Alan had arranged to meet Davey Hibbs and Jake Williamson in the Cripps Arms at eight o’clock. He got there around 8.15, having fallen asleep in the bath. He’d been there for about 45 minutes, before the rapidly chilling water woke him up. His fingers and toes were stiff, white and wrinkly. He needed a pint badly.
In the pub Davey and Jake were with a group of young men – farm and estate workers mostly – who lived and worked in the village. They were all regulars and Cyril treated them like gold dust.
As he headed towards the bar to buy another round of lager and Old Slodger, a man proclaimed, in a loud and very middle-class voice, ‘I say, there’s that archaeologist chappie.’
Alan turned his head, but continued to make his way to the bar. Davey, Jake and the others fell silent. As one, they looked at the man. He seemed oblivious and continued louder than before.
‘Are you ever going to finish that damned dig? Some of us around here would like our weekends back. You can’t move in the village on Sundays. If we wanted crowds, we’d have bought homes in town. This village is meant to be rural, you know.’
Before Alan could say a word, a young woman in a pale silk scarf and fashionable Barbour jacket, loudly declared to the world and her near-identical friend loudly, ‘Well said, Jeremy! This place is being ruined by all the visitors. Quite destroying its character. Something should be done about it.’
At that, one or two people said, ‘Hear, hear,’ but not very loudly. Alan caught Cyril’s gaze as he handed him a beer. Both men raised their eyes to heaven. The pub was packed. The last thing Cyril wanted was for second-homers to stop coming.
When Alan returned to his friends, he knew what their response would be to the loud-mouthed incomer. All of them, and their families, needed the extra work and business the visitors to Fursey brought in. They knew, too, that the numbers would eventually settle down and that Fursey would never become another tourists’ Jorvik, nor indeed an Ely.
But if tension was increasing between incomers and residents who worked in the village, the older generation were not exactly relaxed, either. Alan had detected quite a strong feeling that there was indeed ‘something’ behind the Curse of the Cripps. Of course they were too polite to raise the subject with him, a close friend of one of the victims, but he was detecting references to it on a daily basis, if not more often. People of a particular age would suddenly stop talking, or would exaggeratedly change the subject, whenever he approached. But he knew what they had been discussing, nonetheless. And he also detected a certain look behind the eyes. He couldn’t be certain, of course, but he was pretty sure he was right.
But Davey, Jake and the lads around them weren’t bothered by stupid curses. They were a genial, straightforward bunch who liked nothing better than a good laugh and plenty of beer. Alan glanced up at the clock over the fireplace. Half past nine. Suddenly he felt his phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out. It was Richard Lane who at once detected he was in the pub – and having a good time.
‘Alan, I’ve been doing a bit of background research on some of the people you mentioned when we last met.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Suddenly Alan wished his head wasn’t fuzzy after three pints of Slodger.
‘But I can’t discuss it over the phone – even if you hadn’t enjoyed a skinful of Old Slodger. So I was wondering whether you’d care to have lunch with us in Whittlesey tomorrow?’
* * *
Sunday morning was fresh, bright and breezy: a fabulous spring day, and just the time, Alan thought, for a drive across the Fens. He opened the Fourtrak’s window to let in a blast of cool air. That felt better. It eased the nagging headache that invariably followed a hard night on the Slodger.
On a whim, he decided to point the Fourtrak in the direction of Ramsey, rather than straight north, which would be a shorter route to Lane’s house in Whittlesey. It had been a while since he’d driven across the bed of the old Whittlesey Mere. And besides, he thought, I’ve loads of time.
As he drew closer to the old mere, the roads got increasingly uneven as the deep peats beneath them shifted and shrank. An engineer friend had said it was like building a causeway across blancmange, or custard. As he passed the mere, just south of Peterborough, Alan could see the East Coast mainline that Stevenson had floated on bundles of brushwood in the mid-19th century, just as the Romans had done with their roads, two millennia previously.
Alan drove out of Ramsey Heights, one of the lowest-lying settlements in Britain, and was heading due north in a dead straight line. He loved that name. So very Fenny. The story went that two old boys were leaning on a gate surveying the grass in a meadow when a passing young surveyor for the first edition of the Ordnance Survey 1-inch map, asked, ‘I say, can one of you good men tell me the name of this village?’
The nearest turned round, pushed the cap to the back of his head and slowly replied, ‘It be Ramsey Eyots.’
He then turned back to his companion and the meadow and the surveyor departed.
Eyots, pronounced ‘eights’ is the old word for island, but the surveyor mistook it for ‘heights’. And it stuck, immortalised by the map. Alan smiled, mistakes with place names can easily become fossilised forever, and they do matter, because they’re not just dots on maps. Towns and villages are where people live; their names are part of their sense of place and have the power to create passionate loyalties – and not just for football clubs.
