One or two late daffodils were just coming into flower beneath the budding lime trees that lined the avenue leading up to what had once been Abbey Farm, but which Alan reckoned now looked more like a motorway services, what with the builders, their trucks and the morning delivery vans. It was the first Monday in April and Alan was keen to introduce Steve Grant, the new manager, to the digging team before the next round of filming. He arrived at the back door of the farm shop to scrounge his usual early morning mug of coffee, only to find Candice and Steve were already sitting there waiting for him. His mug had been freshly filled and sat steaming on the table.
They asked him how he thought things could have been improved over the past few weeks. Alan didn’t want to sound negative, but he did mention that aspects of crowd control hadn’t been too good, especially during the live filming. Steve listened intently. It was plain to Alan that he knew his stuff. He also knew where to hire or buy the necessary equipment. But they couldn’t do anything without an efficient comms system around the farm shop, museum and abbey. Alan mentioned the one used by New Ideas Productions. Steve nodded; he knew all about it. Apparently it was fine if you needed something temporarily, but it was expensive and not always robust enough for day-to-day use. The system he had in mind was actually more powerful, a bit more economical, and the handsets were far lighter. All in all, Alan was impressed. Candice was smiling broadly, too: they had made the right decision when they called in HPM.
After Alan had introduced him to the archaeologists in Trenches 1 and 2, Steve said he had to make arrangements for the press conference for the Fursey Penance and headed back to the site office, which had recently moved out of the Portakabin and into new purpose-built facilities in one of the converted Victorian farm buildings. Alan had sneaked a view of them on Friday afternoon. They were very impressive: they even had an ante-room which was lined with stout coat hooks and fitted trays for wellies and muddy shoes. Alan had smiled: the ‘new’ Fursey was going to be something special. Then he had looked out of the brand-new double-glazed window at the old, long-abandoned pig sties, which were in the process of being demolished. Moss-covered bricks and old breeze blocks lay on the ground with pieces of angle iron and fragments of asbestos roofing. A depressing sight. He wondered how long it would all last. There was something panicky, almost desperate, about the whole pilgrimage/Penance business. It was done in such a hurry. Were they really that worried about a small dip in visitor numbers? Wouldn’t it have given them a chance to improve facilities on-site in a controlled way? Deep down, he knew something wasn’t right. And he was growing more convinced of that every day that passed. Penance suggested guilt, somewhere deep within the Cripps family. There was no getting away from that. The question was: who was guilty?
* * *
The press conference was scheduled to start at 9.30, to give local TV and radio reporters time to get the story back for the midday and evening news bulletins. But Alan had decided to stay well clear of it, and had arranged to meet Clare Hughes so he didn’t have to attend. He found the whole Fursey/Fursey thing more than a little strange and couldn’t understand why seemingly sane, rational people were getting their knickers in such a twist about it.
The press release had stressed abstinence and effort. It read like a medieval monk’s manual. ‘Our aim is to achieve purity of mind through fasting and strenuous physical labour.’ It was a simple vision, but one that seemed to appeal. Alan also slightly resented his and Stan’s archaeological research being hijacked by a load of toffee-nosed Cambridge academics who should have known better. And, of course, it gave him yet another reason to dislike and distrust the ambitious Dr Peter Flower.
Alan glanced at his watch. It was 9.15 and the first reporters were starting to arrive, but he didn’t particularly want to be recognised. If anyone asked him about ‘Itsagrave’ he’d probably thump them. He climbed into the Fourtrak and breathed heavily onto the windows, which soon misted up. An old trick if you want privacy. He had a few minutes to kill, so on impulse, he phoned Harriet. He’d been wanting to do this for days, but hadn’t been able to think of a suitable excuse.
‘Harry.’ She still insisted he called her that.
‘Oh, it’s you, Alan. No more bodies, I trust?’
‘No.’ He brushed that aside. ‘I just wondered whether you’d met, or knew anything about, Professor Jacob Hawkins?’
‘That crashing old bore? I can’t imagine him getting off his backside to visit anywhere, let alone Fursey. Why, has he been over?’
Alan was surprised. It was not like Harriet to be quite so indiscreet.
