The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  ‘Yes, that and the social side that went with it. I think she very much admired what Candice and John were doing here: the farm shop, the restaurant and more recently the archaeological venture. It all made sense, and she approved of John’s plans to go in with the White Delphs people – although she didn’t dare to support him at board meetings. Sebastian would never have allowed that.’

  ‘So do you think he was behind Thorey’s death? I’d always thought it was the old head keeper, Bert Hickson. He had no reason to like Thorey, either.’

  ‘I don’t know. Anyhow, I’ve never trusted Sebastian further than I could spit.’ Despite the seriousness of the moment Alan smiled at the unlikely image of a gobbing Harriet. ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘Lane tells me there’s going to be a thorough investigation, so that’s something, at least.’

  Alan had his doubts: Hickson was a very wily old boy. But then something brought him up short: why had she, Harriet, spotted the real villain, and not him? After all, he was meant to be the dig director, the man who could follow up clues. He believed passionately in deduction: move from the specific to the general. Look for clues. Build up a case, point-by-point. And for the past four months he had been doing just that. Almost obsessively.

  Then he remembered the set-piece he’d organised a month ago. He’d observed everyone in the room closely. Yet nobody betrayed anything. He might just as well not have bothered. And now it had come to this: he had been bashed over the head by a man he should have suspected from the outset. It was Harriet who’d had the confidence to ring up Richard Lane and call in reinforcements – and at the critical moment. So was all that based on her ‘female intuition’: her suspicion and dislike of Sebastian’s character? He lay back, his mind reeling. Somehow, he thought, I need to redeem myself. I’ve got to find out what it was that drove Sebastian to act the way he did. And was it just Sebastian on his own? What about Hickson? What about Flower? What, come to that, about Candice?

  Suddenly he realised that Harriet had resumed speaking.

  ‘So I knew where you were heading and I told Lane about it. He was great and swung into action immediately. He said he’d be there in fifteen minutes, and with support. They parked in the road and took the path along the wall to the lychgate.’ She took a sip from Alan’s tea. ‘I was following about a dozen paces behind you when Sebastian ambushed you.’

  This was too much.

  ‘By then Richard Lane had arrived with a couple of constables dressed for the part. They each stood astride, like in the films, and pointed their Tasers at him, two-handed. Then Lane shouted at him to stop what he was doing.’ She frowned as she remembered the scene. ‘But he had some cool. He looked up, all smiles of relief. All innocence. He said he’d managed to stop you from committing suicide. But I caught it all on my phone. Turns out that Frank’s “reality show filming technique” has its uses after all.’

  ‘Caught what, exactly?’

  ‘Plenty of time for that, later.’ She took another sip from Alan’s mug. ‘Richard asked me to hand the phone over as important evidence. I gave it to one of the PCs, who sealed it in a bag, which I signed with the time and date.’

  Alan was looking at her with admiration and amazement. Putting the tea down, she became the efficient nurse once again.

  ‘Come on, Alan, up you get. There’s just time for a quick slice of toast. Then we must get going. Can’t keep the specialist waiting.’

  She gathered up the tray and headed downstairs.

  Alan rolled over and picked up his phone. He had to speak to Richard Lane. Urgently.

  ‘Richard. You must search the outbuildings at Fursey Hall. The thing is, they rarely made those traps as one-offs. They were normally set in groups as part of a bigger plan to beat poachers. So there’s got to be another one somewhere. I’m sure it’ll have clues to Thorey. And to Sebastian.’

  He had tried to keep his voice down, but failed. He could hear Harriet’s feet on the stairs. The bedroom door opened. She strode briskly across to the bed, picked up his phone and pocketed it.

  ‘I’m having that, if you don’t mind, Alan. You’re meant to be recovering. Phone calls can wait till we get the all-clear from the doctor.’

  * * *

  The visit to the outpatients lasted a couple of hours and ended with an MRI scan. The specialist looked at the results for some time, then concluded that he could see no immediate problems, although Alan was to contact them at once if there was a return of the headaches. Harriet, who was driving them home, wasn’t a great one for talking when at the wheel.

