The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  He arrived at the ceremony promptly, as requested, and walked up to Candice and Peter Flower who were welcoming the arriving guests. He waited while they greeted a middleaged man in a dark suit and his wife who was wearing a smart, doubtless designer, creation, that was slightly too tight for her. As they moved towards the tea table, Candice looked up and saw Alan. She kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Thanks for arriving so promptly, Alan. Have you got your speech prepared?’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s here,’ he tapped his breast pocket. He could see she thought he’d learnt it by heart.

  ‘We’ll unveil the plaque in about half an hour, when everyone’s assembled.’

  ‘Are Stan’s parents here?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you hear? His dad had a stroke last week. He’s in Addenbrooke’s. His mum’s staying with him, poor woman.’

  Alan was deeply shocked.

  ‘I imagine, it was the stress …’ he began, but trailed off. There was nothing to say. He felt bad: he should have kept in closer touch.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering why I’m here—’ Peter ­Flower’s voice broke into Alan’s thoughts. Alan suppressed the urge to reply that he didn’t give a damn why he was here – or anywhere else, come to that. ‘It’s because John is preparing for tomorrow’s pilgrimage—’

  ‘No, it’s a Penance, Peter,’ Candice corrected him.

  It was plain to Alan that neither of them took tomorrow’s big event even slightly seriously.

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes. He’s preparing for the Penance. With the dean and a group of disadvantaged youngsters from ­Stratford-upon-Avon—’

  Candice was smiling as she cast her eyes to the ceiling and made a show of correcting him yet again. ‘No, Peter, it’s ­Stratford. Don’t you remember: east London, not the west Midlands?’

  ‘Well, anyhow,’ Flower continued, undaunted. ‘He can’t be here. He’s on his knees in some church hall somewhere, doubtless fasting.’

  Alan was surprised that Candice allowed this: it was her husband he was caricaturing so unkindly. Stranger still, she was smiling, broadly.

  * * *

  The greetings were taking place in a temporary porch-like tent erected outside the old double doors of the converted 17th-century reed barn, which had probably been built to house dry reeds for thatching; or it may have got its name from its large reed-thatched roof, which had been beautifully restored with reeds cut on the farm. It also featured two sets of double doors, which appeared, so Alan reckoned, to be contemporary with the original build – which suggested to him that the barn may have served a dual purpose: for storing reeds and for processing crops such as wheat and barley, where a through-draft, provided by the two double doors, would have been essential. But Alan was impressed: they had done a splendid restoration – the brickwork had been cleaned and repointed where necessary, and even the floor had been surfaced with modern woven rush matting, which gave the space a more homely atmosphere.

  Alan was looking up at the roof trusses, many of which were oak and original, when somebody called his name. He glanced down: it was Clare, who was walking rapidly towards him from a small group of people standing in the corner of the barn.

  ‘Alan.’ She beamed. ‘Come and meet my boss, the CPO. He’s dying to meet you.’ She kissed him on both cheeks. Then lightly she whispered in his ear, ‘He’s a huge fan of yours.’

  David Harper was the chief planning officer and as they walked towards the group of three in the corner, Alan recognised him and his wife as the people ahead of him in the welcoming queue. The other person was Sebastian Cripps who was talking very earnestly to the CPO.

  After the introductions, Harper asked Alan about the Fursey/Fursey connection.

  ‘Tell me quite frankly: do you accept it?’

  Alan paused. This was going to be tricky with Sebastian alongside them.

  As if reading his mind, Sebastian said, ‘Don’t worry about me, Alan. I’m far from convinced. It all seems a bit contrived: almost too good to be true. And why on earth would they then found another, much greater, abbey such a short distance away?’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ Alan replied. ‘But it was well over a thousand years ago and they didn’t apply the same rules as we do today. Take the Witham Valley, just outside Lincoln. There are abbeys and priories next to one another, like the rungs of a ladder: they reach right down the river valley and into the fen. And they’re far closer to each other than Ely and Fursey.’

