Read Online The Crossing Places - Elly Griffiths by Elly Griffiths - Free Book Online
Authors: Elly Griffiths
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something from a fairy tale, surely that must be every mother’s nightmare.
But Ruth isn’t a mother; she is an archaeologist and it is time she got to work. Nelson needs her professional help and professional is what she must be. Closing down the computer, she opens the file containing the letters. First she puts them in date order, rather surprised to find that Nelson has not already done this, and examines the paper and the ink. Ten of the twelve letters seem to be on the same standard printer paper as the Scarlet Henderson letter. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything, she tells herself. Nine out of ten people with printers must use this sort of paper. Similarly the typeface looks very ordinary, Times New Roman she thinks. But two of the letters are handwritten on lined paper, the sort that comes from a refill pad, complete with a narrow red margin and holes for filing. The letters are written with a thin felt-tip, what used to be called a ‘handwriting pen’ when Ruth was at school. The writing itself is legible but untidy and slopes wildly to the left. A man’s writing, the expert said. It occurs to her that she hardly ever sees handwriting these days; her students all have laptops, her friends send her emails or texts, she even edits papers on-line. The only handwriting she can recognise is her mother’s, which usually comes inside inappropriately sentimental cards. ‘To a special daughter on her birthday …’
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. ‘A man 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.
‘Oh … hello,’ says Ruth.
‘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.
‘I’m
But Ruth isn’t a mother; she is an archaeologist and it is time she got to work. Nelson needs her professional help and professional is what she must be. Closing down the computer, she opens the file containing the letters. First she puts them in date order, rather surprised to find that Nelson has not already done this, and examines the paper and the ink. Ten of the twelve letters seem to be on the same standard printer paper as the Scarlet Henderson letter. This doesn’t necessarily mean anything, she tells herself. Nine out of ten people with printers must use this sort of paper. Similarly the typeface looks very ordinary, Times New Roman she thinks. But two of the letters are handwritten on lined paper, the sort that comes from a refill pad, complete with a narrow red margin and holes for filing. The letters are written with a thin felt-tip, what used to be called a ‘handwriting pen’ when Ruth was at school. The writing itself is legible but untidy and slopes wildly to the left. A man’s writing, the expert said. It occurs to her that she hardly ever sees handwriting these days; her students all have laptops, her friends send her emails or texts, she even edits papers on-line. The only handwriting she can recognise is her mother’s, which usually comes inside inappropriately sentimental cards. ‘To a special daughter on her birthday …’
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. ‘A man 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.
‘Oh … hello,’ says Ruth.
‘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.
‘I’m
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