The archaeologist shrugged. ‘Possibly not,’ he said, readjusting the half-moon glasses so that he could examine the paperwork attached to one of the thigh bones with a bright blue ribbon.
Dryden, irked by the objective air of the academic, pursued the point. ‘Odd to think he had family somewhere. I wonder if they’ll ever know. A wife even.’
Valgimigli looked up to reply, but only nodded. Dryden flipped open a notebook and leant on the narrow Gothic windowsill under the stained glass. Outside the mist had thickened again and the reds, blues and greens which splashed the paper were weak and shifting.
‘Do you mind?’ he said, uncapping a Biro. He rarely relied on notes but producing a notebook was a kind of universal signal; it meant the rest of the conversation was on the record.
‘Just a coupla questions. I want to run something on the find for the Express – and I might do some pars for the nationals.’
Somewhere, in the depths of the workshops, a circular saw sang out, making Dryden wince at the thought of severed bone.
‘You said you’d found rein rings. How significant is that, and does finding chummy here mean you can’t press on with the dig?’
‘Oh no. No, not at all,’ said Valgimigli. ‘The police are relaxed, I think. There will be enquiries, obviously, and we will help. They’re sending an officer to oversee some further excavation of the tunnel – perhaps twenty feet in either direction. But after that they want to close the case. They’ve already indicated I can resume the trench work next week. And I will.’
‘And what do you hope to find?’
Valgimigli pressed on, but Dryden could tell the usual lecture was an effort. ‘Only sixty-one chariot burials are recorded in this country, Mr Dryden – and they are unique to the British Isles in Europe. Three of these had lain untouched since the time of burial and contained the remains, and artefacts, of a royal personage. All three were women, in fact – queens, if you like.’
‘This was when?’
‘Perhaps 300 BC – perhaps earlier. The British Museum online has pictures – you might use them, I think, to give an idea. The rein rings themselves are bronze with opal decorations; once restored they will look like what they are – a treasure.’
Dryden paused, aware that the eyeless skull of the victim was looking towards the stained-glass window.
‘Horses?’ said Dryden.
‘Not usually. The honoured dead were usually buried in the chariot, wrapped in decorated linen.’
‘What other treasure could we expect?’ asked Dryden.
Valgimigli licked his lips and Dryden knew he was about to lie.
‘We could expect gold, I think, weaponry, jewellery, even household implements – bowls and drinking cups. At the moment we are excavating at the levels of the rein holes, that is close to the top of the chariot if it is sitting upright. We need to work down towards the floor where the body would be, and then underneath, between the axles.’
Dryden recapped the pen and pocketed the notebook.
‘Have the police been in contact about the nighthawks? About security on the site?’
Valgimigli missed a blink, unable to completely disguise his surprise.
‘Yes. I’m afraid there has been a problem already.’
Dryden spread his hands. ‘No notebook, Professore. Background only.’ Which meant little, for if he learned anything interesting he’d back it up from another source.
‘I have moved into the site offices, with the council’s permission, for the duration of our excavations.’
‘A problem?’
Valgimigli bit his lip. ‘The dogs. They have gone.’
‘Guard dogs?’
‘The site has a perimeter fence. A security company was given the contract to keep it secure. They left three dogs on the premises during the hours of darkness. They have gone. That is all I can say.’
Dryden recalled the black lips peeled back from the dry teeth, the twisted corpses in Ma Trunch’s refuse dump. ‘When?’ he asked.
‘Two nights ago.’
‘The night before the body was found. You’ve told the police?’
Valgimigli shrugged. ‘Of course. But nothing is missing, as far as we can see. We are still checking.’
‘And they didn’t dig themselves?’
Valgimigli shook his head and stood. ‘I must get back.’
Alder was at the front counter, with some last professional questions and an array of crucifixes ranging from a simple carved wooden cross to an elaborate silver artefact studded with semiprecious stones.
‘How much is this?’ asked Valgimigli, touching one of the opal stones. Alder indicated a catalogue entry. ‘Very well – please include it,’ said Valgimigli.