Contents
THE RUNNING LIE
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Research
The Running Lie
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
About This Book
THE RUNNING LIE
A MAX FALKLAND NOVEL
JENNIFER YOUNG
Published by Cinnamon Press
www.cinnamonpress.com
The right of Jennifer Young to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2020 Jennifer Young. ISBN 978-1-78864-100-5
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.
Designed and typeset in Garamond by Cinnamon Press. Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.
Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress and by the Books Council of Wales.
The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Books Council of Wales.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Jan for being a great editor and to Adam for the beautiful cover. Cathy, Dave and Natalie were fantastic beta readers. Thanks to Joe for archaeological and historical advice – and for the title! Thank you to Cathy Jewett for being an inspirational teacher (who taught me all the grammar I know), adopting Cold Crash for the Sidney Lanier Book Club of Cabarrus County in Concord, NC and for agreeing to be the best possible proofreader for my manuscript! I’m grateful to Jeremy, Helen and Simon at the University of Hertfordshire, and to the warm welcome I’ve received at Falmouth University, particularly from Paul, Amy, Andy and David.
Research
A great deal of research goes into a historical novel, and I’m indebted to many people for assistance with this novel. I’m very keen that the history and archaeology be as ‘right’ as I can make it. My plan has always been to include real female archaeologists from the ’50s in every novel in the trilogy. Cold Crash had Honor Frost, and The Running Lie has Audrey Williams and Pearl Wheatley.
I looked through the Norfolk County Council Historic Environment Record for a site Max could visit, and NHER 5755 referenced a Miss P Wheatley leading a dig. in Pearson’s field. The staff of the Historic Environment Record kindly digitised the files and sent them to me, and I started a search for Miss P Wheatley. I eventually found Pearl Wheatley through the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and in July 2017 I travelled to Lincoln to interview her. Miss Wheatley was a fabulous host, with wonderful stories of being a teacher in Norfolk and Lincoln and her work for the Ministry of Works. She went on to found the Society for Lincolnshire History and Archaeology, and she received an MBE for her services to heritage in 2007. Her recounting of the dig in Pearson’s field appears in the novel, along with her motorbike and her recollections of Group Captain Knocker and his digging team. Neither dig took place in 1952—the Pearson’s field dig was in 1959 and Knocker’s dig was in 1957, but both took place in Thetford. The details of the digs and the finds are correct. The account of Knocker’s dig was drawn from Excavations in Thetford, 1948–59 and 1973–80, edited by Andrew Rogerson and Carolyn Dallas (East Anglican Archaeology, report 22, 1984.) Many thanks to Ken Hamilton of Historic England for putting me in touch with Charlotte Jarvis of the Historic Environment Service at Norfolk County Council, who scanned and emailed annotations from an unknown hand on the photos of the dig.
Thank you to Saya Miles and Jenny Harvey, both Archive Conservators for Historic England, for answering my questions about photographic decay so comprehensively. The details of the St Bride’s dig were drawn from St. Bride’s Church London: archaeological research 1952–60 and 1992–5 by Gustav Milne (English Heritage Archaeology, volume 11, 1997). Max’s dig in Iceland was inspired by Orri Vésteinsson article ‘Icelandic farmhouse excavations. Field methods and site choices’ (Archaeologia islandica, volume 3, 2004).
In addition to the very specific archaeological research, I loved poring over fashion magazines such as Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar in the British Library, selecting the right clothes for Max. The wedding dresses described in Nancy’s issue of Vogue are from the June 1952 British issue. I immersed myself in period publications such as What’s On in London, finding details such as the release date of the Singin’ in the Rain record. If you are interested in more details about my historical research, please visit my website at www.maxfalkland.com.
If you enjoy this novel, please leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads. Many thanks!
Please follow me on social media—I’m at @maxfalkland on twitter and Instagram.
The Running Lie
To Bela, Carolyn, Cathy, Natalie and Rachel—thank you.
And as always, this book is for Zoe
(although not to be read until you are older!).
CHAPTER ONE
USUALLY ON SUMMER digs, Max had to layer herself heavily. She’d figured out on her first dig that she blistered, rather than tanned. But this dig had long shadows cast across it by the burnt out—yet still standing—walls of St Bride’s Church. She got by with a broad brimmed hat. In her two weeks of volunteering, they’d unearthed multiple bodies. Today they’d found yet another burial, and now she brushed delicately around the skull. They’d already dug out Samuel Richardson’s lead coffin, with its plaque intact. This body had no identifiers. Chatter in the trench mostly centred on the upcoming Olympics in Iceland.
‘Max and I have been to Helsinki, haven’t we?’ Will Firmin said.