This turned Alan’s thoughts to the Penance, which was starting in just four days’ time. He was sure that it was all based on an error, but would it prove to be harmless, like Ramsey Heights? He wasn’t so sure. And as time passed he found he was feeling less and less certain. He didn’t like the word Penance – too melodramatic; it went with Curse and Retribution – but there was no other way he could describe it. No, the more he thought about it, the more he had a sense of foreboding. Religious people liked penance. It let them do what they wanted, and then they asked God to wipe the slate clean.
Halfway across the bed of the Mere, Alan turned left and headed towards the uplands of old Huntingdonshire. It was a vast and largely open landscape. On the edges of the deep black dykes were heaps of old tree trunks, the so-called ‘bog oaks’ that were dragged up by the plough every autumn. It was a sign, of course, that the surface of this fen was still shrinking, as drainage ate away at the layers of peat. In his father’s day the bog oaks were Roman or Iron Age, today they were more likely a millennium earlier. Whittlesey Mere had been the largest body of freshwater in England before its drainage around 1850, and had partly survived because it was used as fishing, wildfowl and game reserves for great landed families, particularly the Rothschilds. He had seen photographs of their huge fishing and shooting parties. He smiled at the thought: that was how very influential people networked in the 19th century. It was strange to think that this bleak open fen with its huge and very wild birch wood had once been such an important social centre for the banking elite.
For a moment, Alan thought again of the great stone blocks with the mason’s marks that were pushed out of barges when they grounded while on their way to Ely from the quarries at Barnack. Those marks were the medieval equivalents of brands; they were in effect ‘Keep Off’ signs. They proclaimed ownership and authority. Nobody in their right mind would have chipped or damaged them deliberately. It would have risked the wrath of God. Such fears can be very long-lived – especially in people of Faith. Maybe, Alan wondered, that was another reason why the man – or just as possibly, the men – who filled Thorey’s pockets, chose to use bricks alone?
He was now in a hurry to get out of the deepest Black Fen. It was magnificent, yes, but it could also get him down. It was so black, so flat and sometimes, too, so oppressive. He reached the crossing over the East Coast Main Line, which was closed. Then he remembered. It was Sunday. Engineering work. He’d been stuck here previously, for ages, on a Sunday. So he did a U-turn and headed back the way he had come. Twenty minutes later, he turned off the main road towards Lane’s house.
* * *
Alan eased the Fourtrak into Straw Bear Close and parked on the gravel in front of number 6. Good roast dinner smells wafted through the air. Mary liked to spoil Alan. Sometimes he thought it was because she was trying to tame him by example: find a nice woman like me and you could eat food like this whenever you chose. But other times he thought differently: maybe she was always like this and wasn’t trying to be clever at all. Maybe she just liked to cook well. Maybe life wasn’t that complicated. Sod it. He rang the bell.
Mary answered the door. She was wearing an apron, and Alan could smell beef cooking in the kitchen. She kissed him on the cheek.
‘Come in, Alan. I’m just basting the joint. Lunch will be ready in about half an hour. Richard’s in the front room. He’s looking something up. Told me to welcome you.’
‘And that was convenient?’
‘Yes.’ She raised her eyes to the sky. ‘Just what I needed when trying to start a Yorkshire pudding.’
Gingerly Alan opened the door to the sitting room. Richard Lane was in front of his computer. He waved Alan to a seat and after about a minute turned off the screen and joined him. He poured a glass of beer.
‘Sorry about that, Alan, but I’ve been following up a few leads about your friend John Cripps. I was intrigued by what you told me about the religious stuff—’
‘You mean him and Dean Jason?’
‘Yes, the Fen dean. He’s causing a bit of a ripple – waves even – with this Penance. I don’t think we’ve seen the dear old C of E generate quite so much local interest in years. And I was surprised that John Cripps was a part of it.’
‘Yes, and a key part too, from what I can see. The thing is, he’s quite an expert on tourism. And what’s a pilgrimage involving probably dozens of people—’
‘No, Alan,’ Lane interrupted. ‘According to our sources there are likely to be hundreds, maybe even up into the low thousands, of pilgrims.’
‘Blimey!’ Alan paused as the implications of this sank in. It was going to be a rerun of the live shoot. ‘But as I was saying: what’s a pilgrimage if it isn’t a form of tourism? People travel and then spend money. It worked very effectively in the Middle Ages and the Church certainly exploited it economically – indeed everyone did – and I bet it’ll work just as well today. And of course John Cripps is a consultant who understands these things. He’d have been involved, even if he was an atheist.’
Lane was sitting back nodding in agreement while Alan was speaking. He took a sip from his beer.
