by Mike Ripley
There was no doubt that Precious was concentrating on her task and she now seemed oblivious to the fact that she had an audience, who were all leaning, sometimes at precarious angles, over the trench. She worked diligently and efficiently, lowering the level of the square yard she was scraping by a good inch until inconsistencies in the surface of the earth became visible even to those looking down from above. It would have taken a very practised eye to identify those small inconsistencies from that angle, and so Precious’ running commentary was listened to intently and in reverent silence.
‘There’s more bone down here and something solid by my left knee. There’s one sort of material – leather, I think – though it’s badly stained by the soil, and there are tufts of other material, wool, maybe, disappearing off under the edge of the trench.’
‘Is it animal skin or a …’ Daniela Petraglia searched for the English word, ‘… a pelt?’
‘Uh-huh, I’m sure it’s man-made. I think there’s even a pattern on it. Hold your horses, here’s something for Maurizio. Can you see that?’
Precious leaned back on her haunches and, using her trowel as a pointer, indicated a spot in the middle of the trench about six inches from the end wall.
After a nod from his director, Maurizio reconnected his detector to his battery and lowered the sensor head on its shaft into the trench. Precious held her trowel above her head so as not to give the instrument a false signal and, when the circular head was two or three inches above the soil, the machine began to sound its beep-beep alarm.
Precious waved the detector away and looked to Campion for instructions. They came instead from Daniela Petraglia, who had dropped to her knees and was leaning, almost falling, into the trench, her face intimidatingly close to that of the American girl.
‘Dig there, but be very careful.’
Only when Campion nodded agreement did Precious set to work with delicate movements of the trowel point, flicking tiny lumps of soil up and to the side. After five or six parries and thrusts, a worm-like sliver of yellow metal magically appeared.
Perdita was the first to break the hushed silence. ‘Is that gold?’
Mr Campion held up a forefinger as if calling for a point of order. ‘Can you move back about a foot, Precious, and clean the area more or less where your knees are? Do you need any help?’
‘There’s no room for more than one to work down here,’ Precious replied. ‘But somebody could get me a finds’ tray or a bag or something to put stuff in.’ She gave a self-deprecating laugh and shook her head. ‘I didn’t come on this dig expecting to find anything!’
It was the youngest member of the crowd, Cat, who was the first to respond. ‘Will this do?’ she asked, taking off her bowler hat and handing it down into the trench. ‘I hate wearing the damn thing but it might be useful as a bucket.’
‘How wonderfully inventive young people are,’ Campion said to Lugg.
‘But no sense of style,’ the fat man replied gloomily.
Precious took the hat, placed it to the side and then edged backwards on her knees, scraping vigorously with the triangular edge rather than the point of her trowel as she shuffled. Occasionally she would straighten her upper body, resting her buttocks on the heels of her paratrooper boots and flex her right, trowelling arm while scooping loose soil out of the way with her left.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing we can do to help?’ Rupert called down. ‘We’re all feeling very guilty standing around up here watching you do all the work.’
‘Well, I’m not volunteering. I ain’t at me best in confined spaces.’
Mr Campion peered over the top of his spectacles at the fat man. ‘Don’t worry, you are excused digging duties. You simply don’t have the figure for it.’
‘I’m sure we could squeeze you in here, Mr Lugg,’ said Precious without looking up. ‘There’ll be plenty of room once we dig this guy out.’
When Precious got to her feet and stepped back a pace, shaking each leg to restore the circulation, it became clear that they were all looking at the skeletal frame of an upper torso; a body in one end of a thirty-foot-long grave.
Where she had been kneeling, something smooth and grey-white resembling a pumice stone or a rough pebble drew the eyes of each onlooker. It could have been something geological and was still half-covered in soil, but once studied closely a series of regular indentations, or rather protrusions, became clear and even the slowest brain realized that this particular piece of pumice stone had a set of upper teeth.
