John Cripps’s enthusiasm was undiminished by Alan’s muted response. ‘But we need to improve the visitor’s on-site experience. I think that’s crucial. In fact, absolutely key.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, but you mustn’t forget that if you have more visitors they will need to be controlled. I don’t want them damaging the archaeology.’ Alan paused to let this sink in. ‘I’m really worried about the stripped surface around Trenches 1 and 2. I don’t think the folded tarpaulins we laid down are enough. There are simply too many people. We urgently need duckboards or a proper raised walkway.’
‘Of course, Alan.’ John had slipped into Dynamic Manager mode. ‘I’ll have it seen to right away.’
* * *
It was a clean, fresh early March morning. The previous day’s rain had long gone and high in the sky Alan could see the parallel vapour trails of jets heading east towards Holland and northern Europe. The first days of spring in the Fens were like nowhere else. There were no hills or tall buildings to cast their chilling shadows; all was open – and somehow above board. Straightforward – like the people, or rather most of them, Alan mused as he headed towards the temporary tea and coffee stall. He was desperate for a brew before he went down to the dig. He was handing over his 40p when Candice hurried up. She was plainly very excited, almost overwhelmed, at the size of the crowds.
‘Alan,’ she gushed. ‘You are a sweetie. Let me give you a kiss.’ Which she did, twice, and on both cheeks, to the evident delight of Doris in the tea stall.
‘Yes.’ Alan was slightly at a loss for words. ‘Yes, it did seem to go down quite well, didn’t it?’
This rhetorical question earned a reply. ‘Yes, it most certainly did. John’s thinking of changing our name from Abbey Farm to Itsagrave Farm.’
Despite his misgivings, Alan had to smile. Not at all bad for so early in the morning. But Candice hadn’t finished.
‘Obviously you were the star with that last appearance …’
Alan remembered ruefully that the first one hadn’t been too hot.
‘But John and I thought Tricia’s stuff on the Roman finds was first rate, too. In fact, you both made quite a double act. It really came off well. And of course the audience loved it.’
Alan was genuinely pleased, and was beginning to cheer up. He’d come to like Tricia. She certainly wasn’t the usual sort of young woman he met on the digging circuit, but he didn’t find her as self-centred and stuck-up as he’d feared. Yes, she obviously had an eye on a career in the media, but so what? They both knew that academia was becoming less attractive, with far too much focus on publication quantity rather than quality, and endless teaching and student ‘contact time’. The students, too, were now so bloody middle class, as archaeology fees were often quite high. To his surprise, Tricia was fairly left of centre in her political views and she, like he, was very worried about the widening gap in modern Britain between rich and poor.
‘John and I discussed it last night. We feel you’ve made such a big contribution to Fursey, we really do. And we’d like to say thank you in some way. So we wondered whether you’d both like to come to dinner next Sunday, when all the fuss has died down. We’ll invite a few close friends along. I think when this is finished we’ll all need a little celebration. Are you free?’
Alan was impressed. More to the point, this would be a superb chance to view the Crippses at home, off-guard, maybe even as a short-term member of the family.
‘And d’you want me to approach Tricia?’ he asked.
‘I’ve spoken to her already and she’s free that night. So I do hope you can come?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I’d be delighted. That’s very kind. Very kind indeed.’
She was turning to leave, when she suddenly remembered something else. She looked back. ‘Oh yes, one other thing, Alan.’
Alan stopped and turned. ‘Yes?’
‘When I got back last night there was a message on the phone from Peter Flower. You won’t believe it, but on Friday, his selection as bursar by the master was confirmed by the college council. So it’s official.’
She seemed to think that Alan knew of Flower’s selection. But he didn’t. And anyhow, he was distinctly underwhelmed. He couldn’t sound enthusiastic, but he did his best.
‘So I imagine he’ll be with us on Sunday?’
‘Oh, you bet: Peter’s always up for a celebration.’
‘I bet he is.’
