Alan Cadbury was driving across flat, open fenland, broken only by leaning telegraph poles and isolated farmhouses. Each farm was accompanied by a bonfire, piled high with tyres, old pallets and the sort of farmyard rubbish that would cost a fortune to drop into a skip. It was going to be an explosive evening. It was 5 November, Guy Fawkes Night. Ever since he’d been a boy, growing up on a similar fenland farm, Alan had been made aware that Guy Fawkes had been a traitor and he was reminded that ‘the Fens were for Cromwell’. He remembered, too, how life-like the effigies had been and how neighbours, well-oiled with local ale, had cheered when the flames eventually reached them. But today the symbolism had gone. Now Bonfire Night was merely an excuse for fireworks. Alan sighed. Maybe it was for the best. History is sometimes best forgotten.
It was a dry Friday evening, after one of the wettest autumns on record. Already the night-time frosts were starting to enlarge the thousands of potholes that had become such a feature of the ridged and tilting local roads. He was in the peat fens, a few miles north of Ely. Briefly Alan had considered exchanging his diesel-guzzling old grey Fourtrak for a smaller, more economic car, but it would never have coped with these conditions.
Lane’s words were still echoing in Alan’s mind: River. Body. Stan. Although a mere 38 years old, Alan was no stranger to death. Just over 18 months ago, his work colleague Steve Allen had been killed in a tragic event when a brick-built cistern collapsed beneath his feet. It had taken Alan six months to get over the worst of it. And he still had flashbacks to that terrible scene in the old cow shed. He shuddered at the memory. But Stan Beaton is, no, was different. Very different.
They had been very close at university – but away from halls of residence and lectures. They were both more Town than Gown. For a brief moment Alan smiled. In their first year at Leicester their fellow students had dubbed them Fish and Chips, partly because that’s where they always ate, but also because they went so well together. Alan always claimed to be Fish.
‘And you’ve the eyes to go with it,’ Stan once said.
Alan shrugged, he wasn’t bothered. ‘You’re just jealous.’
There were times they didn’t need words. Alan felt his eyes reddening. He took a deep breath.
Stan decided to do the Romano–British option in their third year. Alan had focused on the Bronze Age, but they both shared a passion for fieldwork. They both believed that archaeology was over-obsessed with the study of objects and that you would never get to the truth about the past if you ignored site, landscape and setting. People don’t live in a vacuum: their surroundings shaped them. Objects – artefacts – helped humans react to each other and the physical world around them. But that was all. It was the wider stage, the setting, that concealed the real insights.
As time passed, they kept in contact, even though their careers had started to take them in slightly different directions. Alan became more and more interested in the later prehistory of the Fens, while Stan was fascinated by what happened to the rural population when the Romans invaded Britain. Maybe, Alan wondered, that was why they had remained so close: Stan valued Alan’s approach to landscape prehistory, which he himself was applying, but in his own way, to the slightly later period. In his heart of hearts Alan had envied Stan’s new project at Fursey: it had so much potential.
And that was what had been keeping Alan awake for the past few weeks, ever since Lane had phoned him that night. After his two visits to Stan at Fursey the previous summer and autumn, Alan had realised that his friend had stumbled across the ideal site for context. Because everything was still there, buried and preserved beneath thick accumulations of flood-clay. Everyone knew about the volcanic ash at Pompeii and Herculaneum, but this was really no different: just wetter. And at Fursey it had happened towards the end of the Iron Age and into Roman times – precisely the period Stan had been researching for 15 years. A wave of sadness hit Alan as he remembered the last time he had seen his friend alive – and that was the word for it: alive. Fursey meant that his career had taken off. And it was an opportunity that his friend was grasping with both hands. They both knew it would be the making of him. And Alan had been glad: very, very glad.
He pulled into a field gateway and allowed the emotion to wash over him. No point in fighting it. He didn’t know how long it was before he lifted his head from his arms folded over the steering wheel. He looked in the mirror: no tears. Even as a child he rarely wept. But he noticed his hands were shaking. Three deep breaths: time to get going. Ignition. Back on the road.
* * *
As he bounced across a particularly rough stretch of potholes, Alan recalled some emotional evenings when Stan had admitted he had a drink problem. Although Alan liked a few drinks himself, he realised that Stan’s problems were altogether different. After talking things over with a medical friend, Alan became convinced that moderation would never be the answer. It was a case of all or nothing. Eventually Stan agreed. Then he’d landed a good excavation project in the Trent Valley and booze became a thing of the past. Or that’s what Alan had believed.
Up ahead he could see the ruins of Fursey Abbey, which seemed far more spectacular than when he’d visited them first, the summer before last when the tall lime trees in the park had shaded and seemed to dwarf the monastic remains. That was over a year ago, but now, after several sharp October frosts, the leaves were mostly gone and the ruins seemed to have doubled in size against the infinite fens to the north.
Back then, his world had just been turned on its head: he’d had a terminal row with the only woman he ever felt any real affection for and his nice, secure job had blown up in his face.
