The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  Alan had been thinking that they needed an up-to-date local pollen survey quite urgently. They now understood much more about the ancient soils, but very little about the trees, the crops and the wet-loving plants of the fen, that would have been growing on them. The Fenland Survey of the 1970s had provided some useful sequences, but they mostly covered the fen to the south and west. Far less was known about the Fursey area. Alan was particularly interested in the Iron Age to Roman transition. Stan’s discoveries at an unexpectedly low level OD suggested that conditions weren’t as hostile in the early first century AD as had previously been believed.

  * * *

  Alan called in at the tool-shed and collected a shovel and wheelbarrow, which he took down to the Trench 2 extension. He wanted some time on his own to think about the implications of the new discoveries, and he knew from experience that the best way to come to grips with something like this was complete immersion. Some people could contemplate from afar, but not Alan. His brain worked best when his body was also fully engaged.

  So he set about doing a quick ‘shovel clean’ of the new extension. Essentially this involved removing all clods, stones and patches of loose earth. Once that had been done, he, Jake, Jon and Kaylee would get down on their knees and trowel the entire surface at least once, and if needs be, twice. It was a part of the excavation process that some people hated, but not Alan. He loved it and enjoyed trying to ‘read’ or interpret the freshly-trowelled surface. In Alan’s mind, that was when archaeology became art, not science. Often the brightest people were hopeless at it: they were too clever, too analytical. Alan’s approach had more in common with Zen Buddhism, than soil science: he would stare at the ground for long periods, either continuously, or at close intervals, watching for changes as the various soils dried out at different rates. The clever dicks lacked the patience, or indeed the imagination, to do this.

  * * *

  Dr Bob Timpson arrived during the mid-morning tea break. Archaeology is still quite a small world and he more or less knew everyone on-site, so the atmosphere was relaxed.

  Alan had decided not to cover the trench extension with a shelter, partly because it was expensive, but also because it cut down on the light he needed to spot new features. They could always erect temporary shelters over the graves once they started to dig them. Earlier that morning, and with the shelter not there, Alan had watched Davey’s digger track along the Engine Drain to the stones of the partially collapsed monastic precinct wall that skirted the park towards the edge of the island, about 200 yards from where they were excavating.

  Alan called across to Bob, and together they set out for the Engine Drain, carrying Bob’s auger and sampling tins between them. They headed down the slope, through the park from the abbey excavations, down to the roofed lychgate through the stone wall that surrounded the abbey land at the edge of the fen. Beyond the wall was a 20-to 30-yard-wide screen of wet-loving shrubs that prevented the wall suffering any agricultural damage; it also provided much-needed ground cover for breeding pheasants and partridges. Alan recognised alder buckthorn, guelder rose, dogwood, and in the drier spots, blackthorn and hawthorn. But it was quite unlike a game-cover on drier land. Alan noticed that Bob, a good botanist, was enjoying it, too.

  Back out in the open fen they paused to catch breath. It had turned out to be a gorgeous day, with a light spring breeze and occasional fluffy clouds. Even from this distance they could see that Davey was a superb operator, and had already smoothly cleaned and recut one side of the Engine Drain for a distance of almost 50 yards. Alan looked towards the western horizon where the breeze was coming from: no sign of any showers and more summer-like weather. He could just see the south tower of Ely Cathedral through the trees of the park, whose buds were starting to open. Nearer to home, a small cluster of seagulls was following a double-wheeled tractor that was rolling spring barley, which had just begun to germinate. A tranquil, rural scene. Or so it seemed.

  Alan recognised the tractor as being one of Sebastian’s, and he knew why he was rolling the barley: it had been very dry for the past two weeks, and the light ridged rollers would slightly compress the soil to consolidate the growing roots and draw moisture up from beneath. It was an important job and he’d done it many times for his father and for his brother Grahame.

  Alan pointed out the machine-cleaned dykeside to Bob.

  ‘Alan,’ he replied, ‘that’s absolutely perfect. I can see the peats from here. It looks ideal.’

  They took it in turns to carry the heavy canvas bag that held the auger and the sample tins, which they both knew would be very much heavier when they’d finished.

  Bob decided to take samples from about a metre behind the edge of the Engine Drain, and soon they had begun the familiar task of turning the auger for a few screws, then together pulling the head from the ground, removing the peat, and going down further. Across the field, the tractor was getting closer, and a few seagulls diverted to see if Alan and Bob were going to offer them any food. They circled briefly, but soon gave up.

  At the end of the day, there were three small heaps of sample tins, all bagged and carefully labelled. For a moment Alan paused, trying to decide what to do next. The tractor was getting closer, but it would stop at the track along the Engine Drain. Alan decided the heavy sample tins could stay there quite safely overnight, and he’d collect them with the ­Fourtrak the following morning.

  * * *

  There were only nine days to go before Easter and the joint opening ceremony of the new visitor complex, and with it the Stan Beaton Archaeology Centre. This was where Alan and his team would henceforth be based. Candice and Steve Grant had decided it would be far too complicated to have the opening ceremony on Good Friday, when the Fursey Penance was to be launched, so it was scheduled for the previous day. That way, they could start Easter with good publicity, which they could then build on. Steve had done some local soundings with the press and TV, who all agreed with this decision.

