The next day was Friday and to Alan it did indeed feel like the end of the week. Still, he thought, while he walked behind the digger as it tracked its way back to the trench, the pressure’s off this morning. The crew had had to return to London to collect more lighting gear but they all planned to be back on-site to do an end-of-day scene, where Craig would introduce Tricia. Alan wasn’t looking forward to that much. But on the plus side, he thought, I’ve a full day of uninterrupted archaeology ahead of me. And it isn’t raining. So things could be a lot worse.
As it turned out, his optimism proved short-lived. Alan’s heart sank as he saw the huge frame of Sebastian Cripps climb out of his mud-spattered Land Rover and stride across the site. Alan took a couple of paces back from the digger’s slewing arm, as a nod towards health and safety, and handed his visitor a hard hat.
Sebastian was the first to speak. ‘Frank Jones phoned last night. It would seem you’ve found a lot of Roman pottery. Is that right?’
Alan pointed to the two dozen or so white plastic labels on the ground. ‘Yes, it’s proving very rich. These are what we’ve exposed already this morning and we’ve barely been working half an hour.’
As he spoke he kept an eye on the digger. Then he lifted a hand, as if requesting silence. Both could see that Davey was taking the final cut that would expose the clean, pre-flood clay surface. Alan pulled a small bag of labels from the back pocket of his jeans and walked closer to the bucket, which Davey was slowly pulling back with a look of intense concentration on his face. Sebastian joined him. Nobody said a word. By this point Alan’s eye had become very good at spotting the distinctive colour of Nene Valley Grey Ware, which only contrasted slightly with the darker grey-brown colour of the Roman land surface. The bright pinkish-orange of Samian was much easier to pick out.
Towards the end of the first pull-back, as Davey was starting to curl the bucket up, Alan stepped forward and picked something off the surface. As he did so he poked a label into the ground. Davey stopped the bucket and Alan went round and briefly looked inside it, turning the loose lumps over with his trowel. He picked another small piece out, then stood back, giving Davey the thumbs up. This was the sign they’d agreed that it was OK to empty the bucket, which Davey did, but this time on the smaller heap directly alongside the trench. This would be the spoil heap that the detectorists would search first when they arrived on-site in a couple of hours’ time.
‘More Grey Ware,’ Alan half-muttered to a fascinated Sebastian.
‘So what date are these?’ Sebastian asked, as he held the two sherds gingerly in the palm of his right hand.
‘Hard to say from body sherds, but probably second century.’
‘Aren’t they wonderful. So much history here, in my hand.’
Alan said nothing. He could see Sebastian was lost in thought. Then he looked up. ‘I do envy you, Alan.’ He was smiling now. ‘I’m sure people say this all the time, but you do have a superb job.’ He paused for a moment, considering his words. Alan could detect that a confidence was coming. ‘I wish I’d been born more academic, like John.’ Again, he paused. ‘John went to Cambridge, of course, where he read archaeology, then history. That’s where he met Peter Flower, you know?’
‘Yes.’ Alan nodded. ‘I did know that.’
‘But I’d never have got in. I was always more hands-on, so I went to Nettlesham College and studied agriculture. Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time there. No regrets at all. But even so, I wish sometimes we could have done more about the history of farming and the landscape.’
Suddenly Alan remembered their conversation at Stan’s wake. ‘That’s right, you told me you enjoyed reading Hoskins.’
‘Oh, what a book. Stan loved it, too.’ He paused to draw breath. Alan could hear pheasant calls echoing in the woods beyond the abbey ruins. ‘In fact, it was that book that got me talking to Stan about his work here. He lent me his copy.’
And you returned it, too, Alan thought. He remembered seeing it on Stan’s desk.
‘I thought it was just about walls and ruins, but he showed me all sorts of other things, especially how landscapes changed and how people changed with them. And it wasn’t just a one-way process. You could influence outcomes if you were on the ball. It’s all about understanding what’s going on – and not just in the landscape, but with people, too.’
‘You’re right,’ Alan agreed, although he wasn’t entirely clear what Sebastian was referring to in his slightly incoherent fashion. Or was he simply trying to be friendly, as he was with Stan? And if so, why? But he knew he needed to keep him on side, so it was safest just to agree. ‘Especially out here in the Fens. You can’t mess with rising water levels.’ As he spoke, Alan could see his words had gone down well.
‘No, you’re right about that, Alan. I think that’s why the second baronet, my grandfather, was so annoyed he had to sell Isle Farm to pay death duties.’
‘Oh, really?’
Alan pretended he knew nothing about it. It might persuade him to say more. He suspected Sebastian might be a man of rapid mood swings, but he still couldn’t understand what motivated him.
‘Yes, it’s that cluster of buildings over towards the pumping station. It’s not a very large holding – maybe the same size as Woolpit Farm, about four hundred acres, but none of the land’s as wet as Woolpit. Dad always said he was gutted when they sold it. He thought they’d somehow betrayed the family—’
‘But his father had no option. The Inland Revenue wouldn’t go away, would they?’
‘No, he didn’t. But it was such a shame. And it’s a fabulous house. I know it’s not huge, like the hall, but it’s well built and warm.’
‘Who lives there now?’
‘My father sold it to the Greatfords in the ’70s. Anyhow, they retired to Spain in 2003 and it came back on the market early in 2004: the second week in January, to be more precise.’ He shook his head. ‘I remember it well.’ He sighed, he was gazing out across the fen. ‘Yes, very well.’
