The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  Soon he became aware that Frank was talking to him.

  ‘Lew wanted to have a few words with you, Alan.’

  ‘Why, is there a problem?’

  ‘No, none. He’s delighted, that’s all. Really loved your pieces with Harriet. Thought they came across very well indeed.’

  ‘And what did he think of that opening exchange between her and Craig?’ He couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘Oh, what they’re already calling the Insect Incident on Twitter?’ Frank was smiling broadly now. ‘He loved it. It seems viewers at home loved it too. It was so spontaneous – and fresh.’

  Yes, Alan thought, as he started to head back home: it was certainly that. Very fresh.

  * * *

  Normally at most visitor attractions crowds thin out fast after Easter, but not this time, Alan thought as he eased the ­Fourtrak gingerly down the drive, trying to avoid the gathering throng. Lindsay Harris was waiting for him in the museum.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to make it short and sweet, Alan, as I’m a witness in Ely Coroner’s Court, in about an hour’s time. So what have you got to tell me?’

  ‘Well, it’s more show than tell. Come over here.’

  He led her over to the large panorama and pointed down at the jaws of the mantrap.

  ‘Do you think metal teeth like those could have nicked Thorey’s femur?’

  She said nothing, but leant forward to examine the trap more closely. Then she stood back and produced a clear plastic folder from her briefcase. It contained photos taken during the post-mortem.

  ‘Well, what d’you think, Alan, you’ve had to match a few axes to cut-marks and woodchips?’

  Alan was surprised. She must be referring to a paper he’d published on Neolithic carpentry in the Journal of Applied Archaeology four years ago. He thought it had vanished without trace. But apparently not.

  Alan was quiet as he compared the trap with the damage to Thorey’s thigh bone.

  He straightened up. ‘I’d have said they were dead ringers. Could even be the same trap, except I know it couldn’t be, as this one has been on permanent display for years.’

  ‘Presumably they were made by village blacksmiths to a pattern?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ Alan replied. ‘But I imagine, yes, they were.’

  ‘Which might suggest there were others around, closely similar to this.’

  Alan nodded his agreement, but he had one further question. ‘Be honest, Lindsay, do you think it’s conclusive, as it stands?’

  ‘That’s difficult. If the coroner were to ask me if such damage could only be produced by a mantrap I’d have to say that it was very probable, but not beyond any doubt. To be absolutely certain, we’d have to be able to find the actual trap that did this. Then match the teeth to the scars microscopically.’ She pointed to the photo in Alan’s hand. ‘And presumably that would still have traces of flesh, blood—’

  ‘Or fabric, sticking to it, yes.’

  She stood back again and took a photo of the trap with her phone.

  ‘That’s one hell of a spring, Alan, isn’t it?’ She took another picture, then looked up. ‘You’d have to be massively strong to set such a big trap, wouldn’t you?’

  Alan could remember setting gin traps in the barn for rats with his father. His dad always used two steel rods to lever the jaws apart. And there were two notches on the trap’s jaws, which made this simpler. Alan showed them to her.

  ‘It’s about skill, not brute force,’ Alan explained. ‘You never let your hands anywhere near a jaw-trap. Dad even used a pair of tongs to place the bait on the footplate. But a mantrap wouldn’t need any bait. They were concealed – usually along a footpath or walkway.’

  ‘And the victim just stepped in.’ She said it slowly and grimaced. There was a short pause while they pictured the scene. Then she looked down at her watch.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Alan, but I must get going.’

  As soon as she’d left, Alan took out his own phone and took a couple of quick snaps of the trap’s teeth.

  As he dropped the phone back in his pocket, he could hear Sebastian and Sarah’s voices out in the gallery. They were showing a small group of friends around the new ­displays.

  He opened one of the double doors and held it open. Sarah, who was wearing a black dress out of respect for her brother-in-law, gave him a restrained smile. It seemed genuine, but he wasn’t sure he trusted anyone anymore – especially not someone who was proud to be a Cripps.