Alan made this sound genial and was smiling at Candice broadly, but all he could think of were those bottles in the hidden cupboard. Sure, they’d once held the finest malt whisky money could buy, but in reality it was a slow poison that had been deliberately and callously administered. Flower had become far more than just a nasty irritant from his past. Far, far more. Suddenly Alan’s anger abated. He knew he mustn’t let his loathing of Flower disrupt his hunt for Stan’s killer, or killers. And that dinner would in effect be a line-up of the principal suspects, who would all be off-guard, relaxed and feeling secure. He must find a way to disrupt their complacency and shake their security and he was beginning to realise how he could do just that.
* * *
For the rest of the morning, Alan, Kaylee and Jon, were on their hands and knees trowelling vigorously. The excitement of the previous evening had caused both Alan and Kaylee to scrape a bit too vigorously. The surfaces they’d left were not as clean and flat as they’d both have liked. And there was also a lot of loose earth lying around. Jon had been helping out in Trench 2 during the ‘live’ and was a bit surprised by what he saw when he returned.
‘Looks like a bomb’s gone off in here, folks.’
‘Yeah, I know it does, Jon,’ Alan replied. ‘But we both got a bit carried away. You know what it’s like.’
Alan could see from Jon’s expression that he didn’t appreciate ‘what it’s like’ at all. Although still in his late twenties he was very old school in his approach: methodical, tidy and fastidious. Which was fine for 95 per cent of the time, but it was that 5 per cent that made the difference between success and failure. The trick was to recognise when and where to use plodders like Jon – which was why Alan had moved him to Trench 2 the previous afternoon.
‘Morning everyone and a huge thank you for last night. You were terrific. You honestly were. All of you.’
It was Frank Jones. Frank hadn’t risen much in Alan’s estimation after the first ‘live’, but at least he hadn’t got in the way. Alan now realised that Frank owed much to Speed and Grump, who not only knew what they were doing inside out, but had also advised Weinstein on the best local stringers (self-employed cameramen and sound recordists) to employ. Sadly, it was not the first shoot he’d been on where the director was essentially a passenger. Between them, Weinstein, Speed and Alan took all the important decisions.
But then, somewhat to Alan’s surprise, Frank began with an intelligent question.
‘So did the people who dug that grave leave it open – otherwise how did it get to be filled with flood-clay?’
‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘That’s exactly what I wondered when I first came across one. Then we dug down and found that the alluvium – the flood-clay – was only in the uppermost part of the grave fill. The rest had been back-filled in the normal way.’
‘But how did that happen?’ Frank was still looking puzzled.
‘You’ve got to imagine what happens today, when a grave’s dug and a coffin is buried. The usual thing is to leave a low mound of soil for several months, a couple of years in some cases, before the gravestones or formal edgings to the grave are added. That interval gives the earth that’s filling the grave time to compress. Worms will break down large lumps of soil and get rid of pockets of air.’
‘So if you don’t leave a small mound, the grave filling will compact and leave a small depression instead?’ Frank asked.
‘Precisely. And then the flooding happens and the growing hollow starts to accumulate alluvium – if the grave was placed in the river flood
-plain, as seems to have happened here.’
Frank’s interest had been aroused. ‘So these would have been Roman graves, would they?’
Alan shook his head. ‘No, I think they’re a bit later. Look here.’ He pointed at the section behind Kaylee that they’d filmed on that disastrous first visit to the trench the previous evening. ‘You can see a distinct cut-line a few inches into the Roman flooding.’
‘So what do you reckon?’
‘I think it’s got to be post-Roman, but probably not by very much. Maybe as early as seventh century? Even eighth. I don’t know. But if it is a grave, it’s most likely Christian, given its rough east-west orientation.’
‘But it could be Roman, too, couldn’t it?’ Frank asked rather anxiously. For him, ‘Roman’ obviously sounded more precise, more interesting – and more glamorous – than the disappointing and ponderously academic ‘post-Roman’.
