The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  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.

  Seventeen

  One or two late daffodils were just coming into flower beneath the budding lime trees that lined the avenue leading up to what had once been Abbey Farm, but which Alan reckoned now looked more like a motorway services, what with the builders, their trucks and the morning delivery vans. It was the first Monday in April and Alan was keen to introduce Steve Grant, the new manager, to the digging team before the next round of filming. He arrived at the back door of the farm shop to scrounge his usual early morning mug of coffee, only to find Candice and Steve were already sitting there waiting for him. His mug had been freshly filled and sat steaming on the table.

  They asked him how he thought things could have been improved over the past few weeks. Alan didn’t want to sound negative, but he did mention that aspects of crowd control hadn’t been too good, especially during the live filming. Steve listened intently. It was plain to Alan that he knew his stuff. He also knew where to hire or buy the necessary equipment. But they couldn’t do anything without an efficient comms system around the farm shop, museum and abbey. Alan mentioned the one used by New Ideas Productions. Steve nodded; he knew all about it. Apparently it was fine if you needed something temporarily, but it was expensive and not always robust enough for day-to-day use. The system he had in mind was actually more powerful, a bit more economical, and the handsets were far lighter. All in all, Alan was impressed. Candice was smiling broadly, too: they had made the right decision when they called in HPM.

  After Alan had introduced him to the archaeologists in Trenches 1 and 2, Steve said he had to make arrangements for the press conference for the Fursey Penance and headed back to the site office, which had recently moved out of the Portakabin and into new purpose-built facilities in one of the converted Victorian farm buildings. Alan had sneaked a view of them on Friday afternoon. They were very impressive: they even had an ante-room which was lined with stout coat hooks and fitted trays for wellies and muddy shoes. Alan had smiled: the ‘new’ Fursey was going to be something special. Then he had looked out of the brand-new double-glazed window at the old, long-abandoned pig sties, which were in the process of being demolished. Moss-covered bricks and old breeze blocks lay on the ground with pieces of angle iron and fragments of asbestos roofing. A depressing sight. He wondered how long it would all last. There was something panicky, almost desperate, about the whole pilgrimage/Penance business. It was done in such a hurry. Were they really that worried about a small dip in visitor numbers? Wouldn’t it have given them a chance to improve facilities on-site in a controlled way? Deep down, he knew something wasn’t right. And he was growing more convinced of that every day that passed. Penance suggested guilt, somewhere deep within the Cripps family. There was no getting away from that. The question was: who was guilty?

  * * *

  The press conference was scheduled to start at 9.30, to give local TV and radio reporters time to get the story back for the midday and evening news bulletins. But Alan had decided to stay well clear of it, and had arranged to meet Clare Hughes so he didn’t have to attend. He found the whole Fursey/Fursey thing more than a little strange and couldn’t understand why seemingly sane, rational people were getting their knickers in such a twist about it.

  The press release had stressed abstinence and effort. It read like a medieval monk’s manual. ‘Our aim is to achieve purity of mind through fasting and strenuous physical labour.’ It was a simple vision, but one that seemed to appeal. Alan also slightly resented his and Stan’s archaeological research being hijacked by a load of toffee-nosed Cambridge academics who should have known better. And, of course, it gave him yet another reason to dislike and distrust the am­bitious Dr Peter Flower.

  Alan glanced at his watch. It was 9.15 and the first reporters were starting to arrive, but he didn’t particularly want to be recognised. If anyone asked him about ‘Itsagrave’ he’d probably thump them. He climbed into the Fourtrak and breathed heavily onto the windows, which soon misted up. An old trick if you want privacy. He had a few minutes to kill, so on impulse, he phoned Harriet. He’d been wanting to do this for days, but hadn’t been able to think of a suitable excuse.

  ‘Harry.’ She still insisted he called her that.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Alan. No more bodies, I trust?’

  ‘No.’ He brushed that aside. ‘I just wondered whether you’d met, or knew anything about, Professor Jacob Hawkins?’

