Directly after the opening ceremony, Harriet returned to Cambridge. Alan, Jake and Kaylee had spent the evening in the Cripps Arms. Davey Hibbs had been there, plus one or two locals, who also enjoyed a couple of pints. In fact, Alan thought, as he popped two aspirins, we had a cracking good night. Drank rather more Slodger than was good for us; but he didn’t care – inside his head he felt more relaxed than at any other time during his stay at Fursey.
He rolled over and turned on the bedside light. It was eight o’clock on Good Friday morning. No need to leap out of bed, as Jake was supervising the dig today. Then he remembered: last night he’d agreed to give Weinstein, Frank Jones and Michael Smiley a quick tour of the site and the new museum.
Alan lay back on the pillows. He had arranged to meet his small tour party at 9.30, so there was no rush. Then his phone rang. It was his brother Grahame. He told Alan to turn on BBC1 who were covering the Fursey Penance all morning on their regional news programme, Face East. Alan jumped out of bed and ran through to the kitchen and turned on the TV. He had high hopes: maybe a real sinner will be attempting to atone.
He didn’t have to wait long. The five-minute clip showed some of the pilgrims filing out of a Victorian chapel, where they were individually blessed by the Fen dean. Then they formed into informal groups and made their way down to the river, where a flotilla of narrowboats was waiting to take them to Fursey for the start of the Penance proper. John Cripps was one of the last to leave the chapel. Like everyone else, he had just been given a white rucksack with a prominent red cross of St George. To Alan’s eye, John already looked tired and the prominent red cross looked odd and made him seem more like an England football fan, than a humble penitent. Despite Alan’s many misgivings, the Penance seemed to have gone down well with the crowds, which were growing all the time, despite the persistent rain.
* * *
Alan drew up in the car park alongside a nondescript Ford Focus estate, and as he climbed out he heard the Ford’s front door open and close. It was Michael Smiley. What a surprise: Alan had expected him to have driven a Bentley, or a Jag at the very least.
They shook hands.
‘Alan, it’s a great pleasure to meet you. I’ve been such a fan of your Fenland work. That survey of the dykes around Thorney was a real eye-opener. I had no idea the old Abbey Estate concealed such a well-preserved set of prehistoric sites. They were astonishing. Are they going to Schedule any of them?’
This was not at all what Alan had expected from the retired TV quiz show presenter.
‘Yes, I think they’re planning to. But first we’ve got to do a follow-up survey with a more detailed look into local conditions and conservation. There’s no point in protecting sites that are already drying out.’
Smiley was clearly fascinated. ‘No, that makes lots of sense. But how do you plan to raise water levels? That must be by far your biggest problem?’
Blimey, Alan thought, this is like a post-doctoral research seminar. Then, to his relief, another car pulled up alongside them.
Weinstein and Frank Jones got out. Alan noted a slight change in Frank’s demeanour since the first TPC ‘live’. He seemed a little less cocky and over-confident. Who knows, maybe he’d learnt from his mistakes? Maybe. Alan decided to be kinder, but not to let his guard drop.
Alan had hoped they might have a leisurely cup of coffee before heading for the museum, but Weinstein explained that that he and Frank would have to drive back to London sooner than expected. As Alan had suspected, organising such a big operation as a multi-camera ‘live’, at very short notice, was not proving simple. He also suggested that Frank and Alan should have a detailed discussion on Easter Sunday morning, as Charles Carnwath needed to see shooting script outlines for the first three episodes. Alan smiled when he heard this. Even Carnwath knew that trenches were never predictable. But he, in his turn, had to keep the top brass at T2 happy.
Alan had been busy with the trench extension for the previous two weeks, so hadn’t been able to see how the new museum displays were coming along. He’d written and checked all the labels for the earlier finds, but everything after the Norman Conquest was being handled by Peter Flower and a colleague in the history department at Cambridge. Being a good archaeologist, Alan decided to start his tour at the beginning of the story, with geology and drainage, but he had barely got started, when Weinstein’s phone beeped. It was a text. He sighed in exasperation as he read it.
‘I’m so sorry, Alan, half our technicians and the mixing truck are needed for a football match in Burnley. We’ll have to look around for a replacement for Day 1. Could you get us back to the car in fifteen minutes?’
‘That depends on what you want to see?’
‘Well, we’re looking for material to illustrate the short films that Michael here will be presenting.’
‘OK. So what periods do you plan to cover?’
‘Probably three on the Victorians and one on modern drainage problems. That should help make the place seem more exciting.’
‘And something on the Civil War, too,’ Frank added.
Alan looked at Frank closely. Had he heard something about the Curse of the Cripps? He hoped not, because it would be on TV screens nationally if he had. And that would undo everyone at Fursey’s efforts to improve the place’s local image.