He had first met Dr Harriet Webb on his previous case, which involved a death in Leicester and the excavation of the remote churchyard of St Guthlic’s in the Lincolnshire Fens. Harriet had been the human bones specialist and his codirector of excavations. Their relationship had been entirely professional at first. Then it had grown into something very, very special, which Alan had screwed up – entirely, he now recognised, because he was obsessed with a mystery and unable to control his own feelings. So she had left.
As he approached the abbey ruins, memories of that previous November’s visit came flooding back. It had been his first chance to examine one of the Ely islands closely and he’d been astonished by the steepness of everything: dry land islands seemed to dive into the black fen, and hills really were hills. It was so different from the north-western Fens, which he and Stan were more familiar with, where wet and dry blended together, almost imperceptibly, and where islands protruded at most a metre or two. They had laughed together after the tour: it was such a simple landscape to read. Stan, however, was worried that the wet fringes around the dry landscapes would be too narrow, because the ground was sloping so steeply. And it was these wet fringes that held the greatest archaeological potential. But Alan wasn’t so sure. Yes, in theory, Alan acknowledged, his friend was probably right. But in life and archaeology the truth is rarely that simple: glaciers and water can do the strangest of things; narrow fringes can become extended borderlands of seemingly infinite potential.
He slowed down and glanced at his watch. He knew from his two previous visits that Fursey Abbey was owned by the Cripps family who were aristocrats and substantial local landowners. They ran the Fursey Abbey project that had employed Stan to oversee the archaeological survey; so they were bound to have given him a big send-off – the invitation he’d received had been properly engraved; left to him, he’d have done them on his computer.
The family wouldn’t be back from the crematorium until noon and he didn’t want to stand around chatting to the local great and good, who were bound to be there, sipping cups of tea while glancing around to check who else was there. He detested that sort of thing; networking, they called it: all fake smiles and hypocritical ‘darlings’. He pulled over to the verge and turned the engine off. He thought back to that last time he’d seen Stan. Almost exactly a year ago, but then it had been foggy and wet. Stan showed him a couple of trenches that he was having trouble understanding, but together they had worked the sequence out. It was quite tricky: two episodes of back-filling, with an off-centre recut. Then they went down to the pub. He smiled at the memory: the Cripps Arms.
As they’d walked down to the pub, Stan spoke a lot about his not drinking anymore. Alan even offered to drive them both to a coffee shop in Ely. But Stan would have none of it; he wanted to demonstrate his willpower. He kept mentioning the project’s archaeological consultant, Dr Peter Flower of Fisher College, Cambridge, who, it seemed, had done a lot to help him. Stan had become a huge admirer of Flower – ‘such a kind and helpful man’ – a view that Alan most definitely didn’t share. The two of them had an unfortunate shared history. Flower had been the external advisor for his PhD at Leicester. The thesis had been on Bronze Age farming practices in Eastern England, in their European contexts, with special reference to the Fenland Basin. Everyone who had read it thought it superb, but not Peter Flower. That gilded Cambridge academic had other, more trendy, ideas. At the time, he was heavily into post-structuralist general theory and wanted the thesis raised above ‘the merely descriptive’. Alan had tried to argue that he had explained how the regional economies might have articulated, but no, that wasn’t enough for Flower, who wanted him to suggest ‘higher level resolutions’ – whatever they were. One evening, after a few too many beers, Alan phoned him at Cambridge and told him where he might want to shove his higher level resolutions. He still didn’t regret it, but that was the last time they had spoken. And thanks to Dr Flower, Alan was still Mr Cadbury.
Alan still detested the man, even after 14 years. Meanwhile, there was Stan, walking alongside him, singing Flower’s praises: how he had encouraged him to apply for the job and had found him a place in a rehab clinic. All Alan could think was that he must have had some nasty ulterior motive.
Once inside the pub, Alan had ordered a beer and then felt bad as he drank it. Stan was pointedly enjoying his long Virgin Mary with lots of Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce and tomato juice. Stan had spoken warmly not just about Flower, but Candice, too. Alan clearly remembered him saying how he liked the set-up at Fursey: the staff on the estate, the pub, the locals; it still had the feel of a traditional rural village. How they gave him time to set up his work.
‘I like to start things slowly,’ his friend had said. ‘No point in running before you can walk.’
Alan had smiled. It was like old times; his friend’s caution had returned. Booze had clouded his judgement, but now Alan could see he was thinking more lucidly.
‘So we’re following the drainage board diggers, recording sections and levelling them in. I did a crash course at the old tech in GPS. Turned out to be very useful.’
This was the Stan of Fish and Chips days. He was always going on ‘useful’ courses. And Alan was quite happy to pick his brains. Another wave of sadness hit him, as he remembered the rest of that afternoon in the pub.
Stan had described how he was about to start surveying in the deeply buried floodplain soils, just off the slopes of the abbey island. Alan knew all about river flood-clay – alluvium – and what it could conceal, especially around the fringes of those slightly higher areas of land. This raised ground would have seemed like seasonally flooded islands in the pre-drainage era. He was able to offer Stan a few useful practical tips. Towards the end of their lunch break, Alan realised that he had stopped worrying about Stan’s drinking and had begun to relax. He even bought a second round of drinks. Yes, he thought, it had been good. Very good.
