A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

cases. It is labelled ‘Eagle Owl’ and contains a large stuffed bird which peers at her accusingly. She moves on quickly, unable to shake the conviction that the owl’s eyes are following her. The next case, ‘Black-backed gulls’, shows a family of seagulls in the act of pecking a lamb to death. Painted blood smearsthe birds’ beaks and the lamb looks up with an expression of resignation and cynicism. A few yards along and you are into woodland; dusty foxes gaze into brown-painted holes, squirrels are tied to tree trunks, badgers look glassily at moth-eaten rabbits, a three-legged deer is propped against a papier-mâché rock. Ruth finds herself walking faster and faster, the fur and feathers merging into one, her footsteps echoing on the tiled floor.
    She crosses the room to look at the cases on the other side. Here, taxidermy gives way to Halloween. The animals on this side are skeletons, their thin bones dangling like children’s mobiles against walls painted blue to resemble the sky, with white clouds and v-shaped flocks of birds. Giant otter shrew, pigmy shrew, giant golden mole, European hedgehog. They all look the same and rather sad, hanging there beside their little typewritten name tags. In the biggest case is a skeleton that seems massive by comparison. Ruth is surprised to learn that, according to the label, it is only a domestic horse. The long skull and large teeth grin out of the gloom. Ruth, who rather likes horses, gives it a sympathetic smile and hurries on.
    At the end of the gallery she steps from tile to carpet and, to her surprise, finds herself in a red-walled Victorian study. A stag’s head looms over a painted fireplace and a man sits at a desk, frowning fiercely as he dips his quill into an inkwell.
    ‘Excuse me …’ begins Ruth, before realising that the man’s eyes are dusty and one of his arms is missing. Arope separates her from the figure and his desk but she leans forward and reads the inscription:
Lord Percival Smith 1830–1902, adventurer and taxidermist. Most of the exhibits in this museum were acquired by Lord Smith in the course of a fascinating life. Lord Smith’s love of the natural world is shown in his magnificent collection of animals and birds, most of which he shot and stuffed himself.
     
    Funny way to show your love of the natural world, by shooting most of it, thinks Ruth. She notices a brace of guns over the head of the waxwork Lord Smith. He looks a nasty customer, alive or dead.
    There are two ways out of Lord Smith’s study. One says ‘New World Collection’ and one ‘Local History.’ She pauses, feeling like Alice in Wonderland. A slight sound, a kind of whispering or fluttering, makes her turn towards Local History. She feels in the mood for a soothing collection of Norfolk artefacts. She hopes there are no more waxworks or embalmed animals.
    Her wish is granted. The Local History Room seems to be empty apart from a coffin on a trestle table and a body lying beside it. A breeze from an open window is riffling through the pages of a guidebook lying on the floor, making a sound like the wings of a trapped bird.

CHAPTER 2
     
    The body is lying on its side, legs drawn up into an almost foetal position. Ruth touches a hand, which is still warm. Is there a pulse? She can’t find one but her own hands are suddenly slippery with sweat and she’s not really sure what she’s looking for anyway. Oh, why didn’t she go on that first-aid course? She realises that she is holding her breath and forces herself to exhale, in and out, nose and mouth. It won’t do anyone any good if she faints. Gently she turns the body over and has two shocks, so severe that she almost stops breathing again.
    There is blood all over the face and the face is that of someone she knows.
    Neil Topham, the curator, who once came to one of her lectures on the preservation of bones. Neil, polite and unassuming, who often asked her advice about exhibits. Neil, lying on the floor of his own museum, his nose and mouth covered in blood.
    Hands shaking, Ruth reaches for her phone. Please God don’t let her have left it in the car. No, it’s here. She dials 999 and asks for an ambulance. She goes completely blankwhen asked for the address and can only bleat, ‘The Smith Museum. Please hurry!’ The voice on the other end of the phone is calm and reassuring, even slightly bored. ‘A unit is on its way.’ Ruth bends her head close to Neil’s mouth. She can’t hear or feel any