‘Well, anyhow,’ Lane eventually said. ‘After our chat last month about the estate, Historic Projects Management and the new manager, I thought I’d do a little quiet research into our religious friend John Cripps.’
‘Yes, John has always struck me as a bit contradictory. I don’t know much about him, but he got a good history degree at Cambridge—’
‘That’s right,’ Lane broke in, ‘A 2:1, “a workaday upper second” as one old man described it to me.’
Alan was aware that even given ten years of study, he could never hope to achieve a Cambridge 2:1.
‘So he’s very bright. D’you think he had intended to get a first?’
‘What, and become an academic?’ Lane asked rhetorically. He took a sip from his glass. ‘Possibly – I don’t know. But he would certainly have had to abandon any such thoughts after his third year, when he fell in with a crowd of rich young men who spent most of their time at Newmarket.’
‘But presumably he didn’t have the money?’
‘Precisely. By the mid-1980s Barty had done a lot to raise the fortunes of the estate, but we also know he was heavily indebted to the bank and there would have been very little cash floating around. Both John and Sebastian’s school and university costs had been met by a private trust fund established by the second baronet when he rationalised the estate after the war.’
‘So in other words,’ Alan continued, ‘he had the background, but not the cash.’ It was his turn to take a sip of beer. ‘So what happened next?’
‘I can’t discover anything about the two years after he graduated. That’s something we’d have to learn from a close family member – and I’m certain it’s not worth it, as it would alert everyone.’
‘Yes, I agree.’ Alan nodded.
‘The next thing we know for sure, is that he was part of a trading partnership set up in 1989 to manage a series of small, mostly amateur, visitor attractions in east London. At the time, money to fund tourism projects was becoming much more freely available and several local volunteer groups were restoring and repairing the Napoleonic and later defences on the shores of the Thames, on the eastern approaches to London.’
‘Yes,’ Alan said. ‘I was reading about one in an archaeological magazine. They’re still very popular.’
‘With the volunteers, yes. But they never seem to generate many actual fee-paying visitors. None of them are in the same league as Jorvik, for example.’
Alan wasn’t sure where this was all leading. ‘OK, so he formed a partnership. What happened then?’
‘One of the partners was Blake Lonsdale – and I have been able to find out a bit more about him. By all accounts, he’s a very bright bloke, but completely unqualified. In his early twenties he got involved with drug dealing and illicit gambling and served two short terms inside. During his second spell in prison he “found Jesus”, as he puts it.’
‘Ah, just like his colleague—’
‘And now, it would seem, his close friend: John Cripps.’
‘I must admit,’ Alan said. ‘I didn’t know that Lonsdale was religious too?’
‘Yes,’ Lane replied. ‘They both are. And it goes back a long way, too. One of the older volunteers at Fort Marlborough, just outside Tilbury, told me that Lonsdale persuaded a local vicar to hold a short service of blessing in one of the casemates. That was back in 1990, before any work had started, and he clearly remembered that both Cripps and Lonsdale attended.’
‘But when did HPM begin?’
‘That was also in 1990.’
‘So the partnership was very short-lived?’
‘Yes. The two other partners left—’
‘Or were they pushed?’
‘That’s hard to say, Alan. Put it this way: they’re both still actively involved in business – and the businesses are entirely legit, so far as the local force is aware. One runs two greengrocers, the other’s an insurance broker.’
‘So they dissolved the partnership to set up HPM?’
‘Yes, that’s how it seems. HPM is a management company. It doesn’t have charitable status itself, but the visitor attractions that it services all do.’
‘Right …’ Suddenly the jigsaw was starting to fit together. ‘It’s all starting to make sense now. I know about Fursey and White Delphs, and the last time we spoke, I remember mentioning another one that Barty had just told me about – something to do with water – in east London. Can you remember it?’
‘Oh yes, I wrote it down then and there. And since then I’ve started checking up on it. It’s the Water World historical theme park on the edges of Hackney Marshes. According to their accounts lodged at Companies House, it’s been a great and growing success – and for some time too. Thousands of school children visit every week of the winter season, and in summer the place is packed, too. I spoke to a senior exec in the leisure industry and she sang their praises. It’s the wintertime when visitor numbers always collapse at historical attractions, but not at Water World.’
‘No, nor at White Delphs or Fursey, either,’ Alan added. ‘HPM obviously know what they’re doing.’
‘Yes, you’re right, they do. My source also said they were incredibly well-financed and capitalised. That’s how they could afford to build all the winter walkways and observation platforms. She told me that visitor-flow management is a key part of their “offer”.’
