Stick in the Mud: A riveting murder mystery

by Leo McNeir

  “I’ve got a rough timetable.”

  “How does it stand at present?”

  “Fine. We’ve got till the end of the month to complete our work.”

  “And will you hit the target?”

  “Should be no problem. Even with the Roman ships we should be okay, I think.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “That part isn’t my project. You’ll have to check with Zoë.”

  “Presumably she’s working on the ships?”

  “No idea where she is. Haven’t seen her this morning.”

  “So who’s directing the dig?” Marnie tried not to sound exasperated.

  “I am. I’ve got two groups working on the two excavations, with postgrads supervising. Normal practice.”

  Marnie glanced up at the clock. “Gotta go.”

  “Is that minibus taking you to the meeting, Marnie?” Anne asked.

  “Meeting?” Dick sounded suspicious. “Nobody’s told me about a meeting.”

  Marnie gathered up her bag and papers from the table. “Technical stuff … phasing and so on.”

  “Has Zoë been invited?” More suspicion.

  Marnie crossed to the door. “Not to my knowledge. See you later.”

  Dick dumped his hard hat on the table. “I’m coming with you.”

  *

  If Philip Everett was put out by the arrival of Dick Blackwood at the meeting, he managed not to show it.

  “I’m glad you’ve looked in, Dick. It gives me the opportunity to check a detail with you. Excuse me.” He broke off and called out to the uniformed young woman who had led the participants to the meeting room. “Would you please ask the minibus driver to hang on a moment.” He turned back to Dick. “I’ll get him to give you a lift back to the site.”

  Dick looked confused. “Will Zoë Tipton be attending this meeting?”

  “Zoë? No. This only involves contractors and consultants. However, there is one point I’d like to establish with you as representative of the archaeologists. Are your works proceeding on target?”

  Dick hesitated. “As far as I can judge, yes.”

  “Something a little more definite would be helpful.” Philip’s tone was diplomatic, but Dick noticed that everyone in the room was watching him. “Do you think you’ll be ready to hand over the site at the end of the month?”

  “I’ll need to confer with Zoë, but I’m assuming the answer will be yes.”

  “Good. Thank you, Dick. Now I’m sure this young lady will be able to show you back to the bus. Thanks for dropping by.”

  Dick had been dismissed, albeit with a smile. As soon as he was out of the room and walking up the stairs, the uniformed woman turned to him.

  “I’m afraid the minibus couldn’t wait. He had to get off to another appointment. Can I call you a taxi, sir?”

  Dick sighed and shook his head.

  *

  If Dick Blackwood’s morning had degenerated into a pit of annoyance and frustration, he consoled himself on the walk back over Tower Bridge that things could scarcely get any worse. He was soon to be proved wrong.

  When he passed through the entrance gate he could see students sitting out in the sunshine, eating and chatting. It was their lunch break, and he knew that on one level they were happy enough, enjoying sunning themselves on a summer’s day. But he also knew there was underlying discontent. They were giving up some of their summer vacation for the dig. It was great experience to be part of something so rare and important – especially Zoë’s damned Roman ships – but they felt they were drifting without a rudder.

  As he looked on, Dick became aware of shadows marching across the ground, and he was wafted by a sudden cool breeze. Some of the students were staring up at the sky, where grey clouds were passing over, filling in some of the gaps between the white fluffy cumulus.

  Coming back to earth, Dick felt guilty, knowing he had been putting his own interests first. But he knew he had little scope for manoeuvre with so many pressures weighing on him. He paused and scanned the area, looking for Zoë, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was turning to continue on his way when a voice called out his name. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Bernard de Groot hurrying across the compound. Dick waited until the professor reached him, breathless and flushed.

  “Dick, we need to talk.”

  “Sure.”

  De Groot gestured towards the staff hut. “Not here. I want a word in private.”

  Dick shook his head. “Not in there. It’ll be full of builders at this time of day.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Why not go down into the excavation?” Dick said.

  Minutes later, the two men were standing on the middle level beside Dick’s Anglo-Saxon skeleton. For a few moments they contemplated him, both of them moved by the pathos of his situation.

  “Did you know the students have a name for him?” Dick said quietly.

  “A name?”

  “Yes. They call him Stick-in-the-Mud.”

  In silence they regarded the cluster of bones. They did indeed look like little more than a collection of sticks protruding from the damp soil. Yet this had once been a man. Whatever his transgressions, they were long forgotten, and now the archaeologists were only able to empathise with a fellow human being who had suffered a terrifying death.

  Perhaps the sobering atmosphere of the ancient killing ground affected de Groot. When he spoke, his tone was subdued.

  “You’ve been away from the dig quite a lot recently, Dick. Why is that?”

  “I didn’t want to be.” Dick squatted down and gently touched the skeletal shoulder. “It’s ironic, you see. Did you realise that?”

  “I don’t follow you.” De Groot’s tone was hesitant.

  “Stick-in-the-Mud … it’s also their nickname for me.”

  “For you?”

  “It’s because I’m such a stickler for procedure, apparently. They think I’m dogmatic … set in my ways. The fact is, I like to do everything by the book.”