  He still couldn’t accept that he had missed so many clues. It had almost become a matter of self-esteem – it worried him so much and was now something of an obsession with him. It was like that time two years ago, when he couldn’t spot the clue in the lists of samples from Flax Hole in the museum basement in Leicester. That too had become an obsession. Then, purely by chance, he realised that he was looking in entirely the wrong place. Instead, he needed to think outside the box, to use a cliché he detested. In other words, he had to look beyond the intricacies of the moment, to what might have appealed to, or motivated, a criminal. And as it turned out, that had nothing whatsoever to do with what was pre­occupying him at the time.

  He began to rethink the reactions to his set-piece at the end of that first meeting about the Fursey Penance in the ochre-painted dining room of Abbey Farmhouse. He had been expecting people to show their emotions, but the more he thought about it, the more naive that now seemed. Then he recalled how the day before, at the run-through, Harriet had seen him staring at her, and how he had got up and taken his Nikon mug to the flask of coffee at the other end of the trench.

  He well remembered pressing down on the flask’s lever, and the sound of the now-tepid liquid filling his mug. Meanwhile he didn’t have to act a role. The muscles of his face had relaxed naturally; they knew what to do. He didn’t have to act when he concentrated on pouring coffee. That way he covered his confusion. A simple trick, but effective.

  He ran the events of his ‘set-piece’ through his mind again, more slowly. He had a clear picture of precisely what had happened – he had been concentrating with such intensity. For the hundredth time he was back in the red-walled dining room and he had just announced that the building stone used at Fursey had been hewn from the medieval ­quarries at Barnack, near Stamford. That meant the stone had effectively acquired a unique identity. The modern equivalent might be fine Italian marble; buildings made from it were extremely important, especially so far away from the quarries. John and Candice were amazed at the news; the Fen dean was predictably delighted; Sebastian yawned and went to pour himself a cup coffee; and the new Fursey manager, Steve Grant, never looked up, he was too intent on his mobile phone. Nobody at the table looked even slightly guilty.

  The first two reactions were natural and genuine – he was sure of that. But then it came to Sebastian and Steve Grant. Steve was a new appointment, so could immediately be discounted. But what about Sebastian? Then another thought struck him. The dean’s ‘misguided’ trousers. That song and his own rapid exit for the toilet. It was all about covering up, concealing and diverting attention. At long last, he’d got it. The action of rising to get coffee signalled that Sebastian knew about Barnack and everything in Stan’s hidden notebook on the day he was murdered.

  And now Alan had no doubt: it was murder.

  Then Alan thought about Joe Thorey’s death: his pockets had been stuffed with pieces of brick. And only brick. ­Sebastian must have known that he couldn’t have used stone from the abbey, if he didn’t want the body traced to the Fursey Estate – which would immediately have implicated him. Then Alan had a second thought: the complete absence of any limestone and the careful selection of mass-produced bricks revealed paranoia and guilt. There was no way Thorey’s death could possibly have been suicide. Whatever else he may have been, Thorey was not a thinking man. He’d have simply stuffed his pockets with whatever came to hand and probably wouldn�
��t have even bothered to button them up.

  * * *

  On their way back home, Harriet had diverted to a giant ­Waitrose store on the outskirts of Ely. She led Alan round to the coffee shop, where she bought him a large latte and a curly Danish pastry. Then she selected a copy of the Independent from the rack and led him to a comfy chair.

  ‘Stay there, Alan, and don’t move till I come back. Understand?’

  He nodded. It was like being 12 all over again: warm, loved and safe.

  She took a deep breath and pulled out a long list. Then she headed towards the shelves.

  An hour and a half later they arrived back home. Harriet took Alan through to the sitting room, and turned on the heater. Then she poured him a beer and went to make lunch. While she was in the kitchen, there was a knock on the front door. She answered it. A constable had returned her phone, ‘with Detective Chief Inspector Lane’s compliments’. Smiling, she handed Alan’s phone back to him.