  ‘But the place-name business.’ Harper was looking very sceptical. ‘That does seem a bit – how can I put it? – a bit convenient, if not, as Sebastian says, contrived?’

  Alan sighed. ‘I must confess, I’m an archaeologist, not a place-names person and it’s fair to say that you could make such assertions fifty years ago and get away with it. Back then, people assumed that if a town or village had, say, a Saxon or Viking place name, then it was a new foundation. They chose to disregard the fact that people were perfectly capable of renaming existing settlements.’

  ‘Like old New York was once New Amsterdam?’ Harper’s wife added, as if miming to the song. They were all still waiting for tea, but somehow she had managed to find a glass of white wine.

  ‘Exactly.’ Alan nodded. He could not have put it better himself.

  ‘But do you accept the Fursey/Fursey connection?’ Harper asked.

  ‘It’s as good an idea as any, but no better than the original one.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘It was a bit complicated, but as I recall it was something to do with the Viking word for a “rump-shaped island”—’

  ‘Which describes Fursey to a T.’ Harper’s wife broke in. She turned to Sebastian. ‘So the Crippses own a rump-shaped island!’

  She thought this very amusing – unlike Sebastian whose smile was distinctly strained.

  ‘It’s the same old Scandinavian word as Furness, as in ­Barrow-in-Furness,’ Alan continued. At least Harper was ­listening – and intently. ‘I think the actual word was futh, however you pronounce it.’

  ‘So that doesn’t exactly sound a like a clear link, does it?’ Harper asked.

  ‘No,’ Alan replied. ‘I agree, it doesn’t. In some ways Fursey is just as plausible.’

  ‘But you’re not happy about either?’

  Alan smiled. At last, somebody understood. Sebastian looked blank.

  * * *

  Alan rose to his feet. His sheet of notes was still folded inside his breast pocket. Somehow he didn’t think he would need to refer to them. He knew damn well what he was expected to say, but he had just followed the CPO’s tipsy wife and had discovered where the wine was kept. It wasn’t hard to mime to a hired Latvian waitress that he needed two glasses of red for some aged relatives. Then rapidly he drank both of them – one to Stan’s memory, the other to his absent parents. He had, of course, already seen the plaque:

  To the Memory of Stanley Gilbert Beaton, Archaeologist.

  17 January, 1972 – 8 October, 2009

  The precision of those dates had really struck home. That was Stan’s time on this planet, among us. Now he was gone and would never be coming back. Alan found the unforgiving finality horrible. But it had been made ten times worse by the now almost certain knowledge that his death was no accident, nor had it happened on some mad impulse. Everything was pointing to a well-conceived plan. There was no way this was manslaughter. No, it was murder, pure and simple. Manslaughter cannot be intentional.

  Around him the room had grown quiet. All eyes were on him. Normally he would have looked away – to the curtained plaque behind him or to his notes – anything to avoid those eyes. But not now. He surveyed the crowd slowly and deliberately. At least one person out there had killed his friend and this was another chance to get them to reveal themselves. So far he had tried subtlety: gently probing, discreet questions, that ‘set-piece’ fiasco, to tempt them out. But none of them had worked. Now it was time to be more brutal. He rapidly pulled the notes from his pocket, gl
anced down at them, and began.

  ‘I first knew Stan Beaton when we were students at Leicester in the early 1990s. We went on many digs together and we became close friends. Very close friends.’ He paused. There was a huge lump in his throat. Alan was angry with himself: this was not what he had intended. He swallowed hard. He took a sip of red wine from a stranger’s glass and his resolve returned.

  ‘Stan’s speciality was the later Iron Age and Roman period, so when I heard he had started work here I was delighted. The area was known to be rich in archaeology, and if anyone could crack open its secrets, it was Stan. In fact, I visited him several times and we were in close, almost daily touch.’ Alan took another sip from the borrowed glass, his eyes scrutinising the audience closely as he spoke. ‘Not many people realise, even now, what he had discovered in and around Fursey and I’d like to use this opportunity to briefly describe his extraordinary achievement here.’