And that continuing supply of money, Alan wondered, has got to come from somewhere. Now, however, he was feeling far less frustrated. Once more, a discussion with Richard Lane had clarified his mind. He realised he had become too concerned with Sebastian. Sure, he was no angel, but he wasn’t the brightest of people, either. The more he considered John’s early career, the more he wondered how far the younger brother was pulling the elder brother’s strings. And then there was Candice. Alan was becoming increasingly convinced it was she who had got Stan back on the booze. She could be so charmingly persuasive. Now he realised she may not have been acting alone: together with her husband they made a mean team. Effectively, they now controlled everything: Sebastian, the estate and probably Barty, too.
Alan leant back in his chair, his eyes closed. Lane looked on. He knew he mustn’t interrupt while Alan was having one of his thinking blitzes.
OK, Alan thought, I don’t know all the details; I don’t even understand the means or the mechanisms likely to have been employed, but he now knew when, and possibly even why, it had all started. Families, especially declining high-class families, can do the strangest things in their desperation to avoid humiliation. And once you had grasped the history, the truth often followed close behind. Suddenly his thoughts had become grim: and as for the perpetrators and their motives, they would all come out – in The Wash? He hoped not literally, but feared the worst. Suddenly his imagination flashed up images of Stan in the river and Thorey at the sluice.
Mary called from the kitchen door. She, too, had been observing Alan.
‘Come on, Alan, time to eat. You can’t put the world to rights on an empty stomach.’
Her words rang bells. Alan remembered John’s enthusiasm for the physical side of the Penance, as he’d expressed it in the press release: ‘Our aim is to achieve purity of mind through fasting and strenuous physical labour.’ Maybe that would be the catalyst that would force things out into the open? For the second time that Sunday, Alan was gripped by a strong sense of foreboding.
* * *
The rain had started overnight on Tuesday, and by Thursday it was well set in. It wasn’t so much stormy and dramatic, as springtime weather can often be, but dark, gloomy and persistent. It was the sort of weather that reminded Alan of backstreets in some big city: no sky, nor skyline, just enfolding pavements, tall walls and low cloud ceiling; not like being outdoors at all.
Before the bad weather started, Alan had been dreading the opening ceremony – and it wasn’t just the little speech of appreciation of Stan’s achievements that he’d agreed to give at the unveiling of the plaque in the Stan Beaton Archaeology Centre – and anyhow, he quite liked public speaking. No, it was the forced smiles and endless networking which went with it – that was what he found hard work. It would be an event where everyone involved with the Fursey project would be present. Yet another Agatha Christie all-in-the-library moment. His heart sank. Despite his depression he had become increasingly convinced that behind-the-scenes pressures were starting to reach a point where something had to give. Maybe the heightened emotions leading up to a big public event might provide the trigger, or the tipping-point? Whatever happened, Alan knew he had to be ready for it. And he determined to keep a close eye on John Cripps and Peter Flower. They were the men to watch.
For Alan, the impending opening ceremony was horribly reminiscent of Stan’s wake, a bare five months earlier. Such a long time ago, but the days, the hours, seemed to be passing so much faster. And it wasn’t just time; other things were different, too: at last he had solid facts to work with.
* * *
Alan didn’t possess a suit, but he did have a fairly respectable jacket and just one pair of smartish, dark-blue trousers. His black Oxford shoes weren’t exactly shiny, but at least they were clean. He’d done his best to look formal.
He arrived at the ceremony promptly, as requested, and walked up to Candice and Peter Flower who were welcoming the arriving guests. He waited while they greeted a middleaged man in a dark suit and his wife who was wearing a smart, doubtless designer, creation, that was slightly too tight for her. As they moved towards the tea table, Candice looked up and saw Alan. She kissed him on both cheeks.
‘Thanks for arriving so promptly, Alan. Have you got your speech prepared?’
‘Don’t worry. It’s here,’ he tapped his breast pocket. He could see she thought he’d learnt it by heart.
‘We’ll unveil the plaque in about half an hour, when everyone’s assembled.’
‘Are Stan’s parents here?’
‘Oh, didn’t you hear? His dad had a stroke last week. He’s in Addenbrooke’s. His mum’s staying with him, poor woman.’
Alan was deeply shocked.
‘I imagine, it was the stress …’ he began, but trailed off. There was nothing to say. He felt bad: he should have kept in closer touch.
‘And in case you’re wondering why I’m here—’ Peter Flower’s voice broke into Alan’s thoughts. Alan suppressed the urge to reply that he didn’t give a damn why he was here – or anywhere else, come to that. ‘It’s because John is preparing for tomorrow’s pilgrimage—’
‘No, it’s a Penance, Peter,’ Candice corrected him.
It was plain to Alan that neither of them took tomorrow’s big event even slightly seriously.
‘Oh, sorry, yes. He’s preparing for the Penance. With the dean and a group of disadvantaged youngsters from Stratford-upon-Avon—’
Candice was smiling as she cast her eyes to the ceiling and made a show of correcting him yet again. ‘No, Peter, it’s Stratford. Don’t you remember: east London, not the west Midlands?’