Alan didn’t rush the next question. ‘And who owns it now?’
‘It didn’t sell – at least not at the price they were looking for. So the Greatfords still own the land, which is run by their agents. The house was rented until recently by distant cousins of ours who eventually retired to somewhere smaller in the south. Now it’s taken by a series of rich entrepreneurs from Cambridge. I can’t keep up with them. Sarah usually invites them along to the hall for a meal, but to be honest I can’t understand what any of them actually do for a living.’
There was a loud bell. Sebastian’s phone had received a text. He glanced down at the screen and frowned. The mood had been broken. ‘It’s my agent: wheat futures down again.’ He sighed again, heavily. ‘Still, I must be going. It was good to chat, and I hope you won’t mind if I take quite a close interest in your work here, will you?’
‘Of course not. I’d be delighted.’
They shook hands.
‘And if I do become a nuisance, you’ll just have to blame Stan. He shouldn’t have been such an inspiring teacher.’
As if that last remark wasn’t enough, Alan was beginning to warm to the man. Unlike many visitors, he chose his questions carefully and listened closely to what Alan had to say. He was clearly fascinated not just by the results of their research, but by the way they achieved them. In the past Alan had found some landowners could be very patronising, as if they were the ones doing the ‘real’ work, while Alan and his like were indulging in a pet hobby. It could be very frustrating.
Without being asked, Sebastian carefully placed the two small sherds back on the ground alongside their white marker label. As he was straightening up Alan took another rapid step towards the bucket, which was halfway through its pull-back. This time he picked-up a ten-pence-sized green-coloured coin, which he showed to Sebastian.
‘Gosh. I suppose that’s Roman, too. But it’s incredibly heavily worn. I’m surprised they could see what it was. If I were given a coin like that in a shop, I’d hand it back.’
‘Yes,’ Alan agreed. ‘It’s almost smooth, isn’t it? But from its size I’d guess it was a sestertius …’ He trailed off as he carefully cleaned damp soil off the coin’s underside. By now Davey had joined them. Suddenly Alan went rigid and stared intently at the coin. The others craned forward as Alan deftly removed a few more crumbs of soil to reveal that the worn surface of the coin had been cut into by a rectangular punch, which had been inscribed with five letters: the first three weren’t very easy to read, but the last two were a clear ‘PR’.
‘Is it a coin, Alan?’ Sebastian asked. ‘It looks like somebody has stamped it. Isn’t that the sort of thing that happened to tokens very much later? It’s a way of claiming ownership, isn’t it?’
Alan smiled. It was a very intelligent suggestion. ‘Yes, you’re right, but I’m also quite sure this is a fairly standard Roman coin and not anything later. I’d expect something like an eighteen century token to be far thinner, lighter weight and with sharper edges. Also, if you look here’ – Alan held the coin in the slowly growing morning light – ‘you can see the letters AESAR behind and above the very worn profile of a man’s head.’
Sebastian peered closely. ‘Presumably that’s CAESAR, but they’ve gone and put the stamp right across the emperor’s name …’ He trailed off.
‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Sebastian,’ Alan said. ‘We learnt about these coins as students. They’re countermarked. That’s the word. I can’t remember the precise details, but for various political reasons the Roman mints didn’t produce many new coins during the mid–first century AD.’
‘But that was the time of the Roman Conquest?’
‘Precisely. So the authorities stamped older, worn-down coins with these official countermarks. They’re very distinctive and can’t be anything else.’
‘So what does the stamp say?’
‘I honestly can’t remember, but it’s an abbreviation. In essence it’s official approval of old coins, giving them an extended life. Anyhow, I’m sure Tricia will know.’
‘Tricia?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied, slightly surprised he hadn’t been told. ‘Dr Tricia Neave, the expert on Roman small towns.’
‘Oh, really, I didn’t know. Is she part of the TV show, or does she come with you, as it were?’
‘She’s part of the programme, but she’s also somebody I’d have chosen myself …’
‘Good-looking, you mean?’
Sebastian was indulging, slightly awkwardly, in man-to-man banter. Alan tried to keep his reply factual.
‘I’ve only met her once and, yes, she was very pleasant. More importantly, she obviously knew her stuff, as she hasn’t long finished her PhD at Cambridge.’
‘Presumably one of that man what’s-his-name’s students?’
‘Peter Flower?’ Alan suggested.
‘Yes, Flower. Can’t say I took to him myself. A bit Cambridgey, a bit know-it-all, if you get my drift. Still, John and Candice seem to think very highly of him.’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘He can be a bit … A bit remote.’
Sebastian handed the coin back to Alan. ‘I’ll never get the hang of history. We learnt at school that the Romans were damn near perfect. They had everything organised. And yet they couldn’t arrange for a few extra coins to be minted when they needed them.’
Then Alan remembered. It had been a long time ago when he attended Dr Cartwright’s introductory lectures on life in Roman Britain, but he had been a good lecturer and a lot of what he said had stuck. He had used the example of the Romans’ ability to improvise when the need arose – and that’s what the countermarked coins were all about. For various reasons new coins were in short supply, so the authorities issued the countermarked ones to the army in the legionaries’ pay packets. That way, it was all official and above board. But it set Alan thinking: maybe this site wasn’t quite as straightforward as he had believed yesterday afternoon. You don’t expect to find countermarked coins on a simple domestic site, no matter how high its status. No, he thought, something else was also going on. Nothing about Fursey, ancient or modern, was ever quite what it seemed.
