The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  ‘So this seems an important site – maybe a regional centre?’

  ‘Very much so. As you may know, the idea of defensive stop lines was dropped towards the end of 1940.’

  ‘That was after the collapse of the Maginot Line?’

  ‘That’s right, and there was a change in the army command back here in Britain. As a result, early in 1941 they went over to a system based on what they called nodal points, which were intended to resist for much longer than the ­thinly-manned stop lines.’

  ‘And this is one of them?’

  ‘Yes, but on a previously existing stop line, the Fenland Command Line, which links into the country’s primary defence, the GHQ Line, over towards Huntingdon. If you climb the Delph bank you can see two spigot mortars, three pillboxes for machine guns and a large shell-proof field gun shelter, which our volunteers have restored to its original wartime condition.’

  Alan couldn’t help pulling a face at this. ‘What, gas masks and tea flasks?’

  ‘I know, Alan,’ Jake continued. ‘I’m not too fond of restorations or re-enactment myself, but I must say, they’ve done a great job, and were advised by an old boy who was actually stationed here, during the war. So it’s 100 hundred per cent genuine. More to the point, they haven’t altered anything structural.’

  Alan smiled. He had deserved that.

  He said goodbye to Jake and the others, then headed up onto the Delph bank, first pausing to read one of the many information panels, which were concise, well-illustrated and carefully positioned to be unobtrusive, yet avoid the bleaching effect of direct sunlight. Again, Alan detected a professional hand behind it all. No doubt that was why John was so keen on closer co-operation with White Delphs. But how would that go down with other members of the Cripps family? He could clearly imagine how Sebastian would feel.

  He was standing on the top of the bank, admiring the view, when his mobile rang. He glanced down at the screen: four missed calls, all from the same unknown Peterborough number, which was phoning him again, now.

  ‘Alan!’ It was DCI Lane’s voice. ‘At last I’ve managed to get through. Are you digging deep in a lead mine somewhere?’

  ‘No, Richard, I’m out at White Delphs, as you suggested.’

  ‘Oh well, then, it’ll be the Delph bank. Seems to cut out signals from Norfolk. You on the top of it now?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  But Lane had more important things on his mind. ‘Alan, something has been drawn to my attention that I’d like to discuss with you face-to-face – and fairly soon, if that’s possible.’

  Alan could detect a note of urgency in Lane’s voice, which was unusual. This had to be important. ‘I’ve nothing on today, but I’m hoping to get to grips with Stan’s notes and stuff tomorrow – but even so, I could do it.’

  ‘No, let’s make it tonight. Mary’s keen to see you, too. It’s been too long. And we’d like you to see our new place here in Whittlesey.’

  Alan well remembered Richard had told him the previous summer that they were planning to move; but that was quick, even for Lane. Alan couldn’t help wondering whether their previous exploits together at Blackfen Prison and Leicester hadn’t made life too hot for the two of them back in the Midlands.

  * * *

  It was dark when Alan turned the Fourtrak into Straw Bear Close. Alan had smiled when Lane had told him the address: the Straw Bear was the name of the traditional mid-winter Molly Dance – a Fenland variant of Morris Dancing – that Whittlesey was locally famous for. Like other Fenland ceremonies, it was a great excuse to eat and drink too much.

  Alan drew into the small gravel pull-in in front of Number 6. Richard Lane answered the bell and ushered Alan into a hallway. Mary emerged from the kitchen and gave Alan a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘And how’s life in the Fens suiting you both?’ Alan asked her.

  She looked across at her husband. ‘We really like it here,’ she replied. ‘I can see my father’s family, who I’d begun to lose contact with.’ Mary had been born and raised in ­Peterborough. ‘And Richard feels at home with the Fenland force.’ She paused, before adding, ‘So, we’re happy.’

  Something about the way she spoke decided Alan against asking whether she – they – were happier here than in ­Leicester. Some comparisons are best left unmade.

