The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  Alan was relieved to hear this. ‘So who else are you planning to get?’

  ‘Well, that’s one of the things I wanted to discuss with you, Alan. Obviously we’ll have Peter Flower, and of course Michael Smiley is still available. I thought he did a very good job before, but was rather wasted chairing the studio panel on the last “live”. So we’ve asked him to present a series of fiveminute films on Fursey in History, which will be based around the new museum display.’

  ‘So do you plan to drop the studio panel altogether?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s far too important, as a link. And we also need somewhere to put the new finds in context. So it’s staying, but now it’ll be chaired by Peter Flower. And he’s such a pro, he’ll have no trouble combining chairing with being a panellist, too.’

  No, he’ll relish it, Alan thought. But he said nothing.

  ‘But with regards to who else we’ll have, I need your input. Who does the archaeology suggest to you? I gather there are more graves?’

  ‘Yes, right now the score’s eight. They’re currently being dug and studied by Harriet Webb and a graduate student of hers. I know Harriet’s done some television, but I don’t know how much. In fact, she’s here at the opening – at that corner table out there.’ He nodded in the direction of the door.

  ‘Do you think she could cope with a big role? I’m not saying we’ll get her to present, or anything like that, but we do need a robust foil for you. And you must admit, Tricia did that very well.’

  ‘Yes, I’m quite certain Harriet could do it, but …’

  ‘But you’re not sure she’d want to; is that what you’re saying?’

  It wasn’t, but what the hell. Alan sighed heavily. ‘Put it like this, Lew, there might be reasons why she wouldn’t want to work with me. And it’s got nothing to do with TPC. It’s my problem entirely.’ Alan decided he’d said enough.

  Weinstein frowned. He knew that much was riding on ­Harriet’s response.

  ‘Well, we’ll ask her now.’ He rose from his chair, then turned to Alan. ‘But please let me do most of the talking. OK?’

  Alan nodded. They started walking.

  ‘And are Kaylee and Jake still with you?’

  ‘Yes they are.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Weinstein smiled broadly. ‘That’ll help with continuity. And they both acquired quite a following on our website during the “live”. I gather Kaylee’s now got a growing presence on Twitter.’

  Alan smiled. She’d kept that one to herself.

  * * *

  Alan and Weinstein walked over to the group of archaeologists sitting at the corner table, eating voraciously and saying little. Clare had left them and returned to the CPO and Sebastian, who was now joined by his wife Sarah, and by Peter Flower. Even from the other side of the hall, Alan could see their discussion was intense. And their body language was interesting, too: Sarah and Sebastian seemed somehow more husband-and-wife than they normally did. Clare was looking on, slightly out of it. She glanced up, caught Alan’s gaze, and smiled.

  Harriet hadn’t piled her plate as high as the others and had finished eating by the time Alan and Weinstein arrived.

  ‘Ah, Harriet, I’m Lew Weinstein. You might have heard Alan mention my name.’

  ‘Indeed, he talks about you all the time.’

  ‘Politely, I hope.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was smiling as she stood up. Weinstein was about to shake her hand, when she leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Alan could see the older man greatly preferred that.

  After they had found a quieter spot, away from the others, Weinstein told Harriet about their plans for TPC Live 2. He explained how the format would follow the success of Live 1 and would start on Easter Monday and run for six days, with the last episode early on Saturday evening. He went on to explain that there had been some minor changes in the line-up and he was hoping she would agree to ‘quite a prominent role’. Alan was expecting that she would be anxious about this – and not just because of their past personal problem. He was also conscious that she didn’t always feel completely happy about television work – which was strange, given that she had a natural, dignified, screen presence. Maybe it reflected her family’s quiet, upper middle class respectability: her father had been a successful solicitor in Grantham and had lived in a beautiful Georgian manor house on the edge of Dawyck Fen. It wasn’t the sort of upbringing that necessarily welcomed the harsh lights of ­television.