Perdita, transfixed, reached automatically for Rupert’s hand, only to find it already on its way to meet hers. Cat, realizing on what she had been standing all morning, let out a small cry and sought solace in the arms of fellow digger Dave, much to the chagrin of fellow digger Simon. Lugg had his head on one side, gauging angles and distances. If that thing at the American girl’s feet really was the skull, then the rest of the deceased must be between it and the trench end, the hips and legs still buried in the mound, roughly somewhere under the spot where the bossy Italian woman was kneeling and looking, even Lugg noticed, the most shocked of all the trench-side witnesses.
Mr Campion did not look shocked, or indeed particularly interested. To the outside observer, had there been one, he might well have appeared totally unconcerned by what had been uncovered in the base of the trench. Instead, he seemed to be fascinated by the reactions of Daniela Petraglia, Gianfranco and Maurizio. There was no doubt in Campion’s mind that the Italian contingent had been taken completely by surprise by the discovery.
‘This is not any sort of treasure, Signora Petraglia,’ he said forcefully.
The Italian woman pointed a finger downwards like an Etruscan devil-goddess showing the way to hell. ‘There is gold.’
‘A small amount, hardly buried treasure. I think you will find that it is a gold chain, on the end of which will be a gold watch.’
Daniela Petraglia did not so much spring to her feet as uncoil her body, and when she stood erect, it was with menace. ‘Impossible!’ As pronounced the Italian way, the word carried far more drama. ‘You cannot know such things. It is trickery. Truffatore! Imbroglione!’
Campion remained serene. ‘I am not a crook, Signora, though you are not the first to call me a trickster.’
He now had the full attention of the congregation standing at what was, beyond doubt, a graveside.
‘I am convinced that we have uncovered the last remains of a local news hound, a journalist from the Hadleigh paper who was well-known in the area thirty-five years ago. His name was Samuel Salt.’
‘That means nothing.’
‘Perhaps not to you, Signora, but he is remembered as a regular customer at the King’s Head in Sweethearting, and I am reliably informed that his most precious possessions were a motorbike and sidecar combination and a gold watch and chain. I am no expert on matters forensic but if the material our diggers have unearthed is leather, it is a reasonable assumption – or at least a jolly good guess – that it came from a leather flying helmet of the sort popular with bikers back in those days when no one bothered with crash helmets. That worm of gold glistening down there is, I suggest, part of a watch chain and will lead, if anyone has the stomach for it, to a Hunter or a half-Hunter dangling from the poor man’s ribcage. A gruesome thought and you may say that all this is circumstantial if you were in the business of collating evidence, but I can add one more piece of corroboration.
‘Samuel Salt covered the Sweethearting excavation for his newspaper, writing several articles about it. He was here on the day of the visit of the Prince of Wales and Mrs Simpson’ – he turned to smile at Rupert and Perdita – ‘the real ones, that is, although he never wrote anything about that day, or indeed anything after it, because he simply disappeared. One day this trench, or one as near as dammit exactly like it, was open to the elements awaiting the royal seal of approval. It was the end of the dig and once the distinguished visitors had departed, the trench was filled in – or backfilled as my
American archaeological advisor tells me I must call it.
‘I am convinced in my mind, small though it may be, that Samuel Salt, journalist of this parish, was already in the trench when the backfilling proper began. And he did not go in there voluntarily.’
‘This has nothing to do with me!’
‘I am not suggesting it has, Signora. In fact, I am fairly sure the name Samuel Salt, the late press hound, rings no bells at all with you. His was a very small part – almost that of an “extra” as you might say – in the real story of the Sweethearting Barrow and the subsequent fairy story which became known as the Abdication Treasure. Journalists are mostly annoying in life but, in death, this one has proved a real inconvenience to you.’
‘How can that be? What are you saying?’ Signora Petraglia’s face was beginning to slowly contort in fury with the menace of lava oozing from a volcano. Mr Campion, on the other hand, presented a serene picture of tranquillity which would not have looked out of place in a pulpit.
