The Hidden Bones

by Nicola Ford

‘I don’t understand. If Gerald was such a model professional before Hungerbourne, why did he pack it all in without writing up the site?’

  ‘Maybe he enjoyed digging more than publishing. He wouldn’t be the first to be guilty of that.’

  She didn’t reply. She didn’t like being flannelled.

  He said, ‘By the look of some of the newspaper pieces I found in his filing cabinets, he became quite a celebrity when he started unearthing goldwork during the dig. One of the tabloids called him the Howard Carter of Wessex. Maybe …’ He leant across the table, hands raised in front of his face, snapping away with an imaginary camera. ‘… the media intrusion pushed him over the edge.’

  A portly gentleman in a Savile Row suit sitting on the opposite side of the aisle raised a disdainful eyebrow and rustled his Telegraph.

  Clare bent forward until she was almost nose to nose with David, barely able to contain her laughter. ‘Behave! You’re meant to be a respectable academic.’

  ‘Know where you’re going?’ The attendant in the British Museum held open one of two enormous double doors.

  David nodded. They found themselves in a long tiled passageway that ran like an artery into the heart of the great building. Down either side of the corridor stretched a series of offices trapped behind plate-glass windows set into solid oak frames. Clare could almost taste the centuries of learning.

  It took a sharp dig in the ribs from David to break her reverie. ‘It’s the door at the far end.’

  Reaching the spot he’d pointed to, she paused to remove her overcoat, tugging at the elegantly cut black jacket beneath to ensure no wrinkles were present.

  ‘Ready?’

  She nodded. David turned the worn brass knob, and the solid oak door swung open to reveal a slim man in his early sixties, with thinning grey hair and spectacles, sitting behind a desk on the far side of the room. The exact dimensions of the room were difficult to gauge. It was crammed with desks covered with dishevelled piles of journals and paperwork, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with books.

  He rose to greet them, sticking out a hand, which David shook warmly. ‘Clare Hills. Dr Daniel Phelps.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Hills.’

  Mrs Hills. The name crashed around in her brain. She found herself overwhelmed by a sudden feeling of emptiness. She was vaguely aware of Daniel gesturing at the seat opposite his own and sat down gratefully. She’d been so caught up in her rediscovery of the world of archaeology she’d almost managed to suppress the memory of Stephen. How could she allow herself to forget him? And so soon. She fought back a wave of nausea. Digging her fingernails hard into the palms of her hands, she forced herself to concentrate on what David was saying.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us at such short notice.’

  There was the hint of an Ulster accent in Daniel’s reply. ‘Not at all. In museum terms, I’m a sort of descendant of your man Hart. He was Keeper of British and Medieval Antiquities. So it’s always been a particular source of frustration holding the Hungerbourne gold, but having so little information about his excavation.’

  ‘Well, I hope we can change that for you.’ David smiled. ‘We’re intending to publish Hart’s work at Hungerbourne and to carry out an excavation of our own.’

  She glanced sideways, not quite believing what she was hearing. Since when had he been planning a dig? He was smiling at her, his expression betraying his satisfaction at her reaction.

  The study room was large, bright and entirely free from the books and clutter of Daniel’s office. Clare and David had both donned thin blue plastic gloves to protect the precious treasures that lay in a large foam-lined wooden drawer on the desk in front of them. Four small holes had been cut into the foam, in each of which rested an artefact. First David and then Clare examined each in turn.

  The largest of the objects was a cone-shaped button measuring little more than four centimetres across. Fashioned from shale, it was entirely covered in gold that had been beaten to the thinness of tinfoil and decorated with four pairs of delicately incised lines. Alongside the button lay what looked like a miniature gold bangle with its out-turned terminals resembling a cow’s horns. Slightly smaller than a matchbox, a rectangular pendant sat next to the bangle, a criss-cross of narrow lines forming a chequerboard pattern incised into its gleaming golden surface. According to David, the whisper-thin metal enveloped a piece of human skull; the Bronze Age equivalent of a mourning brooch.