  Alan watched Harriet’s Mini Cooper pull into the car park from where he was standing in Trench 2. He couldn’t decide whether he should be there to greet her. He didn’t want to seem too keen, but he also didn’t want her to think he was indifferent. He hated such decisions. In fact, as a planner of amorous campaigns, Alan was a complete disaster. His overall strategy was always wrong and the tactical implementation was invariably even worse.

  She had driven to Fursey with Toby Cox, a bright young PhD student she was currently supervising. Alan had met Toby previously and, to his surprise, had been quite impressed: he wasn’t one of the typical, impractical, theory-obsessed Cambridge graduates he had expected. In fact, he was quite self-effacing and soon became a member of what had become a very close-knit team. The archaeologists had remained the same, even though television crews had come and gone with extraordinary speed and efficiency. But Harriet still remained slightly remote. And of course, Jake and the others all knew why. Word travels fast in what was left of the old ­‘digging ­circuit’.

  When eventually they did arrive in Trench 2, Alan had his phone to his ear. It was Clare Hughes, who needed someone to listen while she sounded-off about a further round of council budget cuts. By the time Clare had finished talking, Harriet and Toby had started work, and Alan hadn’t even had an opportunity to offer her so much as a welcoming handshake, let alone a kiss. As reunions went, it had fallen pretty flat.

  * * *

  It was Thursday morning, and just a week to go till the opening. Tension was building, both in and out of the trenches. Clare Hughes had said she’d be on-site around tea break. But she didn’t arrive. Eventually, Alan and the Trench 2 team returned to work. For some reason there were more visitors than usual. Maybe it had been the initial publicity for the Fursey Penance, but whatever had brought them, the crowds had been growing steadily since first thing that morning. Around noon, Alan decided he’d better send Clare a quick text: it wasn’t like her to miss an appointment and he was a little worried that something unfortun
ate might have happened. Or was that being ridiculous? He paused. Ridiculous? Was it?

  The more he thought about it, the more his anxiety grew. Thanks to the recent cuts, she was now the sole person in planning who could make crucial decisions about key developments – many of them probably worth millions. And her knowledge and experience were an essential part of the de­­cision-making process: no computer on earth would be capable of making the varied value-judgements she had to make every hour of every working day. No, he decided, I won’t text, I’ll give her a call. He stood up and walked over to the spoil heap, which he started to climb to get a better mobile signal. Suddenly he froze. Somebody was ­calling for him.

  Alan looked behind him. He didn’t spot her at first, but it was Clare. She was standing close to a group of visitors who were being given a guided tour. Normally, she would have stood out from them, wearing the regulation digger blue jeans and practical top, but not now. Instead she was wearing a short, lilac pleated dress, worn over a pair of tight pale-green leggings with pink flowers. It was an unusual colour combination, but strangely, it worked. Alan hadn’t seen her in civvies before and she looked good – no, he thought, very good – in it.

  He hurried across to her and she moved away from the visitors, who were now staring at them both. The guide was starting to look annoyed so they stepped out of sight, behind the shelter.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alan,’ she said, ‘but it’s been a very busy morning. There’s been one hell of a row in the council chamber about the effect of the cuts. It’s now official that Cambridge is the fastest-growing city in Britain with more development than anywhere else, except London. And yet they want to cut the District Planning Department. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘No,’ Alan agreed. ‘That’s what I thought when you told me on Tuesday. But then politicians, even local ones, live in a remote world of their own, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, in this instance, reality is starting to strike home. We’ve already had to defer three crucial expansion decisions and even the Tories are starting to realise that you can’t make cuts without consequences.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’

  ‘They’ve convened an all-party planning review panel and it’s having its first meeting this afternoon, at two.’

  ‘And you’re going to be a witness?’

  ‘Yes,’ she continued, still wide-eyed with the excitement. ‘I’m on second. After the CPO.’

  Alan looked puzzled.

  ‘Chief planning officer,’ she added.

  ‘Ah.’ Alan smiled slightly mischievously. ‘So that explains the frock and shoes.’

  ‘Well, sometimes it pays to dress up. I’ve got to make a good impression. Apparently for us women, charm and a bit of flirtation are still our best weapons.’ Clare said this with a barely concealed distaste. Then she shrugged. ‘So, much as I’d like to, forgive me if I don’t get down on my knees in the trench.’

  Alan had to smile at this.

  By now they had walked round to the trench and were talking in hushed voices, so as not to disturb the tour.

  ‘So how’s it all going?’ she asked, as they surveyed the trench from the south side.

  ‘Well, that post-built wall is looking increasingly church-like, as we expected.’

  ‘And the graves?’

  ‘I think there were five when you were here last?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well,’ Alan continued, ‘there are eight now. In fact, we had to do three trowel-cleans before we could spot them all.’

  She looked very pleased. ‘And when did you start on the graves?’

  ‘Harriet returned the day before yesterday and brought a graduate student with her. They’re working on the two graves closest to the post-wall. We thought we’d get them cleared before we started on the church itself.’