‘Well, anyhow,’ Flower continued, undaunted. ‘He can’t be here. He’s on his knees in some church hall somewhere, doubtless fasting.’
Alan was surprised that Candice allowed this: it was her husband he was caricaturing so unkindly. Stranger still, she was smiling, broadly.
* * *
The greetings were taking place in a temporary porch-like tent erected outside the old double doors of the converted 17th-century reed barn, which had probably been built to house dry reeds for thatching; or it may have got its name from its large reed-thatched roof, which had been beautifully restored with reeds cut on the farm. It also featured two sets of double doors, which appeared, so Alan reckoned, to be contemporary with the original build – which suggested to him that the barn may have served a dual purpose: for storing reeds and for processing crops such as wheat and barley, where a through-draft, provided by the two double doors, would have been essential. But Alan was impressed: they had done a splendid restoration – the brickwork had been cleaned and repointed where necessary, and even the floor had been surfaced with modern woven rush matting, which gave the space a more homely atmosphere.
Alan was looking up at the roof trusses, many of which were oak and original, when somebody called his name. He glanced down: it was Clare, who was walking rapidly towards him from a small group of people standing in the corner of the barn.
‘Alan.’ She beamed. ‘Come and meet my boss, the CPO. He’s dying to meet you.’ She kissed him on both cheeks. Then lightly she whispered in his ear, ‘He’s a huge fan of yours.’
David Harper was the chief planning officer and as they walked towards the group of three in the corner, Alan recognised him and his wife as the people ahead of him in the welcoming queue. The other person was Sebastian Cripps who was talking very earnestly to the CPO.
After the introductions, Harper asked Alan about the Fursey/Fursey connection.
‘Tell me quite frankly: do you accept it?’
Alan paused. This was going to be tricky with Sebastian alongside them.
As if reading his mind, Sebastian said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Alan. I’m far from convinced. It all seems a bit contrived: almost too good to be true. And why on earth would they then found another, much greater, abbey such a short distance away?’
‘That’s a good point,’ Alan replied. ‘But it was well over a thousand years ago and they didn’t apply the same rules as we do today. Take the Witham Valley, just outside Lincoln. There are abbeys and priories next to one another, like the rungs of a ladder: they reach right down the river valley and into the fen. And they’re far closer to each other than Ely and Fursey.’
‘But the place-name business.’ Harper was looking very sceptical. ‘That does seem a bit – how can I put it? – a bit convenient, if not, as Sebastian says, contrived?’
Alan sighed. ‘I must confess, I’m an archaeologist, not a place-names person and it’s fair to say that you could make such assertions fifty years ago and get away with it. Back then, people assumed that if a town or village had, say, a Saxon or Viking place name, then it was a new foundation. They chose to disregard the fact that people were perfectly capable of renaming existing settlements.’
‘Like old New York was once New Amsterdam?’ Harper’s wife added, as if miming to the song. They were all still waiting for tea, but somehow she had managed to find a glass of white wine.
‘Exactly.’ Alan nodded. He could not have put it better himself.
‘But do you accept the Fursey/Fursey connection?’ Harper asked.
‘It’s as good an idea as any, but no better than the original one.’
‘Which was?’
‘It was a bit complicated, but as I recall it was something to do with the Viking word for a “rump-shaped island”—’
‘Which describes Fursey to a T.’ Harper’s wife broke in. She turned to Sebastian. ‘So the Crippses own a rump-shaped island!’
She thought this very amusing – unlike Sebastian whose smile was distinctly strained.
‘It’s the same old Scandinavian word as Furness, as in Barrow-in-Furness,’ Alan continued. At least Harper was listening – and intently. ‘I think the actual word was futh, however you pronounce it.’
‘So that doesn’t exactly sound a like a clear link, does it?’ Harper asked.
‘No,’ Alan replied. ‘I agree, it doesn’t. In some ways Fursey is just as plausible.’
‘But you’re not happy about either?’
Alan smiled. At last, somebody understood. Sebastian looked blank.
* * *
Alan rose to his feet. His sheet of notes was still folded inside his breast pocket. Somehow he didn’t think he would need to refer to them. He knew damn well what he was expected to say, but he had just followed the CPO’s tipsy wife and had discovered where the wine was kept. It wasn’t hard to mime to a hired Latvian waitress that he needed two glasses of red for some aged relatives. Then rapidly he drank both of them – one to Stan’s memory, the other to his absent parents. He had, of course, already seen the plaque:
To the Memory of Stanley Gilbert Beaton, Archaeologist.
