by Nicola Ford
Handing Clare her orange juice, he settled himself into a seat next to the open fire and took a long appreciative slurp of his pint. It took him less than half an hour to demolish an out-sized portion of steak and ale pie, followed by an unfeasibly large apple crumble and custard. As he cast his spoon into the bowl and wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, a short thick-set man in his late fifties with a smile that matched his gleaming pate approached their table.
David whispered, ‘Natives seem friendly.’
Clare leant across the table towards him. ‘Good. That’ll make it easier when you ask him about Jevons.’
‘Me?’
‘Everything OK for you?’ The harshness of the Estuary accent was mellowed by both the hint of a Wiltshire burr and the affable intonation of its owner.
‘Great.’ David patted his stomach appreciatively before proffering his empty glass towards the man. ‘Could I have another pint?’ He cast an enquiring glance at Clare, but she shook her head, giving him a look obviously intended to encourage him to further his conversation with the man waiting patiently beside their table.
‘Had this place long?’ he asked.
‘Me and the wife bought it about ten years ago.’
‘You’ve made a good job of it.’
‘Wasn’t easy. A couple of townies rolling up in the sticks.’ He lowered his voice, bending his head towards them. ‘But old man Clifford, who had the place before us, wasn’t the most congenial host. The only reason anyone came here when he had it was cos it’s the only pub for miles. Things picked up once they had a taste of Shirl’s cooking and found out what it was like to have a landlord who could keep a civil tongue in his head.’ He smiled contentedly.
‘You must know most of the locals round here, then,’ David said.
He nodded.
Clare widened her eyes at David and he felt a sharp kick to his shin.
He acquiesced. ‘Would you happen to know a Richard Jevons?’
‘Out of luck there, mate. Died a few years back.’ A concerned expression crossed his face. ‘Are you two coppers?’
David laughed. ‘God, no! Archaeologists.’
The anxiety in the landlord’s expression vanished as David introduced himself and Clare.
Their landlord, now known to them as Tony, asked, ‘What brings you looking for Jevons?’
‘We’re trying to find out about an excavation on his land in the seventies.’
‘The dig up on Old Barrows Field?’
‘You’ve heard of it.’
‘Can’t avoid it. There was a hell of a to-do about the site a while back.’ Tony leant across the table and in a stage whisper said, ‘See the bloke at the bar talking to Shirl?’
A well-built man in his mid-fifties, wearing a crisply pressed NFU-issue white and green checked shirt and sober tie beneath a tweed jacket, was drinking a gin and tonic, and conversing easily with the landlady.
‘That’s Richard Jevons’ son, Ed. A couple of years back, the agro company that owns Old Barrows Field wanted to go into some sort of agreement with British Heritage. Open the place up for tourists. Some of the real old locals were quite keen on it. Bring in a bit of money to the village. There’s not much work round here for the youngsters.’
David said, ‘I take it not everyone was quite so keen.’
Tony nodded. ‘Ed got up a petition. Said it wasn’t “appropriate to the spirit of the place”. Kept banging on about the barrows being the inheritance of the people of Hungerbourne and how he didn’t want it destroyed by a bunch of “yobs and day-trippers”.’
David said, ‘Bet that went down a storm.’
‘The commuters loved it. Didn’t want anything wrecking their peaceful Sunday strolls. But some of the old-timers weren’t so happy. To tell you the truth, I was quite keen on the idea. But I steered clear of making my views too well known. Doesn’t pay to take sides. Ed’s one of my best customers and this place wouldn’t stay open without the weekenders.’
‘So the Jevons family don’t own Old Barrows Field now?’ David asked.
‘Not any more. Ed spent years trying to persuade his old man to hand the land over to him so he wouldn’t get stiffed with inheritance tax. But Richard was a cantankerous old sod. When he died, Ed had to sell all the family land to stay afloat. He did some sort of deal to lease most of it back as a tenant. But the way he acted you’d think he still owned it.’ Tony glanced up at the bar and then back to David and Clare. ‘He took a pot shot at a couple of blokes with metal detectors and spades up on the barrows a couple of years back.’
