Alan was still thinking about those high benchmark levels, as he drove away from the pumping station and headed left back towards Fursey. As he came up onto the island, he noticed that the grass was starting to acquire that lush, early spring green and some trees, especially the older limes, were just coming into leaf. Then the sun came out. He found he was feeling very peckish so he wound down his window and eased the Fourtrak into a field entrance. Time for a mug of coffee and a bite of breakfast (a ham roll bought in the pub the previous evening). It was a fabulous early spring day. In the distance he thought he heard the bleating of young lambs, between, that is, the noise of passing cars on the road beside him. He glanced down at his watch: 8.50. Late-running commuters were hurtling through the village on their way to Ely and Cambridge. He took a long drink of coffee. Then his eye was caught by a familiar Mini Cooper, but unlike the others, it was heading into the village. Alan recognised it at once: it was Harriet. Guiltily he finished his coffee and wolfed down his roll.
As he drove up the avenue towards the abbey, his stomach started to gurgle. Of course he knew why Harriet’s passing had made him gobble down his makeshift breakfast. And yes, he had to admit, he did feel guilty. He knew he’d been disloyal: disloyal to her and to himself, too. He still couldn’t admit it, but he was slowly becoming aware of the depths of his own feelings for Harriet. And they put him in a weak, Subservient position – something he wasn’t used to, and was finding hard to accept.
Deliberately, he drew up on the opposite side of the car park to the Mini Cooper. He went round to the back and took out his toolbox, camera case and waterproof. As he slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock, he was being overtaken by a very different emotion – his mother would have called it ‘your stubborn side, Alan’. Dammit, he thought, she’s not my boss. It’s the other way around. I’m the one supposed to be in charge around here.
He headed straight down to the dig. He knew that Harriet would be at the cafeteria. She couldn’t function without an early coffee. And he was right. Jake and Kaylee had just arrived and were pulling the last plastic sheets off the trench surface. A few moments later, Harriet joined them, mug of coffee in hand.
‘Morning, everyone,’ she said as she lifted the shelter flap to one side. She was carrying several empty finds trays, all neatly labelled and ready to receive bones. She put them on the ground, then stepped down into the trench. While she was doing this, Alan picked up the trays and carried them across to Grave 2. As she approached, he handed her the coffee she had left in the top tray.
‘Thanks, Alan,’ she said as she took a sip. ‘Ah, that’s better. Very much better.’
By now Jake had joined them. ‘Will you want me to be your clerical assistant, Dr Webb?’
Jake was smiling broadly as he spoke. He was also brandishing a Sharpie felt-tip pen and a roll of self-seal plastic bags.
‘I think so, Jake,’ she replied with joke formality. ‘If you can remember what we did for Grave 1, we might as well repeat the procedure for Grave 2.’
‘Right, ma’am.’ Jake tugged his forelock, then up-ended a wheelbarrow and sat on it.
Alan looked on. He wished he could be a part of the scene before him. He’d give anything to be Harry’s ‘clerical assistant’, right now. But it wasn’t to be. And that wasn’t just because he was dig director, either. Frankly, he didn’t feel he was worthy to be sitting down there on that barrow.
‘Must get on,’ Alan said quietly, and slipped away.
But Jake and Harriet didn’t notice; they clearly had other, far more important things to think about.
* * *
The following morning, as Alan arrived in the car park, a clean hire car (experience had taught Alan to recognise them a mile off), driven by Frank, the Test Pit Challenge director, drew up alongside him. Behind them was an unfamiliar crew van. Frank lowered the passenger window and leant across to speak to Alan.
‘Sorry, Alan, didn’t have time to tell you, but Lew wants us to spend a day on-site getting cut-aways and GVs for the main doc crew, who’ll be coming here later. He was worried in case we missed the lifting of the bones. I hope Harriet hasn’t finished, has she?’
Cut-aways and general views would be used either as illustrations, or to conceal edit cuts in longer sequences of the main film.
‘No, she hasn’t, but you’d better get a move on, I don’t think there’ll be many bones left in Grave 2 by the end of the day.’ He paused. ‘And then she’s got to start exposing Grave 3.’
‘OK, that’s fine. We won’t bother you and will try not to get in the way. Speed and Grump are on another job in Norway, I believe. So we’ve hired some local stringers.’
Alan went straight down to the dig. Better warn people there’d be a crew lurking around the place today. Jake raised his eyes to the roof, Kaylee smiled broadly and Harriet said nothing.
To Alan’s immense relief, as deadlines were now starting to loom, Frank lived up to his word, and nobody was really aware of his, or the TV crew’s, presence.