  Once back in the yard he called Richard Lane, then he headed down to the dig.

  * * *

  Alan met Lane two hours later in the pub in Ely. It was a fine day, so again they took a table outside. The policeman had to appear in court later that afternoon, so was drinking orange juice and soda. Alan took a sip from his pint of Slodger and got straight to the point.

  ‘I think I’ve found evidence that might show that Thorey was murdered.’

  Lane sat back, expressionless. ‘I thought as much. Tell me about it,’ he said.

  Alan explained about Lindsay and the mantrap and showed him his pictures of the teeth.

  ‘And what did Lindsay think of it?’

  ‘She was as convinced as me. But it’s still circumstantial evidence, unless we can find the actual trap that had caught Thorey’s thigh. Even if it’s been cleaned, we’ll be able to use micro-wear to match the teeth with the scratch in the bone, and if it hasn’t been cleaned, it should have DNA traces, too. Either way, we’ll get a match that’ll stand up in court.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely convinced it can’t have been the trap in the new display. Could our murderer perhaps have “borrowed” it for one night?’

  Alan shook his head.

  ‘No, that’s out of the question. I checked: all the items on display in the new galleries had been conserved by a firm in Cambridge. Candice gave me their number and they confirmed that everything from Fursey was held in secure conditions.’

  Lane frowned and pulled out his diary.

  ‘They haven’t yet fixed a date for Thorey’s inquest, but I’d have expected it to be announced quite soon. I’ll have a word with the coroner’s people. I’ll mention we have some leads and would like a bit more time.’

  Then he looked at Alan, who was nodding in agreement.

  ‘Tell me frankly, Alan,’ Lane continued. ‘Do you think we are ever likely to find the actual trap?’

  ‘To do that, we need to find the man who set it.’

  ‘Of course. Any ideas?’

  ‘It’s still only a guess, of course.’ He paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘But yes. I think there might be someone.’

  Alan could see Lane was about to make a suggestion. But he changed his mind.

  ‘Go on …’

  ‘When I was a boy,’ Alan began. ‘I’d seen my dad set gin traps …’ He took a pull from his beer. ‘But as I was describing all this to Lindsay, I think I said something about it being “about skill, not brute force”. As I said it, I got a clear picture in my mind of the ex-head keeper Bert Hickson.’

  ‘And he was the man,’ Lane said, ‘who found Stan’s body.’

  ‘And don’t you always say, that’s the most likely suspect?’

  ‘OK, so he may well have the skills, but what about the motive?’

  ‘I’m afraid he has that in spades. Again, I’ve been able to check on this in the village, but he was quite roughly pushed aside by the family – but mostly, I suspect, by Sarah, who saw him as too old-fashioned for a more commercial modern-style shoot – in favour of Joe Thorey who was then in his midthirties, young, active and dynamic. I suspect Thorey wasn’t too careful about putting pressure on Bert to go, either.’

  The frown on Lane’s face grew as he listened to what Alan was saying.

  ‘Anyhow,’ Alan continued, ‘Thorey was made head keeper in 2005 and Bert Hickson “retired”. He even had to move out of Keepers Cottage into one of the estate’s few remaining terraced houses in the village.
He told me he couldn’t face kicking up a fuss and I also suspect that Barty made sure he was financially OK – in fact, he even went so far as to get him a rowing machine.’

  ‘Which was actually very intelligent of him. “Healthy mind, healthy body” and all that.’

  ‘And that’s the next thing,’ Alan continued. ‘Bert Hickson had served in the army, and before joining up he was an assistant keeper to his dad. So he’d always been a fit man. It was just his mind that was affected by what he’d seen in Northern Ireland.’

  ‘So you’re saying that he knew how to do it, and was physically capable of setting a mantrap?’

  ‘Yes. And of course he had the biggest motive of all: revenge.’

  Lane dropped his voice. ‘But I don’t think we can bring him in yet. It’s almost like we’re arresting him for being a gamekeeper. We need more to go on, especially if we’re going to find that trap. You mustn’t forget: he’s an ex-keeper and would know how and, more importantly, where to conceal it out there in the woods. And we’d never find it. Not in a ­million years.’