  He wanted these words to sink in. While still observing the faces around him, he pretended to look at his notes. Then he put them away for good.

  ‘Stan Beaton’s revelations were extraordinary and I only hope the recent ill-judged staff reductions in the County and District Planning Offices will be able to protect the wealth of new sites that he discovered and that are still being revealed almost daily.’ Again he paused. There were murmurs towards the back of the room. Several press camera bulbs flashed. ‘Thanks to his research, we now know that the shore around Ely and the fringes of the pre-drainage islands, such as Fursey, were once dry, fertile plains. About the time of Christ, many of the pilgrims who will be taking part in tomorrow’s Penance would have been walking through fields of wheat and lush grazing, rather than wet fen.’ It was a slight exaggeration, but what the hell; he needed to make a point.

  ‘Stan’s work revealed that dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of previously unknown sites still lie around the edges of the higher ground. And make no mistake …’ Again he scrutinised the faces around him. ‘These aren’t ordinary sites. They haven’t been damaged by the plough, nor have they dried out in the two millennia since their burial. No, they are perfectly preserved. Everything will be, there: clothes, shoes, baskets, wooden boats, food, leaves, wool.’ He paused for effect. ‘Even human hair.’

  As he turned slowly towards the plaque, he could see reporters scribbling frantically. What was it about human hair? It never failed to get people going.

  He waited for almost a minute until the audience had ­quietened down.

  ‘Thank you, Stan, for all that you have given us.’

  This was said quietly – a trick he had learnt from a schoolteacher. It worked. He examined the audience. Every face looked sad, reflective. John’s head was bent in prayer. Sebastian stood at the back, cleaning his nails with a penknife. The entire room was as still as a grave.

  Then he pulled the cord.

  * * *

  After his short speech, Alan had everyone raise their glasses to wish Stan’s father a rapid recovery. Then Candice announced that food was available and suddenly the mood of the place lightened.

  Alan headed straight for the buffet where he found all the archaeologists already piling their plates, while the other guests continued to mingle and network politely behind them. Even Harriet, who was normally a better networker than any of his colleagues, was there. Normally she would have been talking to friends and relations of the clients. She wasn’t a great fan of what was left of the archaeological ‘circuit’ – ‘circus’ she called it – and preferred to spend her time talking to ‘real’ people. It was a side of her that Alan didn’t really understand. He liked the world of archaeology and felt comfortably at home within it. He also wasn’t a party animal, whereas she loved meeting new people and delving into their lives. Before their earlier relationship had gone pear-shaped, he used to look forward to hearing what she had discovered after they’d been to a party together. He’d rarely have learnt anything new, whereas she always unearthed the most amazing stories. And yet, Alan thought to himself, I’m the one who spends my life unravelling mysteries.

  But now here Harriet was, chatting amiably to Clare. He was seriously debating whether to join them or not when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round. It was Lew Weinstein.

  ‘I somehow thought I’d find you here, Alan.’

  Alan swallowed back his irritation. Stan was his friend. Where else would he be? This was a matter of paying tribute, not a networking opportunity.

  ‘So how’s it going, the filming I mean?’

  ‘That’s what I want to talk about, Alan. There have been some big developments. Can we have a quiet word? It won’t take long.’

  * * *

  They sat down on two dry, but paint-spattered, folding chairs in an adjoining room that was still being decorated. The window was open a crack, which let in some welcome cool air. Alan saw the silent white of a barn owl as it swooped past in the gathering twilight.

  ‘As you know, Alan, the “live” was a huge success, and the big news is that T2 are keen to run a second live series before the summer gets underway.’

  ‘Blimey, that’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. We’ve known for some time that focus groups have been telling us that the eighteen to thirty-five demographic wants to see more—’

  Alan had had a bellyful of hearing about that particular ‘demographic’. He cut in.