* * *
The pale-blue sunlight of mid-January lit the scene. To Alan’s relief, Davey had turned off Radio 1 and he could concentrate. The machine scraped away and Alan focused on the bucket. As it pulled back, he spotted another sherd of NVGW and close by it some fragments of shell-tempered Iron Age or ‘native’ Roman period pots. Damn and hell, Alan thought, why isn’t Stan here now? He’d have loved this: he was red hot when it came to late Iron Age/RB coarse pottery. Knew more about the local stuff than anyone else – even in Cambridge. He had been building up a card-based archive, complete with hundreds of pencil sketches of pot rims and profiles that he had been in the process of digitising when he died. Alan had been working through that same card index before the car park excavation got going so unexpectedly. Well, he thought, if ever there was a time to put Stan’s work to good use …
For an instant Alan went very still. It was weird, almost as if his old friend was standing beside him. Stan had put a lot of work into that pottery archive – in fact, far more research than a collection of fairly ordinary, if upmarket, Roman pottery would normally require. So what was going on? It can’t have been the finds themselves, but what they meant – what they signified. Would that news have been welcome to everyone? Archaeologists and history buffs would be delighted, but sadly they were a minority. Things were getting more complex. Alan straightened up, his eyes were staring towards the abbey, but they saw nothing. The present had intruded on the past again.
But this time it wasn’t the fault of a film crew.
* * *
Midday. Davey was taking his lunch break and two local metal detectorists were doing their regular sweep of the spoil heaps. Alan had set up the GPS while Candice, who had volunteered to help out until the three people from White Delphs arrived on Monday, stood holding the staff over one of the white labels that marked the pottery find spots. Candice called out finds numbers, which Alan entered into the machine as he recorded each level and co-ordinates. It was boring work, but essential, and Alan was amazed that Candice had chosen to do it herself. She could easily have nominated somebody junior from the farm office, but she didn’t. Although he was aware that he was using her to learn more about the internal workings of the Cripps family, he found himself warming to her. She seemed different from the others: less remote, more engaged. He realised that she possessed great PR skills, but do people always have to act by the book? Maybe she was genuinely intrigued by what Alan was doing – and the way he did it? It had occurred to him that she might be interested in him as a person. But he had his doubts about her: what was her agenda – specifically with him, Alan Cadbury? He wasn’t aware, as he tweaked the GPS, but he was showing his trademark frown. But she could see it – and she smiled.
After half an hour they had finished, and by now Davey was checking the main bearings of the slightly elderly digger, which needed plenty of grease to work smoothly. He was just climbing back into his cab when John Cripps appeared from behind the spoil heaps. He obviously knew enough about archaeology to hesitate before stepping into the trench. As soon as Alan beckoned him across, he joined them. At the same time Reg, one of the metal detectorists, appeared at Alan’s side with the morning’s haul.
Alan gave John and Candice the coin they’d found earlier to look at, while he quickly sorted through the detectorists’ finds. Quickly he rejected a few scraps of modern rubbish – rusty nails, a tin milk bottle top, that sort of thing – that had fallen down the wide cracks through the alluvium, which are such a feature of modern, hot, dry summers. Aside from those, it was quite an interesting set of metalwork. Several rings and strange bronze fittings that Alan didn’t recognise immediately. Again, he wished that Stan could have been there to help him. He was keen to see if any of the coins could have been Iron Age, so he looked at them more closely. One in particular caught his attention, made of copper alloy and a bit smaller than the sestertius they’d found earlier.
John had noticed his interest and was looking at the coin in Alan’s left hand.
‘That’s quite well preserved. I can read BRITANNIA quite clearly and the seated figure is just like the one we used to see on old pennies …’ He paused in some doubt. ‘Except that she isn’t quite like her. A bit fat and sloppy, if you know what I mean.’
‘John, you’re being impossible,’ Candice interjected with cod seriousness. ‘Yes, she is a little generously proportioned, but it’s … it’s … it’s very old.’
‘Yes,’ Alan agreed. ‘And you’re both right. To be frank, it’s a terrible likeness of Britannia. That left leg is ludicrous and her right arm appears to have two elbows. I’d have said it was inept.’
‘But does that matter?’ John asked
‘I think it might. Let me explain,’ Alan took a swig from his water bottle, while he frantically thought back to those fact-filled lectures by Dr Cartwright. ‘The Romans were very methodical …’ Slowly the facts were swimming into his memory. ‘They rarely did things by chance, or without good cause, so there was probably a reason why the drawing of Britannia is so ham-fisted.’
‘Which was?’
‘I’m fairly sure this coin is an as.’
‘A what?’ Candice asked.
‘An as, sometimes known as an assarius. As I remember, they were an early form of cast coin. And I think you’d have got two, maybe three of these for that sestertius we found earlier. Anyhow, pictures of Britannia are generally rare on coins, with the exception of this particular issue, which is found quite widely across Roman Britain, but not on the continent. I’m no expert, but most numismatists seem to think it was a one-off coin made, and made rapidly, to be distributed to the garrison troops in Britain.’
Both John and Candice were listening closely. ‘And the date?’ John asked.
‘I think it was issued by Antoninus Pius in the mid-second century – I’d guess around AD150.’