  “That’s why you’re such a good archaeologist, Dick, thorough, conscientious. That’s why I appointed you as joint site director here. That’s why I need you to be here. So where have you been?”

  Dick straightened up. “Working, naturally, partly on the King John’s lost treasure research, and I also have a deadline to meet on my thesis. They’re two completely different projects, even if they are loosely related.”

  “I can imagine the pressure of work,” de Groot said. “But I have to remind you that you are being paid by Capital Archaeology. No-one’s work is so important they can just ignore a contractual obligation. And let’s not forget, the reputation of the university is involved here.”

  “I’m sorry, Bernard. This was meant to be a routine summer dig. Instead, we’ve uncovered old Stick-in-the-Mud here, with all the reassessment that means, on top of my doctoral work and then this amazing discovery in the Wash.”

  De Groot sighed. “I’m not unsympathetic. It can’t be easy having to juggle so much at once. The dig, the thesis, the treasure – for want of a better word – any one of those would be a full-time commitment in normal circumstances.”

  “I’ll try to manage things better,” said Dick.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  From above them, they could hear voices calling out. The postgrads were starting to shepherd the students back to work after their break.

  De Groot checked his watch. “They’re very early.”

  “Making up for lost time,” Dick said.

  “That’s good.” De Groot looked Dick in the eye. “Perhaps you’d keep me informed if you’re going to be away from the site?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. Now let’s get out of here while the ladders are still free. We don’t want to get caught swimming against the tide, as it were.”

  Waiting while de Groot climbed the first ladder, Dick turned to look at Stick-in-the-Mud, the words, swimming against the tide resonating in his ears. Looking upwa
rds, a drop of rain struck him on the cheek.

  *

  Almost as soon as the contractors’ meeting started, Marnie guessed it was just window dressing, unless there was some hidden agenda. True, it was useful to review the timetable of works, but that could have been achieved by a few phone calls and circulated e-mails. The real purpose of the gathering was to enable those present to cover their backs. In the event of slippage, the blame was to be laid firmly at the door of the archaeologists. That much was clear.

  Philip chaired the meeting with his customary tact and skill, and he could not deny the contractors the opportunity to make their points. Neither could he deny that their points were valid. There had been days when at least one, sometimes both, of the joint site directors had been absent from the dig. The students had often been left milling about like lost souls. And then there was the matter of the filming.

  It had not gone unnoticed that Zoë Tipton had been spending a considerable amount of time in front of the camera rather than supervising the students. Much the same could be said of Dick Blackwood. This extra activity was bound to have an adverse effect on progress.

  Marnie was not slow to spot that this could rebound seriously on the architectural team, given Anne’s role as temporary sound engineer. She raised a finger, and Philip invited her to speak.

  “I do understand the concerns being expressed round the table,” she said, “but I think some of your anxieties are a little premature. The filming is part of the dig’s recording process. It’s being carried out by a student from another university, so no resources are being taken away from the dig.”

  “Sorry to interrupt …” the senior structural engineer began, “but why is your girl involved in that?”

  Sticking to formal protocol, Marnie did not respond direct, but looked at Philip, who nodded to her to continue.

  “I’m glad you raised that point,” Marnie said, looking the engineer straight in the eye. “Anne Price – my girl, as you call her – is in fact on holiday. She’s helping Donovan as a friend.”

  “That doesn’t diminish the fact that the students are being left to get on by themselves for much of the time.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow at Marnie. “Would you say that’s fair comment?”

  “I have some experience of archaeologists myself, as it happens. We had a visit from the TV programme Timeline a short while ago, and they carried out a dig on my land. It’s quite normal for the students to get on with their work for hours on end, independent of a supervisor. Much of it is just about scraping away soil.”

  The engineer stood his ground. “Even so, there have been persistent mutterings from the students.”

  “Nothing new about that,” Philip intervened in a cheerful tone. “Coming back to the central issue, the archaeologists have assured us that they’re running on schedule. You all heard Dick confirm that at the start of the meeting. I’ll keep in close touch with them, but I think we have to wait and see how things turn out as we near the end of the month. There’s nothing we can realistically do before then.”

  There were murmurings around the table. Philip continued.

  “I’m open to alternative suggestions,” he said in a reasonable tone.

  The site agent indicated that he wanted to speak. Philip gestured towards him.

  “You’ll be putting our concerns in writing, presumably?”

  Philip indicated Nigel Beardsley, sitting beside him taking notes.

  “Nigel will circulate minutes after the meeting, as usual. I think a list of key points will suffice, if you agree.”

  The site agent said, “I meant, will you be writing formally to express our concerns to the archaeologists at this stage?”

  Philip reflected. “I’ll be happy to include a sentence to that effect in my covering letter with the minutes.”

  The site agent smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Now,” said Philip, “back to the agenda. Do I understand correctly there may be some delays with the delivery of structural steelwork?” He looked across at the site agent. “Would you like to comment on that first?”

  The site agent’s smile vanished abruptly, as the meeting took a new direction. Marnie quickly looked down at her papers to conceal her own smile.