  Her eyes were drawn to the smallest piece – a tiny imitation of a halberd. She knew full-sized halberds were capable of inflicting vicious wounds, with their dagger-like blade jutting out at right angles from one end of a long wooden pole. But this exquisite wonder was no bigger than a thimble, its handle crafted from lustrous red amber and wrapped around with four narrow bands of ribbed gold. Out of the thicker end projected the broken remnant of a tiny copper blade.

  She opened her laptop and turned her attention to checking each item against the finds database she’d missed breakfast to create. All four pieces matched Gerald’s meticulous descriptions, but he’d also listed another that wasn’t present: a gold and amber artefact he referred to as a ‘sun disc’. She pointed out the omission to David.

  ‘Maybe it’s on display. You carry on here and I’ll have a word with Daniel.’

  Clare set about measuring the dimensions of each object with a pair of grey plastic dial callipers, the soft clicking of keys signalling the entry of the information onto her computer.

  David returned accompanied by Daniel, who placed a small opaque plastic box on the desk in front of her that looked as if it should contain his sandwiches. ‘I think this is what you’re after. It was under a different accession number because it was deposited separately from the rest of the Hungerbourne material.’

  ‘Isn’t that unusual, depositing two parts of the same archive separately?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Strictly speaking, it’s not part of the same archive. It came from the Hungerbourne barrow cemetery but it was found before the dig started,’ Daniel explained.

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Are you sure? In his site diaries Gerald describes it being found during the dig.’

  ‘Take a look.’ Daniel lifted the lid of the box to reveal a circular disc about three centimetres across, lying on a bed of acid-free tissue paper. At its centre was an orange-red amber disc encircled by thinly beaten gold, decorated in turn with four concentric circles traced into the glittering metal.

  She lifted the disc gently out of its container, turning it round in her hand. Except for some pitting of the amber, the disc was perfect in every way. Taking the callipers, she measured its width and depth, and returned it to its box before beginning to click through the database on her laptop.

  She frowned and looked up at the two men waiting expectantly beside her. ‘It can’t have been found before the dig started. It matches the description of the one found by Gerald during the excavation exactly.’

  David leant over Clare’s shoulder, peering at the laptop screen, then turned to face her. ‘You’re certain there can’t have been an error transferring Gerald’s records to the computer?’

  ‘Positive. The gold was listed separately to everything else in the catalogue and the details in the database match everything else here.’

  David turned to Daniel. ‘Can we be absolutely sure the accessions record for this piece is accurate? It definitely wasn’t part of the excavation archive?’

  ‘Mistakes do happen, especially with older items, but I’m certain about this one. We’ve still got the letter of gift that accompanied it when it was given to the museum.’

  ‘Could we take a look?’

  ‘I’ll dig it out for you.’

  Sitting in the corner of the coffee bar opposite the gates of the British Museum, two sheets of paper lay on the table between Clare and David. The first, a photocopy of a handwritten letter dated 20th June 1973, detailed the gift to the museum of what its author, a Richard Jevons, called
‘the Jevons sun disc’. Jevons had apparently owned the field in Hungerbourne where the disc had been found in the autumn of 1972. He had decided, the letter went on, that the most suitable place to house the piece was in the nation’s most prestigious museum, ‘so that all might benefit from the gift of such a magnificent example of ancient craftsmanship’.

  David skimmed the chocolate from the top of his cappuccino with his spoon. ‘Sounds a bit of a pompous old git.’

  ‘Generous, though.’ Clare sipped her coffee. But even the double shot of espresso failed to make her feel any better.

  ‘Anyone can make a mistake.’

  She placed her cup forcefully but not quite accurately down on its saucer, causing a little of the hot liquid to spill onto the table. ‘I didn’t make a mistake. Gerald not only lists that sun disc in his finds catalogue, he describes it being found during the dig by some woman called Joyce Clifford.’