David suppressed a grin. He could see the shock on Clare’s face. ‘Was anyone hurt?’ she asked.
Tony shook his head. ‘Ed’s a pretty good shot. If he’d meant to hit ’em he would’ve. Caused a splash in the local rag, but it never came to court.’
‘Do you think he’d be willing to talk to us about the excavations?’ Clare asked.
Tony chortled. ‘Once he finds out who you are you’ll have trouble stopping him. Would you like me to have a word with him?’
Clare nodded, and Tony scurried away towards the bar.
David sat back and drained the dregs of his pint. Clare delved into her shoulder bag and withdrew a copy of the Brew Crew photograph and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Look! Second row, far end.’
David followed Clare’s finger to the image of a sturdy-looking young man, the image a foreshadow of the stocky, middle-aged man now engaged in conversation with Tony.
David looked Ed up and down as he made his way towards them. His dark curly hair was well cut, with tinges of grey just beginning to show through in his sideburns. Not tall, but when David saw the smile Clare gave Ed he felt aware that, despite the slight crook in his patrician nose, some women – Clare included – might definitely consider him handsome. David’s eyes alighted on the conker-brown sheen of Ed’s Oxford brogues. Beneath the table, he rubbed the muddied and scuffed insteps of his walking boots on the back of his cords. Clare flashed him a warning look and he settled instead for tucking his feet beneath his chair to remove them from view.
‘I hear you’re after some information about the Old Barrows Field dig.’ Ed’s accent, like the shoes, said minor public school.
David gestured for him to pull up a chair. ‘We’re from the University of Salisbury. We’re working on the Hungerbourne excavation archive.’
David thought he saw the expression on the older man’s face tighten for a moment, but Ed responded without hesitation.
‘Wasn’t that destroyed in the fire?’
‘That’s what we thought. But after Gerald Hart passed away we found the archive in the attic of the manor when we were helping his nephew sort through his effects.’
‘I’m surprised Peter didn’t mention it.’
‘I had to ask him to keep it quiet. British Heritage put a media embargo on the story. We’re intending to re-excavate the site and, given what they found the first time, they don’t want to compromise security.’
Ed seemed distracted. Clare filled the silence. ‘Are you a friend of Peter’s?’
‘We grew up together.’ Ed turned towards her, as he did so catching sight of the photograph on the table in front of her. ‘Good Lord. Is that a photo of the dig team?’ She nodded. ‘May I?’
Clare pushed the picture across the table towards him. Ed picked up the image and studied it, lost in his own thoughts.
‘Do you remember any of the other diggers?’ Clare asked.
Ed raised an eyebrow and looked up at her. ‘I see my secret’s out. You spotted me.’
She said, ‘You haven’t changed much.’
Ed smiled. ‘Most of them were locals. You’ll recognise Gerald, of course. The one standing next to him is his younger brother, Jim – Peter’s father. And in front of him is Jim’s wife, Estelle. The woman on the end there is Joyce Clifford.’ Ed pointed at a curvaceous young woman, blonde hair piled high, standing hands on hips at the end of the row.
‘Was sh
e related to the chap that used to own this pub?’ Clare asked.
‘The grass doesn’t grow under your feet, does it, young lady?’ David noticed Clare prickled, but Ed seemed unaware. ‘Joyce was married to George Clifford, the old landlord here.’
‘Was?’ Clare asked.
‘She left him years ago.’
‘Does he still live round here?’
Ed nodded. ‘Bought himself a little ex-council place in Hackpen Close when he sold this.’
‘Do you think he’d be willing to have a chat about the excavations?’
‘You can try.’ Ed had a twinkle in his eye.
‘You don’t think he’ll be much help?’ David asked.
‘He wanted nothing to do with the dig. But Joyce was keen on getting involved right from the off. A bit too keen for George’s liking. She was always up for a bit of fun.’