  Alan hadn’t thought of that. He’d been about to suggest a full-on raid of all the Fursey barns and out-buildings.

  ‘No, you’re right, Richard. We do need more to go on.’

  ‘I think I’ve got enough people to keep an eye on him for a week or two, if not longer. I’ll see what can be done.’

  * * *

  The clouds that had threatened yet more rain that morning, had largely cleared, and it was turning out to be a warm, pleasant afternoon, when Alan arrived back at Fursey. There was a long queue of visitors and he was astonished at the amount of interest the second live series had generated. There could be little doubt that a proportion of viewers had turned on because of Fursey’s increasing notoriety.

  Alan was walking across the car park towards the dig, when a woman called his name. Clare Hughes hurried towards him.

  ‘I’m so glad I’ve managed to catch you, Alan. I was just passing by.’

  Alan waited, while she caught her breath.

  ‘But I thought I ought to tell you. I had a phone call from our new inspector at English Heritage …’ She trailed off, trying to recall the name.

  ‘Shelley Walters?’ Alan suggested.

  ‘That’s right. And she’d just been speaking to Cameron Roberts.’ She paused. Everyone in archaeology paused after they mentioned the name of the EH chief archaeologist. He had a fearsome reputation.

  ‘Oh, really? And what did he want?’

  Alan had a shrewd suspicion, but he kept quiet. In fact, he was surprised they’d heard nothing from Cameron after the first series of ‘lives’.

  ‘He’s seriously thinking about scheduling this site. Maybe even on an emergency order. It was that apsidal end that did it.’

  Alan frowned at this news. Scheduling could be a mixed blessing, especially if you were actually digging. Often it meant being prevented from examining the most interesting deposits, as they were usually the most vulnerable.

  By now they had reached the trench, where Kaylee and Jon had started trowelling half-sections through two of the beam-slots between the wall posts. The line of the apse was looking particularly clear.

  ‘Well,’ Alan said. ‘It’s looking very striking now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. And there can be absolutely no doubt that semi-circular curve is deliberate and well-executed. It has to be an apse, don’t you think?’

  ‘I agree. It’s aligned correctly and is part of a very substantial building. And this morning Kaylee found two sherds in the beam slot.’

  Kaylee, overhearing their conversation, stood up, holding the finds tray, which she offered to Clare.

  ‘And they were broken in antiquity?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Kaylee replied.

  They both grinned: as if Kaylee would be so careless as to break potsherds when trowelling. But the fitting edges were dirty and would need a good soak if they were to be glued together. This meant, of course, that the sherds had broken in antiquity and had then been discarded. Two conjoining sherds are not likely to be earlier, or residual, to use the jargon. Together, they would date the context where they were found quite securely.

  Clare handed them to Alan. They were dark grey, quite hard and with a distinctive sandy feel. At first glance their finish resembled some of the early wheel-thrown pottery made around Thetford. If that was the case, they would post-date 800 or 850. But these were subtly different. Alan knew that Harriet’s PhD research had involved the Early and Middle Saxon periods and she had a good working knowledge of the pottery.

  ‘Harry, can I see girth grooves on these sherds?’

  She leant back from the bones she was excavating. ‘Yes, you can. I’m certain they’re Ipswich Ware. Couldn’t be anything else.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Fantastic! A real result.’ Alan was delighted. Ipswich Ware was made on a freely revolving turntable, rather than a pedal-powered wheel, which the potter turned with the side of his thumbs on the vessel he was forming. These little pushes left the distinctive shallow marks known as girth grooves. But most important of all, Ipswich Ware was Middle Saxon and could be dated to the years 650–850. It was indeed a result: this church was one of the earliest ever found in Britain. By now Alan didn’t really care that this news would re-energise the happy clappies of the Fursey Fan Club.

  Alan and Clare turned to go back to the car park. Harriet’s quiet, but urgent, voice was unexpected. ‘But there’s something else, Clare.’