  David picked up the second sheet, a copy of a typed inventory bearing Gerald’s signature. In the bottom right-hand corner, a British Museum date-stamp read 25th October 1973. It comprised a list of all the goldwork found during his excavations and subsequently handed over to the museum. David read through its contents for a third time before placing it purposefully back on the veneered tabletop that divided them.

  He looked up at her. ‘Well, that’s not what it says here.’

  She held his gaze, struggling to control the rising pitch of her voice. ‘I know.’

  ‘We’ll just have to check through the original catalogue again when we get back.’ He leant across the table, looking into her eyes, his tone softer now. ‘No one would blame you for making the odd error after what you’ve been through.’

  Later, replaying the scene in her head, she would picture herself depositing the dregs of her hot coffee into his lap. But what she actually did was to ram her left arm into the right sleeve of her overcoat; then, abandoning the attempt, thrust her chair backwards, clattering it into an unsuspecting Italian student sitting at the table behind her.

  David stood up. ‘Clare, I’m sorry.’

  For several seconds, they stood looking at one another. Then he reached down to where her bag sat on the floor and handed it to her.

  ‘Thanks for the support!’

  It wasn’t until she was picking her way alone through the deepening puddles in Great Russell Street that she finally lost the struggle against her tears.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  David edged his head round the door of the laying-out room. ‘Can I come in?’

  Clare was sitting behind a Formica-topped desk, a hardback notebook open in front of her. Her expression wasn’t encouraging. He should have left it longer.

  ‘Only if you promise not to try the sympathy thing again.’

  Her chastisement was an improvement on the studied silence of the last few days. He tilted his head towards her deferentially. ‘I promise to remain entirely unsympathetic in future.’

  Her face softened into a smile as she beckoned him towards her.

  He pointed in the direction of the notebook. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘If you mean have I found my mistake …’ He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing her raise her hand towards him immediately shut it again. ‘… the answer is no. My transcription from Gerald’s finds catalogue was spot on.’

  He pulled up a chair alongside her. ‘So why don’t you look as smug as hell?’

  She fixed him with a warning glare. ‘Don’t think I’m not tempted.’

  He felt a sudden urge to laugh, but managed to suppress it.

  Clare said, ‘If we can’t trust Gerald’s records, how can we make sense of the excavation?’

  ‘We don’t know all his records are unreliable.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Now we don’t know how much of his record-keeping we can trust. If he faked his excavation records, it would explain why he kept the archive under lock and key for so long.’

  He sat with one arm folded across his chest, the other stroking his chin, considering the proposition. ‘Why go to the bother of faking them if he never intended them to become public knowledge?’ He leant back in his chair. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  They sat in silence. For the first time since Clare’s return to Wiltshire, he felt despondency creeping over him. Over the past few years he’d experienced a growing hopelessness every time he’d opened his inbox and tried to wade his way through the endless bureaucracy that the twenty-first century academic was forced to endure. They didn’t tell you about that on the Discovery Channel!

  Finding the Hungerbourne archive had given him the kick up the backside he’d needed. He had the chance to get out and do some real archaeology – something that actually mattered. And having Clare back alongside him was more than he could have hoped for. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity had fallen right into his lap and he wasn’t going to let anyone screw it up – not even Gerald bloody Hart and his sodding record-keeping.

  ‘Got it!’ Clare slammed the flats of her hands down on the desk. Picking up one of Gerald’s notebooks, she waved it in front of David’s face. ‘Other than these and Gerald’s magazine article, what have we got?’

  ‘Bugger all.’

  She replaced the volume on top of the pile on the corner of the desk. ‘Not true. We’ve got Richard Jevons’ letter.’

  ‘How does that help?’

  ‘The letter says Jevons owned the field the sun disc was found in – and the disc came from the Hungerbourne barrow cemetery.’

  David pulled himself upright in his seat. ‘So he owned the field where the dig took place.’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘If we can track him down, we might just get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘If he’s still alive.’

