Gloucester, it had gone under the bulldozers. Lest, in the ever-more-sickening world of the twenty-first century, some lunatic made shrines of them.
‘So you’ve come to snoop?’
Maxwell looked at the man in front of him. Henry Hall was a master of blandness. Whatever emotions he possessed were locked behind that firm jaw, that grey suit, those blank glasses. If Hall’s wife and three sons were to be machine-gunned in front of him, Maxwell swore the man would just adjust his tie and get on with solving the crime. But he would solve it. And that, in the maelstrom of murder , was common ground for them both.
‘Saxon cemetery,’ said Maxwell, jerking a thumb at the spoil heaps and trenches behind him. ‘Can you imagine how exciting that is for us old-stuff buffs? You know what Domesday says about Leighford? Of course you do. Like me, you know it by heart – “Hugh holds Ley Ford of William of Warenne. In the time of King Edward, there was land for twenty ploughs, in demesne…”’
‘Get to the point.’ Ancient history had never been Henry Hall’s suit and he did have a murderer to catch.
‘The point is that Leighford before 1066 is a closed book. So, Saxon bodies here present a wonderful opportunity to…’
‘Ah,’ Hall cut in, wagging an upright finger at the man. ‘But it’s not Saxon bodies that you’re interested in, is it, Mr Maxwell? You want to know all about Dr David Radley.’
‘As do you,’ Maxwell nodded.
‘It’s my job.’ Hall stood his ground.
Maxwell could have fenced with this man all day; the cut and thrust of involvement in murder was bread-and-butterto him. But time, even if Henry Hall didn’t seem to think so, was pressing. ‘I spoke to this man on Wednesday, in my own office at Leighford High,’ he said. ‘A little over 24 hours later, he was dead, and his body lying yards from where I was standing. That makes it sort of personal.’
‘That makes it a job for the police.’ It was not the first time that Hall and Maxwell had had this conversation. Would it, one day, Hall wondered, be the last? ‘What were you hoping to find?’
You not here , Maxwell thought to himself, but he was too much of a gentleman to say so. ‘Vibes,’ he said.
‘Vibes?’ Hall repeated, disbelievingly.
‘Yes, I hate the phrase too. “A sense of the past”, if you will,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Real or imaginary. Ancient or modern.’
‘So little things like forensics are a no-go area to you, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘I like to think I have an open mind. And of course, any titbits that your SOCO people and Dr Astley want to pass my way…’
Hall clicked open the car door. ‘I should hold onto your bike, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, ‘in case it falls over as I drive away.’
‘So what are you doing here, Mr Hall?’ Maxwell asked him, resorting, after all, to the cliché of the television crime dramas, ‘if you don’t believe in vibes, if you don’t find answers blowing in the wind, what price this visit?’
‘Checking on the lad on the gate,’ Hall said, nodding in his direction. ‘Keeping away nosy parkers like you. By the way, you do have lights on that thing?’ He pointed to Surrey.
‘Oh, yes,’ Maxwell said. ‘For when I sneak back here after dark, you mean? Don’t worry about me, ChiefInspector. I’ll be fine.’
Hall lowered his glasses slightly, letting Maxwell see the grey of his eyes. ‘All right,’ he sighed, postponing his leaving , bowing to the inevitable. Perhaps, if he just gave Maxwell a tiny window on the case, he’d feel sufficiently self-important and go away. Henry Hall was not an historian ; otherwise he would have known the futility of Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement and the pointlessness of the Danegeld of Aethelred Unraed, the badly advised. ‘My understanding is that Dr Radley approached you to bring a group out to the dig.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you arrived at what time?’
‘Four-thirty,
‘So you’ve come to snoop?’
Maxwell looked at the man in front of him. Henry Hall was a master of blandness. Whatever emotions he possessed were locked behind that firm jaw, that grey suit, those blank glasses. If Hall’s wife and three sons were to be machine-gunned in front of him, Maxwell swore the man would just adjust his tie and get on with solving the crime. But he would solve it. And that, in the maelstrom of murder , was common ground for them both.
‘Saxon cemetery,’ said Maxwell, jerking a thumb at the spoil heaps and trenches behind him. ‘Can you imagine how exciting that is for us old-stuff buffs? You know what Domesday says about Leighford? Of course you do. Like me, you know it by heart – “Hugh holds Ley Ford of William of Warenne. In the time of King Edward, there was land for twenty ploughs, in demesne…”’
‘Get to the point.’ Ancient history had never been Henry Hall’s suit and he did have a murderer to catch.
‘The point is that Leighford before 1066 is a closed book. So, Saxon bodies here present a wonderful opportunity to…’
‘Ah,’ Hall cut in, wagging an upright finger at the man. ‘But it’s not Saxon bodies that you’re interested in, is it, Mr Maxwell? You want to know all about Dr David Radley.’
‘As do you,’ Maxwell nodded.
‘It’s my job.’ Hall stood his ground.
Maxwell could have fenced with this man all day; the cut and thrust of involvement in murder was bread-and-butterto him. But time, even if Henry Hall didn’t seem to think so, was pressing. ‘I spoke to this man on Wednesday, in my own office at Leighford High,’ he said. ‘A little over 24 hours later, he was dead, and his body lying yards from where I was standing. That makes it sort of personal.’
‘That makes it a job for the police.’ It was not the first time that Hall and Maxwell had had this conversation. Would it, one day, Hall wondered, be the last? ‘What were you hoping to find?’
You not here , Maxwell thought to himself, but he was too much of a gentleman to say so. ‘Vibes,’ he said.
‘Vibes?’ Hall repeated, disbelievingly.
‘Yes, I hate the phrase too. “A sense of the past”, if you will,’ Maxwell explained. ‘Real or imaginary. Ancient or modern.’
‘So little things like forensics are a no-go area to you, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘I like to think I have an open mind. And of course, any titbits that your SOCO people and Dr Astley want to pass my way…’
Hall clicked open the car door. ‘I should hold onto your bike, Mr Maxwell,’ he said, ‘in case it falls over as I drive away.’
‘So what are you doing here, Mr Hall?’ Maxwell asked him, resorting, after all, to the cliché of the television crime dramas, ‘if you don’t believe in vibes, if you don’t find answers blowing in the wind, what price this visit?’
‘Checking on the lad on the gate,’ Hall said, nodding in his direction. ‘Keeping away nosy parkers like you. By the way, you do have lights on that thing?’ He pointed to Surrey.
‘Oh, yes,’ Maxwell said. ‘For when I sneak back here after dark, you mean? Don’t worry about me, ChiefInspector. I’ll be fine.’
Hall lowered his glasses slightly, letting Maxwell see the grey of his eyes. ‘All right,’ he sighed, postponing his leaving , bowing to the inevitable. Perhaps, if he just gave Maxwell a tiny window on the case, he’d feel sufficiently self-important and go away. Henry Hall was not an historian ; otherwise he would have known the futility of Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement and the pointlessness of the Danegeld of Aethelred Unraed, the badly advised. ‘My understanding is that Dr Radley approached you to bring a group out to the dig.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you arrived at what time?’
‘Four-thirty,
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