This Body of Death

  “She’ll listen to you, man,” Nkata said. “Cos she bloody well i’n’t listening to me.”

  “Christ,” Lynley muttered, “she’s a maddening woman. What’s she up to, then?”

  “The weapon,” Nkata said. “She recognised it.”

  “What d’you mean? She knows who it belongs to?”

  “She knows what it is. So do I. We di’n’t see the picture of it till today. Di’n’t have a look at the china board before this morning. And what it is narrows the field to Hampshire.”

  “It’s not like you to keep me in suspense, Winston.”

  “Called a crook,” Nkata told him. “We saw ’em by the crate in Hampshire, when we talked to that bloke Ringo Heath.”

  “The master thatcher.”

  “Tha’s the bloke. Crooks’s what’s used to hold reeds in place when you’re putting them on a roof. Not exactly something we’d be used to seeing in London, eh, but in Hampshire? Any place they got thatched roofs and thatchers, you’re goin’ to see crooks.”

  “Jossie,” Lynley said.

  “Or Hastings. Cos these’re made by hand. Crooks, that is.”

  “Hastings? Why?” Then Lynley remembered. “He trained as a blacksmith.”

  “And blacksmiths’re the ones who make the crooks. Each one makes ’em different, see. They end up—”

  “Like fingerprints,” Lynley concluded.

  “Tha’s about it. Which’s why Barb’s heading down there. She said she’d ring Ardery first, but you know Barb. So I thought you might …you know. Barb’ll listen to you. Like I said, she wasn’t having anything off me.”

  Lynley cursed beneath his breath. He rang off. Traffic began moving, so he continued on his way, determined to track down Havers via mobile as soon as he could. He hadn’t managed this when his mobile rang again. This time it was Ardery.

  “Where’ve you got with the coin dealer?” she asked.

  He briefed her, telling her he was on his way to the British Museum. She said, “Excellent. It’s a motive, isn’t it? And we’ve found no coin among her things, so someone took it off her at some point. We’re getting somewhere at last. Good.” She went on to tell him what Yukio Matsumoto had informed her: There had been two men in the vicinity of the chapel in Abney Park Cemetery, not just one. Indeed, there had been three, if they wanted to include Matsumoto himself. “We’re working with him on an e-fit. His solicitor showed up while I was talking to him and we had something of a set-to—God, that woman’s like a pit bull—but she’s on board for the next two hours. As long as the Met admits culpability in Yukio’s accident.”

  Lynley drew in a sharp breath. “Isabelle, Hillier’s never going to go for that.”

  “This,” Isabelle said, “is more important than Hillier.”

  It would, Lynley thought, be a very snowy day in hell before David Hillier saw things that way. Before he could tell the acting superintendent as much, however, she had rung off. He sighed. Hale, Havers, Nkata, and Ardery. Where to begin? He chose the British Museum.

  There at last, he tracked down a woman called Honor Robayo who had the powerful build of an Olympic swimmer and the handshake of a successful politician. She said frankly and with an appealing grin, “Never thought I’d be talking to a cop. Read masses of mysteries and detective novels, I do. Who d’you reckon you’re more like, then, Rebus or Morse?”

  “I have a fatal proclivity for vintage vehicles,” Lynley admitted.

  “Morse it is.” Robayo crossed her arms on her chest, high up, as if her biceps wouldn’t allow her arms to get closer to her body. “So. What c’n I do for you, then, Inspector Lynley?”

  He told her why he’d come: to talk to the curator about a coin from the time of Antoninus Pius. This coin would be an aureus, he said.

  “Got one you want to show me?” she asked.

  “I was hoping for the opposite,” he replied. And could Ms. Robayo tell him what such a coin might be worth? “I’d heard between five hundred and a thousand pounds,” Lynley said. “Would you agree?”

  “Let’s just have a quick look.”

  She took him to her office where amid books, magazines, and documents on her desk, she also kept her computer. It was a small matter to access a site on which coins were sold and a smaller matter to find on this site an aureus from the time of Antoninus Pius offered for bidding on the open market. The amount being asked was given in dollars, three thousand, six hundred. More than Dugué had thought likely. Not a huge sum, but a sum to kill for? Possibly.