‘I am unilaterally declaring an end to all archaeology, filming and treasure hunting – by all parties – in Sweethearting and its environs until poor old Samuel Salt, if it is indeed he, is properly laid to rest. That will require contacting the local police immediately and then making ourselves available for the lengthy questioning which will no doubt follow. For that inconvenience I will apologize in advance but we must go through formal procedures. A crime has been committed here. Not by anyone present; in fact, it was done before most of you were even born, but murder – and I really do think it was murder – is a crime always and forever. Now I suggest we send an advance party to the hall to use the telephone there. I know there is a phone box in Sweethearting, which is nearer, but I really do not want to raise alarums and excursions in the village. After that, we leave a reception committee here to greet the police and I suggest the rest of us gather our equipment together and move up to the hall where Lavinia has sufficient supplies to provide everyone with a late lunch.’
The sermon over, the congregation began to disperse but no one had moved more than a yard from the trench when a sudden, shrill scream brought them to a halt. For most of those present, the assumption was that Precious Aird had discovered something even more unspeakable in the depths of the trench, but in fact the distress call had come from the youngest throat of all.
Daniela Petraglia had her left hand wrapped into young Cat’s hair and was pulling so hard the girl was forced to lean back on her heels, her arms flailing and eyes streaming. In her right hand the Italian woman held a small black automatic pistol, the muzzle pressed hard up against Cat’s temple.
‘No police,’ said Signora Petraglia, ‘and everyone goes back to the hall right now. When we are there, you, Signor Campion, will tell me everything or your young friends will suffer. And then we will start on your family.’
SIXTEEN
The Evil Meal
Their predicament brought to Mr Campion’s mind the story of the Malamerenda – the Evil Meal – an incident which took place in the Tuscan hill town of Siena in the early part of the fourteenth century. The Evil Meal was the climax of years of violence between two powerful clans, the Salimbeni and the Tolomei, whose rivalry some authorities have suggested formed the basis for another feud between Montagues and Capulets, dramatically transposed from Siena to Verona. In an attempt to solve the problem of those tiresome Tolomeis, the Salimbenis invited eighteen members of the rival family to a kiss-and-make-up dinner and then promptly massacred them. It was a blueprint for treacherous hospitality which was followed by the Campbells biting the Macdonald hand which fed them in Glencoe in 1692.
When Daniela Petraglia drew a pistol and pressed it against the temple of the terrified Cat, it had been the signal for Maurizio and Giancarlo also to draw guns and take up strategic positions around the site so that all those gathered around the trench were viable targets. Three armed Italians were instantly in total control of the destinies of seven uneasy Britons and one totally bemused American, who told herself that she would never get the hang of this country; a country where the archaeology wasn’t really archaeology, treasure hunters went looking for treasure which everyone knew didn’t exist connected to a king they didn’t want, and even at gunpoint, standing over some poor guy’s open grave, the Brits remained unbelievably relaxed – and so goddamn polite.
‘And now everyone should please stay as calm as possible,’ Mr Campion had announced as though asking for the collection plate to be circulated, ‘for it has long been my experience that arguing with an angry lady with a pistol is almost as futile as arguing with an unarmed one.’
Not only was he staying cool, thought Precious Aird with not a little admiration, but that old stick Campion was somehow staying in control.
‘How do you want us to proceed to the hall, Signora? I know there is little traffic on the road but a passing cyclist, for instance, may well find it odd to see a crocodile of prisoners being marched along at gunpoint – even in Suffolk. So do we tramp across the fields? There is little chance of anyone observing us that way, I’d wager.’
Without releasing her grip on the tearful Cat’s hair, Daniela Petraglia did at least remove the muzzle of her gun from the girl’s head. ‘We take the cars. We leave all the equipment in the ditch and we go now.’
‘A wise move, Signora. If there is no activity on the site it will not attract the casual visitor, but just in case it does, might I make a suggestion?’
