BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) by JANE ADAMS (best book reader .txt) 📗

“That definite, is it? I was told this area will be flooded.”

Reece shrugged. “There’s a final appeal. If that’s successful, there’ll be a public inquiry and that might reverse the decision. From our point of view, it’s bloody disastrous. This valley is so rich in Dark Age finds. We lost God knows what when Rutland Water was created. The teams working on that barely scratched the surface. If you ever find yourself in Oakham, you can get a flavour of what they uncovered in the museum, but they knew there was a mountain of stuff they didn’t have time to reach and, of course, that’s gone for ever now. I’m still hopeful we may at least get a further stay of execution. If there was some way of convincing the authorities that this spear head came from here we’d be laughing.”

“I went to school in Oakham,” Rozlyn mused. “I know the museum. Where do you think it came from?”

Reece shrugged. “Private collection somewhere, probably. Of course, if it is a replica, that changes things. If it’s the real thing — and I’d stake my reputation that it is — then there are collectors out there . . . It’s not been catalogued, at least not that I could see. No mark on it.”

“Catalogued?”

“A piece like that, you’d need to know where it was found, the circumstances, the context. That way, it becomes part of the overall picture of the community. Who made it, where? How the community lived. It would have belonged to an important man. Or possibly a woman, that’s a little more unusual, but as we’re beginning to discover, it’s definitely a possibility. A museum or a serious collector would have painted a reference number on it and that reference would have led us to a catalogue and all the rest of the information.”

Rozlyn nodded, recalling that she’d seen such numbers on museum objects. “I thought, if it was ninth or tenth century, then . . . I guess what I’m asking is, they didn’t bury grave goods then, did they? At least not in a Christian burial.”

“Generally, no. It could be earlier, but the pattern around the haft . . . I’d say later. It’s less fine, looser, somehow. There are subtle differences, but you’d need someone with a more detailed knowledge than me to fill you in on that. Look, that’s where it was found.” He pointed and PC Patel took over, moving them forward carefully on a track designated with blue-and-white tape, between tall trees, until they stood on the bank of the stream some six feet or so from where the spear had been recovered.

“No footprints.”

Patel shook his head. “The little path we came on is baked hard. But I’ll bet you could stand on the edge of the grave and chuck the thing and it’d end up here.”

Rozlyn turned and looked back through the trees. From where she stood, she could make out the portacabins and the tape marking the hall and, yes, the grave in which Charlie’s body had been dumped. “It’d take a good throw,” she said, “but it’s possible.” She turned back to Reece. “You mentioned collectors and catalogues . . .”

Reece nodded. “A piece of that importance would normally end up in a museum,” he said. “But there are private collectors, some more legitimate than others.”

“Would it be valuable? I mean in monetary terms?”

Reece nodded. “Things are better now than they were. The government brought in the portable antiquities scheme, you see, so it’s in everybody’s interest to report finds. Before that, you’d get metal detectorists, for instance, just keeping what they found, or selling it on. Oh, not all of course. Most have always been aware that archaeology is as much about context as it is about finds. We’ve had a local group working with us here, for instance, going through the spoil heaps and surveying the area. They’ve been terrific and most of them know nearly as much as our diggers do,” he laughed. “Puts the odd nose out of joint, that does. But there’s a lot of stuff out there unrecorded and uncatalogued and so, however beautiful it might be, it’s almost useless from an archaeological perspective. Of course, to the people who pay big money to collect on the black market, that doesn’t matter a damn.”

“And, if they acquired this illegally, they’re not going to report it stolen now,” Patel filled in.

“Shouldn’t think so. No.”

“Anyone local?” Rozlyn asked

Emlyn Reece shrugged again. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not from round here, but the man to ask is Ethan Merril. Lives in Stamford, runs a little shop there now and writes the occasional book. He retired from academia two or three years back, but he’s the man to ask. Irascible old sod, mind you. He’ll only talk to you if he’s a mind to.”

Ethan Merril, Rozlyn thought, wondering where she’d heard that name before.

CHAPTER 8

There had been a message waiting for her on the answerphone when she got back home. It was from PC Jenny Harper, about the phone bills found in Charlie’s flat. If anything, it deepened the sense of mystery that now surrounded him.

“They’re for a Mrs Chinowski,” Jenny said. “She’s ancient, practically housebound. Charlie looked after her, she says. He paid her phone bill and sorted out someone from the social to come in five days a week to do her shopping and cleaning. She was absolutely devastated when I told her Charlie was gone. I sat with her as long as I could, then tried to get a neighbour to come in. Mrs C wouldn’t have it. Said they were all no-goods and thieves, but I think this needs a follow-up call at the very least.”

Listening to the message, Rozlyn nodded in agreement. It seemed that Charlie Higgins had left a bigger footprint on the world than anyone would have guessed . . . or maybe Rozlyn would have