  After lunch Alan asked if he could view the footage on her phone. He’d not been able to think of anything else since the constable had returned it. He needed to know exactly what had happened, and yet part of him was also terrified. She sat on the arm of his chair and looked over his shoulder.

  At first the image was very shaky, but then it steadied as the camera closed in on Sebastian who was carrying a pick-handle and staring intently ahead.

  Alan shook his head. ‘I’m amazed he didn’t spot you. How close were you?’

  ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t measuring, but I was standing on the edge of those shrubs behind him and he was completely focused on you. I don’t think for one moment he thought anyone else would be there. So he wasn’t looking.’

  But they were. Slowly Sebastian raised the pick handle. Harriet grabbed Alan’s shoulder and buried her head in his sleeve.

  ‘This next bit’s horrible.’ Her voice was muffled by his clothes.

  And it was. With all his strength Sebastian brought the pick handle down on Alan’s head, but at the last minute he must have heard something, or just decided to move, because instead of catching him square-on, it was a glancing blow to the side the head and his right shoulder, which was still very sore. Alan rubbed his right shoulder. It was still very sore.

  Now the camera moved very slowly towards Sebastian’s rear. Harriet had raised her head and whispered in Alan’s ear, ‘I didn’t want him to spot me, and I thought I’d heard some branches breaking in the distance. I hoped and prayed it was the police.’

  And what if it hadn’t been, Alan thought, what then? He was so impressed by her bravery and composure. He put his left arm around her shoulder and she snuggled in closer.

  ‘I thought he was going to finish you off there and then,’ she continued. ‘But he had other plans. While he’d been waiting for you he’d gathered up a pile of stones, presumably originally from the wall.’

  Alan nodded: there was a lot of loose stonework at the foot of the monastic boundary.

  Then the image cut.

  Alan paused the film, while she explained. ‘I turned the phone off briefly, as I knew I was running out of time. I could also hear Richard Lane and his men approaching, although Sebastian was so intent on what he was doing that he heard nothing. Then I turned it on again.’

  Alan did the same.

  ‘I was less worried about being seen, as I was now sure help was at hand. So I dared to get a bit closer.’

  And she did. Alan was astonished by the clarity and steadiness of the image. That took some self-control.

  On screen, they could clearly see Sebastian taking rocks from the small pile and cramming them into Alan’s rucksack. Alan shook his head as he watched Sebastian. He was really jamming them in. He meant business all right. That rucksack must have weighed a ton. Then suddenly, Sebastian looked up: his face was horrified. His mouth sagged open. Rapidly he looked around him, then dropped his head. He was ­surrounded.

  Briefly the image shook, then the screen went blank.

  Twenty-Four

  By the next day, Alan was beginning to feel much better – both mentally and physically. Harriet was still keeping a close eye on him, but she, too, felt less worried now.

  Alan had come to realise that his old feelings for her had never gone away and he was kicking himself for being so slow to have recognised it. But he had had other things to think about – or at least that was what he told himself until, for a second time, he brought himself up sharply. What else was there to think about that mattered? In the greater scheme of things, the Crippses and their curse could all go to hell. He should think more about his own life, which was the only one he would ever live – and he knew enough about himself to realise that he couldn’t do that on his own. So was Harry just a means to an end? Was he being his old selfish self again? The doubts flooded in on him.

  Shortly after lunch, Lane paid a visit. Alan was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Lane asked after his health. Harriet replied that they had just had the follow-up review of the MRI scan, which hadn’t revealed any major problems. So barring disasters, they were probably in the clear. She then went back to the washing up.

  Lane pulled up a chair and Alan outlined his suspicions of Sebastian as regards both Stan and Thorey. Lane took detailed notes.

  As he was drawing to a close, Alan asked, ‘And have you managed to search the out-buildings at the hall?’

  Lane smiled. ‘I went there myself. And now I know what it’s like to make a big discovery.’

  Harriet had rejoined them. She just caught Lane’s last remark.