His memories of Stan were suddenly interrupted by activity further down the road towards the village. It was the cortège of black undertaker’s limousines returning from the crematorium. He took a deep breath; time to make a move.
* * *
As Alan turned off the road into the short, tree-lined drive leading up to the buildings of what had once been a working farm, he was struck by the amount that had been done since he was there last. A large and very elaborate marquee had been positioned to obscure most of the building site, but Alan could see that work on converting the two barns was well advanced. The old restaurant and visitor centre, which had been squeezed into some 1950s prefabricated, concrete-floored piggeries, had been abandoned and partially demolished, although the old kitchen block still seemed to be in use. Stan had told him that the next year was going to see some major changes, and he hadn’t been exaggerating.
He walked into the marquee, feeling strangely confident. Normally such occasions were to be dreaded. But not this one. He knew exactly why he was here: to find out the truth about Stan’s death and this was where he was going to meet everyone who could have played a part in it. If real life had been a murder mystery, then he’d been given the final scene-in-the-library at the very beginning. It was a golden opportunity and he was determined to make the most of it.
He paused and looked around him. He was impressed. The Cripps family had gone to a lot of trouble to give their ex-employee a fitting send-off. Alan stood at the back of the small line of people who had arrived in the two limos, at the front of which, being greeted very warmly by Candice Cripps, who Alan had met on both his previous visits to Fursey, were, Alan assumed, Stan’s parents – there was certainly a strong family resemblance. Alan was struck by the contrast between Candice and the older couple. She was standing tall and upright, her shoulders back, very much the relaxed host at the big event. And she had the looks to pull it off: luxuriant long dark hair and a close-fitting mourning dress that could have graced a catwalk. Behind them, came a few other younger relatives. Alan stood back; he liked being a fly-on-the-wall and he enjoyed working out how human gatherings were organised. In fact, it was what had attracted him to anthropology and archaeology in the first place. And it was clear that Candice Cripps was running this show. Every so often somebody would whisper something to her and she would nod or tell them to delay; messages were also coming through on her phone. The outside caterers, who had clearly worked for her before, had a person standing permanently beside her. It put Alan in mind of a television crew, and she was very much the director.
When she had finished greeting the last of Stan’s relatives, a man in a dark suit and black tie handed her a cup of tea. He was about to leave when she took hold of his arm and to Alan’s surprise, then horror, they both walked towards him. Instinctively Alan looked over his shoulder, but there was nobody more important standing behind him. He had been the last guest to arrive.
‘Alan,’ she almost but not quite gushed. ‘Stop shrinking into the shadows. I want you to meet my husband, John.’
John was in his forties with the tiniest hint of middle-aged spread. He had an educated, but not over-precise, way of talking. Alan detected tradition, but tinged with modernity; his clothes and bearing gave the same impression. Alan also detected a privileged background, but not necessarily an easy life. There was something slightly tired about his manner.
‘This has been a tragic time for all of us.’ They shook hands as John spoke. ‘Stan was such a nice man, and although most of it was well over my head, Peter Flower assures me that his research was truly groundbreaking – if you’ll forgive the rather weak pun.’
‘And do you agree, Alan?’ Candice asked, almost imploring. ‘It matters so much to us here.’
Candice’s eyes were wide when she finished the question. Yes, Alan thought, it does matter to you, doesn’t it? The cynic in him detected self-interest – she and her husband were, after all, running the Fursey Abbey Visitor Experience – but he also thought he detected something else, something he at least could identify with: a love of the past and the people who inhabited it.
‘Yes, Stan told me quite a lot about his work. I was intrigued by some sherds of Iron Age pottery he showed me the last time we met. This wasn’t run-of-the-mill stuff. It included high-quality cordoned jars dating to the late BC, early AD, I even thought that one sherd might have been from an imported vessel. It looked quite similar to stuff I’d seen from Barry Cunliffe’s excavations at Hengistbury Head …’
‘But that’s in Dorset, isn’t it?’ John was now fascinated.
‘Yes, and it’s a very high-profile site indeed. In fact, it was a major port in early pre-Roman times, before Caesar’s two visits. Now, I’m not saying that Fursey is another Hengistbury, as that would be ridiculous – we’re too far inland here – but it’s perfectly possible that the top people living at Fursey had contacts with very high status communities elsewhere in Britain.’
‘Like Hengistbury?’ John suggested.
Alan was determined that the archaeological project should continue after Stan’s death. The site was potentially so important, he had to encourage their enthusiasm.
‘Or more probably Welwyn or Colchester, which were the main regional tribal centres in the late Iron Age. Colchester was, of course, the precursor to Roman London. So, yes, I think the site is potentially very important indeed. I’d have thought it was just the sort of project that people like English Heritage ought to be supporting …’
At this point a large man in a sober tweed suit quietly materialised alongside them. He smiled at Alan. ‘I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I thought it would be a good idea if we started to get things moving.’ He looked significantly at Candice. ‘The contractors will be here at six and I think Stan’s parents are looking very tired.’