  Somehow Harriet seemed to sense she was being discussed. She looked up and waved. Very friendly. Almost too friendly, Alan thought. Clare waved back. Just as enthusiastically.

  ‘Yes,’ Clare replied. ‘That makes lots of sense.’ She paused for a moment – as she took in the scene before her. ‘I bet you’re feeling happy, aren’t you?’

  ‘My head’s happy,’ he said with a grin, ‘but my knuckles are still smarting.’

  ‘Poor lad. So I don’t imagine you’re planning to enlarge the trench immediately?’

  Alan shook his head.

  ‘No, I’m not, but depending on what Harriet reveals in the graves nearer the post holes, we might want to look at those two in the south-east corner there.’ He pointed out two graves at the far end of the trench.

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘You’ll have to do a small extension, if that’s what we decide. But there’s absolutely no rush. Give me a ring nearer the time.’

  ‘If you’ve still got a job.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll have a job all right. And who knows, I might even have some staff by then.’

  ‘That’s good – I think the way you’re being treated is disgraceful. I honestly do.’

  They started to walk back to her car. Alan could feel the rising indignation. Everyone acknowledged that Clare was one of the best county archaeologists in the country.

  ‘Well,’ she said with a smile. ‘I owe a lot to you, Alan.’

  Alan was genuinely puzzled at this. ‘What, to me? How come?’

  ‘Alan, don’t be so dense.’ She was laughing now. A light breeze got up and ruffled her skirts and her long hair blew around her face. She brushed it away with the back of her hand. ‘Your TV programmes showed the whole country how rich the Fens are in archaeology. Some councillors, who should have known better, had even been trying that old “flat and boring grain plain, not worth preserving” rubbish. But they soon shut up when you started finding things. In fact, my boss is keen to meet you. He asked me to find out if you’ll be at the opening ceremony here next week.’

  Alan groaned. ‘Yes, I will. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it much, though.’

  ‘Well you should, Alan,’ she said with smiley irony. ‘It will offer you an opportunity to network. And that’s what life is all about these days.’

  Alan cast his eyes to the heavens.

  ‘Anyhow.’ She turned to leave. ‘It’s time I was going. Can’t afford to be late for this one.’ She paused, then added, ‘Wish me luck,’ as she leant forward and offered a powdered cheek for a farewell kiss.

  Alan watched as she walked away. He had long had a soft spot for Clare. She was a nice, uncomplicated person who took people at face value. That’s why she and Stan had got on so well together. They hadn’t had a chance to speak at the time, but he well remembered watching her weep quite freely at Stan’s wake.

  Then suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was it she had said, exactly? ‘Charm and a bit of flirtation are still our best weapons.’ He thought about that concealed bottle in Stan’s ‘cupboard’. OK, it came from Fisher College, but it didn’t have to be given by Flower. The more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Whoever had persuaded Stan back on the booze must have used charm. It would have taken quite some persuasion, if not flirtation – Alan was convinced of that. But he also knew that Flower lacked charm and besides, Stan would have been in some awe of him, a senior academic figure. It was far more likely that Stan would pretend he was still teetotal than risk jeopardising his professional reputation in front of him.

  Alan didn’t suppose for one moment that Clare had done it, because she had told Alan on the Cambridge Antiquarians’ visit to Fursey last year, that she was so proud of the way Stan had kicked the drink. And besides, she wouldn’t have had ready access to the cellars of Fisher College.

  So that left just one other woman. And she had enough –more than enough – charm.

  And a motive?

  Alan pondered this for a moment. Oh yes, he thought, she had plenty of that, too.

  Eighteen

  Alan had arranged to meet Davey Hibbs and Jake Williamson in the Cripps Arms at eight o�
�clock. He got there around 8.15, having fallen asleep in the bath. He’d been there for about 45 minutes, before the rapidly chilling water woke him up. His fingers and toes were stiff, white and wrinkly. He needed a pint badly.

  In the pub Davey and Jake were with a group of young men – farm and estate workers mostly – who lived and worked in the village. They were all regulars and Cyril treated them like gold dust.

  As he headed towards the bar to buy another round of lager and Old Slodger, a man proclaimed, in a loud and very middle-class voice, ‘I say, there’s that archaeologist chappie.’

  Alan turned his head, but continued to make his way to the bar. Davey, Jake and the others fell silent. As one, they looked at the man. He seemed oblivious and continued louder than before.

  ‘Are you ever going to finish that damned dig? Some of us around here would like our weekends back. You can’t move in the village on Sundays. If we wanted crowds, we’d have bought homes in town. This village is meant to be rural, you know.’

  Before Alan could say a word, a young woman in a pale silk scarf and fashionable Barbour jacket, loudly declared to the world and her near-identical friend loudly, ‘Well said, Jeremy! This place is being ruined by all the visitors. Quite destroying its character. Something should be done about it.’

  At that, one or two people said, ‘Hear, hear,’ but not very loudly. Alan caught Cyril’s gaze as he handed him a beer. Both men raised their eyes to heaven. The pub was packed. The last thing Cyril wanted was for second-homers to stop coming.