  ‘And they can. But next year. It doesn’t have to be now, this minute, does it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it does – at least so far as that particular age group is concerned. As Charles Carnwath told me last week: if we don’t offer them something now, we stand a good chance of losing them next year – maybe forever.’

  Alan sighed. He could do without it. He wanted to get on and be an archaeologist – to do some archaeology without the whole world watching his every move.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And then when Peter Flower phoned me last week with news of the Fursey Penance, I knew we’d found the right vehicle—’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Lew.’ Alan had to interrupt. ‘You can’t possibly launch a full-blown “live” by tomorrow, because that’s when it all starts.’

  ‘We’re not planning a “full-blown live” for the Penance. We plan to use that as a come-on for the main show, which will start on Easter Monday. But earlier than the last series. We want to catch younger people before they go out. Saturday’s show will finish by half past six. The channel are very keen indeed, but do you think you’ll be ready?’ He was looking imploringly at Alan. ‘Please say yes.’

  ‘I don’t see why not …’ Alan trailed off doubtfully. Then another thought struck him. ‘But will it be possible to organise the production at such notice?’

  The thought of another series of live shows was daunting, to say the least. What with the weather and the ceaseless stream of visitors, it had been a hard season so far. In fact, he was looking forward to a short break – not more intensive work – over the Easter holiday. But then there was another side to it, too. He thought about the speech he’d just given. Somehow he had to get the Cripps family to show their hand – to make a mistake. So far they had played everything superbly – whether by accident or design – but it couldn’t go on forever.

  Alan never considered that he might be completely mistaken about the Crippses. Those days were long behind him and besides, Richard Lane was now backing him – clearly he had his suspicions too: hence his probing of Blake Lonsdale’s murky past. So maybe, he thought, I could use the second live series to stir things up. He knew only too well that there’s nothing like massive public scrutiny to increase tensions. His mind was made up; this time he was certain that something had to give.

  ‘It would be a shame,’ Alan continued, ‘if we don’t have familiar cameramen, for example. And there are practical things, too. New people would have to be trained not to walk all over the trenches.’

  But Weinstein had answers for everything.

  ‘
We’re nearly there already. All the familiar faces will be back. Speed’s joining us on Easter Day and Frank will be here soon. But you’re forgetting, we’ve had three days to work on it and so far we’ve managed to get almost identical crews and technicians to the first “live”. So more or less everyone knows precisely what they’ll be doing. It won’t be anything like as bad as starting from scratch.’

  ‘So what are you planning for the pilgrimage stuff?’

  ‘It’s tailor-made for the web and digital. So it’ll be featured big-time on 2-Much and on our website. In fact, it’ll start with edited clips of this party. It’ll provide a nice contrast with the fasting of the pilgrims.’

  ‘Fasting?’ Alan still didn’t know the precise details.

  ‘Yes,’ Weinstein replied. ‘The really devout ones are going to go without food for the entire weekend. Some have even started this evening. It’s all about a sincere penance for the corruption of modern life.’

  ‘Hmm, I doubt if many of them are bankers.’

  ‘But that’s not the point, Alan, and you know it.’ He took a bite from the buttered roll he’d picked up from the buffet table. ‘No,’ he continued when he’d swallowed. ‘It’ll finish the season with a bang, not a whimper.’

  This surprised Alan. ‘A whimper? Why? Did ratings fall-off after the “live”?’

  ‘Yes, they did. Sadly, Slow-Cook Countdown wasn’t the success the high-ups at T2 had hoped. It lacked the immediacy of a celebrity bake-off. Whatever else you might say about them, the Beeb still do food shows better than anyone.’

  Alan smiled. He had visions of Lord Reith turning in his gravy. Then he had a disconcerting thought.

  ‘And will Tricia be joining us again?’

  ‘Sadly we can’t persuade her. The people she’s signed up with won’t hear of it. They want her face to be identified with them, and them alone. It’s not uncommon in television, especially with up-and-coming talent. The old phrase was “for contractual reasons”.’