‘Of course,’ Candice replied. ‘I’ll be right over.’ She turned to Alan. ‘Before you leave, Alan, I must have a quick word with you, is that OK?’ Her look suggested it was important.
John said quietly, ‘I think Candice wants your advice about the archaeological project. She’s a huge fan of yours, you know, she loves Test Pit Challenge. You can’t drag her away from the TV on Sunday evenings.’
Alan smiled, he was slowly getting used to the fact that he was becoming something of a very minor TV celebrity. The viewing figures for Test Pit Challenge had been steadily climbing year on year, and he was a regular member of the team. But John hadn’t finished.
‘That big man earlier was my brother Sebastian. Sorry about the interruption, but I think he’s a bit anxious about the wedding reception tomorrow. The groom’s a very important contact for the estate and the shoot: a major property developer from London, and everything’s got to go smoothly. We can’t afford any slip-ups.’
Things were beginning to make sense for Alan.
‘That’s a relief, for one moment I thought you’d hired this smart marquee specially for Stan’s wake.’
John smiled. ‘No, but it seemed a terrible shame not to use it. And I have to admit, Candice was right; it’s ideal, isn’t it?’
Alan was forced merely to nod his assent, because Candice had just asked everyone to be quiet to allow Stan’s father to say a few words of thanks. It was time for the formal speeches.
* * *
Stan’s father described a young man who was rather different from the Stan Alan had known at Leicester. He’d toyed with joining the Church at the time of his confirmation and had even contemplated taking up medicine, but was daunted by the science. He was a boy who was also good at sports, but one who never seemed to enjoy winning. Beating somebody else gave him no satisfaction. Was this a strength or a weakness? Alan was in little doubt: it was why they had become so close. Fish and Chips. All those years and some grim sites together. Typical bloody men, Alan thought, we never discussed ourselves. And was he regretting it now? Did he wish that they’d both shown more of their more sensitive, ‘feminine’ sides? No. Absolutely not. He was certain of that; some things are best left unsaid.
When Stan’s father had finished, Candice stepped forward. ‘And finally, my friends, my husband John would like to say something about how we plan to remember dear Stan.’
John Cripps rose and explained that the new restaurant and shop would be in the Victorian cow barn and the Stan Beaton Museum and Archaeological Research Centre would occupy the much larger 17th-century reed barn. Both buildings were on schedule to open at Easter. The entrance lobby to the museum would include a plaque in Stan’s memory, together with a picture – he held it up of Stan smiling slightly shyly – taken during last summer’s excavations.
At this point waiters appeared with glasses of Champagne.
After the toast to Stan’s memory, Alan looked around at the throng. His eyes narrowed: there was Peter Flower. He had barely aged since they had confronted each other across the table at his PhD interview. His paper-thin smile concealed a cold man, certain of his own infallible authority. He was in deep discussion with John and Lew Weinstein, executive producer of Test Pit Challenge. Small world. Alan hadn’t expected to see him here, although he knew he had been at Cambridge with Peter Flower. He noticed Candice pointing across to him and his heart sank as someone tapped his shoulder. He looked round and found he was staring into a green tweed waistcoat. The very large man was, of course, Sebastian Cripps, John’s brother, who currently ran the estate.
‘We meet again, Alan.’ The voice was slower, calmer now. ‘I’m Sebastian, as John no doubt told you. And this is Sarah, who manages me, my life and the estate.’
‘No, Bas, you exaggerate,’ she broke in. ‘I merely oversee the shoot and make the tea.’
The lady who stood before Alan, was in her mid-forties and, despite being smaller than her husband by some six inches, now dominated the conversation. Her smile was judiciously broad, but her well-made-up eyes had a steely stare. She had a neat figure and Alan reckoned she was very fit. Her hair was fashionably blonde, but grey-brown eyes and darker eyebrows suggested she was naturally brunette. Her voice could best be described as unpretentious Sloane: a few ‘OK, yahs’, but certainly not gushy. To Alan, her way of talking suggested private education, tempered by the reality of running the shoot: essentially a small business in the early 21st century. Privileged, but realistic – possibly even ambitious.
‘I’m so sorry I interrupted you just now. I hope you didn’t take it amiss, but it’s essential that we keep to schedule, and dear John and Candice do so love history. I was worried when I saw they had started talking to you, that they’d never stop.’ Sebastian spoke quite fast. It was as if he was used to saying a few well-chosen words to many different people at gatherings such as this. But Alan also detected just a hint of shyness or reticence. Despite his size, this was not an over-confident man.
Alan was keen to put him at his ease. ‘Think nothing of it. I fully understand: you had to get things going. And I should warn you, we archaeologists love to talk, so you may well have to throw some of us out when the time comes.’
‘No, I’m sure it won’t come to that.’ He paused, obviously trying to work out how to steer the discussion in a slightly different direction. He clearly wasn’t a very comfortable conversationalist. ‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I didn’t want you to think that somehow I wasn’t interested in history. Like Candice, I’m a keen follower of Test Pit Challenge and I firmly believe that a society only holds together if it shares a common past.’