‘No, he hasn’t. It’s just that his name came up recently when people were discussing an Easter pilgrimage that the Fen dean and John Cripps have come up with. It’s all about ancient connections between Fursey and Ely. Frankly, I think it has to be a PR stunt to whip up interest and visitor numbers over Easter.’
‘Oh really. And how can I help?’
‘It’s just that Flower apparently cited Hawkins as a leading authority on place names. Is he?’
‘He was, but that was back in the ’60s. His book for CUP on -ingas names and the spread of the Pagan Saxons through southern Britain had a huge effect. I had to wade through it when I was starting my doc research. Of course, it’s been completely out-dated by archaeology and now by DNA. But it earned him the last-ever Life Fellowship at St Luke’s, the lucky devil.’
‘So he hasn’t done much since?’
‘Nothing at all – other than get immensely fat at the college’s expense. He’s such a reactionary old pig.’ Alan could hear she was getting angry. ‘Did you know, one or two of the younger fellows have been trying to get a baby-changing room attached to the toilets below hall? And he objected! In the end he scraped around and found enough reactionary old farts to get the idea rejected. None of us suspected that he was capable of organising anything, let alone anyone in college. But he did. Damn him. He did …’
Alan didn’t say anything for a moment to let her cool off.
‘So I shouldn’t take his thoughts very seriously, then?’
She laughed out loud. ‘Anything else, Alan? I’m in a seminar.’
He could picture the wide-eyed students.
‘Whoops, so sorry to have interrupted. And thanks for that.’
Hmm, Alan thought as he hung up. A bit abrupt. Businesslike, certainly, but not hostile. He sighed. There was a long way to go. Still, she had confirmed what he’d suspected about Hawkins – and, come to that, Flower. But why hadn’t Peter Flower done anything to challenge the Fursey myth? Did he say nothing because it suited his own academic profile? Alan knew he was a man who would favour self-promotion over the truth. He’d known that fourteen years ago, and nothing had changed. The question was, what else would he do in order to further his own ambitions?
* * *
Clare wasn’t in the sweetest of moods when she arrived onsite – and Alan couldn’t blame her. The previous week, the County Council had announced its end-of-year spending review and her department was to be cut to the bone. Essentially it would now consist of just her and a computer which held the Sites and Monuments Record (she refused to call it the more PC ‘Historic Environment Record’).
Like Alan, she was more interested in the post holes in Trench 2, than the three graves in Trench 1, which had clearly been cut through the gravel surface of the principal north-south road of the Roman fort. Everything, in other words, was fairly straightforward. But those post holes in Trench 2 were altogether different. They appeared to be post-Roman, but even that was far from certain, as there was so much residual R–B pottery knocking about the place. But to both Clare and Alan they did look later. And very substantial, too. Indeed, they both agreed, their close spacing was more reminiscent of a hall, than a barn – and a big hall at that.
They’d been examining them for several minutes, when Clare turned to Alan. ‘It’s no good, Alan, we can’t leave things as they are. I don’t suppose for one moment that my councillors will like it – especially not the Tory ones – but you’ll have to extend Trench 2.’
Alan could have hugged her. It was precisely what he wanted to hear.
‘I couldn’t agree more, Clare. It’s obviously one hell of a building, as those posts are going down deep. And the trench is too narrow to pick up any floor levels. So what do you suggest?’
‘Ten by ten?’
Alan nodded. ‘Yes, at least that. Maybe more. I think we should meet again in a couple of weeks. What do you think?’
‘I think you’re a brick, Alan.’
As soon as they’d left the shelter, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes were bright now.
‘Thanks, Alan, that was just what I wanted to hear – you can’t imagine what it’s like at County Hall these days. The atmosphere’s sheer poison. Horrible. D’you know, there are times I’d like to chuck it in and go back to fieldwork, I really would.’
* * *
The following morning Alan arrived early on-site. It was one of those cold, still, almost airless spring days, where the fog hangs around and even the voices of the dawn chorus seem a bit restrained. He was supping a hot coffee from his favourite Nikon lens mug, when the low-loader drew up on the edge of the car park. Davey Hibbs was in a small, battered white van behind it. He parked and walked across to Alan while the lorry driver got the trailer ready for Davey to unload the digger.