  In the event, she showed no reticence at all when Weinstein described her new role. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  ‘Gosh, Lew,’ she replied. ‘That sounds wonderful. I must admit to being quite a fan of Test Pit Challenge, although when it was announced I did have misgivings. But the format really works. And best of all, it has produced some real surprises. I need hardly add that the first Fursey live shows were amazing. Candice Cripps tells me they surprised the family as much as the participants.’

  And yes, Alan thought, that’s just what we need to repeat – only more so.

  Harriet was looking genuinely delighted. Then she turned to Alan. ‘And I’m sure we could manage it together – don’t you, Alan?’

  ‘Er, absolutely. Yes, we could – we can.’

  Blimey. He took a large gulp of wine. Suddenly his world had turned upside down. What did it all mean? Was it good? Bad? He had no idea. But it was certainly very different.

  Alan thought he had concealed his confusion. But he hadn’t. Weinstein and Harriet were standing together, ­smiling at him. Suddenly Weinstein looked very serious.

  ‘Alan?’ He said this slowly. Portentously.

  ‘Yes, Lew?’

  There was a short pause. Perfect timing.

  ‘You’re the worst bloody actor, I’ve ever seen!

  Nineteen

  Directly after the opening ceremony, Harriet returned to Cambridge. Alan, Jake and Kaylee had spent the evening in the Cripps Arms. Davey Hibbs had been there, plus one or two locals, who also enjoyed a couple of pints. In fact, Alan thought, as he popped two aspirins, we had a cracking good night. Drank rather more Slodger than was good for us; but he didn’t care – inside his head he felt more relaxed than at any other time during his stay at Fursey.

  He rolled over and turned on the bedside light. It was eight o’clock on Good Friday morning. No need to leap out of bed, as Jake was supervising the dig today. Then he remembered: last night he’d agreed to give Weinstein, Frank Jones and Michael Smiley a quick tour of the site and the new museum.

  Alan lay back on the pillows. He had arranged to meet his small tour party at 9.30, so there was no rush. Then his phone rang. It was his brother Grahame. He told Alan to turn on BBC1 who were covering the Fursey Penance all morning on their regional news programme, Face East. Alan jumped out of bed and ran through to the kitchen and turned on the TV. He had high hopes: maybe a real sinner will be attempting to atone.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The five-minute clip showed some of the pilgrims filing out of a Victorian chapel, where they were individually blessed by the Fen dean. Then they formed into informal groups and made their way down to the river, where a flotilla of narrowboats was waiting to take them to Fursey for the start of the Penance proper. John Cripps was one of the last to leave the chapel. Like everyone else, he had just been given a white rucksack with a prominent red cross of St George. To Alan’s eye, John already looked tired and the prominent red cross looked odd and made him seem more like an England football fan, than a humble penitent. Despite Alan’s many misgivings, the Penance seemed to have gone down well with the crowds, which were growing all the time, despite the persistent rain.

  * * *

  Alan drew up in the car park alongside a nondescript Ford Focus estate, and as he climbed out he heard the Ford’s front door open and close. It was Michael Smiley. What a surprise: Alan had expected him to have driven a Bentley, or a Jag at the very least.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Alan, it’s a great p
leasure to meet you. I’ve been such a fan of your Fenland work. That survey of the dykes around Thorney was a real eye-opener. I had no idea the old Abbey Estate concealed such a well-preserved set of prehistoric sites. They were astonishing. Are they going to Schedule any of them?’

  This was not at all what Alan had expected from the retired TV quiz show presenter.

  ‘Yes, I think they’re planning to. But first we’ve got to do a follow-up survey with a more detailed look into local conditions and conservation. There’s no point in protecting sites that are already drying out.’

  Smiley was clearly fascinated. ‘No, that makes lots of sense. But how do you plan to raise water levels? That must be by far your biggest problem?’

  Blimey, Alan thought, this is like a post-doctoral research seminar. Then, to his relief, another car pulled up alongside them.

  Weinstein and Frank Jones got out. Alan noted a slight change in Frank’s demeanour since the first TPC ‘live’. He seemed a little less cocky and over-confident. Who knows, maybe he’d learnt from his mistakes? Maybe. Alan decided to be kinder, but not to let his guard drop.