‘ … And then finish with the Middle Ages.’ Weinstein was drawing to a close. ‘And of course we’ll need to cover the foundation of Ely Cathedral.’
‘And St Fursey?’
‘Naturally, Alan. We can’t do without our friend from Ireland.’ There was more than a hint of irony in Weinstein’s voice.
* * *
So, for fifteen intensive minutes, Alan led them round to the start of the gallery, which opened with a wonderful 3-D panorama of a woodland scene, complete with life-like trees and animals, and echoing birdsong in the background. The display was all about game and shooting culture in the Victorian upper middle classes. It featured three keepers, all wearing authentic tweed suits with Norfolk jackets from the storeroom at Fursey Hall, which also produced their green woollen socks and stout lace-up boots. He’d seen Joe Thorey wearing an identical outfit – and it had suited his arrogant manner. Each plastic man carried a 12-bore shotgun. Beside them were two realistic mannequins of country gentlemen, this time wearing authentic-looking, but ‘recreated’ clothes. Arranged discretely around them were stuffed pheasants, woodcock, snipe and English partridges. A water bailiff and his young assistant stood in the background, holding rods and keeping nets, plus four glistening salmon and sea trout dangling by the gills from a pole. In the foreground was an arrangement of carefully labelled traps and snares, ranging from the very large to matchbox-sized. There were also three reproduction Victorian ‘Wanted’ posters for well-known local poachers, plus a couple of photocopies of newspaper cuttings describing in graphic details the heartbreaking scenes in court when convicted felons were sentenced to transportation.
Alan immediately recognised all the labelled objects, which had been part of what had become a rather moth-eaten display in the old Fursey restaurant. When they closed, just before Christmas, all the items on display had been professionally cleaned and carefully restored by a firm of conservators in Cambridge. They were not returned until a couple of weeks ago. Each trap and snare was clearly marked in white ink with one of the estate’s display collection accession numbers, which were first assigned when Barty set up the shop and tea rooms, in the late 1970s.
The rest of the new museum was more informative, but it was also something of an anticlimax: mostly maps and objects. Alan realised that Candice, who had masterminded the new displays, had decided to spend the bulk of their budget on that eye-catching initial tableau. It was intended to hook visitors – and he had to admit, it did work. But the more he looked at it, the more Alan could see the hand of Candice behind it all. It was so carefully calculated. And it was projecting an image; there was no attempt to portray the social reality of the times. The wealthy squires were benign and didn’t dominate the display. And there were no women, either. No, Alan thought, that splendid display has been made to impress the rest of the family. It’s saying: you must all trust me. I’m on your side. Alan realised with a chill that she had taken control of far more than just the display budget. Alan was smiling as he turned away. Deep inside his head a voice whispered: Thank you for that, Candice. Her motives were as clear as the display they had created.
* * *
After about a 20-minute tour and hasty farewells, Weinstein and Frank scurried out into the rain and their car, and drove rapidly away. Alan and Michael Smiley strolled to the restaurant for a leisurely coffee.
The big room still smelled slightly of fresh paint and was largely empty as the first batch of the day’s visitors were still out on-site. Alan thought Smiley was going to discuss water levels again. But he didn’t. His first question took Alan completely by surprise.
‘I would imagine you’ve heard local tales about the Curse of the Cripps?’
‘Yes, but I can’t say I attach much importance to them.’
‘You’re probably right, Alan.’ Smiley was not living up to his name. He looked serious. ‘But this Thorey business, coming hard on the heels of your friend’s sad death isn’t helping.’ He paused to take a drink, then continued, slightly ominously. ‘And of course the disappearance of the banker, Hansworth, hasn’t been forgotten either. Us old boys remember that one very clearly.’
Alan wasn’t surprised. Hansworth’s death had only been six years ago, and it had made a big impact locally and regionally.
‘Oh really?’ Alan didn’t ask a direct question. He didn’t want to steer him in any direction: he knew that was the way to deflect fresh information.
‘Yes. And the searches for Thorey and Hansworth’s bodies were both so protracted, weren’t they? I can remember somebody saying that was the best way to wash off any clues.’
Alan was genuinely surprised at this. ‘So local people didn’t believe they were accidental deaths?’
Smiley finished his coffee, then sat back. ‘I’m accusing nobody. And of course tongues will wag. But you must admit the parallels are quite striking.’
‘Yes, they are.’
And you haven’t mentioned either, Alan thought to himself, that both Hansworth and Thorey had very close contacts with the Cripps family.
‘Anyhow,’ Smiley continued, ‘The rumour-mongers are gossiping as much as ever.’ He paused. ‘Worse, if anything.’