‘Morning, Alan.’ Davey greeted him with a warm smile. ‘I’ve just had Matt Grimshaw phone me from the IDB office. He hopes you won’t be using the machine for too long as he wants to get on and finish the Engine Drain.’
‘Tell him I’d be very surprised if it’ll even take us all day today. It’s quite a small trench, but we’ll need to go very steady.’
‘OK. That’s great. Matt’ll be pleased. I’ll have a quick word with Reg, here.’
Davey arranged with Reg for the low-loader to return the following morning, then he tracked the machine down to Trench 2, with Alan, in hard-hat and hi-vis, leading the way on foot. As they were nearing the trench, Alan’s eye was caught by movement in the car park behind them. A car and a van had just arrived. The car was driven by Frank Jones, who gave a cheery wave. The van had tinted windows, but Alan recognised it as Speed Talbot’s and he correctly guessed that Grump Edwards, would also be sitting in front.
The previous evening, when Alan had told Frank Jones about the trench extension, Frank had pleaded with him not to start without the crew. But Alan knew from past experience they could be delayed. London was a long way away, and he had to get the digger off-site soon. So he wasn’t going to say yes to that – although he agreed it would be good if they could catch the first scoops of the big ditching blade.
Behind him, he could see Trudy, doing what PAs always did at a new location: pouring coffee from two big flasks. Frank, the crew and Terri Griffiths were standing around joking – without a care in the world. Suddenly, Alan thought he would have some fun.
He jumped onto the machine and briefed Davey. Davey grinned. He liked a laugh, especially at the expense of smart Londoners.
As the digger approached Trench 2, Davey rapidly increased the revs. Everyone in the car park turned round. By now Alan was standing at the spot where he wanted the extension to begin. He made various hand signals to Davey, who returned them with a thumbs up. Then, as planned, they ‘discovered’ that the digger wasn’t quite level, so Davey tracked back a few metres and gave the surface a couple of light scrapes. From the car park it must have looked like the digging had started.
Up until now, Alan had wanted to appear as if he was completely absorbed in what he was doing. But when the digger started to level the ground he allowed himself a glance up. Quickly he looked down. He didn’t want any of them to see his grin. Frank was stumbling across the uneven ground as fast as his legs could carry him, while somehow managing to carry a monitor set and spare tripod. Trudy was frantically rooting through papers and clipboards on the damp ground. Behind Frank hobbled Terri, still wearing her London shoes. Speed had grabbed a camera and tripod and was leaving the van at a brisk walk – he was going as fast as Alan had ever seen him move. And Grump Edwards? He was finishing his coffee. Around him on the ground lay steaming mugs. He raised his cup to Alan. Alan smiled: good old Grump.
It took a little longer to get set up, thanks to Alan’s little prank, but he and Davey both had flasks of coffee, which they drank while the crew scurried about. Alan had positioned the machine about five metres away from the line of post holes, which they would probably get to in a couple of hours’ time. He never liked ‘wall chasing’ and preferred to work on a broad front. That way, it was easier to keep features in some sort of context. So he wasn’t expecting to find much in the first couple of hours.
After the first half-dozen or so scoops had removed topsoil and alluvium, Alan signalled to Davey to slow down and shave, rather than dig, the exposed surface. The first pull-back of the 2-metre wide ditching blade revealed the clear, dark, outline of a rectangular pit. At the end of the draw-back, Davey stopped the bucket. He pointed down at the ground, but Alan was already there, trowelling at the fringes of the exposed feature. The edges were sharp and seemed to be going down vertically. There could be no doubt what it was. In retrospect he could have kicked himself for what he called back to Davey, but it did at least have the merit of genuine spontaneity.
‘Blimey, Davey: it’s a grave!’
Of course, Frank could have hugged him.
While Speed was filming the new find from every conceivable angle, Alan was looking at the fresh surface left by the machine. There was something strange about the pattern of silt and small pebbles at either end of the grave. Somehow, it just didn’t look natural. So he started trowelling. Realising that Alan might be on to a new feature, Frank tapped Speed lightly on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The camera panned right, and at the precise time that Alan’s trowel revealed the dark outline of a large post hole, Speed tilted up to catch Alan’s delighted smile. Then the process was repeated at the eastern end of the grave. Another, slightly smaller, post hole.