‘So what aspect of history interests you?’
His reply was not what Alan had expected. ‘I know that the goings-on at Court were always very exciting and I understand why television costume dramas love them so much, but I could never identify with what was happening far away in London. Somehow it all seems – no seemed – so remote.’
‘Rather like today?’
‘In fact, if anything, things are getting worse, not better. Westminster is more haughty and remote than it has ever been.’ This was certainly not what Alan had expected to hear from a tweed-suited country gent. ‘So I’m far more interested in landscape history …’
‘W.G. Hoskins?’ Alan broke in.
‘Absolutely.’ Sebastian’s eyes came alight. ‘Wonderful book. I must have read it a dozen times. No modern authors can touch it. And a few have tried.’
‘Yes, sadly – and at enormous length. And of course your family comes from the one English landscape that has changed more than any other.’
Rather to his own surprise, Alan found he was enjoying their conversation. He always liked meeting people who had discovered history for themselves. Their take on the past was always far more creative and unusual – if not always academically kosher or PC.
‘I know, and I do get fed up when people dismiss the Fens as flat and boring. Those old dykes out there have witnessed more history, drama and excitement than many a town or city.’
Alan could forgive the slight hyperbole. He shared Sebastian’s enthusiasm.
‘So although I’m a staunch Royalist, I’m also a huge admirer of Cromwell.’ Again, this was unexpected from a fully paid-up member of the landed gentry. ‘Without Cromwell’s reforms and the release of capital tied up in the useless, self-indulgent and thoroughly corrupt monasteries, the Fens would never have been drained. Were you aware, for example, that the Duke of Bedford made use of funds derived from the Dissolution of Thorney Abbey to …’
His flow was broken by Peter Flower, who, together with Lew Weinstein and John, had just joined them. Weinstein looked slightly embarrassed, but Flower, as ever, was master of the situation. He adopted a school-masterly tone.
‘Oh, come now, Sebastian, you know the history’s not as simple as that. We’ve discussed it over and again, but you won’t listen to reason.’ He was smiling hugely, as he refreshed both their glasses. ‘When you climb onto your hobby horse, there’s no holding you back, is there?’
This annoyed Alan. He hated academics who patronised. But to his surprise, Sebastian was only slightly embarrassed.
He turned to Alan as he began to withdraw. ‘Peter’s quite correct. I love the Fens and their history and I’m inclined to get a bit carried away. Now, I think you all have more pressing matters to discuss.’
And with that he left and, as if choreographed, Candice materialised, joining their small group.
Slightly at a loss, Alan started the conversation. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you here, Lew – I didn’t know you knew Stan?’
‘Sadly I didn’t, and it does seem a real tragedy that he died. But I’d been seeing my friend Peter in Cambridge’ – he turned towards Flower – ‘and he suggested I come along here …’
There was the briefest of hesitations before Flower finished the sentence. ‘To see you, Alan.’
Alan was aware they were all looking at him. ‘Bloody hell, what have I done?’
That lightened the mood, and they all chuckled before Flower resumed. ‘Alan, we four fully appreciate that you have every reason to dislike me and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if at the end you told me to get lost. But I would very much like to say that I regret what happened. At the time I was completely convinced that my suggestions were reasonable, but now I have to confess I have become less certain about many things in life; and your subsequent work has shown that you are the most able prehistorian currently working in the Fens. So I intend to do my very best to make up for what happened fourteen years ago.’
Alan was taken aback. And, yes, it had been 14 years ago. He was astonished that Flower remembered with such accuracy something that Alan had expected he would simply have shrugged off.
John seemed to have taken on the role of chairman. ‘Thank you, Peter. That was well said.’ Then he turned to Alan. ‘I know this might seem a little strange, given that Stan was taken from us barely a month ago, but we all agreed that he would have wanted us to approach you, Alan. The thing is, he spoke very highly of you indeed, and your two visits here a year ago did a great deal to raise Stan’s morale.’
‘That’s right,’ Flower cut in. ‘As he said to me, you were the only person currently working in the Fens who had any experience of the huge complexities of the sort of deeply buried deposits he was just starting to encounter. As you know, I worked with him on the first draft of the Fursey project Survey, which I also helped him edit.’ Alan smiled, he was aware of Stan’s dyslexia. ‘And I’m sure it’s going to make a big impact when it reaches English Heritage.’
‘When do you plan to do that?’ Alan was genuinely interested.
‘With luck, before Christmas. But I need someone to write a general overview of prehistoric research in the region. I’m very aware that at present the project sits in splendid isolation. It desperately needs archaeological context.’ As he said this he fixed Alan with what might be called a significant stare. Alan pretended not to notice. Flower continued, ‘Anyhow, I slipped an early draft to Lew here, who was, I think it’s fair to say, rather excited.’
Weinstein smiled broadly. ‘No, Peter,’ he said. ‘That’s not right. I was wildly, not rather, excited. We media folks are less restrained than the residents of Second Court.’ He turned to Alan. ‘Peter’s still in Second Court and we had rooms opposite one another in …’
‘K Staircase,’ Flower broke in to remind him.