  ‘Come and have a drink, Alan,’ Lane said. ‘And can I get you another, darling?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ She looked up at the grandfather clock that stood by the front door, as it had in their last house. ‘Supper will be ready at eight.’ Then she added, looking pointedly at Lane, ‘And don’t get too involved, you two. It’s fish and it’ll turn to rubber if it’s stewed.’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Alan replied, taking out his phone and setting the alarm. ‘There, that should do it.’

  * * *

  Lane and Alan moved into the sitting room, both with glasses of locally-brewed beer. As they walked across to two chairs on either side of a coffee table, Alan couldn’t contain his impatience. ‘Joe Thorey has vanished, hasn’t he?’

  ‘You seem very certain,’ Lane replied.

  Alan explained about the comments in the village pub when the news first broke.

  ‘So what do you make of that “here we go again”? Was that the banker, Hansworth, or Stan, they were talking about?’

  Lane took a long drink from his glass. ‘Oh, it has to be Hansworth. His death had a huge local impact. I was involved when I was with Fenland previously, and helped them sort out a few problems. So I was quite familiar with the case.’

  Alan sat forward, listening intently.

  ‘It all goes back to the 3rd Baronet Cripps, that’s the man everyone calls “Barty”.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan broke in. ‘I met him at Stan’s wake. I have to say I liked him. Seemed down-to-earth – and he was the only person who paid any attention to Stan’s parents.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lane smiled. ‘Well, he was the man who rationalised what was left of the estate in the mid-1980s. A major source of income then, and now, was Fursey Hall, which Barty, with the help of a very good architect, converted into extremely upmarket apartments, which were let to rich Londoners as second homes.’

  ‘A shrewd move.’

  ‘On the face of it, yes. But it wasn’t universally welcomed by the family, many of whom used to stay there themselves – for free.’

  Alan smiled. ‘Yes, I can imagine that.’

  ‘Anyhow,’ Lane continued, ‘One of the first of these new tenants was, predictably enough, a rich London banker named James Hansworth.’

  As Lane knew, Alan had a visceral loathing of bankers and financiers in general. ‘Yes, reptiles like rivers. He’d have been happy there.’

  Lane decided not to rise to this. ‘He actually leased the main, ground-floor apartment – not that it’s an “apartment” in the sense we know it; it’s more like the whole ground floor – in fact it’s the place where Sebastian and Sarah now live. Anyhow, he was no ordinary banker. He didn’t swagger around and was said to have taken the apartment following a sympathetic piece in the Sunday Times about Barty’s efforts to rationalise the estate, which back then was in a pretty poor state. Apparently he genuinely admired people who turned enterprises around – who made successes out of failures.’

  ‘So was that the area where he made his money?’

  ‘Yes, he was one of the British hedge fund survivors, following some spectacular collapses overseas in the late ’90s and early 2000s. It would appear he was much more cautious and would only put money in to businesses he had thoroughly researched.’

  ‘And he approved of what Barty was doing?’

  Lane shrugged. ‘So it would appear, although local tongues did wag at the time.’

  ‘Really?’

  Lane smiled. ‘No, Alan, I wouldn’t get excited. The Met were later brought in and they did a detailed forensic check of his firm’s accounts and there’s no evidence whatsoever of any shady deals. It wo
uld seem he was absolutely straight – although perhaps that’s not quite the right word—’

  ‘You mean, he was gay? How did that go down in a rural spot like Fursey?’

  ‘I think most people followed Barty’s lead.’

  ‘And he approved?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. But he was a pragmatist. So why rock the boat? And the local people knew their jobs depended on the estate being turned round; so they went along with his reforms, which included the Fursey Hall apartments. But, of course, one or two loudmouths weren’t very happy. But that’s inevitable.’

  ‘So when did Hansworth move in?’

  ‘Nineteen eighty-eight. By all accounts, Barty’s architect had done a superb job on the conversion, which won some prestigious awards. The plaques are still there in the front hall.’

  Alan was impressed. Barty rose even further in his estimation.

  ‘OK, so what happened then?’

  ‘Ten years passed. Then Sebastian and Sarah decide to get married. As you’ve probably already gathered, Sebastian can be a bit down-to-earth.’