‘Forgive me, Alan.’ John was puzzled. ‘I still don’t get it. That story is very interesting, but it’s still just a coin, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sorry, neither of you were around when we found that countermarked sestertius I just showed you.’
He retrieved the earlier coin, showed them the countermark and explained the story. When Alan finished John was still looking puzzled.
‘So, the connection seems to be the Roman Army, am I right?’
‘I think you might be. I’d expect to find both these coins on military sites.’
‘D’you think there was a battle here?’ Candice asked, clearly quite excited.
‘Oh no. You don’t find coins and pottery on battle sites. No, I suspect the military presence here – if there was one – was longer-lived and more permanent. After all, soldiers were spending money and eating and drinking – if the pottery is any guide.’
‘So a barracks, or something like that?’ John suggested.
‘Possibly. Or, more likely, a fort.’
‘But shouldn’t that have stone walls?’ John said. ‘Like the one at Brancaster on the Norfolk coast. I used to go there in the summer as a child.’
‘Not necessarily, and not if there isn’t good stone in the area. But we mustn’t count our chickens.’ Alan paused to put the sestertius back in its bag. ‘Having said that, I’m quite suspicious about some of these other bits and pieces of bronze. They do look a bit military to me.’
‘How do you mean?’ Candice asked.
‘I haven’t seen things like these on any of the domestic sites I’ve dug, and the Roman legionaries wore armour and uniforms that were made from various strips of leather with numerous belts and straps. And they were very effective, too, but they also required a variety of links, clips and buckles to hold them together. I could probably identify some of them with a text book, but there’s no need, as Tricia’s arriving later this afternoon.’
Alan wondered whether she would come to the same conclusion as him. He hoped so, as he was growing increasingly certain he was right. And if his suspicions were to prove correct, then this would be a major discovery. National news, even. He looked up. Candice was standing wide-eyed with excitement. John’s face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.
What, Alan wondered, is he thinking about: the Roman Army or the Fursey Estate?
* * *
The afternoon session went well, but by half past three the cloud cover had grown, and Alan decided the mid-January light was too poor to continue. He knew from experience that headlights and floodlights were no use for seeing subtle changes in soil colour; you could spot stone and brick walls, that sort of thing, but not the slight tone and texture differences he was interested in. Frank had just phoned from the car to say they were approaching Royston and should be with them by four. He’d suggested to Alan that there should still be just enough light to film a quick scene outdoors, before moving into the Portakabin to shoot a discussion about the finds. When he’d finished talking, Alan pocketed his phone and headed for the temporary abbey offices where he knew Candice would be working. Five minutes later she was out on-site helping him set up the GPS to plot the afternoon’s finds.
He had to admire her discipline: she had been deeply immersed in the intricacies of a detailed stock-take – all part of the setting-up process for the new farm shop and restaurant – when he called in. She didn’t hesitate. He’d have finished the column, or whatever it was, but not her. She just got up, slipped on a pair of wellies and abandoned the computer. It was as if the archaeology was more important than the book-keeping. Or was there more to it than that? Had he become the new Stan? That thought sent a slight chill through him.
Hiding his suspicion, Alan thanked her profusely.
‘Well,’ she said, as they removed the GPS from its case, ‘it’s the least I can do. I know you’re short-staffed till Monday. No, Alan, don’t be silly, I can always add up figures and you can’t leave these finds out here to be damaged by the frost.’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘And there’s talk of a sharp one tonight, although the way the cloud cover is building up makes me think they might have got it wrong.’
Candice smiled. ‘You are funny, Alan. You’re always talking about the weather. You and Sebastian should get together one day. Have a trip to the Met Office for a boys’ day out. He’s always talking about the weather, too.’
‘Well he’s a farmer so it’s hardly surprising. You don’t start making hay when there’s a cold front approaching from off the Atlantic. And that’s where I got interested in the weather.’
By now the GPS was set up and ready to go. Candice watched while Alan rapidly sorted out his notes and finds bags.
‘That was one thing I noticed about Stan,’ she said.
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’
‘He had no eye whatsoever for the weather. I’m not much good, but John has always been interested – I guess because he was also brought up in the country – and he could never understand why Stan was always being surprised by rain. It was as if he never looked at a forecast.’
Alan smiled. ‘Come to think of it, dear old Stan wasn’t unusual. Most archaeologists are hopeless when it comes to the weather. It must cost the profession thousands every year. If I had my way, I’d make meteorology a minor option in degree courses.’
‘So Stan came from an urban background?’
‘Yes, his father was an engineer on the railways.’
For a moment Alan could remember Stan telling him tales of how his father coped with various problems of the steam age: collapsed coaling towers, decrepit turntables etc. Some of his dad’s gift for practicality had brushed off on him, too. A visit to one of Stan’s dig tool-sheds was always a treat: spades, mattocks and shovels neatly hanging up, cleaned and sometimes even oiled.
Candice was looking at him. ‘You were very close to him, weren’t you, Alan?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘And is that the real reason you’re here?’
Alan was quiet for a moment. That was a leading question – which required a very careful answer. Truth was now irrelevant; her perception of him was all that mattered. Time to play up the archaeological importance of Fursey. Its forensic significance could come later – and hopefully from DCI Richard Lane.