  Alan had hoped they might have a leisurely cup of coffee before heading for the museum, but Weinstein explained that that he and Frank would have to drive back to London sooner than expected. As Alan had suspected, organising such a big operation as a multi-camera ‘live’, at very short notice, was not proving simple. He also suggested that Frank and Alan should have a detailed discussion on Easter Sunday morning, as Charles Carnwath needed to see shooting script outlines for the first three episodes. Alan smiled when he heard this. Even Carnwath knew that trenches were never predictable. But he, in his turn, had to keep the top brass at T2 happy.

  Alan had been busy with the trench extension for the previous two weeks, so hadn’t been able to see how the new museum displays were coming along. He’d written and checked all the labels for the earlier finds, but everything after the Norman Conquest was being handled by Peter Flower and a colleague in the history department at ­Cambridge. Being a good archaeologist, Alan decided to start his tour at the beginning of the story, with geology and drainage, but he had barely got started, when Weinstein’s phone beeped. It was a text. He sighed in exasperation as he read it.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alan, half our technicians and the mixing truck are needed for a football match in Burnley. We’ll have to look around for a replacement for Day 1. Could you get us back to the car in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘That depends on what you want to see?’

  ‘Well, we’re looking for material to illustrate the short films that Michael here will be presenting.’

  ‘OK. So what periods do you plan to cover?’

  ‘Probably three on the Victorians and one on modern drainage problems. That should help make the place seem more exciting.’

  ‘And something on the Civil War, too,’ Frank added.

  Alan looked at Frank closely. Had he heard something about the Curse of the Cripps? He hoped not, because it would be on TV screens nationally if he had. And that would undo everyone at Fursey’s efforts to improve the place’s local image.

  ‘ … And then finish with the Middle Ages.’ Weinstein was drawing to a close. ‘And of course we’ll need to cover the foundation of Ely Cathedral.’

  ‘And St Fursey?’

  ‘Naturally, Alan. We can’t do without our friend from ­Ireland.’ There was more than a hint of irony in Weinstein’s voice.

  * * *

  So, for fifteen intensive minutes, Alan led them round to the start of the gallery, which opened with a wonderful 3-D panorama of a woodland scene, complete with life-like trees and animals, and echoing birdsong in the background. The display was all about game and shooting culture in the Victorian upper middle classes. It featured three keepers, all wearing authentic tweed suits with Norfolk jackets from the storeroom at Fursey Hall, which also produced their green woollen socks and stout lace-up boots. He’d seen Joe Thorey wearing an identical outfit – and it had suited his arrogant manner. Each plastic man carried a 12-bore shotgun. Beside them were two realistic mannequins of country gentlemen, this time wearing authentic-looking, but ‘recreated’ clothes. Arranged discretely around them were stuffed pheasants, woodcock, snipe and English partridges. A water bailiff and his young assistant stood in the background, holding rods and keeping nets, plus four glistening salmon and sea trout dangling by the gills from a pole. In the foreground was an arrangement of carefully labelled traps and snares, ranging from the very large to matchbox-sized. There were also three reproduction Victorian ‘Wanted’ posters for well-known local poachers, plus a couple of photocopies of newspaper cuttings describing in graphic details the heartbreaking scenes in court when convicted felons were sentenced to transportation.

  Alan immediately recognised all the labelled objects, which had been part of what had become a rather moth-eaten display in the old Fursey restaurant. When they closed, just before Christmas, all the items on display had been professionally cleaned and carefully restored by a firm of conservators in Cambridge. They were not returned until a couple of weeks ago. Each trap and snare was clearly marked in white ink with one of the estate’s display collection accession numbers, which were first assigned when Barty set up the shop and tea rooms, in the late 1970s.