17 January, 1972 – 8 October, 2009
The precision of those dates had really struck home. That was Stan’s time on this planet, among us. Now he was gone and would never be coming back. Alan found the unforgiving finality horrible. But it had been made ten times worse by the now almost certain knowledge that his death was no accident, nor had it happened on some mad impulse. Everything was pointing to a well-conceived plan. There was no way this was manslaughter. No, it was murder, pure and simple. Manslaughter cannot be intentional.
Around him the room had grown quiet. All eyes were on him. Normally he would have looked away – to the curtained plaque behind him or to his notes – anything to avoid those eyes. But not now. He surveyed the crowd slowly and deliberately. At least one person out there had killed his friend and this was another chance to get them to reveal themselves. So far he had tried subtlety: gently probing, discreet questions, that ‘set-piece’ fiasco, to tempt them out. But none of them had worked. Now it was time to be more brutal. He rapidly pulled the notes from his pocket, glanced down at them, and began.
‘I first knew Stan Beaton when we were students at Leicester in the early 1990s. We went on many digs together and we became close friends. Very close friends.’ He paused. There was a huge lump in his throat. Alan was angry with himself: this was not what he had intended. He swallowed hard. He took a sip of red wine from a stranger’s glass and his resolve returned.
‘Stan’s speciality was the later Iron Age and Roman period, so when I heard he had started work here I was delighted. The area was known to be rich in archaeology, and if anyone could crack open its secrets, it was Stan. In fact, I visited him several times and we were in close, almost daily touch.’ Alan took another sip from the borrowed glass, his eyes scrutinising the audience closely as he spoke. ‘Not many people realise, even now, what he had discovered in and around Fursey and I’d like to use this opportunity to briefly describe his extraordinary achievement here.’
He wanted these words to sink in. While still observing the faces around him, he pretended to look at his notes. Then he put them away for good.
‘Stan Beaton’s revelations were extraordinary and I only hope the recent ill-judged staff reductions in the County and District Planning Offices will be able to protect the wealth of new sites that he discovered and that are still being revealed almost daily.’ Again he paused. There were murmurs towards the back of the room. Several press camera bulbs flashed. ‘Thanks to his research, we now know that the shore around Ely and the fringes of the pre-drainage islands, such as Fursey, were once dry, fertile plains. About the time of Christ, many of the pilgrims who will be taking part in tomorrow’s Penance would have been walking through fields of wheat and lush grazing, rather than wet fen.’ It was a slight exaggeration, but what the hell; he needed to make a point.
‘Stan’s work revealed that dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of previously unknown sites still lie around the edges of the higher ground. And make no mistake …’ Again he scrutinised the faces around him. ‘These aren’t ordinary sites. They haven’t been damaged by the plough, nor have they dried out in the two millennia since their burial. No, they are perfectly preserved. Everything will be, there: clothes, shoes, baskets, wooden boats, food, leaves, wool.’ He paused for effect. ‘Even human hair.’
As he turned slowly towards the plaque, he could see reporters scribbling frantically. What was it about human hair? It never failed to get people going.
He waited for almost a minute until the audience had quietened down.
‘Thank you, Stan, for all that you have given us.’
This was said quietly – a trick he had learnt from a schoolteacher. It worked. He examined the audience. Every face looked sad, reflective. John’s head was bent in prayer. Sebastian stood at the back, cleaning his nails with a penknife. The entire room was as still as a grave.
Then he pulled the cord.
* * *
After his short speech, Alan had everyone raise their glasses to wish Stan’s father a rapid recovery. Then Candice announced that food was available and suddenly the mood of the place lightened.
Alan headed straight for the buffet where he found all the archaeologists already piling their plates, while the other guests continued to mingle and network politely behind them. Even Harriet, who was normally a better networker than any of his colleagues, was there. Normally she would have been talking to friends and relations of the clients. She wasn’t a great fan of what was left of the archaeological ‘circuit’ – ‘circus’ she called it – and preferred to spend her time talking to ‘real’ people. It was a side of her that Alan didn’t really understand. He liked the world of archaeology and felt comfortably at home within it. He also wasn’t a party animal, whereas she loved meeting new people and delving into their lives. Before their earlier relationship had gone pear-shaped, he used to look forward to hearing what she had discovered after they’d been to a party together. He’d rarely have learnt anything new, whereas she always unearthed the most amazing stories. And yet, Alan thought to himself, I’m the one who spends my life unravelling mysteries.
But now here Harriet was, chatting amiably to Clare. He was seriously debating whether to join them or not when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round. It was Lew Weinstein.
‘I somehow thought I’d find you here, Alan.’
Alan swallowed back his irritation. Stan was his friend. Where else would he be? This was a matter of paying tribute, not a networking opportunity.
‘So how’s it going, the filming I mean?’
‘That’s what I want to talk about, Alan. There have been some big developments. Can we have a quiet word? It won’t take long.’