After morning tea break, the cameraman had finished his close-up filming of the lifting and was now at the back of the shelter getting GVs of the dig. Alan was becoming increasingly desperate to break through the layer of professionalism that seemed to cocoon Harriet from him, and seemingly from nobody else. It would be nice, he thought, if she could treat me like Jake, or even like Kaylee. It was as if Harriet had read his mind.
‘Fancy a chance to redeem yourself, Alan?’ she said with a smile. ‘Jake’s busy with context checks and finds’ level and I need a man I can trust.’
Alan took the Sharpie and the plastic bags that she held out to him. A peace offering, of sorts.
Shortly before noon, Alan looked up from the list he was compiling as Harriet carefully removed some of the many bones of the left hand, one by one. It was a meticulous process and they were chatting quietly about what they were doing as they worked. He glanced at the cameraman who was standing by the shelter flap and noticed there was something odd. The normal lens for GVs in the shelter was quite short and fat – the equivalent of a 35mm on a SLR. But this time the camera was fitted with something much longer. Frank was leaning close to the cameraman, whispering in his ear, while clearly pointing down to Alan and Harriet. Suddenly Alan realised what was going on, and a sharp wave of anger overtook him.
‘Frank,’ he shouted. ‘That’s a close-up lens. Are you fucking filming us?’
Of course Frank protested his innocence and said they were only getting GVs, but they both knew he was lying through his teeth. He was up to his old US-style ‘reality’ tricks again. Immediately Alan phoned Weinstein, who promised to check through Frank’s rushes as soon as they returned to London.
Alan was slightly mollified, but only slightly. Eventually Weinstein convinced him that no harm had been done. And at least he had been able to show Harriet that he wasn’t completely buying into the media circus.
* * *
As always, it had taken rather longer to excavate the three skeletons and remove them from the ground than they had originally intended, but by the start of the third week in March Harriet had returned to her lab in Cambridge. Meanwhile, the team at Fursey had been augmented by three new diggers, who had just finished working for the university unit on the long-running Castle Hill excavations in Cambridge. They were making good progress, but there was no way they’d be finished in time for the opening ceremony of the new visitor centre and museum at Easter. So the temporary car park would continue to be in use, as before.
Alan had tried to phone Tricia a couple of times, but her phone was always turned off. Presumably, he thought, she must be filming. Eventually she did make contact by email and he was right: filming had started, as their executive producer had managed to raise money from a large foundation in the States. Excitedly she told him that it was going out live every day on 2-Much. Alan even caught an episode: the programme was terrible, although Tricia looked good – and very pretty. As he watched her on his cheap TV at home, Alan realised he was looking at her much as he would a gorgeous fashion model on the catwalk. She had become commoditised; she was now an item, not a person. Strangely, he found he accepted this, largely because she probably did, too. Of course, he couldn’t be absolutely certain, but there was no hint of regret in her voice as she told him about their immediate plans. All he could detect was enthusiasm for the future, rather than regret for the past. They were about to head over to Ireland for three weeks filming in and around Dublin. So presumably, Alan thought, the programme’s main theme had changed, as he wasn’t aware there were many Roman women, let alone Romans, across the Irish Sea. They must have found yet another sponsor.
* * *
To Alan’s surprise, the following day the Irish theme was repeated. It was the last Monday morning in March and Alan returned to the site after a rare weekend off for him and the other excavators. The visitors hadn’t liked it, but the team had been getting very tired, as the split-shift system they’d been working hadn’t proved a great success.
The two-day break, however, was a success and morale was high. People were returning to the trenches carrying their tools and equipment for the day, when they were stopped dead in their tracks by Kaylee’s cry. She didn’t so much call out as squeak.
Everyone stood still. Kaylee had lifted up the piece of plastic sheeting that covered the empty Grave 2. Beneath it was a wilted bunch of something that looked like clover, plus four red roses. A liquid had been poured over the flowers and it stained the grave floor beneath. Kaylee touched it, then sniffed her fingers.
‘Smells like wine to me.’
There was a note tied to the bunch of wilted leaves. She read it out. ‘Shamrock from Holy Ireland. Picked 17 March’.
‘Bloody Hell,’ Alan said softly, ‘That’s St Patrick’s Day. Looks like we’ve been visited by a bunch of religious nutters.’
‘Makes a change from the New Agers,’ Jake muttered, as he looked down.
Like Alan, he, too, had worked on henge sites where they’d arrive in on Monday mornings to find little gifts to the ‘gods’, and mini-shrines placed quite openly out in the trenches and on spoil heaps. But they only got truly annoyed by burnt offerings, as these could contaminate radiocarbon dates.