  19

  Disaster Revisited

  Monday 16 July, 1997

  When Marnie parted the porthole curtains in the sleeping cabin on Monday morning, she was relieved to find that the rain had stopped. It had been a wet weekend, navigating up from Cassiobury Park, and they had tied up at Leighton Buzzard on Sunday evening, having made moderate progress since setting off after breakfast on Saturday. To console themselves for a damp voyage, they had changed into fresh, dry clothes and walked into town under a large, multi-coloured golf umbrella to dine in an Indian restaurant. The food was good and the service friendly, and when they left to return to Thyrsis, their morale was restored. The rain scarcely bothered them.

  On impulse, Marnie pulled on her dressing gown and went up onto the stern deck. It was barely six-thirty, and the town was still sleeping, with only the occasional vehicle crossing the bridge a short distance down the canal from the mooring. An underlying coolness gave an edge to the air, but the water was sparkling and smelled fresh and clean.

  The trip down to London and back had been a good idea, and Marnie felt reinvigorated, her enthusiasm for life revived, but she was glad to be going home. In a few days Anne would join her, and life at Glebe Farm would return to normal. Thinking of Anne made her recall the underlying sadness of that summer, with the death of Dr Fennimore. And there was something else.

  Marnie remembered that all was not sweetness and harmony at the archaeological site. The atmosphere between Zoë Tipton and Dick Blackwood was more than just a squabble over bragging rights between academics. It threatened the success of the whole building project. The contractors may have been trying to camouflage their own delays by casting blame on the archaeologists, but there was no doubt that real tensions between the principal players were bringing negative vibes to an otherwise magnificent venture.

  A quiet voice behind her made Marnie jump.

  “One point two cents for your thoughts?”

  Marnie looked round at Ralph who was smiling up at her from inside the boat.

  “What?”

  “Am I being too obscure for you on a summer’s morning?” he said.

  “I’m totally bewildered by your gnomic utterance,” Marnie said evenly. “Please repeat the question … if it was a question.”

  “I would’ve offered a penny for your thoughts, but I’ve been carrying out a study of issues relating to the euro … hence the conversion at the current rate of –”

  “Okay, okay. I get the picture. I was just thinking about going home.”

  “Happy thoughts?”

  “Yes.” An emphatically definite tone of voice. “Absolutely. How could I be anything but positive?”

  *

  A few hours later that morning, Anne and Donovan stepped out on damp cobbles for one of their last days of filming. Along with their backpacks of equipment, each of them bore a carrier bag at Anne’s suggestion.

  “We’d better take wellies. The site will be a quagmire!”

  They had spent the weekend dodging showers, the odd downpour and even the occasional thunderstorm, determined to enjoy the time that circumstances allowed them to spend together. Visits to the Museum of London, the Horniman and William Morris museums had been interspersed with a boating expedition on the Serpentine and a soggy picnic in Regent’s Park.

  At Horselydown it was business as usual. As soon as they reached the perimeter of the compound they saw Zoë and Dick, and had advanced only a few yards when they heard Zoë’s voice ringing out.

  “Oh gawd,” said Anne. “I wonder what it is this time.” She glanced at Donovan with an impish smile. “I expect you’ve worked it out already?”

  Donovan pulled a face. “Could be anything. At a guess I’d say it was most likely about
who gets priority on the dig.”

  “Not recriminations about Dick’s repeated absences?” Anne suggested.

  “Also in the frame,” Donovan agreed.

  The closer they got to the two young archaeologists, the more they heard. It was not difficult. Zoë as ever was in full flight.

  “… taking us all for absolute bloody fools. I don’t know how you have the nerve to –”

  “What are you talking about?” Dick protested, waving his arms like a bad actor.

  “You know perfectly well what I’m saying,” Zoë persisted. “You must think we’re all totally naïve.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Zoë. You’ve only got to think about the situation for half a second to realise what you’re saying is absurd.”

  “Really? You don’t think I can’t see through your … your … charade? It’s obvious what you’re up to. Well I can tell you, it isn’t going to work. As soon as Bernard de Groot gets here, I’m going to put him straight.”

  “You’re crazy! You’ll make yourself look like a complete idiot.”

  Anne and Donovan were now standing just a few feet away, all their attention fixed on the rowing couple. Anne almost jumped when Donovan suddenly spoke up beside her.

  “You might want to keep your voices down.” He spoke at normal pitch, but the two protagonists reacted as if he had bellowed at them through a megaphone. Dick spun round and stared uncomprehendingly. Zoë turned on him, her eyes blazing. Donovan was undeterred. “It’s up to you, but …”

  He nodded in the direction of the site entrance. A coach stood by the gate, and students were spilling out. Some of the builders had stopped several yards away, spellbound by the vehemence of the argument or perhaps simply by the sheer volume of sound. Zoë opened her mouth to speak, but Anne cut her off.

  “Do you realise the builders are looking for any evidence they can find to prove that you are causing delays to the contract?”

  “What?” In one syllable Zoë conveyed the impression that the idea was fanciful and irrelevant.

  Anne continued. “There’s a great deal at stake here. You don’t seem to realise what’s going on. You can’t allow a personal argument to jeopardise the whole –”