  ‘That crashing old bore? I can’t imagine him getting off his backside to visit anywhere, let alone Fursey. Why, has he been over?’

  Alan was surprised. It was not like Harriet to be quite so indiscreet.

  ‘No, he hasn’t. It’s just that his name came up recently when people were discussing an Easter pilgrimage that the Fen dean and John Cripps have come up with. It’s all about ancient connections between Fursey and Ely. Frankly, I think it has to be a PR stunt to whip up interest and visitor numbers over Easter.’

  ‘Oh really. And how can I help?’

  ‘It’s just that Flower apparently cited Hawkins as a leading authority on place names. Is he?’

  ‘He was, but that was back in the ’60s. His book for CUP on -ingas names and the spread of the Pagan Saxons through southern Britain had a huge effect. I had to wade through it when I was starting my doc research. Of course, it’s been completely out-dated by archaeology and now by DNA. But it earned him the last-ever Life Fellowship at St Luke’s, the lucky devil.’

  ‘So he hasn’t done much since?’

  ‘Nothing at all – other than get immensely fat at the college’s expense. He’s such a reactionary old pig.’ Alan could hear she was getting angry. ‘Did you know, one or two of the younger fellows have been trying to get a baby-changing room attached to the toilets below hall? And he objected! In the end he scraped around and found enough reactionary old farts to get the idea rejected. None of us suspected that he was capable of organising anything, let alone anyone in college. But he did. Damn him. He did …’

  Alan didn’t say anything for a moment to let her cool off.

  ‘So I shouldn’t take his thoughts very seriously, then?’

  She laughed out loud. ‘Anything else, Alan? I’m in a seminar.’

  He could picture the wide-eyed students.

  ‘Whoops, so sorry to have interrupted. And thanks for that.’

  Hmm, Alan thought as he hung up. A bit abrupt. Businesslike, certainly, but not hostile. He sighed. There was a long way to go. Still, she had confirmed what he’d suspected about Hawkins – and, come to that, Flower. But why hadn’t Peter Flower done anything to challenge the Fursey myth? Did he say nothing because it suited his own academic profile? Alan knew he was a man who would favour self-promotion over the truth. He’d known that fourteen years ago, and nothing had changed. The question was, what else would he do in order to further his own ambitions?

  * * *

  Clare wasn’t in the sweetest of moods when she arrived onsite – and Alan couldn’t blame her. The previous week, the County Council had announced its end-of-year spending review and her department was to be cut to the bone. Essentially it would now consist of just her and a computer which held the Sites and Monuments Record (she refused to call it the more PC ‘Historic Environment Record’).

  Like Alan, she was more interested in the post holes in Trench 2, than the three graves in Trench 1, which had clearly been cut through the gravel surface of the principal north-south road of the Roman fort. Everything, in other words, was fairly straightforward. But those post holes in Trench 2 were altogether different. They appeared to be post-Roman, but even that was far from certain, as there was so much residual R–B pottery knocking about the place. But to bo
th Clare and Alan they did look later. And very substantial, too. Indeed, they both agreed, their close spacing was more reminiscent of a hall, than a barn – and a big hall at that.

  They’d been examining them for several minutes, when Clare turned to Alan. ‘It’s no good, Alan, we can’t leave things as they are. I don’t suppose for one moment that my councillors will like it – especially not the Tory ones – but you’ll have to extend Trench 2.’

  Alan could have hugged her. It was precisely what he wanted to hear.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Clare. It’s obviously one hell of a building, as those posts are going down deep. And the trench is too narrow to pick up any floor levels. So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Ten by ten?’

  Alan nodded. ‘Yes, at least that. Maybe more. I think we should meet again in a couple of weeks. What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re a brick, Alan.’

  As soon as they’d left the shelter, she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes were bright now.