In general, Alan tended to be relaxed about such things. OK, he thought they were stupid irritations, but at the same time they were fairly harmless. But this time, despite his dismissal of the hysteria surrounding the Cripps Curse, this felt more focused. The timing was more than coincidental and all his instincts told him it wasn’t spontaneous. Someone was behind it.
* * *
Two days later, Alan found himself sitting on the monks’ night stairs on the southern side of the church ruins. The cloister and most of the other monastic buildings had been completely robbed after the Dissolution, but this part of Fursey Abbey had survived quite well. It was a peaceful spot where Alan often came during his lunch break to enjoy the increasing warmth of the spring sunshine. As he munched on a homemade pork pie he’d bought at the village butcher’s, he was startled to see Candice hurrying by carrying a full black bin liner. She saw Alan.
‘Morning, Candice,’ he called out. ‘You’re looking a bit flustered?’
She stopped. He could see she wanted to talk.
‘It’s these blinking offerings that people feel they must leave behind.’
She held the bag open and Alan peered in. There were several home-made palm-leaf and twig crosses, and many faded flowers, some with stems wrapped in tinfoil. At the top lay what Alan now recognised as a bunch of shamrock.
‘Ah, shamrock …’ He pulled it out. ‘We had a bunch like this placed in a grave in Trench 2, on Monday. Must have been left there over the weekend, when we’d all left site.’ He’d almost said ‘by a loony’, but remembered that her husband John was a devout Christian.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. We should have kept a closer watch—’
‘No, don’t worry about it. These things do happen. But the Irish thing’s a bit odd, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not like we’re near Dublin.’
‘You’re right. And the abbey was inspired by the Rule of St Benedict, not St Patrick.’
‘So you’ve found more than one, have you?’
‘Yes,’ she paused. ‘Yes, we have. Of course we’ve always had one or two offerings placed on the altar stone and sometimes people ask if they can do it. Often it’s when a child dies. So we always say yes.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s the least we can do, really.’
‘But the shamrock, when did that start?’
‘Very recently. In fact, the number of offerings has increased massively over the past month. And the shamrock started appearing at about the same time.’
‘What, from the first week in March?’
‘Yes.’ She frowned, trying to recall. ‘About then, but certainly no earlier. Everyone here has put it down to the increased visitor numbers and the television. I suppose you could see it as the downside of popularity.’
‘It’s better than bombs, I suppose.’
She laughed. ‘Quite. But John reckons the shamrock is all about St Fursey.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’ Alan had done a little research on Google, after John and the Fen dean had had their trenchside discussion. ‘Fursey came from Ireland, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, and John tells me the three lobes of the shamrock leaf were used by St Patrick to symbolise the Holy Trinity.’
After she had left, Alan took out his newly-acquired iPad and checked out some of the local evangelical Christian websites. He was amazed: it was obviously a very active scene, with a number of one-off events planned in the lead-up to Easter. There was even a blog and chat room devoted to developing the links established by the Blessed St Fursey between East Anglia and Mother Ireland. Fursey featured prominently. And everything oozed gobbets of well-meaning love. Alan couldn’t help it: he cringed as he hurriedly flipped the cover shut.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Alan was working in the Portakabin trying to update and check the correlation of the small finds and contexts registers when his computer beeped. Anything was better than what he was doing now, so he clicked across to the project’s email account. There was one new message from a Dr Hilary Porter, of the Department of Geology, at Saltaire University. Alan glanced through it. He felt for her, as he’d been in the same boat many times in his life: it was near the end of the financial year and she had been checking through her invoices. The one she’d issued to Fursey had been sent to Stan last year, and it hadn’t been paid. Her direct number was at the end of the email. Alan rang it.
Alan thought her name rang bells with him, and it did: she had been on the advisory panel for the first Forensic Archaeology course, way back in 1996. In those days she was more interested in pedogenesis and the decay of sedimentary rocks, but Alan learnt that after she’d had three children she had found something part-time to do that also paid her reasonable money.
‘Unless,’ Alan joked, ‘you have clients like us.’
‘I rather guessed Stan wasn’t too keen on administration. I remember handing him my report, which included the invoice, in the pub at Fursey—’
‘The Cripps Arms?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Anyhow, he’d obviously had a few beers. He wasn’t drunk, mind, but merry. I’d have said he was distinctly merry.’
It was like someone behind him had fired a shotgun. He snapped to attention. He’d never before heard anyone at Fursey mention Stan’s drinking.
