The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  ‘Well, in that case the grave-cut was made some fifteen centimetres, say three centuries of flooding episodes, later. I’d guess sometime between AD600 and 650 – certainly no later.’

  ‘And presumably flooding continued?’

  ‘Well, no. There’s a standstill horizon almost immediately after the cutting of the graves.’

  ‘Any idea how long that was?’

  Dr Scott took a deep breath. ‘That’s difficult to say. Maybe two or three centuries? Then flooding recommenced, but worse than before. This time the varves are at least twice as thick.’

  ‘Does that sound to you like they’d introduced flood-­control measures? Maybe a cemetery wall, or else they did something to improve local drainage?’

  ‘I’d go for the drainage,’ Dr Scott replied. ‘Walls tend to collapse, whereas drains were maintained.’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan was thinking aloud. ‘That certainly fits with the archaeological evidence. And we know the early monastic communities were keen to drain. It gave the brothers something useful to do.’

  That wasn’t quite fair, but what the hell. Alan felt elated. That call was just what he had wanted to hear. It had given him the reliable, accurate dates that are so often lacking on early post-Roman sites. It had also allowed them to characterise and date the onset of flooding, which was somewhat later and initially slower than he had originally suspected. Then he thought back to Stan’s notebook and those buried horizons just off the edges of Fursey island. Yes, he thought. All of that was now starting to look a lot more credible. Stan had been on to something, there was no doubt about that – and it gave Alan grim satisfaction. But why conceal it? Common sense would suggest it would boost Fursey as a visitor attraction. Or were they worried that it might affect the way they farmed? And what about the impact on land prices?

  * * *

  Alan decided to walk to Fursey for the final day of the ‘live’, because of Candice’s ‘small wrap party’ in the catering tent afterwards, which he feared it wouldn’t be that small. He was picking his way through the trees around the edges of the park to avoid the visitors who were already queuing along the drive, and was thinking, as he did every day, about Stan. He thought back to his wake. Things had seemed so straightforward back then: black and white; goodies and baddies. He had been quietly confident that he’d soon get to the bottom of it all: the strange curse; the river deaths and the loss of his friend. But that was almost four months ago and, since then, even Lane hadn’t managed to unearth anything strange or unusual. And now the latest discoveries on the dig, together with the soil micromorph results, were strongly suggesting that prehistoric and ancient Fursey had been a very much more prosperous and populated place than anyone had hitherto supposed. He shook his head. He was in no doubt that his friend had started to glimpse this for himself. Stan would have been very excited, and he was like Alan: there was absolutely no chance that he would have killed himself once he’d found something important to chase. He wondered again about the notebook, and why Stan had hidden it so carefully. There was so much to think about.

  Alan headed towards the fringes of the park and leant against a fallen tree trunk that had been dragged there many years ago. Its surface had been pecked away by generations of woodpeckers and boring insects. It felt soft – more like a chair than a log against his backside. It was also damp from the morning dew. Now what, he wondered, were the implications of these discoveries for the current generation of the Cripps family? First and foremost, they gave John and Candice solid reasons to be optimistic about the future: any heritage-sector asset based on such a rich and developing story must have a promising future, especially if the asset happened to lie so close to the tourist Mecca of Cambridge. But Alan also knew that Stan was discreet – cautious even. And he certainly wasn’t the sort of person who shot his mouth off or bragged about his discoveries. However, it would be quite another thing to mention them to a fellow professional. Maybe he even sought advice. Alan could readily imagine he might have mentioned something about his research off the island edge to his new confidant, Peter Flower, who might have told Candice (and for what it was worth, Alan was becoming increasingly sus­picious that Flower had his greedy little eyes on her ‘assets’, too). Then maybe together they hatched up the plan to re­­introduce Stan to drink, as a means of getting him to tell them more? It was a nice idea, but somehow it lacked conviction – and it may not have worked.