  “Do coins like these need a provenance?” Lynley asked.

  “Well, they’re not like art, are they? No one’s going to care who’s owned it in the past unless, I suppose, it was some Nazi who took it off a Jewish family. The real questions about it will circle round its authenticity and its material.”

  “Meaning?”

  She indicated the computer screen on which the aureus for sale was pictured. “It’s either an aureus or it’s not an aureus: It’s pure gold or not. And that’s not something that’d be tough to sort out. As to its age—is it really from the period of Antoninus Pius?—I suppose someone could fake one, but any coin expert would be able to spot that. Besides, there’s the question of why one would go to all the trouble of faking a coin like this. I mean, we’re not talking about faking a ‘newly discovered’ painting by Rembrandt or van Gogh. You c’n imagine what something like that would be worth if someone could pull the wool successfully. Tens of millions, eh? But a coin? One would have to ask if thirty-six hundred dollars makes it worth the effort.”

  “Over time, however?”

  “You mean, if someone had faked a lorry load of coins to sell in dribs and drabs? Possibly, I s’pose.”

  “May I have a look at one?” Lynley asked. “Aside from on the computer screen, I mean. D’you have any here in the museum?”

  They did indeed, Honor Robayo told him. If he’d follow her … ? They’d have to toddle over to the collection itself, but it wasn’t far and she expected Lynley would find it interesting.

  She led him back through time and place in the museum—ancient Iran, Turkey, Mesopotamia—until they got to the Roman collection. Lynley had been here but not in years. He’d forgotten the extent of the treasure.

  Mildenhall, Hoxne, Thetford. They were called the hoards because that was how they had each been found, as a hoard hidden through burial during the time of the Romans’ occupation of Britain. Things hadn’t always gone swimmingly for the Romans as they attempted to subdue the people whom they’d come to rule. Since those people hadn’t generally taken well to being vanquished, rebellions occurred. During these intermittent periods of revolt, Roman riches were concealed to keep them safe. Sometimes the owners of these riches were unable to return for them, so they remained buried for centuries: in sealed jars, in wooden cases lined with straw, in whatever was available at the time.

  This had been the case for the Mildenhall, Hoxne, and Thetford Hoards, which comprised the main treasures that had been found. Buried for more than one thousand years, each had been unearthed during the twentieth century and they included everything from coins to vessels, from body ornaments to religious plaques.

  There were minor treasure hoards in the collection as well, each representing a different area of Britain where the Romans had settled. The most recently discovered was the Hoxne Hoard, Lynley saw, which had been uncovered in Suffolk on county council land in 1992. The discoverer—a bloke called Eric Lawes—had miraculously left the treasure exactly where and as it lay and had phoned the authorities at once. Out they came to scoop up more than fifteen thousand gold and silver coins; silver tableware; and gold jewellery in the form of necklaces, bracelets, and rings. It was a sensational find. Its value, Lynley reckoned, was incalculable.

  “Much to his credit,” Lynley murmured.

  “Hmm?” Honor Robayo said.

  “The fact that Mr. Lawes turned it in. The treasure and this gentleman who found it.”

  “Well, of course,”
she said. “But really, less to his credit than you might think.” She and Lynley were standing in front of one of the cases that contained the Hoxne Hoard, where a reconstruction of the chest in which the hoard had been buried was rendered in acrylic. She moved from this across the room to the immense silver platters and trays from the Mildenhall Hoard. She leaned against the case and said, “Remember, this bloke Eric Lawes was out there looking for metal objects anyway. And as that’s what he was doing in the first place, he likely would’ve known the law. ’Course the law’s been changed round a bit since this hoard was found, but at the time, a hoard like Hoxne would’ve become the property of the Crown.”

  “Doesn’t that indicate he’d have had a motive to hang on to it?” Lynley asked.

  She shrugged. “What’s he supposed to do with it? Especially when the law said a museum could purchase it from the Crown—at fair market value, mind you—and whoever found it would get that money as a reward. That’s some considerable dosh.”