‘When was that? Can you remember?’
‘Yes, I’ve got the invoice here and I wrote it out before I left home that morning.’ There was a brief pause. ‘Let’s see … Yes, here it is: 7 October.’
‘Blimey …’
Alan was lost for words. That was the day before Lane recovered Stan’s body from the river. For a moment he found himself wondering about the suicide theory. But no, that was ridiculous. A couple of beers aren’t the same as half a bottle of whisky. He was brought back to reality by Dr Porter.
‘Sorry, Alan, I missed that?’
Alan briefly explained about Stan’s death. Dr Porter had already heard about it, and was suitably sympathetic. At the end of his account Alan had to ask the question that had been on his mind throughout their conversation.
‘I don’t want to sound callous, but did you manage to identify the source of the building stone used here at Fursey?’
‘So my report got lost, as well as the invoice?’
‘It would seem so, yes.’
‘I’ll print you off another one. But, yes. And it’s what both Stan and I had expected: it’s most probably from one of the quarries at Barnack – near Stamford,’ she added by way of explanation. Not that any was needed: the quarries were well known.
‘So that would explain some of the masons’ marks, which Stan mentions in his draft report.’
‘Yes, he let me use them in my report. They’re identical to ones found in Ely Cathedral. There must have been a thriving trade in good building stone across the medieval Fens.’
Then Alan had another thought. ‘Did all the samples Stan sent you come from around the abbey?’
‘Well, they must have done. That’s all there is at Fursey. Or am I wrong?’
‘He didn’t happen to mention, for instance, if any came from lower-lying land?’
There was a pause, then she laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being so dense.’ He could hear her shuffling through papers. ‘Yes, you’re right: he did mention that three samples came from a dyke …’
‘The Engine Drain?’ Alan suggested.
‘Yes, that’s right. It was the Engine Drain.’
Suddenly Alan could see light at the end of a long and very black tunnel. The high benchmark, the low-lying monastic stonework. It would seem Fursey Abbey was not as tightly confined to its island as was often supposed.
‘Thank you so much, Hilary. And have no fear; I’ll write you out a cheque here and now. And if you’ll agree, I might ask you to identify some more samples, when, that is, we come across them in the future.’
* * *
Alan was never much good at organising set-piece revelations on his own. Those revelatory library scenes in Agatha Christie didn’t just happen by magic. They had to be organised. Normally, he liked to have somebody else, preferably his brother Grahame to help him out. But now there was nobody he could turn to. And besides, as staged deceptions went, it was hardly a big one. Not exactly the run-up to D-Day.
He’d had the idea the day he’d spoken to Hilary Porter about the building stone IDs. He had been tidying up the clutter on his desk after his phone call when an email arrived from Candice. She wanted to arrange a quick meeting at the Abbey Farmhouse after work the following day with Alan, Barty, Sebastian and John Cripps. A guest at the meeting would be Dean Jason – the Fen dean. The ostensible purpose of the small gathering was to introduce everyone to the new visitor services manager, who had just been appointed by Historic Projects Management to oversee Fursey.
The email went on to explain that Candice also wanted to use the meeting to float a proposal that John and the Fen dean had hatched together. In a personal PS to Alan, she mentioned that visitor numbers were starting to tail off and she was keen to give them a boost over the Easter holiday, and this seemed just the scheme to do it. But she didn’t mention what was being suggested. Alan could hazard a guess and he might even have considered skipping the meeting, but then his own idea had occurred to him. And this time he wouldn’t screw up, like he had that night of the dinner. No, this time he’d be far better prepared. Which was why he now found himself driving the Fourtrak up the short drive to the Abbey Farmhouse.
As he got out and locked the door behind him he found he was looking up at that bedroom window on the first floor. The memories did return, but now they were in monochrome, and his pulse barely quickened. Still, it had been a great night and Tricia was now doing what she had always wanted. He smiled: would that all his girlfriends were that straightforward – and forgiving.
As he approached the house, Candice was standing by the open front door. She greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks, and ushered him into the now familiar ochre-painted dining room, just off the front hall.
When she had handed Alan a cup of coffee, she sat down and began the meeting. Alan noted she was very much in charge, but he couldn’t help noticing that she was also the person who served him with coffee. None of the men present could possibly have done it; this was still a very conventional family. Business was what men did in such circles. That set him thinking: so had that narrowed the field? Maybe it had. Alan allowed himself a moment of optimism.
