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the lid off. Inside were half a dozen bones, a scrap of yellowed newspaper and a small metallic object. The bones were so small they might have come from a chicken or a cat. Was that a femur? Another looked like a humerus with a ball-and-socket joint.
    Cyril George uncapped a fountain pen and made a note. The nib scratched on the paper. It was very quiet: the thick stone walls insulated the room from the sounds of the outside world.
    The bones had yellowed with age and the marrow had gone. Thornhill touched the possible femur with his fingertip. Its surface felt rough and dry. There was nothing intrinsically disturbing about the bone, which he found disturbing in itself. Time had drained away its significance. All that was left was a decaying piece of animal matter, a sign of mortality, tangible evidence of an episode which must have brought suffering to at least one individual, probably more. And it affected him no more than the portion of rib in a lamb chop. Thornhill wondered whether his job had worn away something important inside him, its absence making him a little less than human. It was an old worry and he barely noticed it.
    â€˜Where exactly were they found?’ he said.
    â€˜In a heap of rubbish. Old cesspit, I reckon. We were clearing out part of a yard behind the Rose in Hand.’
    â€˜The what?’
    â€˜This whole place is the Rose in Hand.’ Evans jerked his thumb towards the window, towards the reflection of the office in the dark, cracked glass. ‘Used to be an inn.’
    â€˜Did you look around the box?’
    â€˜To see if anything had fallen out? I had a quick dekko. There was nothing obvious. We were lucky to find what we did.’
    Lucky ? The word danced in Thornhill’s mind. ‘How do you mean?’
    â€˜The rats got the rest, look.’
    â€˜Could they be cat bones? A small dog?’
    Evans shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible. But I’ve seen the bones of babies before.’
    â€˜Because of your father’s job?’
    â€˜Aye.’ Evans’ dark eyes stared calmly at Thornhill. ‘And I saw kiddies’ bones during the war as well – in Burma.’
    George made a show of consulting his wristwatch. ‘I hate to hurry you chaps, but time’s getting on.’
    Thornhill ignored the interruption. He picked up the scrap of newspaper. It was brittle with age. As he touched it, a few flecks broke away from the main piece. The fragment was roughly triangular. He laid it on the palm of his hand. Each of the three sides was about two inches long. The print was small and blurred.
    AT THE BULL HOTEL will be offered for sale on January 15th, the entire household effects of the late Jas Gwynne of High Street, Lydmouth. Together with . . .
    He turned the paper over.
    . . . and the Reverend Mr Brown proposed a vote of thanks to Mr Chad, the Acting Superintendent of the Band of Hope Sunday School. He himself would bring up the sum collected to four guineas (cheers), which would be remitted to the Church Missionary Society without delay . . .
    Thornhill put down the piece of newspaper and picked up what he assumed to be the brooch. He could make out the shape of a knot: on closer examination, it looked like an ornate clove hitch. He turned the brooch over and found the remains of a catch on the back. There was a hallmark, too. A scratch ran through the mark, revealing the glint of the metal beneath the black tarnish. Someone, probably one of the workmen who had found it, had wanted to find out if the brooch was made of silver.
    â€˜Well?’ George said testily. ‘What do you think?’
    Thornhill put the brooch gently back in the box. ‘It’s hard to know at this juncture, sir.’ He looked at Evans. ‘Do you think all these things were originally inside the box? Or could they have been thrown away at different times?’
    Evans shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘The lid was off the box,