  “Ah,” Lynley said. “So someone would be motivated to hand it over, not to hang on to it.”

  “Right.”

  “And now?” He smiled, feeling rather foolish for the last question. He said, “Forgive me. I probably ought to know the law about this, as a policeman.”

  “Bah,” was her reply. “I doubt you come across many cases of people unearthing treasures in your particular line of work. Anyway, the law’s not much changed. Finder has fourteen days to report the treasure—if he knows it’s a treasure—to the local coroner. He actually could be prosecuted if he doesn’t ring up the coroner, as a matter of fact. Local coroner—”

  “Hang on,” Lynley said. “What d’you mean, if he knows it’s a treasure.”

  “Well, that’s the thing about the 1996 law, you see. It defines what a treasure is. One coin, f’r instance, does not a treasure make, if you know what I mean. Two coins, however, and you’re on shaky ground if you don’t get on the phone and let the proper authorities know.”

  “So that they can do what?” Lynley asked. “On the off chance that all you’ve found is two coins and not twenty thousand?”

  “So that they can bring out an archaeological team and dig the hell out of your property, I expect,” Honor Robayo said. “Which, to be frank, most people don’t mind because they end up with fair market value for the treasure.”

  “If a museum wants to buy it.”

  “Right.”

  “And if no one does? If the Crown claims it?”

  “That’s another interesting bit about the change in law. The Crown can only put its mitts on treasures from the Duchy of Cornwall and the Duchy of Lancaster. As to the rest of the country … ? While it’s not exactly a case of finders keepers/losers weepers, the finder will end up with a reward when the treasure is finally sold, and if the treasure is anything like these”—with a nod at the cases of silver and gold and jewellery in room 49—“you can lay good odds on the reward being hefty.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Lynley said, “is that the finder of something like this has absolutely no motivation for keeping the news to himself or to herself.”

  “None at all. Of course, I s’pose he could hide it under his bed and bring it out at night and run his hands through it gleefully, for all that’s going to get him. Sort of a Silas Marner kind of thing, if you know what I mean. But at the end of the day, most people’d prefer the cash, I expect.”

  “And if all that’s been found is a single coin?”

  “Oh, he can keep that. Which bring us to …Over here. We’ve got the aureus you were looking for.”

  It was inside one of the smaller cases, one in which various coins were displayed and identified. The aureus in question looked no different from the one he’d seen on the screen of James Dugué’s computer at Sheldon Pockworth Numismatics a short time earlier. Lynley gazed at it, willing the coin to tell him something about Jemima Hastings, who’d supposedly had it in her possession at some point. If, as Honor Robayo had so colourfully indicated, one coin did not a treasure make, then there was every chance that Jemima had possessed it merely as a memento or a good luck charm that she was considering selling, perhaps to help her with her finances in London once she came to live in town. She would have needed to know what it was worth first. There was nothing unreasonable about that. But part of what she’d told the coin dealer had been a lie: Her father hadn’t died recently. From Havers’ report on the matter, as he recalled, Jemima’s father had been dead for years. Did that lie matter? Lynley didn’t know. But he did need to talk to Havers.

  He moved away from the case containing the aureus, thanking Honor Robayo for her time. She seemed to think she’d disappointed him in some way because she apologised and said, “Well. Anyway. I do wish there was something …Have I helped at all?”

  Again, he didn’t really know. It was certain that he had more information than he’d had earlier in the day. But as to how it reflected a motive for killing Jemima Hastings—

  He frowned. The Thetford treasure caught his attention. They’d not looked so closely at that one because it comprised not coins but rather tableware and jewellery. The former was mostly done in silver. The latter was gold. He went for a look.

  It was the jewellery that interested him: rings, buckles, pendants, bracelets, and necklaces. The Romans had known how to adorn themselves. They’d done so with precious and semiprecious stones, for the larger pieces along with some of the rings contained garnets, amethysts, and emeralds. Among these nestled one stone in particular, reddish in colour. It was, he could see at once, a carnelian. But what caught his eye was not so much the stone’s presence among the others but what had been done with it: Venus, Cupid, and the armour of Mars were engraved upon it, according to the description given. And it was, in short, nearly identical to the stone that had been found on Jemima’s body.

