Harriet led Alan around her nineteenth-century two-bed house with the enthusiasm and efficiency of a professional archaeologist on a pre-dig recce. They had covered the lounge and kitchen. She explained that her only extravagance had been a reconditioned oil-fired Aga, which kept the downstairs rooms wonderfully snug in winter. Now they were doing the upstairs tour.
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t run to an en suite, so we’ll have to share the bathroom…’
She opened the door and Alan glanced in. There were bottles and jars, coloured tissues in profusion, but no dangling underwear. It was feminine, but not oppressively so.
‘And this will be your room. I think of it as the Fen room, as it looks across Dawyck Fen.’
‘Which makes yours, I suppose, the Wolds room.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of it like that. It’s just my room, that’s all. Anyhow, you’ve a basin. And do look out, you’re near the immersion heater and the water can run scalding hot very quickly. I often hear guests yell in pain when doing their teeth.’
Alan gazed out of the window. The spectacular view had been swallowed by the night. Harriet was reflected in the darkened glass, standing a couple of feet behind him, smiling.
They’d only known each other a short time and here she was, opening up her home to him. He’d offered to pay rent but she wouldn’t even consider it. He should be overjoyed but he wasn’t. He was worried. Very worried indeed.
What if his worst fears were correct? What if he had been the victim of an arson attack? What horrors and dangers was he potentially bringing to Harriet’s door? He’d been unbelievably selfish to even consider it.
‘Harry, I’ve been thinking…’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘You know, mixing the professional and the personal…’
Even as the words passed his lips Alan regretted it. He saw a flicker of embarrassment pass across Harriet’s face, quickly followed by pure anger.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Alan.’
‘I didn’t mean…’
Harriet cut him short.
‘I’m a concerned colleague, offering you support at a time of need. That’s all. If you find that too… compromising then feel free to book yourself in at the Travelodge down the road.’
She slammed the spare keys down on the bedside table and stormed out of the room.
Alan was furious with himself. Now he had two options: stay and endanger Harriet. Leave and create an unbearable tension between them at work and possibly undermine the whole project. Not just the St Guthlic’s project, but Paul, Ali, Flax Hole, everything that he’d been working so hard to get closer to.
He sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the mirror on the room’s neat little chest of drawers. Then it came to him. He might not be able to protect Harriet, but he knew exactly who could. But it would require him to be absolutely truthful, to tell him everything he knew, or currently suspected, only then could Richard advise him whether he, or more importantly, Harriet was in any danger. So he took a deep breath and rang Lane’s home number, fully expecting Mary to answer, then after several rings the answerphone cut in. He left a simple message for Richard to call him back. But he didn’t add: and please, please ring soon. But by now he was getting very anxious.
He slung his suitcase on his bed, unzipped it and pulled out the bottle of excruciatingly expensive red wine he’d bought as a house-warming present. He slowly made his way back downstairs, formulating a suitably grovelling apology and a promise to take on all her domestic chores for the rest of his natural life.
After a surprisingly amenable first night at his new home, during which Alan discovered that he and Harriet held two very important values in common – a passion for red wine and an innate inability to hold onto a grudge just for the sake of it – Alan returned to PFC in good spirits. He then spent all day making practical arrangements for the forthcoming dig: phoning diggers, contractors, plant operators, Portaloo hire, etc. He also had to be certain there were supplies of stationery, pencils, survey tapes and a good reliable dumpy level. Later on they could fix the trenches with GPS, but there was no need to have it with them all the time, as they could perfectly well use the existing geophysics grid. They were all essential, but not the sort of jobs he enjoyed much, so he was glad to get away at the end of the day. He was less pleased at the prospect of his duty-dinner that lay ahead. However, he’d been a circuit digger long enough to know that keeping the local community informed and involved was a vital part of any successful excavation.
It had been dark for two hours when he swung Brutus into a tree-lined avenue. Even in the headlights’ glare he could see they were mature limes with trunks congested with young growth, which had recently been cut from the trees nearest the house. Their fresh, white scars were bright in his headlights’ glare. Scoby Hall was an impressive, seven-bay Palladian mansion, whose colonnaded double front doors were approached by a sweeping flight of steps. He parked alongside Alistair’s green Range Rover and walked up to the front doors. As he pulled on the heavy chain, he listened for a bell somewhere deep inside, but could hear nothing. Presumably, he thought, it rings below stairs, in the butler’s pantry. There were tall, thin windows on both sides of the front doors and Alan saw Alistair scuttle across the wide front hall to let him in. He was slightly disappointed there was no butler. Alistair had taken off his tweeds and was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt. The front doors hadn’t been locked.
Alan stepped inside and looked around him. He was amazed by the pictures, the gilded plasterwork and fine marble floors. And what was more, they seemed to be in good condition. Somebody cared about this place.
Once inside, Alistair took him through to the kitchen where they sat down to a high tea of butcher’s sausages, dry-cured bacon (from the estate) and scrambled eggs, which was prepared by a rotund and very smiley middle-aged lady, who was introduced as Mrs Fowler. Alan suspected she might once have been Alistair’s nanny.
Alistair took two huge mouthfuls of eggs.
‘Claire thinks I eat too much fat, so this is our naughty treat when she’s away, isn’t it?’
He looked across to Mrs Fowler who was regarding him with a broad and not very conspiratorial smile. She addressed her reply to Alan.
‘I can’t see it does Mr Alistair any harm, can you, sir?’
