A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

phone. Ted was invited to represent the Field Team who had discovered the coffin, but he had declined. He was scared of the curse, he said.
    But despite the bland surroundings there is a definite frisson in the room. The coffin itself, balanced on two trestle tables, looks neither sterile nor scientific. In fact it looks almost sinister, a brooding dark shape amidst the white. Next to the coffin is a table covered with a white sheet, intended for the Bishop’s skeleton. It is this more than anything that reminds Ruth that there is a person inside the wooden box, a direct ancestor of thetall grey-haired man currently chatting to Nelson about horse-racing. Who knew that Nelson was interested in horses? Ruth and Nelson have not yet exchanged one word.
    The door opens and a technician comes in, carrying a hammer and a chisel. These instruments, placed beside the trestles, look far too B&Q-ish to suit the occasion but Ruth knows that the coffin lid may be hard to shift, there are a lot of nails in it.
    ‘Shall we start?’ Phil asks Ruth rather nervously. The technician gets out a camera – he is going to video the whole thing. Ruth prays she won’t end up on YouTube.
    ‘What’s the coffin made of?’ asks Lord Smith.
    ‘Oak,’ says Ruth. ‘It’s good-quality wood. Some coffins from this time are made from lots of small pieces of wood nailed together but these are good, large pieces. Look how the top forms a ridge. That’s quite unusual too. The shape as well, tapering to a point. We’re just starting to see this in medieval coffins. Previously they were basic rectangles.’
    ‘You know your stuff,’ says Smith approvingly. Ruth, who has spent several days reading up on medieval burial practices, tries not to look pleased.
    ‘Is there another coffin inside?’ asks Chris Stephenson.
    ‘No. We’ve scanned it and all that’s inside is a body wrapped in some kind of cloth or shroud. Some bodies from this time were buried in lead inner coffins but it’s rare. There was a body excavated from the site of a monastery in St Bees in Cumbria buried in a box within a box within a box, like a Russian doll. But, like I say, it’s rare. Besides, lead was expensive.’
    ‘But he was a bishop,’ protests Smith, perhaps stung by the suggestion that his ancestor couldn’t afford the best.
    ‘Maybe he gave all his money to the poor,’ says Ruth. It’s unlikely, given what she knows of medieval bishops, but it effectively silences Danforth Smith.
    Phil, rather gingerly (he’s not known for his DIY skills), starts to prise up the nails, which come out easily. Too easily, thinks Ruth, though she keeps this thought to herself. The nails, thick and black, made from badly rusted iron, are laid aside for further examination. The atmosphere becomes tenser, people move closer to the coffin. Then, just when Phil removes the last nail, Ruth’s phone rings.
    She curses inwardly. She’d meant to turn her phone off. She almost does so now, but a glance at it tells her that the caller is Cathbad. Backing away from the main group, she hisses, ‘Cathbad? I can’t talk now.’
    Cathbad sounds amused. ‘Is it the great unveiling?’
    ‘Yes. Why aren’t you here?’
    ‘I wasn’t invited.’
    That’s never stopped you before, thinks Ruth.
    ‘Can we talk later?’ she asks.
    ‘Sure. I’ll come round to your house at about six.’
    This isn’t quite what Ruth had in mind but she hasn’t got time to argue. She sees, to her annoyance, that the lid has been lifted and Nelson and Lord Smith are peering into the open coffin. The technician is videoing frantically.
    ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says. ‘Bye.’
    ‘Over to you, Ruth,’ Phil says graciously, though he is probably cross with her about the phone call. Getting closer, she sees that the skeleton is wrapped in something that looks like silk, though it has a strange waxy sheen to it. Next to the head is the crook of a bishop’s crosier, beautifully preserved.
    ‘Bishops were often buried with their crosiers,’ Phil is saying. ‘An interesting survival of the superstition that you take your goods with you into the next life. This one might even have been specially made for funerary use. The crook looks as if it’s made of jet.’ The tip of the staff does indeed have a dull black gleam to it.
    Ruth pulls on her gloves and leans into the coffin. The silk is well preserved due, no doubt, to the thin coating of wax. ‘Beeswax,’ she says, ‘a natural