* * *
They sat down on two dry, but paint-spattered, folding chairs in an adjoining room that was still being decorated. The window was open a crack, which let in some welcome cool air. Alan saw the silent white of a barn owl as it swooped past in the gathering twilight.
‘As you know, Alan, the “live” was a huge success, and the big news is that T2 are keen to run a second live series before the summer gets underway.’
‘Blimey, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’
‘Not really. We’ve known for some time that focus groups have been telling us that the eighteen to thirty-five demographic wants to see more—’
Alan had had a bellyful of hearing about that particular ‘demographic’. He cut in.
‘And they can. But next year. It doesn’t have to be now, this minute, does it?’
‘I’m afraid it does – at least so far as that particular age group is concerned. As Charles Carnwath told me last week: if we don’t offer them something now, we stand a good chance of losing them next year – maybe forever.’
Alan sighed. He could do without it. He wanted to get on and be an archaeologist – to do some archaeology without the whole world watching his every move.
‘I suppose so.’
‘And then when Peter Flower phoned me last week with news of the Fursey Penance, I knew we’d found the right vehicle—’
‘For heaven’s sake, Lew.’ Alan had to interrupt. ‘You can’t possibly launch a full-blown “live” by tomorrow, because that’s when it all starts.’
‘We’re not planning a “full-blown live” for the Penance. We plan to use that as a come-on for the main show, which will start on Easter Monday. But earlier than the last series. We want to catch younger people before they go out. Saturday’s show will finish by half past six. The channel are very keen indeed, but do you think you’ll be ready?’ He was looking imploringly at Alan. ‘Please say yes.’
‘I don’t see why not …’ Alan trailed off doubtfully. Then another thought struck him. ‘But will it be possible to organise the production at such notice?’
The thought of another series of live shows was daunting, to say the least. What with the weather and the ceaseless stream of visitors, it had been a hard season so far. In fact, he was looking forward to a short break – not more intensive work – over the Easter holiday. But then there was another side to it, too. He thought about the speech he’d just given. Somehow he had to get the Cripps family to show their hand – to make a mistake. So far they had played everything superbly – whether by accident or design – but it couldn’t go on forever.
Alan never considered that he might be completely mistaken about the Crippses. Those days were long behind him and besides, Richard Lane was now backing him – clearly he had his suspicions too: hence his probing of Blake Lonsdale’s murky past. So maybe, he thought, I could use the second live series to stir things up. He knew only too well that there’s nothing like massive public scrutiny to increase tensions. His mind was made up; this time he was certain that something had to give.
‘It would be a shame,’ Alan continued, ‘if we don’t have familiar cameramen, for example. And there are practical things, too. New people would have to be trained not to walk all over the trenches.’
But Weinstein had answers for everything.
‘We’re nearly there already. All the familiar faces will be back. Speed’s joining us on Easter Day and Frank will be here soon. But you’re forgetting, we’ve had three days to work on it and so far we’ve managed to get almost identical crews and technicians to the first “live”. So more or less everyone knows precisely what they’ll be doing. It won’t be anything like as bad as starting from scratch.’
‘So what are you planning for the pilgrimage stuff?’
‘It’s tailor-made for the web and digital. So it’ll be featured big-time on 2-Much and on our website. In fact, it’ll start with edited clips of this party. It’ll provide a nice contrast with the fasting of the pilgrims.’
‘Fasting?’ Alan still didn’t know the precise details.
‘Yes,’ Weinstein replied. ‘The really devout ones are going to go without food for the entire weekend. Some have even started this evening. It’s all about a sincere penance for the corruption of modern life.’
‘Hmm, I doubt if many of them are bankers.’
‘But that’s not the point, Alan, and you know it.’ He took a bite from the buttered roll he’d picked up from the buffet table. ‘No,’ he continued when he’d swallowed. ‘It’ll finish the season with a bang, not a whimper.’
This surprised Alan. ‘A whimper? Why? Did ratings fall-off after the “live”?’
‘Yes, they did. Sadly, Slow-Cook Countdown wasn’t the success the high-ups at T2 had hoped. It lacked the immediacy of a celebrity bake-off. Whatever else you might say about them, the Beeb still do food shows better than anyone.’
Alan smiled. He had visions of Lord Reith turning in his gravy. Then he had a disconcerting thought.
‘And will Tricia be joining us again?’
‘Sadly we can’t persuade her. The people she’s signed up with won’t hear of it. They want her face to be identified with them, and them alone. It’s not uncommon in television, especially with up-and-coming talent. The old phrase was “for contractual reasons”.’
Alan was relieved to hear this. ‘So who else are you planning to get?’
‘Well, that’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you, Alan. Obviously we’ll have Peter Flower, and of course Michael Smiley is still available. I thought he did a very good job before, but was rather wasted chairing the studio panel on the last “live”. So we’ve asked him to present a series of fiveminute films on Fursey in History, which will be based around the new museum display.’