  Alan smiled. He secretly rather admired Sebastian’s rural directness. Put him in mind of his own father. ‘Don’t tell me: he asked Hansworth to move out of the main apartment?’

  ‘Almost. It would seem he did have a “conversation”, but Hansworth, quite reasonably, as he’d been living there ten years, wanted to stay put. And besides, he’d bought a 99-year lease and in those days leases and rental agreements didn’t favour the landlords.’

  ‘So he didn’t move out?’

  ‘No, and more to the point, Sebastian accepted the fact and moved into one of the other apartments which had just fallen vacant, and they lived there happily until March 2004.’

  ‘But presumably they must have resented the fact that they couldn’t move into the main apartment?’

  ‘Apparently not. As you know, Sebastian has a pragmatic – I’ve heard you call it rural – approach to life and he seemed to have decided to let the matter drop. Sarah, on the other hand, was more proactive; she went out of her way to reestablish good relations with Hansworth.’

  ‘How on earth did she do that?’ Alan found the idea of a rather conventional, church-going, rural lady forming a friendship with a gay London banker interesting – to say the least.

  Lane grinned. ‘As you might know, the gardens at the Hall are quite famous and a few months after the parterre garden won its first award, Sarah told the press that she realised ­Hansworth was a potential gardener when she saw all the hanging baskets he had arranged in the grand entrance hall.’

  ‘So that’s how he got involved with the garden.’ Things were starting to fall into place for Alan. ‘Candice mentioned it earlier.’

  Lane took a sip from his drink and continued, ‘At the time some people said she had only approached him because of his money; but actually, it does appear he was a natural-born gardener and had always been interested in plants. As time passed, he spent longer and longer at Fursey.’

  ‘What, days, weeks, months? How did he fit it all in?’

  ‘In the early ’90s he would only spend weekends there. He had a strict rule about being in the office for Monday morning. But slowly things began to change.’

  ‘What, the Monday bit?’

  ‘No, that never altered. Instead he’d return to Fursey earlier in the week – sometimes even on a Wednesday.’

  ‘Does that mean he was getting bored of banking?’ Alan asked.

  ‘That’s what I thought, too, but I was wrong. He was 45 when he died and would often say that he’d spent his life delegating and was now reaping the rewards. Again, the Met finance boys made enquiries and it would seem he was right. Apparently his office was very well run – and he was trusted and highly respected in the City.’

  ‘It sounds like he was in control, not just of his office, but of life in general. So did he spend much time with Sarah in the garden?’

  ‘Yes, a fair bit, but he also took up fishing. Whether by accident or design, the lease he’d negotiated back in 1988 included exclusive rights to two hundred yards of riverbank – in fact, the same stretch of water where we found Stan’s body.’

  ‘And what about his gay partners? How did they fit in with the gardening fisherman?’

  ‘For the last eight or nine years of his life, his only partner was a man called Andrew Fellows. He was an estate agent in Northampton. There’s nothing about him to make us suspicious. But it was Fellows, I think, who got him interested in fishing.’

  ‘Game fishing, presumably?’

  ‘No,’ Lane replied. ‘That’s the surprising thing. They both enjoyed coarse fishing, especially for eels, which are still quite plentiful hereabouts. Sarah also told me that Fellows was a good cook and she would sometimes be invited to their apartment to share an eel with them.’

  There was a pause while both men thought through what had been said. Alan was the first to speak. ‘Right, so that takes us, I think, to 2004.’ Lane nodded. Alan drained the last of his beer before speaking again. ‘Although I think I can guess from what you’ve already said, but I’ve got to ask: what happened next?’

  Lane was about to reply when the phone in Alan’s shirt pocket sounded the alarm. Time for supper – and they both knew it would be a fatal error to continue their conversation away from the table.

  * * *

  Mary was standing at the stove putting the finishing touches to the parsley sauce, while Lane and Alan were piling their plates high. She took off her apron and put the steaming sauce boat on the table.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Help yourselves, boys.’