Candice began by saying a few words about Joe Thorey’s death. She then introduced Steve Grant, who would be starting work at Fursey from the first week of April. This would give him a three-week run-up to the events of Easter and the start of the main, summer tourism season. His CV looked impressive. He was 34 and had a good degree in Leisure and Tourism from Southport, followed by a short stint as a volunteer at the Tower of London, before moving to HPM and the Water World historical theme park. He started work there as a tour guide, but in just four years he was running the shop and, shortly after that, was put in charge of events planning. The founder and CEO of HPM, Blake Lonsdale, had provided a glowing testimonial.
Steve Grant was a good-looking, slim young man with neat short hair and a fashionable, but not, Alan noted, flashy, suit, which he wore without a tie. He had an easy-going manner and everybody in the room took to him instantly. Even Alan, who had a profound dislike of suits and the people who wore them, couldn’t help being charmed by the warmth of his smile.
Candice began by mentioning that she had discussed the scheme she was about to propose with Steve, as she immediately called him, and he had given it his wholehearted approval. As if to back her up, Steve was smiling and nodding as she spoke.
She explained that the scheme had been ‘dreamed up’, as she put it, by her husband John and his good friend Dean Jason. Alan looked across the table. John and the dean were sitting next to each other wearing almost identical dark suits.
‘And I should add,’ the dean chipped in, ‘that although it’s not official, all my colleagues in the cathedral think it a splendid notion, as it appeals to a young demographic and has the enthusiastic support of both the Scouts and the Mothers’ Union.’
Wow, Alan thought, they were just the organisations to get everyone’s juices squirting. But his face was a rigid mask of polite interest.
She went on to outline how, after their visit to Fursey during the live shoot, Alan had told them about the early date for the foundation of Fursey and how it probably predated that of Ely by one or even two generations. Alan hated the glib way non-specialists merge history and archaeology. He still had big misgivings about the dating of this supposed ‘event’.
‘And I have important new information,’ the Fen dean broke in for a second time, ‘that was only confirmed two days ago, by no less an authority than Professor Jacob Hawkins of St Luke’s College, Cambridge.’ He paused for the names of the man and the college to drop. ‘The idea was suggested to me by Dr Peter Flower and he agreed to run it past the great man, who was also very excited when it was suggested to him. So it would now seem highly probable – and these were the very words used by Professor Hawkins – that the name Fursey “is a Norse corruption of the much earlier Celtic saint’s name, “Fursey”.’
Alan almost brought up his lunch. He’d never heard anything so ridiculous: ‘highly probable’? My arse. Wisely, he looked down at the table and said nothing.
While he was speaking, the dean pushed his chair back to give himself more room to be enthusiastic. It was then Alan caught a glimpse of his trousers. They were being held up by the same narrow shiny belt he’d worn with his jeans the last time they’d met. And then disaster struck. Suddenly it was as if Alan was wearing head phones. The lead singer of Half Man Half Biscuit, right now Alan’s favourite band, was singing the chorus to ‘We Built This Village On a Trad. Arr. Tune’, the last track on the CD he’d just bought. The next verse started with his current favourite line in rock music: ‘Yonder the Deacon in misguided trousers …’
It was too much. He forced his face into a frown, stared down at the table, then rapidly left the room and headed across the hall to the small downstairs lavatory at the back, where his urge to giggle suddenly vanished. He flushed the toilet, feeling a bit of a fool.
Alan re-entered the dining room with a composed and serious face. The dean was drawing to a conclusion. He nodded to Alan.
‘Of course, Alan knows all this, so I won’t repeat it for his benefit, but I think you’ll all agree, our conclusions must be valid.’
He stopped, seemingly exhausted by the intensity of his announcement. Just to be safe, Alan kept his eyes off the decanal trousers.
The dean’s news was greeted with an amazed silence. Alan said nothing. Mercifully nobody asked for his views on St Fursey at Fursey. Maybe, he thought, they detected his scepticism, or remembered it from that afternoon. He could never express his true opinion: that it was a classic example of how to mismatch archaeology and place-name studies. There were so many Viking place names in the area that ended in ‘-by’, which simply meant farmstead. But nobody said a word. So he sat silently. Why make a fuss? What could that possibly achieve? And besides, he knew he had bigger and more dangerous fish to fry.
Alan had a shrewd suspicion that John and the dean’s proposal – however misguided – might actually precipitate action. He also realised that things couldn’t go on like this forever. The small community at Fursey seemed completely unaware of what was happening around them. Although Alan feared the consequences, he knew something was needed to bring everything out into the open. He had prepared a story. Somehow he had to use it, even if he was on his own, without his brother, Graham, to help him. Time to concentrate: look for an opening, then jump in. He leant forward, concentrating hard.
