Read Online Ruth Galloway by Elly Griffiths - Free Book Online

…’
    The handwritten letters come in the middle of the sequence. Ruth puts them back into order and starts to read:
    November 1997
    Nelson,
You are looking for Lucy but you are looking in the wrong places. Look to the sky, the stars, the crossing places. Look at what is silhouetted against the sky. You will find her where the earth meets the sky.
In peace.
    December 1997
    Nelson,
Lucy is the perfect sacrifice. Like Isaac, like Jesus, she carries the wood for her own crucifixion. Like Isaac and Jesus she is obedient to the father’s will.
I would wish you the compliments of the season, make you a wreath of mistletoe, but, in truth, Christmas is merely a modern addition, grafted onto the great winter solstice. The pagan festival was here first, in the short days and long nights. Perhaps I should wish you greetings for St Lucy’s day. If only you have eyes to see.
In peace.
    January 1998
    Dear Detective Inspector Harry Nelson,
You see, I am calling you by your full name now. I feel we are old friends, you and I. Just because Nelson had only one eye, it doesn’t follow that he couldn’t see. ‘Aman may see how the world goes with no eyes.’
In peace.
    January 1998
    Dear Harry,
‘A little touch of Harry in the night.’ How wise Shakespeare was, a shaman for all time. Perhaps it is the wise men – and women – you should be consulting now.
For you still do not look in the right places, the holy places, the other places. You look only where trees flower and springs flow. Look again Harry. Lucy lies deep below the ground but she will rise again. This I promise you.
In peace.
    March 1998
    Dear Harry,
Spring returns but not my friend. The trees are in bud and the swallows return. For everything there is a season.
Look where the land lies. Look at the cursuses and the causeways.
    Ruth stops and reads the last line again. She is so transfixed by the word ‘cursuses’ that it is a few minutes before she realises that someone is knocking on the door.
    Apart from the postman making his surly visits to deliver Amazon parcels, unannounced visitors are almost unheard of. Ruth is irritated to find herself feeling quite nervous as she opens the door.
    It is the woman from next door; the weekender who watched her drive off in the police car that morning.
    â€˜Oh … hello,’ says Ruth.
    â€˜Hi!’ The woman flashes her a brilliant smile. She is older than Ruth, maybe early fifties, but fantastically well preserved: highlighted hair, tanned skin, honed figure in low-slung jeans.
    â€˜I’m Sammy. Sammy from next door. Isn’t it ridiculous that we’ve hardly ever spoken to each other?’
    Ruth doesn’t think it is ridiculous at all. She spoke to the weekenders when they first bought the house about three years ago and since then has done her best to ignore them. There used to be children, she remembers, loud teenagers who played music into the early hours and tramped over the Saltmarsh with surfboards and inflatable boats. There are no children in evidence on this visit.
    â€˜Ed and I … we’re having a little New Year’s party. Just some friends who are coming up from London. Very casual, just kitchen sups. We wondered if you’d like to come.’
    Ruth can’t believe her ears. It’s been years since she’s been invited to a New Year’s party and now she has two invitations to refuse. It’s a conspiracy.
    â€˜Thank you very much,’ she says, ‘But my head of department’s having a party and I might have to …’
    â€˜Oh, I do understand.’ Sammy, like Ruth’s parents, seems to have no difficulty in understanding that Ruth might want to go to a party from motives of duty alone. ‘You work at the university, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes. I teach archaeology.’
    â€˜Archaeology! Ed would love that. He never misses
Time Team
. I thought you might have changed jobs.’
    Ruth