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single bulb that dangled from the ceiling. He lifted off the lid. Bayswater crouched beside the box, the skirts of his raincoat trailing on the dusty floor. He was hatless, and in the unflattering overhead light his grey hair looked like a wire brush. He poked at the bones and then picked up the curved one which Thornhill had tentatively identified as femur. He tossed it back into the box and it rattled against the others.
    â€˜Might be human. Might not. God knows, eh? You’ll need to ask a pathologist if you want chapter and verse on them. You know that as well as I do.’
    Bayswater picked up the scrap of newspaper. He held it a few inches away from his eyes and studied both sides. Thornhill noticed he wasn’t wearing glasses: he wondered whether the omission were due to vanity or forgetfulness. Bayswater let the piece of paper flutter back to the box.
    â€˜Does that go with the bones?’
    â€˜It might do,’ Thornhill said.
    â€˜Looks like a bit from one of the local rags – they still have auctions at the Bull Hotel.’ He got to his feet, grunting with discomfort as if his knees were giving him pain. ‘That should help you date it anyway. If I were you, I’d go and see Charlotte Wemyss-Brown. Kill two birds with one stone.’
    â€˜Who’s she?’
    â€˜Her grandfather founded the Gazette . The family still owns it. Besides, she knows a lot about local history. And that’s what you want – a historian, not a policeman or a doctor.’
    Bayswater picked up his black bag.
    â€˜Thank you for coming out,’ Thornhill said.
    â€˜Next time you might like to consider whether calling me out is necessary or not.’ Bayswater stamped down the corridor towards the doorway. His voice, which was as beautifully modulated as a BBC announcer’s, rose higher and higher in volume. ‘Use your intelligence, my dear fellow. If those bones are human, and it’s a big if, the odds are they belong to someone’s by-blow and they’ve probably been underground since Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee.’
    In the yard, he put up his umbrella and, without saying goodbye, went through the wicket gate into the road. Thornhill watched him go. In the yard it was dark enough to conceal his face, for which he was glad. Evans stood to one side, saying nothing.
    Thornhill took a deep breath and the anger receded a little. ‘I’ll just get a torch from the car.’
    â€˜No need,’ Evans said, ‘I’ve got one here.’
    The two men cut through the ruined barn and emerged into the smaller yard at the back. The torch beam zigzagged across the slippery cobbles and slid across gleaming puddles. When Evans raised the torch, the light caught on silver tendrils of mist which twisted in the breeze. It was darker here than it had been nearer the main road. Thornhill shivered and looked up at the dark grey sky.
    Evans led the way towards the remains of the little outbuilding. The torch picked out the pile of rubbish in the wheelbarrow which was still outside the doorway. When they were inside, Evans handed Thornhill the torch.
    â€˜We found it down there, look,’ he said. ‘Near the back wall.’
    Thornhill made a pretence of examining the place. He soon realised there was little to see except rain and rubbish. He picked up a half-brick, felt something cold and slimy on its underside and let it fall to the ground. He crouched down and gingerly examined the spot that Evans had pointed out. Besides earth and stones, he found pieces of broken glass, dead leaves, the yellowing root of a nettle and a fragment of Willow Pattern china.
    â€˜We’ll have another look in daylight,’ he said. He handed the torch back to Evans. ‘Thanks for your help.’
    As they left the outbuilding, the torch beam picked out the gates on the far side of the yard.
    â€˜Is there another entrance?’ Thornhill asked.
    â€˜There’s a lane at