‘That’s right. Also in Second Court, at Fisher …’
‘But back in the Bronze Age,’ Flower interjected, smiling broadly.
‘The thing is, Alan.’ It was Candice’s turn to speak. ‘I have long thought that the story of the abbey would make a good topic for a television programme and I tried to persuade Stan to have a word with you. But he seemed reluctant. I mentioned it one day to Peter, who you should know has been the Fursey project’s historical consultant …’
‘And this includes archaeology, Alan,’ Flower interjected, and they both smiled. Archaeology and history have not always been very comfortable bedfellows.
But Candice would not be diverted. ‘… Since Fursey Heritage Development’s first board meeting back in June, 2006. He co-ordinated all the early surveys and a year later it was he who suggested we hire Stan, after, that is, we’d received our first English Heritage grant.’
‘Yes,’ Flower added, ‘that was three years ago. And I’ve never had any reason to regret the decision. I concede it would have been nice to have had mainstream television involvement, but that was not to be. I think we all respected Stan’s decision.’
‘Indeed,’ John added. ‘The important thing was the research, and Stan was doing a superb job. Our visitor enterprise …’
‘You mean the restaurant and the farm shop?’ Alan wasn’t quite clear.
‘Yes.’ John continued, ‘They were doing quite nicely thank you, largely due to the top-quality produce from the farm and, of course, Candice’s magic in the kitchen.’
She ignored her husband’s flattery and added, ‘But even so darling, we both knew we weren’t making enough of those magnificent abbey ruins, so the archaeological project came along at precisely the right time.’ She turned to address Alan. ‘You see, somehow we’ve got to build up our local trade.’
Weinstein glanced down at his watch, then said to Alan, ‘I’ve got a big meeting at T2 tonight, so if you’ll forgive me I must, er, cut to the chase. Peter has completely sold me on the project, but it was immediately clear to me that it’s far, far bigger than one of our normal fifty minute shows. So I’ve been thinking about other formats; in fact, that’s what I’ll be discussing with our commissioning editor at T2.’
‘So what sort of format are you thinking about, Lew? Something live, or maybe a longer doc or mini-series?’
‘All of those things, Alan, but the channel have made it crystal clear that whatever we negotiate with them, we have got to retain the successful dynamism of the TPC brand.’
Whenever Weinstein used the acronym, Alan knew he was getting serious. ‘Do you mean the logo, the sig tune, the theme music – that sort of thing?’ Alan queried. He had doubts. He didn’t like the corporate world and this sounded too heavily branded and marketed.
Weinstein could see he had misgivings. ‘Obviously all those things, but they stressed that the programme is as much about the people doing the research as the research itself. We must retain archaeological credibility. So obviously Craig will continue as presenter, but we also need regulars from the current series and, of course, you are one of them. In fact, your shows in series three consistently rated above average with the viewers. You may not be aware of it, but you’ve become quite a big name on Twitter …’
‘Oh, no …’ Alan couldn’t conceal a groan.
‘Yes, Alan, there’s even a person out there who tweets as @AlanFrown.’
Alan was aware that he had a ‘trademark’ frown when he was confronted with an archaeological problem on camera. From time to time he’d tried to get rid of it. But it always returned.
Weinstein continued, ‘Last time I looked, he had 4,000 followers.’
‘I don’t believe it!’
‘So we want you to be the Test Pit Challenge archaeologist …’
Alan had to interrupt. ‘Lew, that’s very flattering. But archaeology isn’t like that. I’ve got nothing official to do with the project here; I can’t just swan in and pretend I’m a dig director, when there’s somebody else doing the job. That would be phoney; and anyhow, I wouldn’t do it.’ He paused for effect. ‘Either I’m in charge, or I’m not.’
John and Flower both started to reply, then Flower gave way. ‘No, Alan,’ John said. ‘We all agree with Lew. Peter thinks you’re the right man for the archaeology, Candice and I think you’d fit in very well here at Fursey. And that’s why we’d like to offer you the job of archaeological director.’ All eyes were now on Alan. He knew it was quite straightforward: archaeologically Fursey was extraordinary. Unique. In a class of its own. If their offer was just a simple proposition without any extraneous complications, Alan would have grabbed the chance with both hands. Plus, he needed the work. But, though the job appealed to him archaeologically, despite Flower’s earlier kind words, Alan deeply distrusted him, and that aside, emotionally there were huge problems: he felt uncomfortable about stepping into a close friend’s shoes – and so soon after his death. Then he thought of a simple practical problem, which avoided the need for any emotional discussion. ‘What about the new English Heritage grant, won’t they insist you advertise the position?’
‘No, they won’t,’ Flower replied. ‘They agree the most important thing is experience of deep Fenland stratigraphy. Stan had it, but not as much as you. I’ve already spoken to the EH inspector and the regional scientific advisor and mentioned your name in confidence, and they both approved heartily.’