‘This grave was important, Davey,’ a smiling Alan called out. ‘It’s marked at either end. That’s very unusual.’
By the end of the day they had revealed another five graves, all aligned roughly east-west. The line of post holes that they’d originally intended to investigate could clearly be seen to have been part of a wall, which ran for about 7 metres on the same alignment as the graves, then there was a sharp corner, followed by a semi-circular curve to the north. Alan was no expert on early churches, but even he could spot a likely apse. It was the right sort of curve, it faced east and it was at the east end of a substantial timber building. He was elated.
Alan was aware that the Frank was pleased, too. He had filmed some great exchanges between Alan and Davey as the new features had appeared. This time they had tried a new technique and it had worked: Frank himself had become a temporary cameraman and had filmed Davey on the smaller webcam, leaving Speed to concentrate on Alan and any cut-aways of emerging features or new finds – which were few and far between. This new way of working was far less disruptive for the archaeologists, but it also gave a more natural feel to the film.
As the morning progressed, Alan had found himself thinking more and more about the Fursey Penance, John Cripps and the Fen dean. His heart sank. They would certainly name the early apsidal church they were now revealing ‘St Fursey’s’, as soon as the news got out. He could picture the headlines already.
Quite suddenly, Alan had been gripped by a surge of anger. Why did he have to involve these people? What the hell right did they have to tell him what he was doing? Then he paused and reflected: but what right did he, an incomer, have to hold forth in this way? This was their land, their place – they had a right to their own stories. For a moment he recalled walking across the car park of Blackfen Prison and the feelings of righteous indignation about a young man’s innocence. But that was just over two years ago. He had been on a personal crusade – and it had all blown up in his face. No, he reflected, it was too easy to think you were right. It was better, if so much harder, to seek the truth first. Anger – even indignation – could always happen later. He began to feel a little calmer: it wasn’t just revenge that was best enjoyed cold.
* * *
The next morning was fresh and clear. Alan stood in the car park and watched as the low-loader, followed by Davey in the little white van, headed back down the avenue. Next stop for him, the Engine Drain, Alan thought, as he turned round and looked out across the open fen towards the Padnal Delph pumping station in the distance.
A text message arrived. ‘Next job fallen thru. Any chance we cd discuss Fursey pollen today? Bob’
Alan glanced at his watch: 7.45. No time like the present. And besides, he liked Dr Bob Timpson. He pressed dial.
Bob was one of those rare archaeological scientists who had made a living as a freelance. His wife loved horses and kept three Exmoor ponies on a smallholding in the Wolds, about five miles outside Lincoln. Bob had converted an upstairs room into a study and he also rented lab space in Nettlesham College. Alan suspected the rent was very cheap and was mostly paid for by the informal botanical talks he gave agricultural students. In the cut-throat world of modern academia, such handy arrangements were becoming far less common. Being a freelance himself, Alan liked to steer work Bob’s way, whenever he could.
Alan had been thinking that they needed an up-to-date local pollen survey quite urgently. They now understood much more about the ancient soils, but very little about the trees, the crops and the wet-loving plants of the fen, that would have been growing on them. The Fenland Survey of the 1970s had provided some useful sequences, but they mostly covered the fen to the south and west. Far less was known about the Fursey area. Alan was particularly interested in the Iron Age to Roman transition. Stan’s discoveries at an unexpectedly low level OD suggested that conditions weren’t as hostile in the early first century AD as had previously been believed.
* * *
Alan called in at the tool-shed and collected a shovel and wheelbarrow, which he took down to the Trench 2 extension. He wanted some time on his own to think about the implications of the new discoveries, and he knew from experience that the best way to come to grips with something like this was complete immersion. Some people could contemplate from afar, but not Alan. His brain worked best when his body was also fully engaged.
