Free Speaking From Among The Bones by Alan Bradley Page A

that.
    “The police have made quite a hash of the scene—removing the remains and so forth. Anything that may have been of interest to me is now no more than—”
    “Dust on the sergeant’s boots,” I suggested brightly.
    “Precisely. Now I shall have to go over the ground with a magnifying glass, like Sherlock Holmes.”
    “What are you hoping to find?”
    “Seeds,” he said. “Remnants of Saint Tancred’s interment. The mourners often tossed fresh flowers into the tomb, you know.”
    “But there was nothing in the tomb,” I said. “It was empty. Except for Mr. Collicutt, of course.”
    Adam Sowerby gave me a quizzical look. “Empty? Oh, I see what you mean. No, it’s hardly likely to be empty. The crevice where you found Mr. Collicutt is actually a chamber above the tomb proper. Its lid, if you like. Saint Tancred will still be nicely nestled somewhere down below.”
    So that was why there had been no bones! My question was answered.
    “Then it’s quite likely that you’ll still find seeds and so forth?”
    “I should be surprised if we didn’t. It’s just that, in any investigation, one likes to start at the outside and nibble one’s way in.”
    I couldn’t have put it better myself.
    “And these seeds,” I said. “What shall you do with them?”
    “I shall coddle them. I shall put them in a warm place and provide them with the nourishment they need.”
    I could tell by the passion in his voice that seeds were to him as poisons were to me.
    “And then?” I asked.
    “They might well germinate,” he said. “If we’re extraordinarily lucky, one of them will be brought to blossom.”
    “Even after five hundred years?”
    “A seed is a remarkable vessel,” he told me. “Our one true time machine. Each of them is capable of bringing the past, alive, into the present. Think of that!”
    “And then?” I asked. “After they’ve blossomed?”
    “I sell them. You’d be surprised what some people will pay to be the sole possessor of an extinct flower.
    “Oh, and then there are the academic trumpets, of course. Who can live nowadays without the academic trumpets?”
    I had no idea what he was talking about, but the part about the flowers was intriguing enough.
    “Would you mind giving me a lift into the village?” I asked suddenly. It was still early in the day and an idea was taking shape.
    “Does your father allow you to beg rides from complete strangers?” he asked, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.
    “He won’t mind, if you’re a friend of the vicar’s,” I said. “May I put Gladys in the back, Mr. Sowerby?”
    “Adam,” he said. “Since we’re both under the vicar’s spell, I expect that it’s all right to call me Adam.”
    I climbed up into the front passenger’s seat. There was a prolonged and grinding judder as Adam trod on the clutch and coddled the shifting lever down into first gear, and then we were off.
    “Her name is Nancy,” he said, indicating the instrument panel, then, glancing at me, he added, “… after Burns’s poem.”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know it,” I said. “My sister Daphne is the bookish one.”
    “ ‘Though poor in gear, we’re rich in love,’ ”
he quoted. “From ‘The Soldier’s Return.’ ”
    “Ah!” I said.
    The churchyard was, if anything, more vividly green than it had been in the early morning light. The Inspector’s blue Vauxhall was still parked in the same spot, as was Mr. Haskins’s van.
    “I’ll drop you off here,” Adam said at the lych-gate. “I have odds and ends to discuss with the vicar.”
    It was a way of saying “I want to speak with him privately,” but he handled it so politely that I could hardly object.
    Although I could see that Gladys was excited about her first ride in a Rolls-Royce, I sensed that she was glad to be on solid ground again. I waved as I wheeled her away.
    I had no sooner set foot in the church when a large, dark figure loomed up, barring the way. “Hold on,” growled