  On the other hand, Alan’s earlier idea that it was all about Flower controlling Stan through the bottle, seemed to make even greater sense now. In fact, the more he thought about it, that bottle of 20-year-old Glen Hubris McTavish from Fisher College hidden in Stan’s ‘cupboard’ was the only firm, tangible new clue that Alan had so far been able to discover.

  But there was another element to the case – and Alan was now 100 per cent convinced that it was indeed a ‘case’ in the police sense of the word – that had to be examined. For a moment he considered the curse myth. He smiled wryly, then pulled himself up short. These things shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand. Yes, he thought, they do get exaggerated and overblown, but they can also highlight fundamentally important themes and tensions. And why had water for so long been important to the Cripps family? In the past drainage had unlocked untold wealth and had given them a competitive edge that was hugely resented by their less successful neighbours. But today, especially in the southern Fens, the picture had changed. The big money now lay in development, not in farming. And personally, he was sad about that and what it might mean for the social health of rural communities, where pushy and oblivious incomers were increasingly being resented.

  He altered his position against the log and felt the warmth of sunlight on his face. Then he opened his eyes. An idea had struck him: Sebastian and John may not have been the closest of friends, but they were brothers and it mattered to both of them that the estate regained some of its former glories. So had John, or indeed Candice, hinted to Sebastian that Stan had revealed rich and extensive Roman and Iron Age remains, buried beneath his fields in the fen around Fursey? Because if they had, Sebastian, who was a local councillor after all, would instantly have realised that these deposits would have constituted a permanent and profound planning blight to any ideas he might have had to sell or, more importantly, develop the land. Even assuming that the remains weren’t immediately given legal protection through scheduling, their excavation ahead of sale or any building work would have been cripplingly expensive.

  Meanwhile, John would have been delighted at the new discoveries, as they would enhance Fursey – especially if they could be excavated in public. So there could have been very real tension between the two brothers – and indeed their wives, too. But tensions strong enough to cause a death? Well, why not? Livelihoods and reputations were at stake. Maybe even marriages too?

  Then he had another idea. The wake hadn’t quite worked out the way he’d expected. The scene-in-the-library that he’d anticipated, had turned out to be less straightforward and very opaque. And why? Because he hadn’t pulled any strings; he had made no attempt to intervene and probe for infor­mation. He had just observed and he had discovered that the Cripps family were very good at thwarting observers. But now Candice had offered him another scene-in-the-library, only this time it would be a dinner, not a wake. And it would be his last chance. He had to do something active. Mere observation wasn’t enough. Intervention was required.

  Thirteen

  He went across to the new coffee stall that had been set up on Day 3 and ordered two large lattes to go. While these were being made, Frank joined him. He ordered an Americano with hot milk. The lattes were placed on the counter and Alan was about to pick them up, when Frank, who had noticed the two coffees, asked, ‘Oh, has Harriet arrived?’

  Alan had explained to Frank earlier about the need for a bones expert and his professional experience with Harriet. Alan hated his familiar tone. Alan glanced at his watch: it was 8.55.

  ‘Not yet,’ he replied. ‘D
r Webb’s always punctual. I’ve arranged to meet her at nine.’

  ‘Oh, excellent. I’d love to meet her, too. I’ll come along.’

  Fuckin’ Ada! Alan almost exploded at the man’s cheek. Not so much as a ‘perhaps I might join you?’. Then he paused. Maybe this was what their re-introduction needed. If a third party was there, then a degree of formality would be expected. Yes, on reflection, it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  ‘Fine, Frank. Let’s head to the staff car park.’

  * * *

  Alan instantly recognised the Mini Cooper as it drove its way gingerly over the bumpy temporary track that lead into the car park. It didn’t look like it had been washed since that time he had given it a hose down, in a failed attempt to patch-up their collapsing relationship.

  Alan had pictured this scene many times in his mind’s eye, but never with a stranger looking on. He had seen her long legs in high-heeled shoes step out of the car, then the mid-length skirt slipping slowly over her elegant calves as she straightened up. In Alan’s memory she always wore tall-heeled shoes, not high-heeled court shoes, but more sensible shoes for country wear. Wearing them, she was almost precisely as tall as him. Eye-to-eye; lip-to-lip. And those skirts: so very well-tailored and always elegant.

