A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

do.’
    Trace is about to ask what things when a stable-girl called Georgina comes over to ask them to form a three-some to sing
Material Girl
. Trace jumps up at once; she’s always thought that she has a lot in common with Madonna.
    Danforth Smith is, in fact, finding it hard to sleep. Usually he collapses into bed at ten, worn out by a hard physical day. His wife, Romilly, sleeps in another room and, anyhow, she’s out ‘seeing friends’. It occurred to Danforth recently that he no longer knows any of his wife’s friends. He looked on her Facebook page recently and didn’t recognise half of the names on it. ‘Business acquaintances,’she had said airily but, if so, they are business acquaintances who send very unbusinesslike messages (‘love you babe’) and include pictures of themselves sunbathing topless in the Maldives. Romilly has her own life, her own job (as an interior designer), her own friends, her own bank account. She leaves the house at nine, driving her white Fiat 500, and is back at six, just when Danforth is organising the evening feeds. Then she is often out again, ‘networking’ at various arty parties. Danforth usually eats with the lads; Romilly, when she’s home, eats with Randolph in front of the TV. She gets on much better with Randolph than he does. ‘He’s resting,’ she says, whenever he raises the subject of their only son. ‘Resting? He’s not a bloody actor.’ ‘He might be,’ Romilly had countered. ‘He’s thinking of doing a course.’ Danforth had stomped off to the stables, disgusted. In his opinion, going on a course is only another word for being unemployed.
    So Romilly is now out somewhere discussing French films or Italian wine (Danforth’s idea of these events is based on magazines his nanny used to read in the Fifties) and Danforth tosses and turns in the ancient double that once belonged to his parents. He gets up, goes to the loo, drinks some water, tries to recite bloodlines in his head. The house is silent; he can hear the occasional stamp and whinny from the stables, but these are soothing sounds usually guaranteed to make him feel that all is well with the world. Why does he feel tonight that there’s something very wrong with the world? Is it poor Neil’s death? He feels sorry for the curator certainly. Neil always seemed a nice guy, a bit nervous maybe but fundamentally decentand very bright, committed to turning the Smith Museum into something more modern and ‘interactive’ (whatever that might mean). But now Neil is dead, found lying beside the coffin of Danforth’s illustrious ancestor. Is it this gruesome scenario which is preying on his mind? The coffin and the snake.
The Great Snake will have its revenge.
Nonsense, of course. Neil died from natural causes. Absolute tragedy and all that but life must go on. He’ll offer the parents some money to fund some research or something in Neil’s name. Make sure his memory lives on. He shifts uncomfortably under the duvet. Why can’t he get to sleep?
    And he’s worried about Caroline. Danforth might say to Nelson that Caroline has never caused him a day’s worry but the nights are another matter. Whenever he can’t sleep, Caroline’s face appears in front of him, reproachful and slightly angry. Why should she be angry with him? He’s always done his best, though the kids haven’t been easy at times. Tamsin was always the clever one, straight As, degree in law, now a successful career. Tamsin was always organised, the sort of girl who drew up a revision timetable in four different-coloured felt-tips. Randolph was another matter, brilliantly clever when he tried, infuriatingly stupid when he didn’t. But even he managed to get a degree, though what he’s going to do with it is another matter. Randolph isn’t helped by being so good-looking. All his life teachers, friends and, later, girlfriends, have fallen over themselves to make excuses for him.
    Caroline doesn’t have that problem. She and Tamsin are actually very alike – striking without being beautiful– but where Tamsin’s dark hair is usually pulled back into a neat chignon, Caroline’s is often loose and slightly unkempt. And while Tamsin always looks smart, Caroline slops around in jodhpurs or weird hippy dresses. And Caroline is so intense, always getting into a state about something or another. Animal rights, racehorses shipped off to die in Belgium, abandoned greyhounds, the ageold wrongs of every godforsaken tribe