So he set about doing a quick ‘shovel clean’ of the new extension. Essentially this involved removing all clods, stones and patches of loose earth. Once that had been done, he, Jake, Jon and Kaylee would get down on their knees and trowel the entire surface at least once, and if needs be, twice. It was a part of the excavation process that some people hated, but not Alan. He loved it and enjoyed trying to ‘read’ or interpret the freshly-trowelled surface. In Alan’s mind, that was when archaeology became art, not science. Often the brightest people were hopeless at it: they were too clever, too analytical. Alan’s approach had more in common with Zen Buddhism, than soil science: he would stare at the ground for long periods, either continuously, or at close intervals, watching for changes as the various soils dried out at different rates. The clever dicks lacked the patience, or indeed the imagination, to do this.
* * *
Dr Bob Timpson arrived during the mid-morning tea break. Archaeology is still quite a small world and he more or less knew everyone on-site, so the atmosphere was relaxed.
Alan had decided not to cover the trench extension with a shelter, partly because it was expensive, but also because it cut down on the light he needed to spot new features. They could always erect temporary shelters over the graves once they started to dig them. Earlier that morning, and with the shelter not there, Alan had watched Davey’s digger track along the Engine Drain to the stones of the partially collapsed monastic precinct wall that skirted the park towards the edge of the island, about 200 yards from where they were excavating.
Alan called across to Bob, and together they set out for the Engine Drain, carrying Bob’s auger and sampling tins between them. They headed down the slope, through the park from the abbey excavations, down to the roofed lychgate through the stone wall that surrounded the abbey land at the edge of the fen. Beyond the wall was a 20-to 30-yard-wide screen of wet-loving shrubs that prevented the wall suffering any agricultural damage; it also provided much-needed ground cover for breeding pheasants and partridges. Alan recognised alder buckthorn, guelder rose, dogwood, and in the drier spots, blackthorn and hawthorn. But it was quite unlike a game-cover on drier land. Alan noticed that Bob, a good botanist, was enjoying it, too.
Back out in the open fen they paused to catch breath. It had turned out to be a gorgeous day, with a light spring breeze and occasional fluffy clouds. Even from this distance they could see that Davey was a superb operator, and had already smoothly cleaned and recut one side of the Engine Drain for a distance of almost 50 yards. Alan looked towards the western horizon where the breeze was coming from: no sign of any showers and more summer-like weather. He could just see the south tower of Ely Cathedral through the trees of the park, whose buds were starting to open. Nearer to home, a small cluster of seagulls was following a double-wheeled tractor that was rolling spring barley, which had just begun to germinate. A tranquil, rural scene. Or so it seemed.
Alan recognised the tractor as being one of Sebastian’s, and he knew why he was rolling the barley: it had been very dry for the past two weeks, and the light ridged rollers would slightly compress the soil to consolidate the growing roots and draw moisture up from beneath. It was an important job and he’d done it many times for his father and for his brother Grahame.
Alan pointed out the machine-cleaned dykeside to Bob.
‘Alan,’ he replied, ‘that’s absolutely perfect. I can see the peats from here. It looks ideal.’
They took it in turns to carry the heavy canvas bag that held the auger and the sample tins, which they both knew would be very much heavier when they’d finished.
Bob decided to take samples from about a metre behind the edge of the Engine Drain, and soon they had begun the familiar task of turning the auger for a few screws, then together pulling the head from the ground, removing the peat, and going down further. Across the field, the tractor was getting closer, and a few seagulls diverted to see if Alan and Bob were going to offer them any food. They circled briefly, but soon gave up.
At the end of the day, there were three small heaps of sample tins, all bagged and carefully labelled. For a moment Alan paused, trying to decide what to do next. The tractor was getting closer, but it would stop at the track along the Engine Drain. Alan decided the heavy sample tins could stay there quite safely overnight, and he’d collect them with the Fourtrak the following morning.
* * *
There were only nine days to go before Easter and the joint opening ceremony of the new visitor complex, and with it the Stan Beaton Archaeology Centre. This was where Alan and his team would henceforth be based. Candice and Steve Grant had decided it would be far too complicated to have the opening ceremony on Good Friday, when the Fursey Penance was to be launched, so it was scheduled for the previous day. That way, they could start Easter with good publicity, which they could then build on. Steve had done some local soundings with the press and TV, who all agreed with this decision.
