The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 by Elly Griffiths Page A

motherhood and domesticity. I could ignore all that. You get it all the time. Then, at the end of last year, the tone seemed to change, to become nastier, more sinister. But what worried me most were the references to archaeology.’
    ‘To archaeology?’
    ‘Yes. And that worried me because it was specific to me. The letter-writer must know that I used to be an archaeologist. And recently there are references to Norfolk. He must have found out that I was coming to this conference.’
    Ruth notes that Hilary assumes that the writer is male. In her experience misogyny is not always confined to men.
    ‘So I thought,’ Hilary goes on. ‘I thought, why don’t I talk to Ruth? She’s in Norfolk and she knows all about archaeology. And, when I looked you up, I saw you were a special advisor to the police.’
    Damn that LinkedIn profile. Ruth says, ‘If the letters are threatening, you must go to the police. I’m not a member of the police. I’m just an archaeologist who advises them on buried bones. I can’t investigate this for you. I’m not Miss Marple.’
    ‘But if you would just look at the letters . . .’
    ‘Look,’ says Ruth. ‘I know a policeman. Someone fairly senior. He’s a good man. He’ll take this seriously. Believe me, I know. Will you talk to him?’
    Hilary looks at her squarely. ‘If you’ll read the letters.’
    ‘Am I being blackmailed by a priest?’
    Hilary reaches out to touch her hand. ‘No, of course not. It would just be a comfort to me if you would read them. You can pass them on to this policeman if you think it’s worth it.’
    Ruth sighs. ‘All right.’
    Hilary reaches into her voluminous backpack and Ruth realises that she had the letters with her all the time. Did she always count on being able to persuade Ruth?
    ‘Thank you, Ruth. And maybe we could meet up again? The conference lasts for a week.’
    ‘What’s it about?’
    Hilary grins and Ruth sees the first trace of the old Erik-baiting Hilary. ‘Preparing for Episcopacy. That should really upset the letter-writer.’
    Ruth looks it up later; it’s something to do with becoming a bishop.
    *
    Tim, too, is out of his comfort zone. He is in a room that could almost be the setting for some early evening costume drama: low sofas, a herd of spindly-legged tables, an upright piano, doors leading onto a perfect, landscaped garden. Only the giant TV screen embedded in the Regency wallpaper spoils the illusion. That and the hundreds of condolence cards displayed on the marble fireplace, the bookshelves and many of the little tables. Tim, looking for somewhere to put his coffee cup, can’t escape the words: sympathy, sorrow, love, consolation, angel. But, then again, what do you say when someone has died? When he was at school one of his friends lost a brother in a shooting incident (it was that kind of school) and, whilst Tim’s mother had had all the words, or at least knew where to find them in the Bible, Tim had found himself avoiding that friend because he didn’t know what to say. He had hated himself for it.
    Julie Jenkins sees him looking and slides a silver coaster under the cup.
    ‘Thank you.’ Tim smiles at her and is encouraged to get a wobbly smile back. ‘Be charming,’ Nelson had said to him, as if suggesting that he employ the dark arts. ‘Some people find you charming, I hear.’ Maybe that was a reference to Superintendent Whitcliffe. Even so, the remark had made Tim uneasy.
    ‘Thank you so much for seeing me,’ he says now to Julie and Alan, sitting close together on one of the sofas. ‘I know how hard this must be for you, but it’s very important for us to get a complete picture of Chloe.’
    He wishes he hadn’t used these words because, over the fireplace, there is an actual picture of Chloe, an oil painting, presumably of her with her sister. The two faces, both impossibly beautiful, stare sadly down at him.
    Julie sees him looking. ‘That’s Chloe and Lauren. It was painted when Chloe was