  Today, however, she was wearing a pair of close, but not too close, fitting jeans and flat-soled shoes. She was dressed for digging. She didn’t appear to have noticed Alan and Frank enter the car park, as she stretched and yawned. Then she pulled out her phone and started to text. Alan called out.

  ‘Harry!’ Then a second time. ‘Harriet!’

  She heard him the second time, and put the phone away.

  ‘Harry, I’d like you to meet Frank Jones, he’s directing the live shoot.’

  For Alan, doing things this way was great as he didn’t have to decide how to greet Harry: a kiss on the cheek, or a handshake. He did neither.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Harriet. Alan has told me so much about you.’

  It wasn’t a deliberate faux pas. Harry gave Alan a look which spoke volumes.

  He tried to explain. ‘Well, not really. I mean not about us …’Alan paused, he was making things worse.

  Harry turned away to hide the smile she couldn’t suppress; Alan did discomfiture so ineptly.

  He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. ‘I told Frank all about your work with human bones.’

  Frank was looking mystified, but for once he kept his mouth shut. Harriet was now smiling openly.

  Alan’s phone beeped and he grabbed it, grateful for the distraction.

  He read it aloud: ‘I’ve arrived.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet said quietly. ‘I do believe I have.’

  * * *

  Alan gave Harriet a tour of the set-up and showed her where all the essentials were: the catering tent, the coffee booth, the staff toilets, the Fursey offices and the three archaeological Portakabins – the general office, where Alan had his desk, the tea shed and the finds shed, where they found Hen. She knew Hen of old and they greeted each other warmly. Then, after a quick walk through the abbey ruins, they entered the ­shelter over Trench 1.

  Alan looked down with approval. They’d left things in a bit of a mess at the end of Day 5’s filming and he’d asked Kaylee and Jon to do a rapid clean-up before Harriet arrived. And they’d done a great job. The trench looked spotless.

  After they’d all been introduced, Harriet stepped down into the trench. Kaylee had finished exposing the skull and neck of the body in Grave 2 and the bones had been beautifully revealed.

  ‘You’ve done this before, I see?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Kaylee replied. ‘But it was a big urban dig and we all had to teach ourselves. I’d love to learn to do it properly. I really would.’

  Harriet was clearly delighted at this. ‘That’s great to hear, Kaylee. I’d be happy to teach you.’

  Jon had moved back to Grave 3 and was standing rather diffidently by its side. They looked down: the toe bone was still there, in splendid isolation. Jon gave an excuse that was familiar to both Alan and Harriet. ‘I thought I’d get the rest of the grave filling down to the same level. I didn’t want to dig rabbit holes.’

  ‘Yes,’ Harriet replied. ‘You were quite right. And it all looks beautifully level, too. But would you mind dreadfully if I took over now? I think Alan here wants me to start excavating bones.’

  Jon didn’t try to conceal the look of relief that spread over his face.

  * * *

  Slightly to Alan’s surprise, the coach-load of county and district councillors were shown over the abbey ruins by Peter Flower, who had also given them a brief guided tour of the historic landscape as they drove from Cambridge.

  Before he handed over to Alan he confidentially explained, ‘Terribly sorry, Alan, but I’ve got to dash back to Fisher. We’ve an important college council meeting at noon which I’ve absolutely got to attend.’

  Alan didn’t trust the man at all, but he knew he must appear friendly, if he was ever to discover anything.

  ‘Sounds like you’re in for a pay rise, Peter?’

  It was meant to be jocular, but it sounded rather pointed. Shit, Alan thought, I blew that. But he hadn’t.

  Flower positively beamed. ‘Young Cadbury, you must be a mind reader! I’ll let you know later.’

  Time to sound genuinely concerned. ‘No, seriously Peter: I do hope it goes well.’