The knowing look Ed gave him made David feel distinctly uncomfortable. He pointed to the photograph again, this time indicating a petite young brunette in a floral print blouse and slacks. ‘Who’s that standing in front of you?’
Ed still seemed amused by David’s reaction, but returned his attention to the photograph. ‘Peggy Grafton. You’d think butter wouldn’t melt, wouldn’t you?’ His tone was one of undisguised resentment. ‘Local girl made good. You know the type. Got a scholarship to an Oxford college, then hooked herself a biochemist by the name of Bockford. She always knew which way her bread was buttered.’
Picking up the photograph, David mumbled, ‘Margaret Bockford.’
He’d thought the face was familiar, but the Margaret Bockford he knew was a studious, well-respected professor of archaeology approaching retirement, not a pretty young girl in her early twenties.
‘That would be it. She only took to calling herself Margaret once she was amidst the dreaming spires. Plain old Peggy had always been good enough for us simple Wiltshire folk.’
David exchanged a glance with Clare. This was progress. Maybe the scathing obituary of Gerald that Margaret Bockford had written was less impersonal than they’d thought.
‘Would you be willing to provide us with a list of everyone in the photo?’ Clare asked.
Ed inclined his head in Clare’s direction and smiled. ‘I’d be delighted. Some of them are dead now. But if it helps …’
David stood up. ‘Can I get you a drink by way of recompense?’
‘Very decent of you. A G and T would hit the spot nicely.’
David made his way to the bar, leaving Ed to dictate the details of the rest of the dig team to Clare. When he returned, she was listening to Ed with rapt attention.
‘So you didn’t have access to any of the records during the excavation?’ she asked.
‘I’m not much help to you there, I’m afraid. I was just a teenager helping out in the holidays. Gerald only let me take part to humour my father. All of the important stuff was done by Gerald, Estelle and Jim. Oh, and Peggy, of course; Gerald’s star pupil. The rest of us were pretty much cannon fodder.’
Clare asked, ‘Do you remember any of the goldwork being found?’
Ed looked thoughtfully into the bottom of his gin and tonic before replying. ‘I remember the sun disc being discovered. That was what sparked Gerald’s interest in digging the cemetery in the first place. Of course, he knew the barrows were there, but he’d never shown any inclination to excavate them until the disc turned up.’
Clare leant forward. ‘You mean the disc found before the excavations?’
‘That’s right. It was turned up by the tractor in the autumn ploughing. As soon as word got out everyone wanted a piece of the Hungerbourne treasure. We owned the land the barrows were on. Manor Farm had been in my mother’s family for generations.’
‘I thought the Harts owned the manor,’ Clare said.
‘They do. My grandfather sold the house to Gerald’s father. Gerald’s old man made an absolute packet, in soap of all things. Then set about buying the accoutrements of a gentleman.’ He laughed, evidently enjoying a private joke. ‘Whiter than white, the Harts.’
‘What happened when the sun disc was found?’ Clare asked.
‘There was an inquest.’
‘I thought inquests happened when someone died.’
‘Keep up, Clare! A solicitor’s wife should know better than that.’ As soon as the words were out of David’s mouth, he regretted them. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. Stephen was dead, for God’s sake. Surely now he should be able to overcome the jealousy and resentment he’d felt towards the man. He took a slug of his bitter.
When he finally looked up and started to mumble an embarrassed apology, she waved his words aside, her expression more one of disappointment than of hurt. ‘It’s alright. Really.’
Ed looked quizzically between the two of them.
David cleared his throat as if to speak. But it was Ed who offered the explanation. ‘It was a treasure trove inquest to decide who owned the sun disc. They held it at the village hall. Local press, the nationals – they were all here. Father loved every minute of it.’
Clare said, ‘And he very generously gave the find to the British Museum.’
‘“Donating it for the greater good”, he said.’ Ed’s face reddened. ‘He never gave a damn about the greater good.’