Alan watched Harriet’s Mini Cooper pull into the car park from where he was standing in Trench 2. He couldn’t decide whether he should be there to greet her. He didn’t want to seem too keen, but he also didn’t want her to think he was indifferent. He hated such decisions. In fact, as a planner of amorous campaigns, Alan was a complete disaster. His overall strategy was always wrong and the tactical implementation was invariably even worse.
She had driven to Fursey with Toby Cox, a bright young PhD student she was currently supervising. Alan had met Toby previously and, to his surprise, had been quite impressed: he wasn’t one of the typical, impractical, theory-obsessed Cambridge graduates he had expected. In fact, he was quite self-effacing and soon became a member of what had become a very close-knit team. The archaeologists had remained the same, even though television crews had come and gone with extraordinary speed and efficiency. But Harriet still remained slightly remote. And of course, Jake and the others all knew why. Word travels fast in what was left of the old ‘digging circuit’.
When eventually they did arrive in Trench 2, Alan had his phone to his ear. It was Clare Hughes, who needed someone to listen while she sounded-off about a further round of council budget cuts. By the time Clare had finished talking, Harriet and Toby had started work, and Alan hadn’t even had an opportunity to offer her so much as a welcoming handshake, let alone a kiss. As reunions went, it had fallen pretty flat.
* * *
It was Thursday morning, and just a week to go till the opening. Tension was building, both in and out of the trenches. Clare Hughes had said she’d be on-site around tea break. But she didn’t arrive. Eventually, Alan and the Trench 2 team returned to work. For some reason there were more visitors than usual. Maybe it had been the initial publicity for the Fursey Penance, but whatever had brought them, the crowds had been growing steadily since first thing that morning. Around noon, Alan decided he’d better send Clare a quick text: it wasn’t like her to miss an appointment and he was a little worried that something unfortunate might have happened. Or was that being ridiculous? He paused. Ridiculous? Was it?
The more he thought about it, the more his anxiety grew. Thanks to the recent cuts, she was now the sole person in planning who could make crucial decisions about key developments – many of them probably worth millions. And her knowledge and experience were an essential part of the decision-making process: no computer on earth would be capable of making the varied value-judgements she had to make every hour of every working day. No, he decided, I won’t text, I’ll give her a call. He stood up and walked over to the spoil heap, which he started to climb to get a better mobile signal. Suddenly he froze. Somebody was calling for him.
Alan looked behind him. He didn’t spot her at first, but it was Clare. She was standing close to a group of visitors who were being given a guided tour. Normally, she would have stood out from them, wearing the regulation digger blue jeans and practical top, but not now. Instead she was wearing a short, lilac pleated dress, worn over a pair of tight pale-green leggings with pink flowers. It was an unusual colour combination, but strangely, it worked. Alan hadn’t seen her in civvies before and she looked good – no, he thought, very good – in it.
He hurried across to her and she moved away from the visitors, who were now staring at them both. The guide was starting to look annoyed so they stepped out of sight, behind the shelter.
‘I’m so sorry, Alan,’ she said, ‘but it’s been a very busy morning. There’s been one hell of a row in the council chamber about the effect of the cuts. It’s now official that Cambridge is the fastest-growing city in Britain with more development than anywhere else, except London. And yet they want to cut the District Planning Department. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No,’ Alan agreed. ‘That’s what I thought when you told me on Tuesday. But then politicians, even local ones, live in a remote world of their own, don’t they?’
‘Well, in this instance, reality is starting to strike home. We’ve already had to defer three crucial expansion decisions and even the Tories are starting to realise that you can’t make cuts without consequences.’
‘So what’s going to happen?’
‘They’ve convened an all-party planning review panel and it’s having its first meeting this afternoon, at two.’
‘And you’re going to be a witness?’
‘Yes,’ she continued, still wide-eyed with the excitement. ‘I’m on second. After the CPO.’
Alan looked puzzled.
‘Chief planning officer,’ she added.
‘Ah.’ Alan smiled slightly mischievously. ‘So that explains the frock and shoes.’
‘Well, sometimes it pays to dress up. I’ve got to make a good impression. Apparently for us women, charm and a bit of flirtation are still our best weapons.’ Clare said this with a barely concealed distaste. Then she shrugged. ‘So, much as I’d like to, forgive me if I don’t get down on my knees in the trench.’