Of course, Alan mused, I could have used the dreaded words Dark Ages, rather than post-Roman, but that would have sent Frank into orbit. Alan was only too aware that the post-Roman centuries of the supposed Dark Ages were crucially important to the emergence of what we now call England. It’s when English emerged and formed a new national identity. No, Alan thought, we couldn’t have made a more exciting discovery. But Frank was waiting for a reply.
‘No, that’s impossible.’ Alan indicated the section again. ‘The stratigraphy doesn’t work. It has to be post-Roman. There’s no argument, I’m afraid.’
A deflated Frank then headed off to Trench 2.
* * *
The Call Sheet for Tuesday was pretty much as for day one. Alan looked at his watch. Three o’clock: just half an hour before tea break, then rehearsals and run-throughs. This would be their last chance to do any digging without being pestered by directors, cameras and microphones. Must make the most of it, he thought, trowelling hard, but taking more care this time not to remove the scabs on the knuckles of his right hand. Then he hit clay, just as he was starting to catch up with Kaylee who had been working on defining the end of her grave. He didn’t even look up, but muttered loud enough for her to hear.
‘Bloody hell, Kaylee, I think I’ve got another one.’
She looked up. ‘You sure?’
Alan continued scraping for a minute, then straightened his back. ‘I am now.’
Kaylee leant across for a closer look. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Edges very sharp’ – she glanced at where she’d been working – ‘and it seems on the same alignment as mine.’
* * *
During the run-through Alan told Frank about the new grave. He did so quietly, as he didn’t want everyone to come crowding round his trench, especially now, when the trench shelter’s sides were up to let a bit of air through after a sunny afternoon.
‘Wow!’ Frank exclaimed loudly. ‘That’s fantastic news, Alan! Another grave! Another “It’s a grave” moment! I could hug you, Alan!’
And I could happily knife you, Alan thought, as visitors started to head towards Trench 1. He took a pace away from Frank. Time to take control.
‘Stay where you are, everyone!’
When necessary, Alan could be authoritative.
‘I’m sorry, everyone, but the ground near Trench 1 is getting quite soft and I don’t want any more people around it until we’ve laid some duckboards and that won’t be until tomorrow. So please stay where you are and don’t come any closer.’ Some people were looking puzzled and disappointed. Alan continued, slightly softer, more confidential. ‘But I can tell you all now that we don’t know for certain that either of the clay-filled pits are indeed graves. They probably are, both of them, but we can’t confirm that until we find bones.’ The place had gone quiet. He had their complete attention. ‘Please bear in mind that if we have two graves, we may well find more, as graves tend to occur in graveyards. And that’s why I don’t want people trampling everywhere. Thank you so much for being so understanding.’
By now Alan was feeling quite annoyed, not just with Frank, but also with the Fursey management team, who seemed far more concerned with capitalising on the massively increased number of visitors, than in managing them. And John had promised to see to the duckboards ‘right away’, but nothing had happened. Then Alan spotted Candice. He ran across to her.
‘Candice, we’ve got to do something about crowd control. I spoke to John about it this morning, but nothing has happened. The thing is, if they do cause damage, both English Heritage and the county mounties will go ballistic – and quite right too. It’ll be all over the press and TV and I can guarantee visitor numbers will plummet.’
In reality, he thought, they’d probably rise, as people like to visit controversy. But the threat sounded ominous.
‘Oh dear, John’s over at White Delphs. A very important meeting. But where do you want the fences? I’ll see what can be done, Alan.’
So, what’s going on at White Delphs that’s more important than a live TV show? thought Alan. But he had no time to dwell on it.
Alan showed her where he wanted them and 20 minutes later a temporary barrier of bright-red plastic construction site fencing, supported on steel road spikes, had been erected.
The walkie-talkie ‘comms’ hanging from his belt crackled into life.
‘Frank for Alan.’
‘Come in, Frank,’ Alan replied.
‘Switch to channel 5.’
Alan’s heart sank. All ordinary conversations took place on channel 1. Channel 5 was reserved for more confidential matters. And right now Alan wasn’t in the mood for a confidential chat with Frank. But he switched.
‘Alan here, Frank.’
‘I’ve just told Lew about the second grave. And he’s very excited.’