  Flower turned to leave. ‘Thanks, Alan.’ This was half-mimed, as he headed out of the catering tent towards a waiting taxi in the staff car park.

  Alan was glad to see him go. Somehow he was going to prove that Flower had encouraged Stan to drink again. It didn’t have to be a big public exposure: he just wanted Flower to know that he couldn’t get away with it. You couldn’t treat people like dogs: jump, and I’ll throw you a treat.

  * * *

  Were it not for the power of television, the 55 councillors would have treated Alan as the support act to the main attraction, the famous Dr Peter Flower. But not now. As he stepped forward, he got a round of applause. Slightly disappointed at himself, he found he was rather enjoying the attention. It was certainly much better than being ignored, or worse, patronised. He also thought he caught a few whispers of ‘It’s a grave’. But then he saw Harriet in the trench below, and in an unexpected attack of nerves found himself blurting out the obvious.

  ‘Welcome to Trench 1. And as you can see in front of you: it’s a grave.’

  This earned another, prolonged, round of applause. While hands were enthusiastically clapping, Harriet looked up at him with a look of quiet exasperation. Alan immediately regretted being so flippant.

  After their tours of the two trench shelters, the group gathered outside for the Q and A session that the council leader was keen to have. He had also asked Alan to give them a short summary of the area’s archaeological potential. Alan discussed the superb preservation of the human remains and the fact that flood-clay had preserved whole landscapes virtually intact. He even hinted that the Roman presence there might be far more substantial than anyone had suspected – and he strongly advised them to watch Day 6 of the ‘live’ tonight, when the results of the Lidar survey would be revealed.

  ‘What are you expecting, Alan?’ the leader asked.

  Alan smiled, in reality he didn’t know. And he didn’t want to know. Spontaneity isn’t always easy to simulate on camera, and he knew he was a lousy actor.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ a councillor called out. ‘You can tell us. We won’t breathe a word …’

  That got a laugh.

  Then a young woman – Alan recognised her as the leader of the increasingly popular Green Party – asked, ‘What’s the hidden potential of these landscapes, Alan?’

  ‘Do you mean under the flood-clay and peats?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Suddenly Alan was aware this was potentially difficult. The Green lady seemed v
ery friendly, but others had different, usually vested, interests, too. He could see Councillor Sebastian Cripps looking very serious, but giving nothing away.

  ‘I think there’s little doubt that the Roman occupation levels extend beyond the limits of the upland here at Fursey.’

  ‘Yes, but for how far out into the surrounding fen?’ It was Sebastian’s voice.

  For a moment Alan wished Stan had been there to answer him.

  ‘We won’t know that without further survey. But I’d be very surprised indeed if any Roman material will be found below about a metre above OD.’

  Sebastian nodded sagely. Did he understand the implications for him? Alan couldn’t decide.

  Another councillor asked, ‘OD? That’s sea level, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan replied. ‘And contrary to popular opinion, the Romans didn’t do much actual fen drainage. They mostly took advantage of naturally drier conditions in the first and second centuries AD.’

  ‘And what about the graves?’ another councillor asked. ‘You said you thought they may prove to be quite early. How does that leave Ely? High and dry?’

  This got a laugh.

  ‘There have been modern digs around the edges of the Isle, and they’ve proved that Ely had ancient beginnings, too. Maybe even earlier than Fursey. Modern archaeology is transforming our knowledge. These graves are just a small part of it. If you don’t mind me saying so, local councillors of all parties around here should be aware that this is one of the most important archaeological regions in Europe.’ He let this sink in, then finished with, ‘And I mean that.’

  Not exactly a memorable ending, but it earned him generous applause.

  Alan paused as he headed back to his Portakabin to collect the context lists for the day’s work. That had been fascinating, but he had been too general. If he was going to elicit anything from the people around the dinner table tomorrow, he must come up with something far more specific. Maybe a story/parable: something they must respond to.

  Alan was lost in thought as he watched the councillors’ coach head slowly down the drive.