‘Only on the way to Þjórsárdalur. Back in ’49.’ It’d been the first dig she’d gone on before starting her PhD. She’d arrived in Iceland on what should have been her wedding day. ‘We worked with Kristján Eldjárn, excavating Viking pit houses. Fascinating work on ordinary families.’
‘The peer’s daughter is interested in ordinary families?’
Max didn’t look up from the eye socket of the skull. She didn’t want to know who had spoken. ‘It formed part of my PhD.’
‘We had quite the special time there together, didn’t we, Max?’ Will’s hand landed on her back, and she shrugged it away.
‘If you mean digging, yes. Otherwise, no.’ The others laughed, and Will’s faced burned red. It clashed with his hair. The flash of anger in his eyes reminded Max far too much of the last night of that dig in Iceland, when he’d grabbed her and tried to kiss her. She’d managed to get free, but she’d never forgotten the pain in her arms or the fan of his beery breath across her face. She’d avoided being
alone with him ever since. ‘Do you think the equestrian team’s chances are as good as the papers say?’ she asked. Conversation returned to normal, and Will moved away from her. Max sighed. Why did dig dynamics have to be so tricky? And why was Will trench supervisor here? He liked to remind her his position was over her, and always with a lewd smile.
‘Hey, Max. Somebody to see you,’ called someone.
Max clenched her teeth. If it’d been any bone other than a skull, maybe she could convince her mother it was a bit of a building. Max glanced up, readying an excuse. But John Knox stood under an archway, not her mother. He held his hat, and the sun shone on his dark hair. His blue suit looked immaculate. Max looked down at her filthy trousers and shirt. She dropped her brush and climbed out of the trench. ‘Hello, John.’ The last time she’d seen him, they’d kissed. What could she say now? ‘Want to have a look around?’
‘I’d love to, but I only have a minute.’ His eyes dropped to his hat. ‘How have you been?’
‘In the last three weeks? Fine.’ Why did she say that? Three—and a half—weeks since their first date. Only date.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called. I had to go on an unexpected work trip, and I only got back today. Would you consider having dinner with me tonight?’
‘How did you know I was here?’
John shrugged his blue suited shoulders. ‘Journalists have sources.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Abroad.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Sorry, I have to get to a meeting. My office is just over that way on Fleet Street. I think some of my colleagues tried to help put out the fire here, when the bomb hit back in 1940. This dig’s been quite a conversation piece.’
But how did he know she was here? ‘Out for lunch?’
John smiled. ‘No. I haven’t been in yet. I’m still on my way from the airport.’
He’d come to see her first. Max meant to smile at him, but instead she found herself kissing him. She had the sense to keep it brief, but she drew away to catcalls from the archaeologists.
‘Is that a yes?’ He didn’t smile, he didn’t react to the noise.
Shadows lurked under his eyes. How long had he been travelling? ‘Yes. Wait, no. I’m supposed to go to Victor’s party tonight.’
‘I forgot about that. He invited me too.’ He turned his hat. His right index finger had a half-healed scrape along the knuckle. ‘Want to...’
‘So, the ice maiden thaws,’ Will said, resting his hand on her shoulder. ‘Or at least warms slightly. Coming back to work anytime soon, Max?’
Max gritted her teeth. People left trenches all the time. She should be trench supervisor, not Will. He didn’t even have a degree. ‘In a moment.’ She shrugged, knocking his hand away.
‘I didn’t think you would ever deign to... Knox? John Knox?’
John didn’t take his eyes from Max’s face. ‘Hello, Firmin.’
‘How do you two know each other?’ Max asked.
‘Same unit in the war,’ Will said. ‘At least for a while. What are you doing now, Knox?’
‘Newspaper manager. Look, Max, I need to go. Shall I collect you? Seven?’
Max nodded. ‘Remember my address?’ John found her on a bloody dig site in London, of course he’d remember her address. And somehow, she didn’t want Will to hear it.
‘Yep. See you tonight.’ John’s smile was bright, but he didn’t say goodbye to Will. John walked towards his car, a black Humber Supersnipe.
‘Come on, back to work.’ Will touched the small of Max’s back. ‘Very intimate with Knox, are you?’
Max dropped her hat simply to crouch and pick it up. And waited, slow, agonising seconds till Will took one step forward. ‘I don’t know him well, no.’
‘Looked like you do.’
‘Mm.’ Max settled her hat on her head. She wouldn’t focus on the sensation of John’s lips against hers. They reached the trench. ‘What ranks were you?’
‘What?’
‘You and John. You said you were in the same unit.’
‘Corporal and Captain. That’s what a damn degree gets you, sugar.’ He smiled. ‘Of course, it matters less than experience in the end.’
Max returned to her brush, sweeping it over the eye socket of the skull. Will kept talking, now to other workers in the trench. She studied Will for a moment. He was as tall as John, but ever since Iceland, she hadn’t quite trusted him. Could she trust John Knox any more than Will? John might not grab her and kiss her, but what did she know about him?