‘That’s good.’ Alan’s heart was in his boots. He didn’t like the sound of this at all.
‘I suggested that we do a repeat of yesterday’s success. We’ll spend most of the show in Trench 2, then switch across to you for your killer pay-off line: “It’s another grave!”. But we’ll need to work on the drama: maybe get you to jump to your feet.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Frank—’
‘Don’t be silly, Alan.’ He brushed his objections aside. ‘And we can involve Tricia, too. Maybe get her to “wander” into the scene.’
Alan hated the way Frank often called the programme the ‘show’, as if it was some brain-dead reality crap.
‘And did Lew agree to this?’
‘You bet. He loved it!’
Alan was incredulous. Weinstein had principles.
Before he could reply, Frank added, ‘We’ll see you in Trench 1 in fifteen minutes for a run-through of that scene. OK?’
‘OK and out.’
Alan switched off the power to his comms, then headed rapidly across to his Portakabin office, where he dialled Weinstein’s number.
He told Weinstein about the second grave and his subsequent conversation with Frank. When he had finished, there was a long pause at the other end.
‘Ah,’ eventually came the reply. ‘That wasn’t quite how Frank told it to me. So I gather you’re not entirely happy with Frank’s plans?’
‘No, Lew, I’m not. I’m quite happy to delay the moment of discovery if we’re doing a film and it takes a couple of minutes to find a crew, but not this. Frank’s asking me to fake it. And I won’t do that. It would undermine our credibility.’
‘Yes, you’re right, Alan, it would. But you must understand, Frank’s been in the States and everything is much more contrived and Hollywood-style out there. Audiences have come to expect big drama; it’s part of the “show”.’
‘I know, but I detest that word. But the thing is, Lew, we’re about to do a run-through. Could you phone him and tell him you’ve changed your mind, as I can’t guarantee not losing my rag?’
‘We’ll talk later, Alan, but try not to get too upset. Please. And remember, he’s a fantastic editor: those two docs he cut earlier were brilliant and really impressed Charles Carnwath at T2. I’m
sure that’s why he voted through the money for the “lives”. So please try not to fall out with him too much …’
‘Sorry, Lew,’ Alan replied, feeling a bit calmer now. ‘But we’ve always steered clear of anything that even hinted at fakery – and this was going too far. So thanks. Now I’d better get off the phone.’
* * *
Alan was desperate for a coffee. After his phone call to Weinstein the adrenalin had worn off, and now he remembered he’d barely slept the night before. One of the lighting riggers standing in the short queue at the tea urns called across to him.
‘Alan, Frank wants you on comms.’
Oh shit, Alan had forgotten to turn his handset back on. He did so, switched back to channel 1 and pressed the transmit button.
‘Alan to Frank. Sorry, my comms were off.’
‘Yes, I know. We’re doing a run-through in three minutes.’
Even over the radio, Alan could detect the frostiness.
As he walked across the roped-off area, Tricia joined him. She was looking very anxious.
‘Don’t look so worried. I’ve spoken to Lew and Frank’s “it’s a grave two” is off.’
‘Oh, well done, Alan. I’m so relieved. It was all so fake. And I’m no Keira Knightley: I’d never have pulled it off.’
Alan smiled. If anything her face was as beautiful. ‘I don’t think any of us would: we’re diggers not actors.’
‘At least you all are. Sadly, I don’t think I am.’
She said this with genuine sadness. Alan wasn’t sure what to say next. She was right: she didn’t have the right temperament to be a full-time professional field archaeologist. But she was very good at what she did do. And she had a great screen presence, too. Alan was surprised by her insecurity.
‘Oh, come on, Tricia, it’s early days yet.’
‘So you don’t think I’m a complete fake: an imposter?’ she asked quietly, standing very close and looking deep into his eyes.
* * *
When Alan arrived in the trench shelter, Craig Larsson came up to him.
‘Well done, Alan,’ he said confidentially. ‘Lew phoned me and I was horrified. Frank seems to think you’re all actors. It would never have worked.’
The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 19