John Cripps stepped forward and shook Alan’s hand. ‘Look, Alan, you don’t have to make your mind up this minute. Here’s my card. Give me a ring in the next week or so. Then we can meet and discuss practical details. We’d like to see the project started in the New Year, if possible. And now I must take Lew to the station and Peter back to his ivory tower in Cambridge.’
* * *
Alan was lost in thought as he watched the three men hasten towards the exit. Instinctively he glanced down at his watch. He hadn’t noticed Candice was still there, so her voice close by his left shoulder came as a surprise. ‘Don’t worry, Alan, they’ll make it. In all our years together, I’ve never known John miss a train yet.’
There was a short pause while they both surveyed the people around them. Alan was still feeling rather dazed by what he had just been told.
Candice continued. ‘I know you knew Stan quite well at uni, but did you ever meet his parents?’
‘No.’ Alan smiled ruefully. ‘Things in those days weren’t like they are now. We were students in the late ’80s and early ’90s, and in those days nobody admitted to having a family. Somehow it wasn’t cool.’
‘Same here.’ She smiled, looking around her. ‘Look, they’re over there, just beyond the buffet, talking to the Head Keeper, Bert Hickson. He was the poor man who found Stan’s body. And he’s with John’s father, Barty. Follow me, I’ll introduce you.’
As they drew nearer to the buffet another large man, although not quite as massive as Sebastian, was pretending to wring out an empty bottle of Champagne into his wine glass. He was wearing a freshly-pressed Norfolk jacket with matching tweed knee-breeches. He looked every inch the Victorian gamekeeper. With him were two other tweed-clad keepers and several estate workers.
‘Hey, Mrs Cripps. Do you have a mangle we could put this bottle through?’ he called across to Candice as they passed.
It wasn’t funny, especially given the occasion, but the people around him smiled, and Alan could see he had quite a following.
‘Thank you, Joe. I get the hint, but I’d remind you, this is a wake, not a party.’ Alan could see she was having trouble concealing her irritation, so she changed the subject. ‘Have you met Alan Cadbury?’
‘No, missus, us folks wants drink, not chocolate.’ This was delivered in a terrible Somersetshire accent, complete with forelock tugging. His audience had gone quite quiet. Even they couldn’t believe what they were hearing.
If that had been me, Alan thought, I’d have hit him. But Candice handled it well. She put on the voice of an irritated primary school teacher.
‘Mr Joe Thorey, you are a disgrace. Now I want you to be serious for a moment.’ She turned to Alan. ‘Alan here is an archaeologist who knows a great deal about the Fens, and was a good friend of dear Stan.’ Alan could see Joe was about to attempt another stupid remark, but Candice was too quick for him. ‘You may have seen him on Test Pit Challenge.’
The mood of the group changed.
‘Yes, I thought his face was familiar …’ someone said.
‘So did I,’ another replied. ‘Couldn’t think where I’d met him.’
Joe stared at Alan. Alan stared back.
‘Can’t stand silent broody types. I hope you’re a bit more talkative than Stan.’
Alan bristled. Candice put her hand on his arm.
‘Joe, that was unnecessary. I think it’s time you went home.’
By now his audience was wide-eyed. Two of the young women covered their mouths with their hands. One man muttered, ‘You asked for that, Joe.’
But Candice had already turned away. As they walked across to Stan’s parents she whispered to Alan, ‘That man always goes too far. If it were up to me, I’d have sacked him long ago, but Sarah and Sebastian say he’s a superb head keeper and the estate shoot has never done better. But even so …’ She was clearly very angry. As they approached the group by the buffet, she said quietly, ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll introduce you and then leave. I’ve got to start getting things ready for the reception. Anyhow, it’s been great meeting you, Alan, and I’m sure we’ll be hearing from you soon.’
* * *
After Candice had left them, the atmosphere in the small group with Stan’s parents became less formal, despite the fact that her father-in-law, the 3rd Baronet Arthur Cripps of Fursey – generally referred to as Barty – was with them. Alan didn’t know it then, but it was typical that the elderly aristocrat should choose to look after the three people most affected by Stan’s death: the deceased man’s parents and the ex-soldier, who found the corpse. Hickson had clearly been much affected physically and mentally by the shock, but Alan detected strong self-discipline: he was determined to get better.
‘Can I get you a chair, Mr Hickson?’ Alan asked. He was genuinely concerned.
‘No, that’s all right, thank you very much, Mr Cadbury. I’ve got to relearn how to stand on my own two feet.’
‘And you hope to throw away that stick in a month or two, don’t you, Bert?’ It was the kindly baronet.
‘Yes, I do, sir.’ He paused, then added, ‘With a bit of help.’
‘It must have been a horrible shock for you.’ Alan said. ‘I’m so sorry. I know dear old Stan would not have wanted it. He was a lovely bloke.’
‘So you knew him well?’ The baronet enquired.
‘We were at university together and were old friends.’ By now Alan was unable to contain his curiosity. He might never again get the chance to question the man who actually discovered his friend’s body. ‘But tell me, were there any obvious major injuries that could have caused the death: a blow to the head, that sort of thing?’
