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

“I want to ask you about a spear,” she said. “It was used to kill someone.”

“They often were.”

“What? Oh, I suppose so. But this was used to kill a man just a few days ago. His body was dumped at the dig site out at Theadingford. The spear was chucked in bushes close by. We’re almost certain it was the murder weapon.”

“Almost?”

“We’re just waiting for forensics to confirm it. I’m told you’re the man to ask about Dark Age weapons.”

Ethan Merrill looked amused. “I’m probably one of them,” he agreed. “You’ve brought it with you, this murder weapon?”

“Forensics have it. I’ve brought some pictures for you to see. I was hoping you could tell me something from those.”

“Hmm. It would be easier with the real thing, but I’ll do my best.” He reached out his hand again. “Some light, I think.”

Rozlyn blinked. “Yow. You could have warned me.” Three fluorescent tubes burst into life at Ethan’s bidding. Eyes that had become accustomed to twilight now watered painfully in light that would have outshone the average noon. Merrill chuckled, the old man seemingly unaffected by the transition.

“You have the pictures?”

“Yeah, right here.” Rozlyn slid them from her inside pocket. “I’ve brought some context shots, too, so you could see where and how it landed after the killer chucked it away. I did wonder if it might be a replica and if so, who’d have made it? If it’s real, could you give me some idea where it might have come from? They’re adamant it didn’t come from the dig.”

Ethan Merrill shuffled through the pictures and then laid them out on Jasper’s table. The cat sniffed at the images, then moved aside, seating himself on one corner and tucking his tail neatly out of the way. Merrill produced a hand lens from the table drawer and peered more closely. He was silent for so long that Rozlyn felt she had almost been forgotten.

“If you could tell me anything, I’d be grateful,” she said, to remind the old man of her presence.

Merrill straightened and turned to look at her. “If it’s a copy I’d be amazed,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you’ll be running tests? Dating it?”

“I suppose,” Rozlyn said doubtfully. “I really don’t know. Our main concern is to verify that it’s the murder weapon and figure out where the killer got it from and why use that anyway. It seems . . .” Rozlyn felt for the words “I don’t know. Kind of pretentious, I guess.”

Merrill laughed. “I suppose it is unusual as murder weapons go. In this context, I mean. Frankly, I doubt whether this particular spear ever saw action, as it were. My guess is that it was a status symbol, though, of course, I could be wrong. The Anglo Saxons made the most beautiful swords. Works of art, woven from strands of tempered metal, and yet they were designed to kill in battle and very efficient they were too.”

“Woven?” Rozlyn was confused.

Ethan smiled. “I’m using poetic metaphor, I suppose,” he said. “You see, steel was an unpredictable metal back then. You needed a sharp, tempered edge. Something hard enough to cut, but not so brittle that the sword would shatter. They achieved their aims by a process called pattern welding. You’d begin with many layers of metal, laid together and then heated in the forge. The strands would then be twisted and drawn out to form the shape of the sword. Sometimes there’d be several layers of these twists, elaborate patterns that would show up on the sword blade once it had been finished and treated with acid. A good swordsmith would actually be able to replicate a particular pattern of twists. Some patterns even had names. Weavers of metal, Inspector Priest. Swords that had flex and spring at the heart and tempered steel at the edge. It’s a wondrous art.”

“But this is a spear. You’re saying that was made in the same way?”

Merrill nodded. “It’s unusual, but not unknown. Ceremonial spears of this type have been found, though the condition of this one is little short of miraculous. If it’s been in the ground, then conditions must have been very unusual. If it’s a replica, it’s still a major work. I’d need to see the real thing to tell you. I would date it to perhaps the seventh or eighth century, but I’d need to see the item to tell you more accurately.” He gathered the photographs and handed them back to Rozlyn. Rozlyn felt that she was being dismissed, no longer of interest.

“Where would this have come from?” she persisted. “If I’m right and this was stolen . . .”

“By rights it should be in a museum,” Ethan Merrill told her sternly. “A find like this should be recorded, researched.”

“But there are collectors out there who don’t care about provenance?”

Merrill frowned. “There are,” he acknowledged.

“Local collectors?”

Merrill considered. Rozlyn felt that not only was he considering the question, he was weighing Rozlyn as being worthy, or not, of an answer.

“Two that I can think of,” Merrill said at last.

“Names? Addresses?”

Merrill sighed. Jasper stretched himself and arched his back again. Rozlyn guessed that the hiss was imminent. She took out her notebook and stood with pen poised. Finally, Ethan gave her two names and she wrote them down.

“The second is the man to look at,” he said finally, turning away and switching off the main lights. Rozlyn’s eyes protested at the adjustment. It was like being plunged into utter blackness. She blinked rapidly, trying to get her eyes to adapt.

“Mark Richards,” Ethan told her from the darkness. “The man has money to burn and an absence of any sort of conscience. Be careful, Inspector Priest.”

* * *

THEADINGFORD. YEAR OF GRACE 878

Sitting in the afternoon sun, sharpening his knife, Treven’s