‘Probably.’ He paused to make it look like he was examining his innermost thoughts. ‘Yes,’ he continued slowly, ‘I suppose it might be.’ She was listening intently. He knew he mustn’t give his true motives away. ‘But, on the other hand, it’s a stunning project, as you know only too well. Frankly, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.’
Thank God for clichés, he thought. He looked at her closely; he knew he wasn’t a very good actor, but she seemed convinced.
‘And the television – has that influenced your decision to come here?’
Alan shook his head. ‘I won’t deny that their money helps, but …’
‘Oh yes.’ She laughed. ‘It certainly does.’
‘But if you must know, filming can be very distracting, too. There are times, like now, when I’d like to get finished, then go back to my room and do some work on the finds – or whatever.’
‘Well, what’s to stop you?’
Alan looked down at his watch in the fading light.
‘Frank and the crew will be back in less than half an hour.’
‘Oh, I didn’t realise that. Sorry, Alan, I’d better stop jabbering.’
And that’s exactly what she did. For 25 minutes they worked in silence and had got everything lifted and levelledin by the time the two vans and Frank’s hire car drove onto site.
* * *
Frank and the crew had obviously been on the phone to each other while they headed north out of London, as they went into action immediately they arrived. Frank strode across the site towards Alan who was carefully clipping the Trimble GPS back into its case. Candice had taken the surveying staff back to the dig Portakabin en route to her own office. Instead of greeting him with small talk, Frank paused and looked around.
‘Well, the light’s not ideal, but it’ll do. Add a bit of atmos. But you’ll need to be brief, and I mean that Alan. Don’t go into discussions. Just show Tricia the extent of the site and range of things you’ve found. That’s all we need.’
Alan nodded. ‘OK, that’s clear.’
Frank was still looking towards the west. ‘I’m worried about that cloud over there,’ he said, half under his breath.
Alan looked up. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s miles away; it’ll never reach us.’
‘No, Alan, it’s not rain I’m worried about. If that cloud covers what little sunlight there is, we’re sunk.’ He looked towards the parked vehicles. ‘Hurry up, folks, we’ve only got a very short time!’
Tricia broke into a run, and the camera crew quickened their pace. Slightly ahead of them was a woman Alan did not recognise, but she carried a clipboard and pink manila file, so was probably an Assistant Producer. Right behind them all, Trudy was closing up the hire car.
Frank turned towards Speed and showed him how and where he wanted the sequence shot. Speed shook his head and pointed towards the now quite red, but still very direct, sunlight. He suggested a more sideways-on set-up. Alan loved this sort of discussion, even though he couldn’t hear precisely what they were saying. It was a glimpse into other specialised worlds. His thoughts were interrupted by a light tap on his shoulder.
‘Alan, I’m Terri, Terri Griffiths. I’ll be the AP on this shoot.’
They shook hands. Terri was about 35 with auburn hair, made flaming crimson by the setting sun. She was slightly shorter than average, fairly thick-set and had a very pleasant, smiley face. Alan knew they’d get on well. Sometimes Assistant Producers could be hard work, but not, he thought, this one.
By now Tricia had joined them and she greeted Alan warmly with kisses on both cheeks. She was dressed more or less for a dig in a dark-blue Barbour waxed coat, the regulation skin-tight jeans and bright-pink children’s wellies, decorated with intertwined smiley baboons. The outfit said ‘I am serious; I understand what fieldwork is all about, but I also have a lighter side’. Alan couldn’t help wondering whether it was Tricia who was sending the message, or some image consultant behind the scenes. Or was he being unfair?
‘Can we get going please? Light’s failing fast.’ Frank was getting anxious and wasn’t concealing it very well.
Tricia and Terri ran across to where he was standing with the cameraman and sound recordist. Alan walked briskly. He was frowning, as if thinking about important archaeological concerns. In fact, he was blowed if he’d run, and the frown made it look like he had more important problems to address.
‘Tricia, there.’ Frank pointed to one of two small lens bags lying on the ground, ‘And Alan, there.’ They stood facing each other while Frank and Speed checked how it looked.
‘Do you come here often?’ Alan thought he might lighten the mood. It worked, Tricia giggled.
Frank was holding a monitor screen showing what Speed’s camera would be filming.
‘A gnat’s to the right, Tricia!’ he called out, still staring closely at the monitor.
She took a small sidestep.
‘No! Too much, half that!’
She did as she was bid.
‘Thanks, love, hold it there. Now, Alan, move closer to Tricia, but angle towards us.’ He moved in a way that let the low light illuminate Tricia’s face. She blinked as his shadow moved off. ‘That’s better, much better.’
Speed then said something to Frank who looked up sharply.
‘Terri, there’s something white and shiny back there. Could you move it, please?’
Alan swivelled round. It was the old fertiliser bag they used for pegs, nails and string.
Terri shouted, ‘Can I move this, Alan?’
Out of the corner of his eye Alan could see that Frank thought this question unnecessary, but Alan was impressed. It could have been important. He could tell she had worked on excavations before.
Frank called, ‘Hurry up please!’
That irritated Alan. ‘Hold it, Terri,’ Alan called out. ‘That’s important, it’s marking the spot where the detectorists finished this afternoon.’ It was a fib, but what the hell. ‘Put a nail and a label there. Then we can replace it afterwards.’
Alan watched while she did that, carefully avoiding Frank’s stare, which he could feel on the back of his neck. By now the light was failing fast. Terri ran back.
As soon as she was out of shot, Frank called out, ‘OK, turn over.’