  They both stopped and turned. Uncharacteristically, Alan was annoyed Harriet had addressed Clare, and not him. She was a county official whereas he was director of the dig. But he said nothing. They both crouched down by the graveside. Harriet tapped with her fine plasterer’s leaf on a ridge of bone roughly level with the skeleton’s ribcage, but about six inches to one side of it.

  ‘I think it’s a shoulder of mutton. Certainly an ovicaprid scapula with fused ends. So mutton, rather than lamb.’

  Clare was looking puzzled. She didn’t get the significance.

  Alan explained. ‘Early Christian burials were sometimes accompanied by food. It’s generally thought that these newly converted ex-pagans were hedging their bets. If the promised Afterlife of Christianity didn’t materialise when they reached the other side, then at least they’d be prepared for whatever the Pagan gods had in mind for them—’

  ‘And they’d have something nutritious with them to eat,’ Clare finished Alan’s sentence.

  Harriet had picked up her trowel. Her final remark was by way of dismissal. ‘I think we’ll have to tell the television people that the pottery was found earlier, but I plan to “discover” the meat bone on the “live”. I told Frank that’s what I’m doing and he seemed very excited.’

  Blimey, Alan thought: that’s one way to treat a director. ‘Yes,’ Alan replied in astonishment. ‘I bet he’s over the moon.’

  Twenty-Two

  The first five days’ live filming had gone very well indeed and Weinstein was delighted. The previous evening Alan had received a call from the London publisher who normally handled T2 programmes’ tie-in books. Alan was about to say politely that he didn’t write such stuff – and then the man mentioned the advance sum. It was vast – quite beyond anything he had ever been offered before. It didn’t take much persuading before he agreed. If nothing else, he thought, it would more than pay for a holiday. And, boy, did he need a break.

  It was early Saturday morning and Alan was heading out of the village on the Cambridge Road. He was going to meet Bob Timpson in his lab to discuss pollen analysis and details of the research budget for the coming financial year. As the road came off the island and headed into the open fen, it ran parallel to the Engine Drain, about 400 metres to the south. Alan slowed down and looked across the field, over the dyke and towards the band of game-cover in front of the monastic wall. Beyond was the park, then their excavations and the ruins of the abbey church, in the middle distance. It
was one of his favourite views and it was looking superb on this crisp, clear morning. He wished he’d brought his camera. It would have made a good opening photograph for the final report.

  The fine weather came as a welcome relief after four days of heavy and near-continuous rain. The production company had even been forced to erect a large, and very expensive, single-span temporary shelter over the trench extension. It was bright yellow and stood out clearly in the low morning sunlight. He could see from here that the Engine Drain was full and as he lowered the window, he could hear the throb of pumps running in the pumping station two large fields away to the west. The winter wheat before him was quite well advanced, but there were also large areas of water down towards the dyke. Alan realised that they’d soon be doing lasting damage to the growing crop.

  He was about to accelerate away, when he noticed that a large low-loader was coming down the road towards him. So he stopped, engaged four-wheel drive and reversed the Four­trak onto the verge. Then he sat and waited for it to pass.

  But instead of passing, it appeared to slow down, then indicated left and drew into a field gateway about 50 yards ahead. A mud-spattered Land Rover behind it overtook and immediately pulled over, too. The driver got out. It was ­Sebastian Cripps. The low-loader belonged to an agricultural implement hire company in Aldreth and it was carrying one of the new, powerful, rubber-tracked Caterpillar tractors. Behind it was a two-tined pan-buster. Normally such equipment is deployed as part of seed-bed preparation in autumn, but certainly not in the spring, when crops are growing. Alan had just seen the two large puddles – small lakes would be a better description – and he realised that desperate measures were called for.

  His window was still open as he eased the Fourtrak towards the low-loader, which was occupying half the width of the road. Clearly the driver didn’t dare pull over any further onto the soft verges. Sebastian recognised him. The big man stepped forward. He was smiling. Alan was the first to speak.