John claimed to be a journalist, specifically a foreign manager at the American newspaper Universal Dispatch, but she had doubts. Victor had told her once that John had clearly been somebody in the War. But nearly every man she knew had served in the War. And most of them didn’t have the same level of alertness or focus that John had, at least not now, seven years on from the end of the War. But then John had served in Korea as well.
‘Your boyfriend?’ Audrey Williams crouched next to the trench. She worked as Professor Grimes’ assistant, but she was an outstanding archaeologist in her own right.
‘No.’ Max looked back down at the section of her trench. ‘Just a…’ Friend? ‘No.’
Audrey laughed. ‘He’s good-looking. Thinking about it?’
Max smiled. ‘Maybe.’
Max parked her car on Pelham Crescent and went up to the house. She had an hour to get ready, and if she could avoid Mother, it would all be easier. But as she opened the door, Mother came out of the drawing room.
‘Darling, must you go around London covered in grime and God knows what?’
‘Mostly just London dirt,’ Max said. ‘You were the one who wanted me to stay at home.’ Max had planned to find a dig abroad. She knelt to unlace her boots, rather than tromp dirt on the carpets. ‘I’m going straight to the shower anyway.’ At least her mother didn’t seem to realise Max had been digging up human remains all day.
‘You have a party tonight?’
Max nodded.
‘What time do you need to leave?’ Mother asked.
‘I’m, um, being collected. At seven.’
Mother flicked the pages of Vogue. ‘A friend or a date?’
‘A date.’
‘Who’s it with?’ a voice called.
Max looked up at her cousin Charlie, who leaned against the banister above them. His crutches rested beside him. It’d been four weeks since he broke his leg in two places. At least he could lurch around the house now, even if he’d missed the last term at school.
‘Charlie, you shouldn’t eavesdrop. And grammar, please,’ Mother said. She smiled. ‘It’s a good question though.’
‘John Knox.’ Max picked up her boots. ‘I should go get ready.’
‘Hasn’t it been ages since you went out with him?’ Charlie asked.
‘He’s been abroad, for work.’ She dashed up the stairs, but stopped five steps up. ‘Mother, did you speak to him? Tell him where I was working?’
‘No. Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Maybe Victor had told him. Or his colleagues—but he hadn’t been to work yet. And why would they know she had started volunteering there? It must have been Victor.
As the shower water thrummed against her skull, she remembered that John had forgotten about Victor’s party. Victor would be physically incapable of talking to someone and not reminding them about his own party.
She sat at her vanity and applied makeup swiftly. Drawing eyeliner over her lids, she asked her reflection how her suspicions weighed up against the undeniable attractiveness of John Knox. She slicked on red lipstick and blotted, remembering the easy confidence of his mouth against hers. The Kleenex ricocheted into the bin. What did she want from tonight?
Max dropped a bag with wine bottles in the entry hall, and then forced herself into the drawing room.
‘Lovely,’ her mother said. ‘Red’s a good colour on you.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ her father asked, handing her mother a glass of champagne. ‘
Have you heard from Bernice Dinsmore, Nancy?’ Dad asked. ‘I just wondered how she is, since Samuel passed away.’
Max forced herself to relax her jaw. Grinding her molars against each other would be much more satisfying. Mrs Dinsmore was perfectly lovely, but her daughter Catherine Max loathed. For a very good reason. ‘I didn’t know about Mr Dinsmore.’ Max sat and rested her handbag on the skirt of her halter neck dress.
‘It was quite sudden. The funeral was in the States.’ Dad lifted the champagne bottle again. ‘A drink, darling?’
‘No, thanks.’ Her mother’s Vogue rested beside her on the table. Max could pick it up, but what if her hands trembled? How could she be so nervous?
‘So, Nancy, have you…’ Dad started.
‘If I remember correctly, Mr Knox knew George?’ Mother asked. Her face stayed smooth, but her voice sounded ever so slightly strained. It always did when she mentioned George’s name.
Eight months ago, they had received the news from Korea. Actual physical pains still shot down the tendons of Max’s legs when she imagined the flames enveloping his cockpit, the terror her baby brother must have felt as his plane plummeted. And the memorial service with no body, the months of formal mourning, and the slow return to vague normalcy hadn’t shifted the aches.
Maybe Catherine and her brother Tommy felt the same distress, but Catherine feeling anything as human as grief seemed hard to fathom.
‘Well.’ Dad sipped his champagne. ‘It’s promising that George liked Mr Knox. It would be good to meet Mr Knox properly soon. Have him over for dinner.’
‘Didn’t you used to think George had bad taste in friends?’ Charlie asked. ‘I remember that time you wouldn’t let me visit when his friends were here.’
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