Speed said quietly, ‘Speed.’
‘And action …’
Nothing happened. Alan looked at Tricia. Tricia looked at Alan. Before either of them could say a word, Frank called out, ‘And cut!’
Alan thought he’d better speak first. ‘I’m sorry, Frank, but who’s interviewing who? And what are we talking about? The site or the finds?’
‘I don’t mind. I want you to talk about what’s going through your head at this moment in time – at the end of the first week of the excavation.’
‘Oh, OK,’ Alan said doubtfully.
He’d never worked with a director who didn’t direct before. He looked at Tricia. She was looking mystified, even slightly anxious.
‘We’ll do it again,’ Frank announced, then quieter, to Speed, ‘Start on the horizon, pull back to a two-shot, then swinging singles, OK?’
Speed nodded, then after a few seconds said, ‘Speed.’
‘And action.’
Although he hadn’t been told to, Alan counted to three to give Speed time to pull back from the horizon and compose his two-shot. Then he spoke.
‘It’s been a fantastic first week, Tricia. We’ve removed a thick layer of flood-clay and have found an intact ancient surface beneath it. Before we started digging I thought it would be Iron Age, but the finds we’ve been discovering in the past two days make me think we might have been wrong.’
‘Oh, really? What sort of things have you been finding?’
‘Coins, strange shaped pieces of bronze and lots of pottery.’
‘And you’re quite sure that everything you’ve found is earlier than the flooding?’
‘Oh yes, we’re absolutely certain about that.’
‘And when did the flooding begin?’
‘Sometime late in the second century AD.’
‘So we’re talking Roman?’
‘Yes, we are, and Iron Age, too.’
‘Wow! That is exciting!’
That was a good up-beat note to end the scene on, Alan thought. There was a longer than usual pause while Speed pulled back to reveal the setting sun dip below the horizon.
‘And cut,’ Frank called out, quietly. Then much louder. ‘Excellent! Well done everyone and a great shot of the setting sun, Speed. I loved it.’
Grump was standing directly behind Alan who heard him mutter under his breath, ‘And the bloody sound was shit-hot, too …’
* * *
The scene in the Portakabin with the finds went well. Tricia confirmed what Alan thought about the two unusual coins and revealed that the countermarked inscription read ‘NCAPR’, which she checked against the BM website and was short for Nero Caesar Augustus PRobavit, or Nero Caesar Augustus approves – of the revalidation of the coins. She also pointed out that the original coin had been issued by the Emperor Claudius, who reigned from AD41–64. Nero followed directly on from Claudius and reigned until AD64. So the extended-life coins would have played an essential part in paying for the army during the crucially important decades of military conquest and consolidation that followed the invasion of AD43.
Tricia also agreed that the as coin, with the rather inept representation of Britannia, would have been issued to Roman troops, and was able to date it to the Emperor Antoninus Pius, around 154BC. Alan was relieved: his near-guess on-camera had been correct. The other coins were fairly routine, but she got very much more excited about some of the smaller pieces of metalwork, which she identified as the bronze or iron fittings of Roman military armour, known as lorica segmentata. They looked a bit like brooches or old cupboard hinge fittings, but often with hooks or tabs with holes. At least one of the small hooks had been worn down and had broken – which suggested that the armour in question was being worn locally. Towards the end of the interview, she spotted what she thought might be a bronze harness fitting, which hinted at the presence of cavalry, too.
The final moments of the scene were memorable. Tricia was summing up the finds she had just described. ‘Well, Alan, that’s an extraordinary collection. And quite unexpected. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d say you have a military fortress here.’
‘But we don’t know otherwise.’
‘What?’ Tricia was genuinely wide-eyed with astonishment. Her questions were uncontrived. ‘But why would it be here? What’s it defending? And besides, there’s no hint of it on air photos, is there?’
‘As for defence, it ultimately provides control over access from the major southern fen rivers towards the hinterland of Cambridge, and as to the air photos, they’re largely irrelevant as the entire site has been buried and concealed beneath flood-clay. No’ – he slowed down to give his words added emphasis and Speed zoomed in to an ultra-close-up – ‘I think we may have stumbled upon something new, something truly remarkable. But only time will tell.’
‘And, cut!’
Frank gave Alan a pat on the back. He had delivered. To give her credit, Tricia was delighted, too. Alan had been worried that she’d turn out to be egotistical and jealous.
She gave him a small hug. ‘You were great, Alan. That’s got the film off to a cracking start.’
* * *
It had been a hard afternoon’s filming and Alan was dog-tired as he walked up to his Portakabin and let himself in. He’d forgotten that he’d told Speed and Grump they could use it as somewhere clean and dry to store their equipment until their own cabin was delivered, so the floor was littered with boxes, stands and cables. He picked his way over to his back-up flask and poured himself a mug of coffee. There was a knock on the door and Speed entered. Alan offered him his mug, but Speed shook his head. Alan stood back and watched. He loved the technical side of television and was a keen digital photographer himself.
As Speed checked over the big camera’s settings, Alan asked, ‘I know you’re keen on HD, Speed, but is it really that good?’
Speed smiled as he turned round. ‘Well only if your television at home is HD, too. Otherwise there’s no point in having it. You can get a bit more depth of field and the colours can be more true to life. You can sometimes see that on an ordinary set, but you won’t get the full benefit.’