  Eating in the Lane household had always been more about enjoying the food hot, than the usual, rather prim, English social niceties. The sauce jug came to ground near Alan, so he immediately helped himself, then handed it on to Lane.

  ‘It’s great to be back with you both,’ Alan said. ‘And I do like the house. You must have a good view from the upstairs rooms at the back.’

  ‘Yes, we do,’ Mary replied, helping herself to a buttery spoonful of Savoy cabbage. ‘You can see right along the King’s Dyke and over across to the old knot holes which are teeming with wildlife: buzzards, hares – even the occasional deer.’

  The ‘knot holes’ were what local people called the pits dug deep into the Oxford clay by the London Brick Company before the war. These vast holes were the raw material of Victorian and Edwardian London. But half a century of abandonment had changed them dramatically – for the better.

  ‘Anyhow, Alan, Richard has been telling me all about what has been going on at Fursey. You do lead an exciting life, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, I hope this time it all blows over. I think I’d rather be an archaeologist than a bad amateur sleuth. And believe me, Mary, the site is extraordinary. It’s already producing loads of Roman military stuff. All completely unexpected.’

  ‘So you don’t reckon anything strange is going on there. You’ll simply be able to do your dig without any distractions?’

  Alan hadn’t meant to imply that. And she knew it.

  ‘Obviously Stan’s death will need to be sorted out, but that’s more Richard’s affair than mine—’

  ‘And Hansworth?’ she broke in. ‘Is that linked in any way?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Alan was feeling very wrong-footed and he couldn’t decide if Lane was enjoying his predicament. ‘But, obviously,’ he continued without much conviction, ‘I’m keeping my eyes open for any possible clues.’

  Mary pressed home the point. ‘What about that curse business. You think it might be relevant?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ Lane said. ‘I think a lot of the Curse of the Cripps stuff is rubbish; mostly gossip by jealous locals.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right,’ Alan replied, keen now to clarify what he actually thought. ‘But I think two, and now possibly three, unexplained deaths in the stretch of river that passes through the estate do need to be e
xplained – if only to silence the rumour-mongers.’

  ‘Of course, we were very sad indeed about your poor friend Stan,’ Mary said. ‘And we were around when Hansworth vanished. But that was rather strange. I remember thinking at the time there was something not quite right about it.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Alan asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It all seemed “managed” in a sort of PR fashion: information came out in dribs and drabs. Put me in mind of the way the Blair government “managed” the official enquiry into the lead-up to the Iraq War. It was all about “spin” and cover-up – not truth. Don’t you agree, Richard?’

  Lane was smiling slightly anxiously. It was unusual for Mary to be quite so frank.

  ‘I will admit that everyone’s story held together and was consistent. But then that’s what you’d expect in a well-run family team. I imagine people probably did consult together and yes, I think there was an element of damage limitation there, too. But again, given all that curse business, and the fact that the family were involved with a popular visitor attraction – which is what the farm shop and restaurant were, let alone the then new Abbey project – I don’t think that’s particularly surprising.’

  Some of this was passing Alan by. He needed more precise information. He had stopped theorising and was now actively looking for clues.

  ‘I’m sorry, Richard, but you’ll have to tell me precisely what happened. All I have gathered is that a banker named Hansworth, who was a keen fisherman, died in the river, near to where Stan’s body washed up, sometime in 2004.’

  ‘It was mid-March, actually,’ Lane said. ‘We don’t know for sure, but it seems most likely that the accident—’

  ‘If that’s what it was,’ Mary interrupted.

  ‘Yes, dear, if that’s what it was. And remember the coroner’s court passed a verdict of death by misadventure—’

  ‘Like Stan.’ It was Alan’s turn to disrupt his friend’s narrative.

  ‘Indeed, like Stan – and just like Stan, I can’t start rumours about murder. So I’ve got to be very, very careful. It’s worth remembering that the Cripps family are very powerful. So we’ve got to be extra discreet. If they get so much as a whiff that you’re looking into the case, Alan, you can kiss goodbye to your job and your precious archaeology.’