  ‘Thanks, Alan, that was just what I wanted to hear – you can’t imagine what it’s like at County Hall these days. The atmosphere’s sheer poison. Horrible. D’you know, there are times I’d like to chuck it in and go back to fieldwork, I really would.’

  * * *

  The following morning Alan arrived early on-site. It was one of those cold, still, almost airless spring days, where the fog hangs around and even the voices of the dawn chorus seem a bit restrained. He was supping a hot coffee from his favourite Nikon lens mug, when the low-loader drew up on the edge of the car park. Davey Hibbs was in a small, battered white van behind it. He parked and walked across to Alan while the lorry driver got the trailer ready for Davey to unload the digger.

  ‘Morning, Alan.’ Davey greeted him with a warm smile. ‘I’ve just had Matt Grimshaw phone me from the IDB office. He hopes you won’t be using the machine for too long as he wants to get on and finish the Engine Drain.’

  ‘Tell him I’d be very surprised if it’ll even take us all day today. It’s quite a small trench, but we’ll need to go very steady.’

  ‘OK. That’s great. Matt’ll be pleased. I’ll have a quick word with Reg, here.’

  Davey arranged with Reg for the low-loader to return the following morning, then he tracked the machine down to Trench 2, with Alan, in hard-hat and hi-vis, leading the way on foot. As they were nearing the trench, Alan’s eye was caught by movement in the car park behind them. A car and a van had just arrived. The car was driven by Frank Jones, who gave a cheery wave. The van had tinted windows, but Alan recognised it as Speed Talbot’s and he correctly guessed that Grump Edwards, would also be sitting in front.

  The previous evening, when Alan had told Frank Jones about the trench extension, Frank had pleaded with him not to start without the crew. But Alan knew from past experience they could be delayed. London was a long way away, and he had to get the digger off-site soon. So he wasn’t going to say yes to that – although he agreed it would be good if they could catch the first scoops of the big ditching blade.

  Behind him, he could see Trudy, doing what PAs always did at a new location: pouring coffee from two big flasks. Frank, the crew and Terri Griffiths were standing around joking – without a care in the world. Suddenly, Alan thought he would have some fun.

  He jumped onto the machine and briefed Davey. Davey grinned. He liked a laugh, especially at the expense of smart Londoners.

  As the digger approached Trench 2, Davey rapidly in­­creased the revs. Everyone in the car park turned round. By now Alan was standing at the spot where he wanted the extension to begin. He made various hand signals to Davey, who returned them with a thumbs up. Then, as planned, they ‘discovered’ that the digger wasn’t quite level, so Davey tracked back a few metres and gave the surface a couple of light scrapes. From the car park it must have looked like the digging had started.

  Up until now, Alan had wanted to appear as if he was completely absorbed in what he was doing. But when the digger started to level the ground he allowed himself a glance up. Quickly he looked down. He didn’t want any of them to see his grin. Frank was stumbling across the uneven ground as fast as his legs could carry him, while somehow managing to carry a monitor set and spare tripod. Trudy was frantically rooting through papers and clipboards on the damp ground. Behind Frank hobbled Terri, still wearing her London shoes. Speed had grabbed a camera and tripod and was leaving the van at a brisk walk – he was going as fast as Alan had ever seen him move. And Grump Edwards? He was finishing his coffee. Around him on the ground lay steaming mugs. He raised his cup to Alan. Alan smiled: good old Grump.

  It took a little longer to get set up, thanks to Alan’s little prank, but he and Davey both had flasks of coffee, which they drank while the crew scurried about. Alan had positioned the machine about five metres away from the line of post holes, which they would probably get to in a couple of hours’ time. He never liked ‘wall chasing’ and preferred to work on a broad front. That way, it was easier to keep features in some sort of context. So he wasn’t expecting to find much in the first couple of hours.

