Free A Room Full of Bones by Elly Griffiths

adamant that they’re not going anywhere. But he needs someone to look at the other bones, to check if they really are human. And he asked for you.’
    ‘Why?’ asks Ruth.
    ‘Well, you’re our bones expert. I presume he asked around.’
    I bet he did, thinks Ruth. And I wonder who he asked.
    Back in her office, she makes an internal call to Cathbad. He works in the chemistry department as a lab assistant, though he originally trained as an archaeologist.
    ‘So, tell me about the Elginists.’
    Cathbad laughs, not at all abashed. ‘I knew you’d come round to the Elginists.’
    ‘Apparently Lord Smith wants me to look at some Aboriginal relics.’
    ‘Indigenous Australian,’ Cathbad corrects her. ‘And they’re not relics, they are remains of the ancestors, the Old Ones. They need to go back to their own country, so that they can enter the spirit world and be one with their mother, the Earth.’
    Ruth marvels anew at how Cathbad comes out with the stuff, just as if he is reciting a chemical formula. She is used to him going on about Mother Earth, though the Indigenous Australian link is new.
    ‘How come you’re involved in all this? I thought you were a druid.’
    ‘All the great religions are one,’ says Cathbad impressively, but Ruth thinks it is a typically religious phrase because it sounds good and means absolutely nothing.
    There is a scratchy, electronic pause. ‘I got involved with the Elginists when we were protesting about the henge,’ Cathbad says at last. ‘They offered their support. They agreed that the henge should stay where it was.’
    Ruth remembers the protests about the henge, Cathbad standing within the wooden circle, staff upraised, defying the tide itself. There had been rumours that the entire archaeology team had been cursed, that anyone who touched the timbers would be dead in a year. Well, Ruth is still here and even Erik survived for a good many years after the dig. Ruth wonders what sort of help the Elginists offered.
    ‘Cathbad,’ says Ruth. ‘Do you know Bob Woonunga?’
    Cathbad laughs again. ‘Bob’s an expert on repatriation. He’s a poet too. He’s written lots of beautiful things about the Dreaming. I met him at a conference.’
    ‘And you recommended that he move in next door to me?’
    ‘I thought it would suit him. He’s a good bloke, Ruth. You’ll like him.’
    ‘I met him last night.’
    ‘There you are then.’
    ‘Why do I feel that there’s something you’re not telling me?’
    ‘Relax, Ruthie. Look, we’re having another meeting next week. Why don’t you come along? There’ll be lots of archaeologists there. It’s all above board, I promise you. Your friend from Sussex is coming. Max Whatshisname.’
    ‘Max Grey.’
    ‘That’s the one. It’ll be a laugh. We’re going to end with a real Aboriginal smoke ceremony.’
    ‘Indigenous Australian,’ says Ruth but her heart’s not in it. She is thinking about Max.

CHAPTER 7
    Nelson drives back to the police station thinking about snakes, racehorses and the sheer arrogance of the British upper classes. Lord Smith had been polite, charming almost, but there’s no doubt that he thinks that he has a God-given right to do what he likes with his horses, his museum, his great-grandfather’s grisly trophies.
Those heads belonged to my great-grandfather
. It’s a short step from saying ‘those slaves belonged to my great-grandfather.’ Nelson can just see Smith as a plantation owner, slaves toiling in the fields, no-good son lolling about on the porch drinking Bourbon – or whatever they used to drink in
Gone With The Wind
(Nelson’s mother’s favourite film).
    Could there be a link between the letters and Neil Topham’s death? Nelson thinks about the open window, the snake in the case, the words ‘now the dead will be revenged on you.’ But Nelson is not going to fall into the trap of assuming that the letter-writer is a killer. Like every detective in Britain, he remembers the Yorkshire