Alan laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ll be getting a new set any time soon. Not on an archaeologist’s salary.’
‘Well, you might if I showed you some footage on the High Def. monitor.’
He put the camera down on the bench and opened a stainless steel case on the floor from which he pulled a shiny new monitor, which he plugged into the wall. Then he connected the camera and turned the set on. The screen flickered into life.
Instantly Alan could see that this was indeed an improvement. Everything was so crisp and sharp from foreground to background. Of course it helped that the cameraman was a Speed Talbot, but Alan could see he had made full use of the camera’s potential. Then Alan found his attention being grabbed by the action rather than the picture. It was filmed at the very start of the dig yesterday morning. But it felt like a week ago. Davey was filling the digger with diesel. Alan could tell that the shot was handheld. The scene cut to a longer shot of the digger, this time taken on a tripod. There was a puff of smoke as the engine came to life and the camera panned left towards the horizon. Alan spotted something. He put a hand on Speed’s shoulder.
‘Hold it there, Speed.’
The picture froze.
Alan pointed at the screen and Speed zoomed in. There, standing in the shrubs beyond the abbey wall was a figure observing the dig. It was Sebastian Cripps. Why was he there? Was he trying to keep an eye on them unseen? Or was he interested in the archaeology? Maybe he was just looking at the view, or wildlife, or Isle Farm behind them all?
‘Someone you know, Alan?’
Rapidly Alan pulled himself together. ‘No, just somebody gawping. But that HD is amazing, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have seen him at all on regular digi film, would you?’
Speed grinned. He liked to make converts to HD.
Meanwhile Alan was looking down at the edge of the abbey lands. He was still thinking about that figure standing among the shrubs.
* * *
That evening Frank and the crew went back to their hotel in Ely. They asked Alan to join them, but he didn’t feel up to it. It had been a hard week and he just wanted to get back to his rented house on the outskirts of the village, open a cold beer and chill-out. Alan had been commuting to Fursey from his brother’s farmhouse near Crowland while the Fursey Estate did a bit of decorating and carried out essential repairs to his current home, a medium-sized bungalow, built for an assistant keeper by the 2nd Baronet Cripps in 1958. Alan couldn’t understand why the estate would have built a bungalow for a member of their staff, as at the time bungalows were seen as very lower-class by the landed gentry. Soon, however, he realised that the land it had been built on was soft and peaty – and the single-storey suddenly made practical sense. Still, it was convenient for the site and, better, the pub, and to his surprise, the rent was very cheap, too.
Two hours later, he woke up at eight, feeling refreshed, the half-drunk bottle of beer warm beside him. He realised that he was very, very hungry. He looked in his small fridge and the cupboard that passed for a larder – nothing whatsoever, except for several packets of plain chocolate digestives, his usual breakfast blast of sugar and energy. No, he thought, I’ve got to eat something substantial, preferably with added chips. And more chips on the side.
It took him ten minutes to walk to the Cripps Arms. The night air was cold, frosting already, Alan reckoned, looking at the long grass of the verges when it was caught by the headlights of passing cars. Soon he’d come to the first of three streetlights that ran along Fore Street to the east of the pub; to the west were five more lights, linking the pub to the village hall, but the former centre of village life, the Church of St John, stood on the south side, remote and unlit.
Alan reckoned the village had shifted east after the Black Death in the later Middle Ages, a process that was speeded-up in the 18th century by the construction of Fursey Hall and the then squire’s desire to have a view of the nave and tower uncluttered by untidy, ramshackle cottages. Alan smiled; in those days a country gentleman had the power to alter the shape of villages. After the last war, though, a small housing estate had been built by the Rural District Council, bang in the middle of that view. Alan was secretly rather fond of what that little estate of council houses represented, although, of course, he would never have said as much to any member of the Cripps family. But it was a sign that the old order had started to change. Absolute power was no longer in the hands of local gentry. He always reckoned that the war had defeated more than just the Nazis.
Some things had changed for the better. For a moment he paused. Or had they? His study of the Cripps family history in the library at Cambridge had set him thinking – and what he had observed since, hadn’t made him change his mind at all.
Alan pushed open the back door into what had formerly been the Public Bar, but was now the Ploughman’s Rest. Being a Friday night, the place was well filled, although not quite as crowded as he would have expected ten or fifteen years ago. The landlord, Cyril, was a local who had run a much larger pub in Ely as a younger man and had moved back to Fursey when he retired. He genuinely ran the pub as a social enterprise: yes, he did earn a modest living from it, but he also knew the Cripps was the main focus of village social life. Alan reflected that it wasn’t just doctors, nurses and vicars who had a sense of vocation.
His arrival was greeted by a cry of ‘Look who’s just arrived!’ from Davey Hibbs, who rapidly drained, then held up his empty glass. He tried to persuade the two men he was with to do the same, but they shook their heads.
At the bar Cyril had seen the exchange and had already poured a foaming pint of Old Slodger by the time Alan reached him. Cyril looked up for confirmation as he was about to pull the second pint. Alan nodded. ‘Might as well, Cyril, he’s earned it.’
‘You had a good week, then?’
Cyril made no secret of the fact that he was a big fan of Test Pit Challenge and had started a ‘Dig News’ section on the pub noticeboard.
‘Unbelievably good, Cyril.’ He took a long pull from his pint. Then ordered ham, eggs and double chips.