Alan had to smile at this.
By now they had walked round to the trench and were talking in hushed voices, so as not to disturb the tour.
‘So how’s it all going?’ she asked, as they surveyed the trench from the south side.
‘Well, that post-built wall is looking increasingly church-like, as we expected.’
‘And the graves?’
‘I think there were five when you were here last?’
She nodded.
‘Well,’ Alan continued, ‘there are eight now. In fact, we had to do three trowel-cleans before we could spot them all.’
She looked very pleased. ‘And when did you start on the graves?’
‘Harriet returned the day before yesterday and brought a graduate student with her. They’re working on the two graves closest to the post-wall. We thought we’d get them cleared before we started on the church itself.’
Somehow Harriet seemed to sense she was being discussed. She looked up and waved. Very friendly. Almost too friendly, Alan thought. Clare waved back. Just as enthusiastically.
‘Yes,’ Clare replied. ‘That makes lots of sense.’ She paused for a moment – as she took in the scene before her. ‘I bet you’re feeling happy, aren’t you?’
‘My head’s happy,’ he said with a grin, ‘but my knuckles are still smarting.’
‘Poor lad. So I don’t imagine you’re planning to enlarge the trench immediately?’
Alan shook his head.
‘No, I’m not, but depending on what Harriet reveals in the graves nearer the post holes, we might want to look at those two in the south-east corner there.’ He pointed out two graves at the far end of the trench.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘You’ll have to do a small extension, if that’s what we decide. But there’s absolutely no rush. Give me a ring nearer the time.’
‘If you’ve still got a job.’
‘Oh, I’ll have a job all right. And who knows, I might even have some staff by then.’
‘That’s good – I think the way you’re being treated is disgraceful. I honestly do.’
They started to walk back to her car. Alan could feel the rising indignation. Everyone acknowledged that Clare was one of the best county archaeologists in the country.
‘Well,’ she said with a smile. ‘I owe a lot to you, Alan.’
Alan was genuinely puzzled at this. ‘What, to me? How come?’
‘Alan, don’t be so dense.’ She was laughing now. A light breeze got up and ruffled her skirts and her long hair blew around her face. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. ‘Your TV programmes showed the whole country how rich the Fens are in archaeology. Some councillors, who should have known better, had even been trying that old “flat and boring grain plain, not worth preserving” rubbish. But they soon shut up when you started finding things. In fact, my boss is keen to meet you. He asked me to find out if you’ll be at the opening ceremony here next week.’
Alan groaned. ‘Yes, I will. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it much, though.’
‘Well you should, Alan,’ she said with smiley irony. ‘It will offer you an opportunity to network. And that’s what life is all about these days.’
Alan cast his eyes to the heavens.
‘Anyhow.’ She turned to leave. ‘It’s time I was going. Can’t afford to be late for this one.’ She paused, then added, ‘Wish me luck,’ as she leant forward and offered a powdered cheek for a farewell kiss.
Alan watched as she walked away. He had long had a soft spot for Clare. She was a nice, uncomplicated person who took people at face value. That’s why she and Stan had got on so well together. They hadn’t had a chance to speak at the time, but he well remembered watching her weep quite freely at Stan’s wake.
Then suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was it she had said, exactly? ‘Charm and a bit of flirtation are still our best weapons.’ He thought about that concealed bottle in Stan’s ‘cupboard’. OK, it came from Fisher College, but it didn’t have to be given by Flower. The more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Whoever had persuaded Stan back on the booze must have used charm. It would have taken quite some persuasion, if not flirtation – Alan was convinced of that. But he also knew that Flower lacked charm and besides, Stan would have been in some awe of him, a senior academic figure. It was far more likely that Stan would pretend he was still teetotal than risk jeopardising his professional reputation in front of him.
Alan didn’t suppose for one moment that Clare had done it, because she had told Alan on the Cambridge Antiquarians’ visit to Fursey last year, that she was so proud of the way Stan had kicked the drink. And besides, she wouldn’t have had ready access to the cellars of Fisher College.
So that left just one other woman. And she had enough –more than enough – charm.
And a motive?
Alan pondered this for a moment. Oh yes, he thought, she had plenty of that, too.