Candice resumed the discussion. ‘So to put it in a nutshell, St Fursey was a Celtic missionary from Ireland, who converted much of East Anglia to Christianity, then moved on to the Continent. He died around 650. Ely Cathedral itself wasn’t founded until 673, by St Etheldreda – which makes us here at Fursey the senior foundation, yet our name never appears in any of the history books. It’s always Ely, first, second and third.’ She paused for a sip of water. ‘Dean Jason and John thought it would be appropriate, in these days of devolution and the Big Society, for the great cathedral to be seen to be reaching out to make a loving and magnanimous gesture to its more ancient, but far smaller, neighbour. We also know that many small evangelical groups in the area have been very inspired by the recent revelations about St Fursey. They’ve even left small offerings of shamrock and flowers with us after their visits to the abbey and the dig. So our friends at the cathedral have agreed to help us organise an Easter pilgrimage, the Fursey Penance, where pilgrims will set out from Fursey, carrying pieces of rock from the collapsed walls of Fursey Abbey, which they then transport, via water, to Ely Cathedral, where a carefully tended heap, or cairn, will gradually accumulate.’
‘And I should add here,’ the dean said enthusiastically, ‘that the cathedral’s dean has given us permission to place the cairn in the transept – directly below the magnificent lantern, which should bathe it in light.’
Alan was astonished. Everything about this was wrong from a conservation point of view. But on the other hand, it might trigger something. So he bit back his indignation and asked in the pleasantest voice he could manage.
‘Surely you’re not telling us that this cairn will be permanent, are you?’
‘No, no,’ the dean replied, all smiles. ‘That would be out of the question, and I’m sure the cathedral archaeologist wouldn’t hear of it, either. English Heritage have also insisted that the stones be returned to the stockpile at Fursey on Tuesday. And a local contractor has already kindly agreed to do that for us, for free.’
Candice then finished. ‘The cairn will be blessed by the bishop himself on Easter Monday. At the same time, a small plaque to the memory of St Fursey will be unveiled in the north aisle. That should provide a fitting, and permanent, memorial. Finally, I should add that local media are already showing great interest in the project, and the cathedral dean has kindly arranged for us to hold a press conference at his offices in the Close, next Monday, at 10am.’
At the end of the practical discussion, Candice asked if anyone had any further questions. Alan raised his hand.
‘Yes, Alan,’ Candice smiled. ‘You haven’t said much this evening.’
This was the opportunity he had been seeking. He had decided on a humble, diffident approach. But he was finding it hard to conceal his anger: were these unfortunate pilgrims about to carry lumps of rock to Ely, as penance for John Cripps’s, or his family’s role in Stan’s, Hansworth’s and now Thorey’s deaths? Or was it a bare-faced attempt to lay the curse myth? Either way, Alan couldn’t see it working.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’m not a regular churchgoer, so I thought it would be inappropriate if I commented on this splendid scheme, which I’m sure will be a huge success, both for Fursey, the cathedral and, of course, for the pilgrims themselves.’ He paused. That seemed to have gone down very well. Everyone was listening intently. ‘But I thought you might be interested to know that I have just been informed by Dr Hilary Porter of Saltaire University that the building stone used at Fursey Abbey originated in the Barnack quarries, which of course provided the stone used in the cathedral.’
Alan was watching his audience closely as he released the news. Whoever had carefully chosen those mass-produced bricks to weigh-down Thorey’s body must have been well aware that the limestone used at Fursey could have been identified. It was almost as good as a fingerprint – especially given that Thorey worked for the Cripps family. With the exception of Steve Grant, at least one person around the table once had a strong motive for stealing Dr Porter’s original identification and then for killing both Stan and maybe Thorey too – for why else were his pockets exclusively filled with modern bricks? It was very odd for a suicidal person to be worried about such things. And would Thorey have understood? But now the secret was out, and their reactions were absolutely crucial.
Alan watched everyone intently, carefully noting every detail of their responses: John and Candice were wide-eyed with amazement. They seemed genuinely surprised – and pleased. The Fen dean was delighted, too – there was no disguising that. Young Steve Grant had just received a text and was looking down at his screen, so no surprise there. Then Sebastian yawned and rose to his feet to pour himself a cup of cold coffee. Not guilt so much as bored indifference. Alan was terribly disappointed: nobody was looking even slightly shifty, embarrassed, or guilty. It had certainly not been like a library scene in an Agatha Christie novel.