It was a bold question. Hickson stared back at him, open-mouthed. Stan’s mother grabbed her husband’s arm and looked away. Stan’s father looked appalled. Then Baronet Cripps intervened. ‘I fear grief has affected your judgement, Mr Cadbury. You must forgive us, but we, too, are having problems coming to terms with Stan’s accident. I think such direct questions are probably best left to the authorities at this early stage.’
Alan felt mortified. He had behaved like a complete idiot.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Hickson, that was unforgivably insensitive. It’s just that … I want to do the right thing by Stan.’
The older man looked up and attempted a smile. But it was Barty who stepped into the breach. ‘Alan,’ he said, ‘Jack and Dorothy have been very worried about what is going to happen to Stan’s notes and papers. As you may know, he was a great deal more than just a working archaeologist. Archaeology was his entire life.’
‘Yes,’ continued Jack Beaton. ‘He was always out tramping the fields on weekends and his room at home is quite literally stuffed with notebooks and boxes.’
Alan tried to conceal it, but he’d had more than his fair share of notebooks and boxes recently, having just finished writing-up his two previous projects at St Guthlic’s Church and the DMV (deserted medieval village) at Impingham. Admittedly, he’d been paid by English Heritage to finish off these two projects, one of which had ended unexpectedly, but even so, he was now keen to get out of the office and back into an excavation. The last thing he needed was what sounded like a rather routine literary executor task.
The baronet seemed to detect Alan’s hesitation. ‘No, don’t worry, it isn’t urgent at all, and will probably keep until next autumn. You see, Stan and Peter Flower have completed writing the report on earlier research at Fursey and we’ve decided to publish it ourselves. We’ll be able to sell it in the museum and farm shop here and the money it raises can then go straight back into the research. I’ve discussed it at length with John and Candice and both are agreed on that.’
‘That sounds very generous.’ Alan was genuinely impressed.
‘It’s a wonderful idea,’ a familiar voice said from just behind him. Alan turned to catch the smiling face of Clare Hughes, the county council archaeologist. ‘And I’m sure the county can do something to help. Maybe with publication?’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ The baronet was clearly a fan of hers. ‘That would be splendid. Most welcome.’ He paused, frowning, then turned his full gaze on Alan. ‘So the three – no four – of us think this a wonderful opportunity to provide Stan with a lasting memorial, something that most archaeologists will have on their shelves.’ He swallowed. ‘In a very real way, Stan will continue to be among us.’
By now Dorothy was sobbing quietly on her husband’s shoulder and Alan was feeling thoroughly ashamed of his earlier reluctance to help them out. He must make amends. He turned to Stan’s parents. ‘Look, why don’t I come over to see the extent of Stan’s archive? I’ve been confronted with stacks of notebooks and piles of boxes before, and very often they’re not so hard to deal with, especially if the person who was responsible for them was methodical. And we all know that Stan was nothing if not methodical.’
Alan glanced at Clare, who was looking serious, but nodding in approval.
Dorothy wiped her eyes and pulled out a pale-green diary from her handbag. ‘How about this Sunday – for lunch?’
Alan pretended to look at a non-existent calendar on his phone. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’
As Alan finished speaking, the gathering was called to order. It was John Cripps. Candice was standing beside him, her hands clasped in front of her, her head slightly bowed. Her pose told Alan what was likely to come next. And he was right. Instinctively he felt resentful: he detested the Church and churchiness, but almost immediately he felt ashamed of himself; on this, of all occasions, surely religion could play a part? He found that his head, too, had bowed.
‘My friends,’ John Cripps’s voice declared. ‘We could not meet together to celebrate Stan Beaton’s life without also praying for his immortal soul.’
To his left Alan could sense Stan’s parents were both weeping freely. He detested the phrase, but he hoped the grieving process would eventually bring them relief, if not closure.
Then the Vicar started to read from the Book of Common Prayer. Her voice was clear and firm.
‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word.
For mine eyes have seen thy salvation.’
Salvation? What salvation? The familiar words of the Nunc Dimittis were having an unexpected effect. Alan could feel Stan standing alongside him. Had Stan been seeking some kind of salvation through drink or suicide? The idea was so ludicrous that Alan almost cried out at the sheer injustice. Stan was, above all else, rational. He was sensitive, too, and wouldn’t knowingly have put his parents through the hell they were now experiencing. Suddenly, deep, deep inside him, he realised that Stan’s death wasn’t suicide, nor an accident. He had never ‘departed in peace’.
Alan was angry. But he was also at last weeping – freely.
* * *
It was getting late and the afternoon light was starting to fail as Alan crossed the car park, still occasionally wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He climbed aboard the Fourtrak and glanced at his watch: 3.30. He was running 15 minutes late and he knew Detective Chief Inspector Richard Lane hated being kept waiting. He put his foot down and swore under his breath as the rear wheels skidded on the loose gravel. Several people looked up at him, startled. Oh shit, he thought, that was not the way to be seen leaving a close friend’s funeral. He could imagine Stan up there, staring down at him, grinning hugely. He’d always loved a good cock-up.