Hill of Bones (48 page)

‘What was the dispute about?’ asked John Bolitho.

‘Roger claims to be a leading expert on the Dark Ages, especially the Arthurian campaigns. He maintains that the great battle of Mount Badon, about 500 AD, was fought here on Solsbury. In fact, that’s why he was so keen to come on this dig: to a get a chance to find some confirmation. But Peter rubbished that, saying it must have been up near Swindon.’

‘God help us! To think that intelligent people can get so steamed up about things like that!’ said the DI, in disgust.

‘Having your professional reputation challenged is a fate worse than death to some academics,’ explained Shirley. ‘It can mean the loss of research grants and even affect their chances of promotion.’

The superintendent took the opportunity to ask the more sensible scientist some questions about what had been discovered during the past weeks.

‘I suppose you feel that all these items are just random finds, Doctor? There can be no connection between any of them?’

The archeologist considered this for a moment. ‘Always dangerous to be too dogmatic, so I suppose the best answer is that we’ll never know. We’ve got three skeletons and a lot of old bones, so who can say that one of those folk didn’t hide the gold cup there or bury that strange knife?’

‘Except that you can exclude the remains of that mummy!’ said Bryant. ‘The guy must have died centuries before he was brought to Britain, so he couldn’t have buried anything, including himself.’

‘What about that treasure?’ asked Bolitho. ‘It was all together in the side of the rampart wall. Any ideas about that?’

‘From the compact mass in which it was found, I suspect it was originally in some kind of bag, which has long rotted away. It’s odd, because the chalice is typically Saxon, the pyx is probably late eleventh century, yet the silver coins are Henry the Second, Richard the Lionheart and a couple of King John. So they must have been hidden in the early thirteenth century.’

‘Any idea where they may have come from?’

Shirley took a swig from her tin, then shrugged. ‘That communion cup is really valuable. Together with the pyx, it must have come from a rich ecclesiastical establishment. Of course, the nearest is Bath Abbey down there, but there’s no way of proving it.’

‘Are there no records that would help?’ asked Bolitho. ‘It must have been stolen, to end up in the ground here.’

‘The problem is that the abbey went downhill in a big way after those dates. It fell into ruin and most of the records were lost. I’m afraid the present abbey doesn’t have much hope of claiming them back.’

‘What about the mummy? How long do you reckon that’s been up here?’

‘That’s bizarre, isn’t it? An Egyptian mummy on top of a Somerset hill!’ Shirley put her empty tin on the table. ‘About two hundred years ago, possessing a mummy was a fad amongst the idle rich, so perhaps it was hidden around that time. That forensic anthropology lady did a good job in spotting what it was – the embalming had allowed some bits of skin to survive on the bones.’

She stood up and took her tin over to a waste bin. ‘I’d better get back, I suppose. There’s nothing new to examine, but maybe I can stop Tweedledum and Tweedledee from coming to blows.’

The two detectives rose as well.

‘We were going over there anyway, so we’ll come with you,’ said Bolitho. ‘I’d better tell them that I’m recommending to Headquarters that we wrap up this operation tomorrow.’

They ambled across the enclosure towards the tent, sensing that a lethargy had descended on the remaining scrapers and sievers, who had slowed down their efforts in the knowledge that the search was virtually at an end. Inside the stifling warmth of the exhibits store, they found Peter Fortescue glaring into his laptop on the desk table, baseball cap still firmly on his head. His more eccentric colleague was in the aisle between the tables, his lips moving silently as he checked the identifying labels tied to the items on display. For once, there was peace and quiet, as the two men appeared to be ignoring each other.

Bob Bryant walked over to Humbolt, who had picked up a blackened object. ‘Any more ideas on what that might be, Doctor?’ he asked. He was not that interested, but felt he should be civil to the man.

‘It’s part of a hand mirror, of course,’ grunted the expert. ‘Badly damaged and seems to have been in a fire as well. Not surprising, as it was recovered from a pile of ashes.’