  After the first half-dozen or so scoops had removed topsoil and alluvium, Alan signalled to Davey to slow down and shave, rather than dig, the exposed surface. The first pull-back of the 2-metre wide ditching blade revealed the clear, dark, outline of a rectangular pit. At the end of the draw-back, Davey stopped the bucket. He pointed down at the ground, but Alan was already there, trowelling at the fringes of the exposed feature. The edges were sharp and seemed to be going down vertically. There could be no doubt what it was. In retrospect he could have kicked himself for what he called back to Davey, but it did at least have the merit of ­genuine spontaneity.

  ‘Blimey, Davey: it’s a grave!’

  Of course, Frank could have hugged him.

  While Speed was filming the new find from every conceivable angle, Alan was looking at the fresh surface left by the machine. There was something strange about the pattern of silt and small pebbles at either end of the grave. Somehow, it just didn’t look natural. So he started trowelling. Realising that Alan might be on to a new feature, Frank tapped Speed lightly on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The camera panned right, and at the precise time that Alan’s trowel revealed the dark outline of a large post hole, Speed tilted up to catch Alan’s delighted smile. Then the process was repeated at the eastern end of the grave. Another, slightly smaller, post hole.

  ‘This grave was important, Davey,’ a smiling Alan called out. ‘It’s marked at either end. That’s very unusual.’

  By the end of the day they had revealed another five graves, all aligned roughly east-west. The line of post holes that they’d originally intended to investigate could clearly be seen to have been part of a wall, which ran for about 7 metres on the same alignment as the graves, then there was a sharp corner, followed by a semi-circular curve to the north. Alan was no expert on early churches, but even he could spot a likely apse. It was the right sort of curve, it faced east and it was at the east end of a substantial timber building. He was elated.

  Alan was aware that the Frank was pleased, too. He had filmed some great exchanges between Alan and Davey as the new features had appeared. This time they had tried a new technique and it had worked: Frank himself had become a temporary cameraman and had filmed Davey on the smaller webcam, leaving Speed to concentrate on Alan and any cut-aways of emerging features or new finds – which were few and far between. This new way of working was far less disruptive for the archaeologists, but it also gave a more natural feel to the film.

  As the morning progressed, Alan had found himself thinking more and more about the Fursey Penance, John Cripps and the Fen dean. His heart sank. They would certainly name the early apsidal church they were now revealing ‘St Fursey’s’, as soon as the news got out. He could picture the headlines already.

  Quite suddenly, Alan had been gripped by a surge of anger. Why did he have to involve these people? Wha
t the hell right did they have to tell him what he was doing? Then he paused and reflected: but what right did he, an incomer, have to hold forth in this way? This was their land, their place – they had a right to their own stories. For a moment he recalled walking across the car park of Blackfen Prison and the feelings of righteous indignation about a young man’s innocence. But that was just over two years ago. He had been on a personal crusade – and it had all blown up in his face. No, he reflected, it was too easy to think you were right. It was better, if so much harder, to seek the truth first. Anger – even indignation – could always happen later. He began to feel a little calmer: it wasn’t just revenge that was best enjoyed cold.

  * * *

  The next morning was fresh and clear. Alan stood in the car park and watched as the low-loader, followed by Davey in the little white van, headed back down the avenue. Next stop for him, the Engine Drain, Alan thought, as he turned round and looked out across the open fen towards the Padnal Delph pumping station in the distance.

  A text message arrived. ‘Next job fallen thru. Any chance we cd discuss Fursey pollen today? Bob’

  Alan glanced at his watch: 7.45. No time like the present. And besides, he liked Dr Bob Timpson. He pressed dial.

  Bob was one of those rare archaeological scientists who had made a living as a freelance. His wife loved horses and kept three Exmoor ponies on a smallholding in the Wolds, about five miles outside Lincoln. Bob had converted an upstairs room into a study and he also rented lab space in Nettlesham College. Alan suspected the rent was very cheap and was mostly paid for by the informal botanical talks he gave agricultural students. In the cut-throat world of modern academia, such handy arrangements were becoming far less common. Being a freelance himself, Alan liked to steer work Bob’s way, whenever he could.