  Lynley swung round to look at Honor Robayo. She raised an eyebrow as if to say, What is it?

  He said, “Not two coins but a coin and a gemstone together. Do we have a treasure? Something that has to be reported to that local coroner you were mentioning a moment ago?”

  “Something governed by the law?” She considered this, scratching her head. “I s’pose that could be argued. But you could equally argue that someone who happens to find two superficially unrelated objects might merely clean them up, set them aside, and not think about them in relation to the law. I mean, how many people out there actually know this law? Find a treasure like the Hoxne Hoard and you’re highly likely to make a few enquiries as to what you’re supposed to do next, right? Find a single coin and a stone—both of which probably needed massive cleaning, mind you—and why would you jump to the phone over that? I mean, it’s not like newsreaders are announcing on the telly once a week that their viewers must ring up the coroner on the off chance that they’ve unearthed a treasure chest while they’re planting their tulips. Besides, people think of coroners and death, don’t they, not coroners and treasure hoards.”

  “Yet according to law, two items constitute treasure, don’t they?”

  “Well …Right. They do. Yes.”

  It was little enough, Lynley thought, and Honor Robayo could certainly have sounded more robust in her agreement. But at least it was something. If not a torch then at least a match, and as he knew, a match was better than nothing when one was wandering in the dark.

  BARBARA HAVERS HAD stopped for both petrol and sustenance when her mobile rang. Otherwise, she would have religiously ignored it. As it was, she’d just pulled into the vast car park of a services area and she was striding towards the Little Chef—first things first, she’d told herself, and first things meant a decent fry-up to see her through the rest of the day—when she heard “Peggy Sue” emanating from her shoulder bag. She rooted out the mobile to see that DI Lynley was ringing her. She took the call as she marched towards the promise of food and air-conditioning.

  “Where are you, Sergeant?” Lynley asked without preamble.

  His tone
told her that someone had sneaked on her, and it could only have been Winston Nkata since no one else knew what she was up to and Winnie was nothing if not scrupulous about obeying orders, no matter how maddening they were. Winnie, in fact, even obeyed non-orders. He anticipated orders, damn the man.

  She said, “About to sink my teeth into a major food group that’s been dipped into batter and thoroughly fried, and let me tell you I don’t much care which food group it is at this point. Peckish doesn’t begin to describe, if you know what I mean. Where are you?”

  “Havers,” Lynley said, “you didn’t answer my question. Please do so.”

  She sighed. “I’m at a Little Chef, sir.”

  “Ah. Centre for all that’s nutritious. And where might this particular branch of that fine eating establishment be?”

  “Well, let me see …” She considered how to dress up the information but she knew it was useless to make it sound like anything other than what it was. So she finally said, “Along the M3.”

  “Where along the M3, Sergeant?”

  Reluctantly she gave him the nearest exit number.

  “And does Superintendent Ardery know where you happen to be going?”

  She didn’t reply. This was, she knew, a rhetorical question. She waited for what was coming next.

  “Barbara, is professional suicide really your intention?” Lynley enquired politely.

  “I rang her, sir.”

  “Did you.”

  “It went to her voice mail. I told her I was on to something. What else was I supposed to do?”

  “Perhaps what you were meant to be doing? In London?”

  “That’s hardly the point. Look, sir, did Winnie tell you about the crook? It’s a thatching tool and—”

  “He did indeed tell me. And your intention in heading off to Hampshire is what, exactly?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Jossie’s got thatching tools. Ringo Heath’s got thatching tools. Rob Hastings likely once made thatching tools, which’re probably lying round his barn. Then there’s the bloke that works with Jossie—Cliff Coward—who could put his mitts on a thatching tool, and there’s that cop Whiting as well because something’s not right with him, in case you’re about to tell me I should’ve rung up the Lyndhurst station and given him the news about the crook. I’ve got a snout at the Home Office, by the way, looking into Whiting.” Which is more than you were able to do, she wanted to say but did not.