The first half of the drive back from Hungerbourne passed in total silence. David was unsure whether to try again to apologise for his gaffe in the pub. But despite the silence, Clare looked unperturbed. And he had no desire to make things any worse than they already were. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.
He turned his thoughts to what they’d learnt. Ed had been a bit of a dead end as far as information about the finds from the excavation had been concerned. But at least he’d been able to tell them the names of the other members of the dig team.
He turned to Clare. ‘Bit of a turn-up for the books, Margaret Bockford being on the dig.’
‘She might be able to shed some light on the confusion over the sun disc.’
‘Ed seemed pretty sure the disc was found before the dig started. It all tallies with the BM’s records.’
‘If what he says about the dig is right, there are only three people who can help us get to the bottom of when that disc was found: Margaret Bockford, and Jim and Estelle Hart. Didn’t you say Jim left Peter and his mother when Peter was still a kid?’
David nodded.
‘Do you think Peter might have any idea where he is now?’
He shook his head. ‘Hasn’t seen him in years.’
‘What about Estelle?’
‘Peter’s been beside himself with worry about her.’
‘Why?’
‘She had a bit of a health scare a while back. When she got out of hospital she just couldn’t cope on her own. Needed round the clock care, apparently, but he had the devil of a job persuading her she needed to go into a nursing home.’
‘And did he?’
‘Eventually, but given her condition I don’t want to bother her if we can avoid it.’
‘Well, that just leaves us with Professor Bockford. Think you can blag us an appointment for a chat with Peggy?’
He laughed. ‘Only if you promise not to call her that to her face.’
CHAPTER FIVE
David had met Margaret Bockford at numerous academic conferences over the years. She was forthright to the point of being blunt, and possessed an unerring instinct for sniffing out bullshit and bringing academic poseurs to book. It was widely acknowledged that if you valued your career you stayed on your intellectual toes in Professor Bockford’s company. And that was why, despite the fact that she unnerved him, David rather admired her.
Her office was a bit more than twice the size of his. Encased as it was with heavy wooden panelling that betrayed the fact that Oxford’s colleges had been built with more masculine inhabitants in mind, it might have possessed a tomb-like quality. But a small vase of purple freesias softened the otherwise imposing character of the dark rosewo
od desk that dominated the room. The sweet heavy scent of the flowers wafting towards them on the breeze from the open window reminded him of the pretty young woman in the floral print blouse in the Brew Crew photo.
Now that he was in the presence of the original, he could see there was still something of Peggy Grafton about Professor Margaret Bockford. More than a hint of the girl in the photograph was visible beneath the grey hair and businesslike rectangular spectacles of the small, neat woman who faced them across the desk. The room was west-facing and, as she rose to greet them, her still-trim figure silhouetted against the window created the illusion of a much larger presence. The backlighting forced both Clare and David to lower their gaze momentarily as she indicated they should sit; a neat trick. He had no doubt that, like everything else about Margaret, the positioning of her chair and desk had been carefully considered to achieve the desired outcome.
‘What can I do for you, David?’
‘As I said on the phone, we’re working on a project to publish the Hungerbourne excavation archives.’
‘It’s nice to see some of the younger generation have a sense of academic responsibility. It’s a trait sadly lacking in some of your predecessors. That site should have been written up years ago. It’s a miracle the archive survived.’
‘I understand you participated in the original excavations.’
Margaret peered deliberately over the top of her spectacles at him. ‘The use of the word “original” makes me sound like some sort of artefact.’
He shifted uneasily in his seat.
The desired response achieved, Margaret smiled. ‘I was born and brought up in Hungerbourne. It was the vicar, Reverend Hemmings, who got me and one or two of the other local children interested in archaeology. He used us as his legs and eyes. When he got too old to do it he sent us out to walk the fields around the barrows looking for finds – stone tools in the main. For most of the villagers, the barrows were just a backdrop for everyday life; they took them for granted. But when the sun disc was found, Gerald persuaded the British Museum they should be investigated. Once the newspapers got hold of the story, the locals began to sit up and take notice.’