The dean was the first to speak. ‘Alan, that is splendid news. In our outline of the pilgrimage route we included a stretch of the Padnal Delph to symbolise St Fursey’s crossing of the Irish Sea. But your announcement now gives it added symbolism.’
‘And we also know,’ Alan found himself saying, ‘that the stones were transported across the Fens by water, as hewn blocks of limestone were revealed on the bottom of Whittlesea Mere after its drainage in the nineteenth century. We assume these blocks were pushed overboard when the boats transporting them south, ran aground in the shallow lake. But what’s interesting is that those blocks carried mason’s marks that can be matched at Ely. It would now appear that by the time work started on the Norman Cathedral, cross-Fenland trade links had already been long-established.’
This was news to the Fen dean, whose previous appointment had been in Sunningdale. He was obviously astonished. Alan deduced that he had not come across such direct links with the remote past before.
‘Thank you so much for that, Alan.’ Candice was almost gushing. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come this evening.’ Suddenly she stopped. John was looking at her, slightly shocked. Then she resumed quietly, her eyes down. ‘It would seem that our Penance is very timely indeed.’
But Alan wasn’t quite so certain – about anything. Ruefully, he thought, I have to admit it: my cunning set-piece didn’t work. But surely somebody at Fursey must have known about the Barnack stone and what it implied for any future development in the area. It was so frustrating.
Then he had second thoughts: or maybe someone in the room is a very good actor?
* * *
Alan was the first on-site the following morning. It was cold and there had been a sharp frost overnight. He needed a coffee. As if reading his mind, Candice called out from the back door of the temporary farm shop.
‘Fancy a coffee, Alan? I’ve just made some.’
Anything was better than instant, and hers was always good. He was soon inside the steamy Portakabin, grasping a hot mug. They were sitting at the table where flowers were cut and prepared for sale. Even though it was now the last day of March, Alan could still detect quite a strong smell of daffodils.
‘Alan, I do hope you didn’t think we were springing the pilgrimage thing on you. As we talked I couldn’t help thinking that you looked slightly overwhelmed by it all. And dear Dean Jason is such an enthusiast, isn’t he?’
Alan smiled. This didn’t need a reply.
‘But I have to confess,’ she continued, ‘John and I do have an ulterior motive – if you can call it that. Of course, as you’re no doubt aware, John is a devout believer, so his motives are – how can I put it? – more Christian than mine, but he agrees with me that this Thorey business is reviving that stupid curse myth.’
In other situations, Alan might have denied this, but there was a limit to how far he could push the truth, especially when talking to Candice, whom he knew to have closer relationships with local people than the other members of her family. And the truth was that every time he went to the village pub, somebody mentioned the curse – even if just in passing. But after the discovery of Thorey’s body, it had once again become a hot topic.
‘Still,’ he said, as brightly as he could manage, ‘don’t you think it’ll prove a flash in the pan?’
Alan had run out of clichés for ephemeral. And his own words sounded hollow to him.
‘No, sadly, I don’t – and nor does John. Because, don’t forget, this comes on the heels of dear Stan’s death and then, of course, there was poor James Hansworth’s death in 2004. And it’s not as if the background story is modern. It has genuine roots that extend way back in history.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Alan had to agree with her.
And yes, on reflection he could see they did have good grounds to be worried – especially as she and her husband depended for their living on a visitor attraction, which in turn relied heavily on local goodwill.
‘John thought – and I have to say I agree with him – that the pilgrimage idea might cause local people to view the family in a new light. I mention all this to explain why we’re so very keen that this Penance goes ahead smoothly. To be honest, I don’t think it should affect the dig, but it’s always good to know what’s going on, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll have a word with the team. They’re all very professional, but sometimes on digs the language can get a bit fruity. Devout churchgoers might get upset – and of course we’ll keep an eye out for more offerings.’
‘No, don’t worry. We’ve put up a sign asking religious people to show restraint when they arrive. We’re also providing a special mini-altar for offerings in the abbey ruins. That should deal with the problem.’
The clinical way in which Candice outlined how they proposed to ‘deal’ with the ‘problem’, confirmed Alan’s impression that, unlike her husband, she wasn’t a believer. Not even an agnostic. But did that make him feel warmer towards her? It took a few moments to think this over, and then, rather to his surprise, he realised it didn’t. Candice was someone who ‘managed’ situations, and it occurred to Alan, not for the first time, that perhaps she was managing him.
* * *
Alan unwrapped the fish and chips he had just bought from the travelling chippy, which came in a converted London Transport red Routemaster and parked round the back of the village shop on Friday afternoons. There was always a short queue there, but it was worth the wait. Greasy but gorgeous – and with a double portion of chips. He’d just wolfed down the fish and was about to start lingering over the second portion of chips, when his mobile rang. Reception wasn’t too bad, so he didn’t bother to run upstairs. It was Lane.
