all those years?’

  I sigh. ‘I’m not going to help you identify them, Charlie,’ I say. ‘And if you don’t ring the police, then I will, because after what I’ve just heard, I don’t have any choice.’

  Charlie is very fit for a man of his age, and he springs from his chair like a young gazelle. But then he falls to his knees, and the moment those knees make contact with the hard office floor, his hands come together as if in prayer.

  ‘Please, Jennie,’ he says, in a strangled voice.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake get up,’ I hear myself say, as if I were the heroine of a Victorian melodrama, and he my unsuccessful suitor.

  ‘I’d die for you,’ he says. ‘I’d lay down my life for you.’

  And I know he would – as I would for him.

  I walk around the desk, grab him by the upper arms, and attempt to hoist him to his feet.

  He suddenly weighs three tons, and cannot be moved an inch.

  ‘Promise me,’ he says.

  In the end, my resolve breaks down, as both of us have always known it would.

  ‘I’ll give you three days,’ I tell him. ‘Three days – but not a minute more than that.’

  He’s back on his feet in an instant, and hugging me tightly to him.

  It feels good!

  It feels great!

  But still my mind will not stop sorting and sifting what I know – and what I can merely guess at.

  ‘When did you come up to Oxford, Charlie?’ I ask.

  First he stiffens, then he relinquishes the hold he has on me, and steps away.

  ‘Why would you want to know that?’ he asks – and he has suddenly grown rather pale.

  ‘Given your age, you must have taken your entrance examinations in 1938,’ I say.

  ‘1937,’ he replies, and then adds, perhaps a little arrogantly, ‘I was way ahead of the rest of the boys in my year.’

  ‘And when did you join the army?’

  ‘1943.’

  ‘So you were here for six of the years during which the second murder could have been committed.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Why is he doing this? I wonder. He was the man who wanted me to take on the case – begged me to take on the case – so why is he so unwilling to divulge any new information he might have?

  And then it comes to me!

  ‘You know who one of the victims is, don’t you?’

  He shakes his head, violently.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Charlie,’ I say sternly.

  ‘I think I might have the vaguest hint of a suspicion who it might be,’ he admits.

  ‘Then give me a name!’

  ‘I don’t want to prejudice your investigation by feeding you any preconceived notions,’ he says.

  And then, quick as a superhero, he turns and dashes from my office.

  TWO

  3 October 1914

  The morning had looked far from promising for a parade, with thick grey clouds hanging over the whole of
Oxford. But then, just before midday, the sky had started to clear, and by the time the parade itself actually set off, most of the pothole puddles – unavoidable to anyone marching in step with others – had either evaporated or seeped quietly away.

  The parade had a pre-arranged route that had been widely publicised, and by the time it reached Broad Street, a substantial crowd – in which all of the children and most of the adults were waving small paper Union Jack flags – had gathered along both sides of the street.

  The parade was led by the WRM Motors Brass Band, and as the unusually bright autumn sun reflected off the golden instruments, the band played a melody of patriotic tunes which included ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’, ‘Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag’, and ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.’

  The crowd cheered enthusiastically, and when, halfway down the Broad, the band had exhausted their jingoistic repertoire and switched instead to old favourites like ‘Down at the Old Bull and Bush’ and ‘Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?,’ the applause was in no way diminished.

  Behind the brass band were the most recent volunteers. They were still struggling to come to terms with the fact that once they had signed on – and even before the ink had had time to dry – the kindly recruitment sergeants with the twinkling eyes (who had guided them gently through the paperwork) were suddenly transformed into the screaming ogres who had occasionally haunted sweaty childhood dreams.

  The recruits had another problem – they were unused to marching and found it something of a strain. They did the best they were able – as the sergeants’ barrage of invective poured down on them like an unexpected rainstorm, and the crowds which lined their route offered them uncritical encouragement – but they succeeded only in moving in an even more haphazard fashion, sometimes crashing into one another and sometimes tripping over their own boots.

  Behind this group came a much smaller one. These men were much better dressed than the recruits who had just preceded them, and – as even the least experienced observer would be bound to admit – much better trained. They marched without the assistance or interference of any of the recruiting sergeants – and their march combined an almost mathematical military precision with a sort of languid arrogance. These men (or perhaps it might be more accurate to call them boys, since most of them fell two or three years short of voting age) had been bred on their country estates and in their public schools for just this moment in history. They had no doubts, no uncertainties, and when they read the Sermon on the Mount they mentally edited out the promise that the meek would inherit the earth, and substituted ‘the British upper class.’ They would later die in their thousands, in the process of leading hundreds of thousands of less-privileged men to their own deaths, and they would do it willingly and without flinching – but for the moment, with death still a distant possibility, they were revelling in the cheers of the crowd just as much as the common working men who they were following had.