‘What, you’ve heard rumours over in Newmarket?’
‘Only among old fen fogeys like me. As I said, we all remember Hansworth. And then, of course, there’s all that stuff about the early days of drainage. And even after the war, the Crippses behaved in – how shall I put it? – in a very hard-nosed fashion. They showed little consideration for others. My great-uncle, for instance, paid an arm and a leg for the mill.’
Smiley signalled for two more coffees.
‘But I gained the impression it was left to him in a will?’
Alan knew from his research in the library that it had been sold, but he needed more information.
Smiley shook his head. ‘Good heavens, no! Far from it. He paid a small fortune for it and even when he’d bought it outright, we discovered later that the Crippses had retained all the riparian rights.’
Alan looked puzzled.
‘They’re the rights to access and fish along the river banks. It sounds ludicrous, but my cousin Derek, who after all manages the place, can’t even fish along his own Mill Cut without permission from Sebastian Cripps.’
‘And has he allowed him?’
‘Of course he has. He’s not unreasonable. But he’s never mentioned granting him the legal rights. He’s stayed well clear of that. Oh no, they remain firmly with the Crippses.’
‘That’s ridiculous …’ Alan shook his head.
‘And Derek is such a hard worker and a very kind man, too. I like him a lot.’ He paused before saying, ‘We’re all aware that those Crippses have patronised us Smileys for hundreds of years. We were always the people-of-trade; “mere” millers. I’m sure that’s why they didn’t part with the mill until they absolutely had to. The lump-sum Granddad paid went a big way towards paying off their death duty debts.’ He took a sip from his steaming mug of coffee. ‘But did they ever express any gratitude, any thanks?’ He shook his head in frustration.
‘But what about Barty?’ Alan asked. ‘He’s always struck me as a very reasonable sort of man?’
‘Yes, I think he is. But you won’t find him ever doing anything that goes against the family interest. As a younger man, he had a reputation for always being very close to his land agent. In my experience, those people tend to put business before charity.’
‘So do you think the current television and PR campaign is going to get rid of the myth?’
‘Maybe. To be honest, I don’t altogether care. If it kills the stories for the current generation, then that’s as much as we can expect – or hope.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, Michael, why are you taking part? You’re happily retired and you don’t need the work, surely?’
‘No, I don’t. Although I do quite miss the TV world. I like the people, especially the ones behind the cameras. But no, you’re right; I don’t really need the work.’ He paused briefly to collect his thoughts. ‘If you must know, I plan to approach Sebastian and Barty at the end of the shoot and ask them outright to give cousin Derek the permanent legal right to fish along his own river. It irritates him enormously having to ask permission every year. And it’s not as if he actually speaks to Sebastian; it’s all done through their bloody agent!’
Alan could see the elderly man was getting upset.
‘Really? Every year?’ Alan was amazed.
‘Yes. Just after Christmas he’s visited by the man from Sackwells’ Ely office, who brings along the form letter, together with a bottle of vintage port, which he gives Derek as soon as he’s signed.’
‘But surely there must be easier ways of doing it?’
‘I think subconsciously it’s Sebastian’s – or just as likely his wife, Sarah’s – way of maintaining rank and distance. The fact is, the mill’s doing very well these days, and I’d be surprised if Derek isn’t actually better off than Sebastian and Sarah. You’d be amazed how the cakes and flour fly off the shelves in the two baking boutiques they’ve opened in King’s Parade and Trinity Street.’
‘So they own them, do they?’
Alan had bought Danish pastries in both shops when visiting Cambridge in the past. And they were delicious, if rather pricey.
‘So when I’ve finished filming, and the programme is a success – as I’m sure you’ll make it, Alan’ – he said this with a big grin – ‘I’m going straight up to the hall and I’m going to ask Sebastian and Barty outright to give the Smileys the right to fish their own waters.’
Alan was fascinated. Smiley was an intelligent, educated man, who’d made a huge mark on the world, yet he was getting terribly het up over something as trivial as fishing rights for his relative. It was extraordinary: like listening to a conversation in a Trollope novel. But as the older man was speaking, he began to realise that such seemingly little things really mattered because they weren’t little at all. They were about deeply held resentments and long-running social inequalities. Ultimately, like so much else in life, they were about power, prestige and dynastic influence.
It came to Alan that logic, truth and justice were all irrelevant here. Even sense and reason took a back seat, when such feelings were involved. The trouble was, such profound motives could influence the least likely suspects. Short-term ambitions were far easier to read. Alan sighed: no member of the Cripps family could now be ruled out. Not even benign Barty.