  ‘Really, Richard, you sound like an archaeologist,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘I got the team to do a methodical finger-tip search starting with the buildings closest to the yard, and working back.’

  ‘But you decided to take a quick peek where you suspected it might actually be. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, Alan, you are.’ Lane was grinning; he was enjoying this. ‘I decided to check out an old log-store, round the back. It was accessed by an overgrown block-paved yard track and had double doors, which looked in fairly good nick. It even had an electric light with a cracked Bakelite switch. But it worked. Inside were all manner of antique-looking things: an old beet-chopper, several hand-pumps with long curved handles, two sack-scales, plus weights, and several wheelbarrows, not to mention a couple of dozen hand tools, any one of which would have fetched £200 in Cambridge. But round the back I came across what we were looking for.’

  ‘And what was that?’ Harriet rapidly cut in.

  ‘A mantrap,’ Lane replied. ‘And I reckon it had been moved there quite recently, too – but we’ll be able to check that out. So I immediately sealed the door and called in forensics.’ He took a sip from the fresh cup of tea that Harriet had given him when she had re-entered.

  ‘Anyhow, I got a phone call this morning from Dr Lindsay Harris.’

  Alan could see the name meant nothing to Harriet. ‘She was the pathologist who examined Joe Thorey’s body,’ he explained.

  ‘I had told her to check the trap’s teeth, as we’d both discussed.’

  Alan nodded.

  ‘She’s still got more photos and scans to do before her evidence will stand up in court, but she says she’s already 98 per cent certain that she has a good match. Apparently the scars are very distinctive.’

  ‘So we’re starting to build up a case against him, aren’t we?’ Alan’s question was rhetorical.

  ‘And there’s another thing. The scene of crime people reckon it had been moved quite recently, although there were no tyre marks on the paved roadway. They also reckon it had been thoroughly cleaned, almost certainly with agricultural diesel. It certainly stank enough. But when they turned it over they found green man-made fibres snagged in a couple of places where the rough steel hadn’t been smoothed-out. I was at Fursey when the news came through, so I went and checked Sebastian’s Land Rover and the estate car—’

  Alan had to break in. ‘That’s the on
e Sarah drives. And don’t tell me: it had a green carpet.’

  Lane was smiling. ‘Correct. And they soon confirmed the two sets of fibres were identical.’

  ‘So surely you’ve got him?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Yes. But there’s also another way we could look at it.’

  He was sounding mysterious. Alan and Harriet didn’t get it.

  ‘You said it yourself, Alan, just then: it was the car Sarah drives. So I’m going to suggest to him that his wife was closely involved, too.’

  Harriet suddenly looked up. She was outraged. ‘But, ­Richard, you can’t do that! Her husband’s a massive great thug. She couldn’t possibly have lifted or set that heavy trap. And surely the car was owned jointly? You know it’s not right – and it isn’t fair, either.’

  Lane was taken aback. He raised a calming hand, which Alan could see was having the opposite effect.

  ‘Harriet,’ Lane said in an attempt at soothing tones. ‘I’m well aware of that. And I wouldn’t dream of suggesting she was even slightly implicated in the crime – and certainly not in a court. But we need something to make Sebastian confess. Don’t forget: there’s more than one death that needs explaining, here. I agree, he’s plainly not a very nice man at all, but he’s also quite old-fashioned. Has old-world values. And if I were to suggest to him that he had implicated his wife in his crimes, I feel quite confident that he’d confess to everything.’

  Harriet looked suitably contrite. Lane got up and started to head for the door. Then he paused. He turned to Alan. ‘Oh yes, there was one other thing. Dr Harris mentioned that when she saw you at the museum last Tuesday she bumped into Sebastian in the entrance hall on her way out.’

  Alan thought back. Given that so much had happened of late, he couldn’t be absolutely certain. But yes, he thought, she might well have done. He vaguely remembered hearing Sebastian and Sarah’s voice. Then he recalled leaving the museum building quite hurriedly. So, yes, Lindsay Harris was indeed right: Sebastian must have been there.