‘So do you plan to drop the studio panel altogether?’
‘Oh, no. It’s far too important, as a link. And we also need somewhere to put the new finds in context. So it’s staying, but now it’ll be chaired by Peter Flower. And he’s such a pro, he’ll have no trouble combining chairing with being a panellist, too.’
No, he’ll relish it, Alan thought. But he said nothing.
‘But with regards to who else we’ll have, I need your input. Who does the archaeology suggest to you? I gather there are more graves?’
‘Yes, right now the score’s eight. They’re currently being dug and studied by Harriet Webb and a graduate student of hers. I know Harriet’s done some television, but I don’t know how much. In fact, she’s here at the opening – at that corner table out there.’ He nodded in the direction of the door.
‘Do you think she could cope with a big role? I’m not saying we’ll get her to present, or anything like that, but we do need a robust foil for you. And you must admit, Tricia did that very well.’
‘Yes, I’m quite certain Harriet could do it, but …’
‘But you’re not sure she’d want to; is that what you’re saying?’
It wasn’t, but what the hell. Alan sighed heavily. ‘Put it like this, Lew, there might be reasons why she wouldn’t want to work with me. And it’s got nothing to do with TPC. It’s my problem entirely.’ Alan decided he’d said enough.
Weinstein frowned. He knew that much was riding on Harriet’s response.
‘Well, we’ll ask her now.’ He rose from his chair, then turned to Alan. ‘But please let me do most of the talking. OK?’
Alan nodded. They started walking.
‘And are Kaylee and Jake still with you?’
‘Yes they are.’
‘Excellent.’ Weinstein smiled broadly. ‘That’ll help with continuity. And they both acquired quite a following on our website during the “live”. I gather Kaylee’s now got a growing presence on Twitter.’
Alan smiled. She’d kept that one to herself.
* * *
Alan and Weinstein walked over to the group of archaeologists sitting at the corner table, eating voraciously and saying little. Clare had left them and returned to the CPO and Sebastian, who was now joined by his wife Sarah, and by Peter Flower. Even from the other side of the hall, Alan could see their discussion was intense. And their body language was interesting, too: Sarah and Sebastian seemed somehow more husband-and-wife than they normally did. Clare was looking on, slightly out of it. She glanced up, caught Alan’s gaze, and smiled.
Harriet hadn’t piled her plate as high as the others and had finished eating by the time Alan and Weinstein arrived.
‘Ah, Harriet, I’m Lew Weinstein. You might have heard Alan mention my name.’
‘Indeed, he talks about you all the time.’
‘Politely, I hope.’
‘Of course.’
She was smiling as she stood up. Weinstein was about to shake her hand, when she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Alan could see the older man greatly preferred that.
After they had found a quieter spot, away from the others, Weinstein told Harriet about their plans for TPC Live 2. He explained how the format would follow the success of Live 1 and would start on Easter Monday and run for six days, with the last episode early on Saturday evening. He went on to explain that there had been some minor changes in the line-up and he was hoping she would agree to ‘quite a prominent role’. Alan was expecting that she would be anxious about this – and not just because of their past personal problem. He was also conscious that she didn’t always feel completely happy about television work – which was strange, given that she had a natural, dignified, screen presence. Maybe it reflected her family’s quiet, upper middle class respectability: her father had been a successful solicitor in Grantham and had lived in a beautiful Georgian manor house on the edge of Dawyck Fen. It wasn’t the sort of upbringing that necessarily welcomed the harsh lights of television.
In the event, she showed no reticence at all when Weinstein described her new role. Quite the opposite, in fact.
‘Gosh, Lew,’ she replied. ‘That sounds wonderful. I must admit to being quite a fan of Test Pit Challenge, although when it was announced I did have misgivings. But the format really works. And best of all, it has produced some real surprises. I need hardly add that the first Fursey live shows were amazing. Candice Cripps tells me they surprised the family as much as the participants.’
And yes, Alan thought, that’s just what we need to repeat – only more so.
Harriet was looking genuinely delighted. Then she turned to Alan. ‘And I’m sure we could manage it together – don’t you, Alan?’
‘Er, absolutely. Yes, we could – we can.’
Blimey. He took a large gulp of wine. Suddenly his world had turned upside down. What did it all mean? Was it good? Bad? He had no idea. But it was certainly very different.
Alan thought he had concealed his confusion. But he hadn’t. Weinstein and Harriet were standing together, smiling at him. Suddenly Weinstein looked very serious.
‘Alan?’ He said this slowly. Portentously.
‘Yes, Lew?’
There was a short pause. Perfect timing.
‘You’re the worst bloody actor, I’ve ever seen!