Cyril scribbled a note to the kitchen and Alan paid for his beer and the meal. As he waited for his change, Davey came alongside. Alan pushed the pint towards him.
‘Cheers, Alan,’ he said as he took a long draught. ‘We’ve had a good week. And I’ve enjoyed working with you. Come and meet my brother Sam.’
Alan remembered Sam Hibbs had been the man who had been hit by the falling willow tree during that storm shortly before Stan’s death. He’d obviously been hurt quite badly, as he was sitting down and two walking sticks leant against the table beside him. Next to him sat Bert Hickson, the Fursey Shoot’s ex-soldier and Davey Hibbs’s uncle, whom he’d met briefly with Stan’s parents and Barty at the wake. It was Hickson who had found Stan’s body and Alan winced as he remembered his insensitive comments to him, but Bert appeared not to remember. He seemed more at ease, enjoying his pint of Slodger.
Alan asked Sam how he felt. ‘Nothing permanent and I’m seeing a physio—’
‘But you know what Thorey said at the time, Sam: take the buggers to court. That’s what he’d have done,’ said Bert.
‘Yes, Bert, that’s fine for him to say, but I’ve no complaints with the Smiley’s. They’ve been good to me, and they’ve given me all the time off I need. And as for Joe Thorey, he’s plain greedy, that’s all. And you know as well as anyone, he’d no more take his own employers to court than fly.’
‘Well, he doesn’t need to, does he? He’s got it made. He wouldn’t sue the goose that lays the golden eggs, now, would he?’
They all nodded. He was dead right. Meanwhile Alan’s head was racing. The Thorey they were talking about so disparagingly was presumably Joe Thorey, Bert Hickson’s replacement as head keeper. Alan remembered his rude behaviour at Stan’s wake. He had not made a good impression.
Bert stood up. He nodded at their glasses. They gave thumbs ups and he headed towards the bar. Alan joined him ostensibly to help carry the glasses, but actually to re-introduce himself. It was Bert Hickson who had phoned the police about Stan’s body and there was much Alan needed to learn.
‘I am impressed, Mr Hickson, you look even fitter than when I saw you last. You been taking exercise?’
‘I’ve been swimming and doing a bit of cycling, too.’
‘Well, it certainly seems to have worked.’
The older man smiled. ‘Well, you can’t sit at home all day. I’m better off being out and about.’
‘Do you ever do any work on the estate? I’d imagine Joe Thorey would welcome the help of a fit man like you.’
‘In your dreams, young man. He wouldn’t let me back into Fursey Park if I offered to work for free. And I’m damned if I’ll do that. I know Barty wouldn’t object, nor would Mr Sebastian, come to that. Trouble is, neither of them are running the shoot. That’s strictly between Thorey and Mrs Sarah.’ He paused. ‘And what they say goes.’
This was very interesting. The more he learnt about the Cripps family, the more complex they seemed. Wheels within wheels; different people, differing ambitions, yet no external cracks. To the outside world they were as solid as rock – or maybe as thick ice.
Cyril had been pouring their pints and obviously listening in to the conversation.
‘Talking of Thorey, he never turned up last night. I’d got his evening meal ready as usual.’
‘Prompt at seven?’
‘That’s right. As he likes it.’ He lifted two full pints up onto the bar. ‘So I had to eat it myself.’
Alan felt it was time he said something. ‘That must have been a chore for you, Cyril.’
‘That’s enough lip from you, young whippersnapper.’
The two older men smiled.
‘But it’s not like him, is it?’ Bert asked.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Cyril replied. ‘As you know, he always eats here. That’s how he puts his teams of beaters together every weekend. Everyone knows he’s here at seven. Grace says we should pay him a commission.’
As Alan and Bert picked up their pints and started to move away, the young man who had been standing at the bar next to Alan received a text. Alan glanced back at him. The man’s face looked puzzled.
‘Cyril, I’ve just got a text.’ Bert and Alan stopped on their way back to the table. There was something about the way he said it. ‘It says here that Joe didn’t report to the office all day. And I was waiting for him down at the pens all morning. Gave up in the end and helped clean out the game larder.’
By now the bar had gone quiet. Then somebody asked, ‘Has anyone checked out his house?’
‘Yes, Dan,’ a lady sitting on the settle by the fire called back. ‘I did the cleaning all morning. Come to think of it, he hadn’t used the electric kettle, which was cold. I remember thinking that at the time.’
‘That’s you all over, Dolly,’ another lady called out. ‘Tea first, cleaning second.’
Normally that might have raised a small laugh. But not now.
Slowly, conversation resumed. After all, Alan reflected, people are allowed to take a day off from time to time. But everyone he spoke to was agreed: it was odd that he hadn’t told anyone he was leaving – not even the estate’s cleaning lady.
Just before closing time, Alan’s sense of foreboding increased when another elderly man, who he could hear discussing Thorey’s disappearance with Bert Hickson, called cheerily over his shoulder, by way of goodnight, ‘Oh well, Cyril, here we go again. Curse of the Cripps – call in the police divers!’
Alan put a bunch of empty glasses on the bar and turned to leave. Those parting words were echoing through his befuddled brain. When was it, 2004? That’s right: the gardening banker at the hall. What was his name: Hambledon? Hampton? No, Hansworth. That’s it: Hansworth. Hansworth. And then poor Stan.
But now his blood was running cold. Cold as the swollen waters of the Mill Cut.