‘Are those some kind of jewels on the back?’

‘Yes, but I doubt they have much value now. Most are missing and the couple that are left are cracked and scorched. The mirror itself is silver and what remains of the enamel on the back suggests it was a costly piece. It needs a real specialist to evaluate it, but I suspect it must be very old.’

‘Perhaps it belonged to Queen Guinevere!’ called Fortescue from his place at the desk. The provocative remark triggered a furious response from Roger Humbolt.

‘Mock as much you want, you moron!’ he shouted. ‘When I’m proved right about Badon, you’ll have to eat your words.’

He snatched up another object from a table, a dented piece of rusted metal with no obvious shape, as far as the police officers could tell.

‘This is part of a helmet; it could have been Saxon or Celtic. It all adds to the burden of proof that there was a battle on this hill!’

Fortescue rose from his chair and sauntered over to where the others were standing.

‘With so little left, it could be from any period! Probably late medieval, could even be Tudor.’

Humbolt thrust his face towards his antagonist, his features now almost as red as his hair. ‘Nonsense, it’s much earlier than that!’ Then he swung round to the other row of tables and jabbed a finger at the pile of darkened, crumbling bones. ‘Look at this lot! Obvious battle casualties! On that skeleton over there, the pathologist pointed out a clear knife-cut on a rib and the edge of the breastbone.’

Fortescue’s reply was scathing. ‘One swallow doesn’t make a summer and one stab wound doesn’t make a battle! Where are all the victims from your Badon, eh? Arthur is supposed to have slain nine hundred himself!’

The other man was now almost purple with rage. ‘You know damned well that wasn’t meant literally! And if we could dig up the whole hill, there’d be hundreds more like this, even after fifteen centuries!’

Shirley Wagstaff tried to cool the argument, but Humbolt was now in full flow. He snatched up another find from the first table and held it up in a shaking hand. ‘And what about this! A knife that I’d stake my life came from the Dark Ages.’

Bolitho felt he should say something to cool their passions. ‘Wouldn’t that blade have more rust on it after all that time?’

The older archeologist glared at the detective with his bulging eyes. ‘You obviously know little about it, Officer. There were smiths in those days who could make rustless iron, like the Pillars of Delhi and Dhar!’

‘Come off it, Roger, they were in India, not Celtic Britain!’ countered Fortescue, derisively.

In angry response, Humbolt jabbed his other forefinger at the handle. ‘Look at that carving, will you? Do you deny that is a bear carved in ivory, the symbol of Arthur the Great Bear?’

‘Plenty of performing bears around until well past Shakespeare’s time, chum!’ sneered Fortescue. ‘And where the hell would they get ivory from in the fifth century?’

‘You ignoramus!’ shrieked the red-headed disciple of the Once and Future King. ‘I know this knife must have belonged to Arthur himself. I feel it in my very soul!’

Before the astounded policemen could stop him, Roger Humbolt had plunged the blade into the chest of the man who had been baiting him.

Bolitho and Bryant watched while the helicopter took off and whirred its way towards Frenchay Hospital, Shirley Wagstaff being on board to comfort Peter Fortescue.

‘The paramedic seemed happy enough about him,’ observed the superintendent. ‘He said that little knife didn’t damage any organs, but caused a pneumothorax, whatever that it is.’

‘He’s not going to snuff it, thank God,’ said Bryant. ‘Are we going to charge the mad fellow with attempted murder or just GBH? I suppose the CPS will choose the easiest option, as usual.’

Bolitho shrugged as they started to walk back to the tent, which was now a crime scene, though the miscreant was still sitting crying in the picnic chair, guarded by the PC from the door.

‘Ironic, really!’ said the superintendent. ‘We come up trying to sort out a murder and almost end up with a totally different one. That bloody Arthur has a lot to answer for; he’s been causing trouble for the past fifteen hundred years!’

His assistant agreed. ‘Solsbury Hill, indeed! Damned place must be cursed!’

1
. See
King Arthur’s Bones
, The Medieval Murderers