  The rest of the new museum was more informative, but it was also something of an anticlimax: mostly maps and objects. Alan realised that Candice, who had masterminded the new displays, had decided to spend the bulk of their budget on that eye-catching initial tableau. It was intended to hook visitors – and he had to admit, it did work. But the more he looked at it, the more Alan could see the hand of Candice behind it all. It was so carefully calculated. And it was projecting an image; there was no attempt to portray the social reality of the times. The wealthy squires were benign and didn’t dominate the display. And there were no women, either. No, Alan thought, that splendid display has been made to impress the rest of the family. It’s saying: you must all trust me. I’m on your side. Alan realised with a chill that she had taken control of far more than just the display budget. Alan was smiling as he turned away. Deep inside his head a voice whispered: Thank you for that, Candice. Her motives were as clear as the display they had created.

  * * *

  After about a 20-minute tour and hasty farewells, Weinstein and Frank scurried out into the rain and their car, and drove rapidly away. Alan and Michael Smiley strolled to the restaurant for a leisurely coffee.

  The big room still smelled slightly of fresh paint and was largely empty as the first batch of the day’s visitors were still out on-site. Alan thought Smiley was going to discuss water levels again. But he didn’t. His first question took Alan completely by surprise.

  ‘I would imagine you’ve heard local tales about the Curse of the Cripps?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t say I attach much importance to them.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Alan.’ Smiley was not living up to his name. He looked serious. ‘But this Thorey business, coming hard on the heels of your friend’s sad death isn’t helping.’ He paused to take a drink, then continued, slightly ominously. ‘And of course the disappearance of the banker, Hansworth, hasn’t been forgotten either. Us old boys remember that one very clearly.’

  Alan wasn’t surprised. Hansworth’s death had only been six years ago, and it had made a big impact locally and ­regionally.

  ‘Oh really?’ Alan didn’t ask a direct question. He didn’t want to steer him in any direction: he knew that was the way to deflect fresh information.

  ‘Yes. And the searches for Thorey and Hansworth’s bodies were both so protracted, weren’t they? I can remember somebody saying that was the best way to wash off any clues.’

  Alan was genuinely surprised at this. ‘So local people didn’t believe they were accidental deaths?’

  Smiley finished his coffee, then sat back. ‘I’m accusing nobody. And of course tongues will wag. But you must admit the parallels are quite str
iking.’

  ‘Yes, they are.’

  And you haven’t mentioned either, Alan thought to ­himself, that both Hansworth and Thorey had very close contacts with the Cripps family.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Smiley continued, ‘The rumour-mongers are gossiping as much as ever.’ He paused. ‘Worse, if anything.’

  ‘What, you’ve heard rumours over in Newmarket?’

  ‘Only among old fen fogeys like me. As I said, we all remember Hansworth. And then, of course, there’s all that stuff about the early days of drainage. And even after the war, the Crippses behaved in – how shall I put it? – in a very hard-nosed fashion. They showed little consideration for others. My great-uncle, for instance, paid an arm and a leg for the mill.’

  Smiley signalled for two more coffees.

  ‘But I gained the impression it was left to him in a will?’

  Alan knew from his research in the library that it had been sold, but he needed more information.

  Smiley shook his head. ‘Good heavens, no! Far from it. He paid a small fortune for it and even when he’d bought it outright, we discovered later that the Crippses had retained all the riparian rights.’

  Alan looked puzzled.

  ‘They’re the rights to access and fish along the river banks. It sounds ludicrous, but my cousin Derek, who after all manages the place, can’t even fish along his own Mill Cut without permission from Sebastian Cripps.’

  ‘And has he allowed him?’

  ‘Of course he has. He’s not unreasonable. But he’s never mentioned granting him the legal rights. He’s stayed well clear of that. Oh no, they remain firmly with the Crippses.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous …’ Alan shook his head.

  ‘And Derek is such a hard worker and a very kind man, too. I like him a lot.’ He paused before saying, ‘We’re all aware that those Crippses have patronised us Smileys for hundreds of years. We were always the people-of-trade; “mere” millers. I’m sure that’s why they didn’t part with the mill until they absolutely had to. The lump-sum Granddad paid went a big way towards paying off their death duty debts.’ He took a sip from his steaming mug of coffee. ‘But did they ever express any gratitude, any thanks?’ He shook his head in ­frustration.