‘Hi, Richard. Any news about Thorey?’
‘Yes, that’s why I’m ringing.’
‘Changed your mind about the suicide?’
It was worth a try. For his part, and despite all the evidence against it, Alan increasingly suspected foul play. Why would a suicide want to conceal the source of the weights he used? More to the point, would Thorey have even known about the Barnack quarries – let alone their significance? And what about the link to Stan’s death?
‘No. Can’t say we have. Trouble is, the pathologist, Dr Lindsay Harris, couldn’t be as helpful as she, and we, had hoped. And she’s one of the best.’
Alan had heard Lane talk of her with approval before.
‘But why couldn’t she be more certain?’
‘Two things, really: the length of time since death and the fact that the body had been in water.’
‘Could she tell if he’d been drowned?’
‘No, decay was too far advanced for that. But it seems more than likely.’
‘Could anything else have killed him?’
‘Again, it was very difficult to say for certain. There were no major traumas to the skull, for instance, and they didn’t find any shot in his body, either – which you might have expected, given that he was a gamekeeper.’
‘So she didn’t think he’d been killed in a struggle and then dumped in the water?’
‘No, she didn’t. But again, it was hard to be absolutely certain.’
‘Presumably the weight of the bricks stopped his body from floating off?’
‘That’s an interesting point. A fit and healthy swimmer should just be able to carry that sort of weight if, that is, he was desperate to stay alive. But that’s not the mindset of suicides, is it? And of course, if he’d been weakened in any way – even something like a nasty cold – he’d have gone fairly rapidly to the bottom.’
Alan was thinking hard. ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘So what would have happened then? Presumably his body would start to decay and pretty soon the gasses would bring him to the surface?’
‘That’s right. But you’ve got to remember that river levels were high, so the body could have been moved while it was still submerged.’
‘And drink? Any signs of that?’
‘After that length of time, in or out of water, any ethanol in the corpse would have been a by-product of putrefaction.’
Then Alan had a thought. ‘So the alcohol they found in Stan’s body was probably real?’
‘Yes, if by that you mean he’d drunk it. But then we don’t reckon his body had been in the river more than twenty-four hours.’
‘What about that deep mark just above Thorey’s knee? That is a bit odd isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I agree, it is. Lindsay reckoned it had happened sometime around the time of death, but she couldn’t be more precise than that. The body snagged on a sluice gate grille, or something similar, which held it below water and caused the damage to the leg. However, when she came to examine the surface of the femur—’ The line went fuzzy for a few seconds. Then it returned.
‘The bone itself?’ Alan wanted to be quite clear.
‘That’s right. It had been scratched on one side. Even odder, there were two small, fresh cuts – scratches more like – into the surface of the bone, one a bit deeper than the other.’
‘And when did that happen?’
‘As before, she can’t be certain. But it was around the time of death.’
‘Any thoughts?’
‘We discussed it in the station. There’s a certain amount of river traffic, so it could be damage from a passing boat, and, of course, there’s Smiley’s Mill at Fursey, and a couple of even larger mills downstream, not to mention all the various pumps and sluices. If you counted all the puncture marks on your friend Stan Beaton’s body, there were many more than just the two on Thorey. But none were so deep.’
Briefly Alan held the phone away from his ear. His mind was racing.
‘Thanks, Richard. You’ve given me lots to think about.’
He rang off. He knew he’d been a bit abrupt, but he needed time to think. He dipped a near-cold chip into salt then ketchup and munched. He didn’t taste anything. His brain wouldn’t slow down. Carefully he went over everything they’d said. Line by line, word by word. And again, he had to agree with Lane: it all seemed plausible. Almost too plausible. And there was another thing that neither he nor Lane had mentioned, but which both of them knew: Stan and Thorey both worked outdoors doing physically demanding jobs. They were both fit, strong men. Even if they were taken by stealth or surprise they would not have gone down without quite a struggle. And that, surely, was the explanation for the deep cut on his thigh. Maybe he’d been hit by a fork-lift? Or a tractor? Something big, powerful and with sharp edges. That cut, he now realised, was the key to it all.
By the time he’d finished the last scrap of cold crunchy batter, he knew he could never accept a word of the official explanation of Thorey’s death. He got up from the table, chucked the fish paper into the bin, and headed out for a beer.
Suicide? he mused, as he pushed the pub door open.
Like hell.