  The golden flecks in her hazel eyes sparkled with the same glimmer he remembered when he’d first seen her put trowel to soil as an undergrad. ‘Are you teaching this afternoon?’

  ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘Right.’ She grabbed her fleece from the peg on the back of the door and ushered him into the corridor.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I’m going to buy you a pub lunch in Hungerbourne. Let’s see if we can run Mr Jevons to ground.’

  ‘I don’t give much for our chances, but I always think better on a full stomach.’

  Clare glanced down at his waistline. ‘That, Dr Barbrook, explains why you’ve done so well in academia.’

  David luxuriated in the warmth of the spring sunshine as he sank into the leather passenger seat of Clare’s smart new coupé, an altogether welcome improvement on bumping along in his ancient Land Rover. As Clare manoeuvred the Mazda precisely round the sweeping bends, his gaze drifted to the River Avon meandering its way through the valley floor below. What wouldn’t he give to have seen the huge grey sarsen stones being transported along this river from the Marlborough Downs towards their final resting place at Stonehenge. Being an archaeologist, he reflected, was akin to having a mental illness, his head populated with long-dead voices and images.

  Despite their avowed intent to track down Richard Jevons, neither of them was able to resist the draw of the small green footpath sign that pointed them towards the barrow cemetery as they entered the village of Hungerbourne. And now as they stood on top of the hill overlooking the burial ground, David imagined he could feel the presence of the people who’d inhabited the ancient landscape. Immediately below where they stood were the round barrows. Overlooking the modern village, all that remained to be seen above ground was one large round mound lying between two slightly less well-defined grassy hummocks, spaced at about fifty-metre intervals, tumbling down the side of the hill.

  Clare was standing beside him, hands jammed into the pockets of her chunky fleece, which was zipped right up to her neck. It looked decidedly warmer than his old army jacket, though he would never have admitted as much.

  She glanced sideways at him. ‘You’re very quiet.’

  ‘I was thinking.’

&nbs
p; ‘About Gerald’s excavation?’

  He turned to give Clare his full attention. He shook his head. ‘About rivers. Watercourses were treated as special places in prehistory. Around here, a bourne is a name for a stream or small river.’

  Clare looked puzzled. ‘But I’ve looked at the maps. There isn’t a watercourse anywhere near here.’

  He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Every few years a spring appears just over there.’ He pointed at a spot just upslope from the topmost barrow. ‘It flows right past our barrow cemetery and on through the bottom of the valley.’ He swept his arm downwards in a series of sinuous arcs, emulating the gentle folds of the hillside in front of them and finally coming to rest not far from the car park of the pub they were aiming for in the modern village. ‘It’s where the village gets its name.’

  ‘But why Hungerbourne?’

  ‘The waters only run in really wet years. So they were associated with bad harvests and famine.’

  Clare shivered. ‘The Woe Waters.’

  ‘Cold?’

  She shook her head. On the leeward side of the uppermost barrow, a recently born lamb was tenaciously trying to headbutt its sibling away from their mother to ensure its own supply of life-giving nourishment. ‘People must have had to make some harsh choices up here at the end of winter when the food ran out.’

  David followed Clare’s gaze towards the grassy mounds.

  Without moving, she asked, ‘Do you think the association with the rising of the waters and death is why they chose this as a burial site?’

  ‘Let’s say I think it’s a bit more than a coincidence.’

  Hungerbourne was a typical downland village. Perched on a small plateau on the southern slope of an upland valley, to the casual observer its thatched cottages and rose-filled gardens gave it a timeless quality. It looked a long way from the bleak grit-stone uplands of his Derbyshire childhood, but David knew appearances were deceptive.

  Until a few decades ago it had been a tiny isolated settlement, its inhabitants struggling to eke out an existence. But one glance at the Mercs, Volvos and Audis that peppered the high street told David that today’s residents had a decidedly easier time of it. An impression reinforced by the low-slung beams and tastefully decorated interior of the Lamb and Flag, inside which he and Clare now found themselves.