Once they’d finished their coffee, Alan returned to his car and slowly eased out into the drive, while his mind continued to whirl. Was there more than just a superficial resemblance between the Hansworth and Thorey killings? There was, after all, the Cripps family connection. But there was something so similar about the MO, as Lane would have put it, the modus operandi, of both deaths. But then the victims were so different, too: a rich banker and a gamekeeper. The similarity of the MOs suggested the same murderer, but the contrasting victims implied different motives. So were the two events necessarily connected?
Then Alan had another idea. Maybe Hansworth and Stan’s deaths were somehow linked together? And what was the extent of Thorey’s involvement with Hansworth’s death? He knew he had picked up and cleaned the fishing tackle. But what else had he done?
The more Alan thought about it, the more it made sense. But it also followed that a double killer was perfectly capable of killing again, especially if he or she believed they were under threat.
* * *
It rained steadily throughout Good Friday. After the morning’s tour of the museum, Alan decided to stay at home and do some more work on Stan’s notes and drawings. It was now quite clear that the Iron Age occupation levels extended much further into the surrounding fen than anyone had suspected previously. Although stonework only occurred for a couple of hundred metres beyond the fringes of Fursey island, Alan reckoned that Romano–British fields and drove-ways continued beyond that for a very long way: maybe up to half a mile. And of course it had been prime grazing land; some of the best in Britain. Alan realised that the publication of Stan’s report would cause a huge sensation locally and in the wider archaeological world. Stan’s reputation would be assured forever. That made him feel a bit better. But only a bit. The way he had been treated was beyond cruel and inhumane. It was disgusting and Alan was still grimly determined to get to the truth.
All afternoon the television in the corner of the room had shown the pilgrims arriving at Fursey for the start of the Penance. Many were looking wet and bedraggled. As he worked, Alan could hear the man on the TV announce that earlier in the day two youngsters had dropped out. He walked through to the front room and looked out: there was still a steady stream of visitors turning into the Fursey Abbey drive. The Penance was proving a big draw.
Then the TV cut to a different scene. Now pilgrims were loading their white rucksacks from the pile of old building stone in the yard behind the abbey. People with clipboards were recording the number of stones taken by each person. Alan smiled, Clare had told him that English Heritage had insisted that this be done to minimise loss.
On the other side of the yard, some old farm sack-scales had been set up to weigh each filled rucksack. A qualified nurse then assessed if the weight was appropriate to the person carrying it. If she deemed it too heavy, they’d have to return to the heap and empty some stones out. Again, Alan was amused. Candice had told him that the nurse had been a condition set by the event’s insurers.
Having filled their rucksacks, the penitents formed a queue at the old pigsty gate, where another man with a clipboard, standing beneath a broad umbrella emblazoned with the name of the event’s sponsor (a big manufacturer of unpleasant lager), took down people’s names and the weight of their rucksacks, before recording the precise time of their departure. Then it was up to them to reach Ely without using wheeled transport of any sort. And that route had to be half on dry land and half on water. And, of course, nobody had reckoned on so much rain. Poor buggers, Alan thought, it really is going to be a penance for them. But what would they actually achieve, other than a couple of days’ self-delusion followed by smug satisfaction. Deep down, he felt emerging anger. So he turned back to his desk, frowning with concentration. Did he have any sympathy for them or what they were trying to achieve? Absolutely none.
* * *
Around midnight Alan walked rather unsteadily home through the rain from the Cripps Arms. It had been another good night and Davey Hibbs had been on particularly fine form. He was a natural clown and his mimicking of the pilgrims filling their rucksacks – he did it with packets of peanuts and crisps – got a huge laugh from everyone in the bar, including the lady vicar, who locals agreed was a big improvement on the previous dry old stick.
As he stood by the back door trying to discover which of the many pockets in his waterproof jacket held his keys, his phone began to vibrate. He looked at the screen. It was Lane. Suddenly Alan’s blood ran cold.
He pressed the answer button and waited for the news.
‘Alan, I’m at Smiley’s Mill. There’s been a terrible accident. John Cripps has drowned.’
Immediately Alan’s head cleared.
‘I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’
Rapidly Lane’s voice returned. Now he sounded like a policeman. ‘Not so fast, Alan. Have you gone to bed?’
‘No. Why d’you ask?’
‘You been to the pub?’
‘Yes, I’ve just got back.’
‘Well, you’re not bloody driving. Do you understand? I’ll be with you tomorrow morning, bright and early.’ He rang off.
Alan unclenched his left fist. It was tightly cramped. The Fourtrak keys had been in his grip all the time. He relaxed his hand – and now it hurt: the keys had bruised his palm. Stigmata.
Sod it, he thought, as rain started to trickle down the back of his neck: I’ll never forget this Good Friday midnight.
And he was right: it would stay with him forever.