A casual wave of her pistol gave permission.
‘On the off-chance that a passing rambler or a nosey neighbour from Sweethearting might wander over here while we are elsewhere, might it not be advisable, if not decorous, to conceal the remains of our departed hound of the press down there in the trench? A thin layer of soil should be adequate and I think we can dispense with any funeral rites. It is, after all, rather late in the day for that. Lugg, would you do the honours?’
And the fat man did, with dignity, pick up a spade and shovel earth from the spoil heap into the end of the trench until all glimmers of skeletal bone and that faint twist of shining gold were extinguished.
The convoy of prisoners was then assembled at the roadside where three vehicles, conveniently as there were three gunmen, were parked. To each vehicle Daniela Petraglia allocated passengers and an armed guard. Campion would drive the film crew’s Citroën with Rupert and Signora Petraglia as passengers. Precious would drive her VW under the supervision of Maurizio, with Lugg and the young diggers Cat and Dave, and Perdita would take Simon as a passenger and Giancarlo as a guard in her Mini. The Citroën would lead off, followed by the VW van and finally the Mini.
It was, Campion had to admit, a clever strategy. Campion himself would hardly try anything foolish with the signora’s gun pressed to his son’s head and the son would behave knowing his wife was beyond rescue and similarly threatened in a following car. Precious, he was sure, would not act recklessly with two of her young diggers and the formidable Lugg in her charge, though she was probably more worried – needlessly, in Campion’s opinion – about Lugg mounting a counterattack on their custodian. In his heyday Lugg would certainly have tried to disarm his guard, or at least jumped ship, so to speak. Even now, at his advanced age and girth, had he been the lone prisoner he might have tried, but not with three innocent bystanders sharing the same confined metallic space moving at thirty miles per hour. The Italian woman’s plan was divide and control but they were not, Campion was sure, divided and conquered.
He started the unfamiliar left-hand-drive car and, when told by his captor sitting in the rear seat to proceed, he pulled out into the road at little more than a crawl in order to allow the other two vehicles – which he thought of as private prison vans or perhaps an unconventional funeral cortege – to manoeuvre into convoy formation.
‘Do feel free to criticize my driving if I inadvertently stray over to the other side of the road. I’m not used to the steering wheel being this close to the hedgerow.’ Campion kept his voice light fo
r Rupert’s sake but his son’s face was deathly white and his eyes constantly flitting from the pistol aimed at his head to the Citroën’s wing mirror to check that Perdita’s red Mini was still following. ‘But do not, under any circumstances, attempt to grab the steering wheel as that may be regarded as an aggressive move which could trigger – oh, dear, bad choice of words – our personal sword of Damocles in the back seat.’
Rupert attempted a thin smile and with some effort banished the nervousness from his voice. ‘What happens when we get to the hall?’
‘That, of course, is up to Donna Daniela,’ said Mr Campion, ‘but I do hope she allows us a decent lunch – I’m starving. It’s been quite a busy morning.’
Oliver Grieg Bell answered the front door of the hall to find Mr Campion and Rupert standing sheepishly, side by side like a pair of naughty schoolboys pre-empted in a ring-the-bell-and-run-away prank. Oliver could not see that behind the two thwarted schoolboys Daniela Petraglia had her Beretta pushed into the small of Rupert’s back.
‘Albert, Rupert. I wasn’t expecting you but please come in.’ Oliver became aware of two more vehicles nosing to a halt behind the Citroën already parked at the top of the drive. ‘Oh, you all seem to be here,’ he said limply as the VW and the Mini disgorged their passengers, ‘and hello, Daniela.’
The smile that had begun to blossom on Oliver’s face was nipped in the bud when he realized that the object of his admiration was holding a gun, and then he frowned as he realized that his unexpected visitors were being herded towards the hall by two other armed Italians.
Daniela Petraglia nudged Rupert ahead of her across the threshold and gave Oliver a good view of the small automatic. ‘Your telephone, Mr Bell.’