‘I agree,’ Alan replied, when he had finished chewing a forkful of sausage, ‘no harm at all. No, nothing but good.’
After the meal they took a flask of coffee up to the drawing room, where Alistair explained that his wife was away in London being a consultant headhunter – ‘she usually hunts heads three days a week’ – and the two children had returned to boarding school. So here he was, on his own, and feeling just a little lonely, Alan suspected. He was certainly in no rush to see his guest leave.
While they chatted about this and that, Alan’s gaze was arrested by a remarkable full length portrait of a late Victorian country gentleman with a bushy beard, standing with legs slightly astride and grasping a shotgun, as if he intended to use it. The intensity of the man’s stare was striking.
‘That’s AAC, of course…’
‘Ah,’ Alan cut in, ‘I remember. The man commemorated in the east window.’
‘Yes, him. It’s by Grinterhalter.’
In the late nineteenth century the German artist was Court Painter and Alan knew enough to realise that he must have charged his sitter a fat fee.
‘It’s very good indeed. What eyes. They’re remarkable.’
‘Yes, you know how it is: some people say they follow you. To be quite frank, I don’t like it much myself. I know it’s very good and all that, but I can’t sit facing it. That stare gives me the willies. Claire agrees. She wants me to move it out into the hall and I think I just might.’
By now they had risen to their feet and were standing facing the picture. Alistair pointed to a smaller portrait a few feet away to the right.
‘That’s his wife, Hermione. She almost certainly had consumption, which may have been one of the reasons they decided to move up to Lincolnshire, where the clean air was supposed to be good for the lungs. They had two children, including a son, my great-grandfather.’
He gestured to another picture of a young gentleman.
‘He was far more prolific. Nine children: four daughters and five sons, all but one of whom were killed on the Somme.’
Below Hermione’s portrait was a small pen-and-ink sketch of a young woman working at her embroidery. It was a very sensitive drawing and Alan leant forward to look at it more closely.
‘That’s Timothea,’ Alistair continued, ‘known in the family as Tiny. She had to be delivered by forceps, which sadly left her brain-damaged. But by all accounts she was a delightful person. She certainly had a special place in AAC’s affections. Look…’
He took the picture down from the wall and handed it to Alan. On the back were two locks of hair: one very fine, auburn; the other darker and coarser, with a few grey strands. They were tied by silk ribbons and sewn to the mount with the inscription: ‘In fondest memory of Timothea, from her distraught father’. Alan was moved by this. He could imagine how he would feel in that situation.
‘I suppose it’s just a bit of Victorian sentimentality.’
‘No,’ Alan said pensively, ‘I don’t think it is… This is heartfelt.’
‘She only survived into her mid-thirties and lived in a flat here in the Park. We call it the Granny Flat now, not that a granny lives there anymore, but it comes in useful when Claire has important clients to impress.’
By now they had finished their tea and Alan began to take his leave. But Alistair had more to say:
‘Look, as you can probably guess from this place, I’m not completely short of cash. I was in banking for eight years, but managed to get out before it all went tits up. And Claire still earns a tidy sum, hunting her heads. My real love in life is history. Not just the family stuff, but the bigger picture. Who we are, why we are, how we got here and all that. So if you’d let me, I’d love to come down to your dig and help out. I’m sure you must have odd jobs to give a keen volunteer like me? Things that nobody else wants to do?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind helping with finds, that sort of thing?’
‘Fine. Just the ticket. But look, I really don’t want to cause offence by saying this, but I’m determined it must be done properly. To high standards.’
‘No offence taken. PFC has an excellent reputation, and can assure you we will do the best we can with the resources made available – if that doesn’t sound too horribly corporate.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. But still, you get what I’m driving at?
Alan nodded, he could tell that Alistair was passionate about his subject.
Alistair continued, ‘So do you know if your people can afford expensive things like radiocarbon dates?’
Alan was impressed. Alistair clearly knew his stuff.
‘That hasn’t been confirmed as yet, but rest assured I’m working on it.’
‘And have you done geophysics?’
‘Indeed we have, yes.’
‘And did you detect bodies?’
‘No, not bodies.’
Alan was teasing him. And it worked: Alistair’s face fell.
‘Oh, I was rather hoping…’
‘No, you don’t understand, geophys can’t detect bodies. Radar can sometimes, but not ordinary geophys. But it can detect graves.’
‘And are there any?’
‘Yes, lots. And some of them look quite early.’
‘But we’ll need radiocarbon to prove that, won’t we?’
‘Yes, we probably will.’
‘Well,’ Alistair said, almost rubbing his hands with delight, ‘I promise, you can count on me for them.’
‘That’s very generous. Carbon dates don’t cost too much these days, but some of the other diagnostic tests can sometimes prove very expensive. A few cost hundreds, even thousands…’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ Alistair sounded almost dismissive. ‘Go ahead. Run the clever tests, then send me the bills. I’m sure the estate accountants can find ways of writing them off against tax. They’re very good at that sort of thing, you know. I’ll contact our agent tomorrow.’
‘That’s extremely generous, Alistair. Are you sure you mean it?’
‘Of course. So what happens next?’
Alan pulled out his diary.
‘Right,’ he said turning the pages, ‘we’re machining on Monday and Tuesday. I don’t want people around then, as you wouldn’t be insured with the digger there and everything. But from Wednesday you’d be very welcome to join us. Wear a stout pair of boots and something waterproof.’
Alan couldn’t believe his luck: a rich volunteer with time and money on his hands. At last they’d be able to do some proper research. Things were looking up.