by John Preston
“What is it, Mr. Brown?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he ran back up the mound, remaining there for several minutes with his hand cupping his chin. This time, when he came down again, he did so more slowly. At the bottom he began filling his pipe.
“I suppose you are eventually going to tell me what is on your mind,” I said.
“It may be nothing, Mrs. Pretty. Nothing at all. But I happened to notice that this mound is not symmetrical. If you look down from the top, it’s more obvious than it is here. You’d expect it to be circular, like the others. But it’s not. It’s more oval, like a hog’s back.”
“Is that relevant?”
“All the other mounds are symmetrical. Why not this one?”
“Perhaps whoever constructed it simply made a mistake.”
“Mmm … But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Not if you think about it. This is the biggest mound of all. It’s the only one you can see from the river. Even on a day like today, it’s clearly visible from the opposite bank. Surely they would take more trouble over it. Not less.”
“What is your explanation?”
“Not an explanation, Mrs. Pretty. Just a theory, that’s all. What if the mound was originally symmetrical? At some stage, this land must have been plowed up. After all, everywhere else round here has been. That ditch over there —” he pointed towards the road — “that looks like a medieval field boundary to me. And there’s also another one running along the edge of the wood. What if whoever plowed the land knocked a bit off the mound, as it were. Nobody would have noticed, still less cared. By the time the robbers came along, they would have sunk a shaft into what they thought was the center of the mound. Or so it would have appeared to them. But it might not have been the center at all.”
“Let me make quite sure I understand you, Mr. Brown. You are saying that while the mound has been robbed, or an attempt has been made to rob it, the thieves might have been looking in the wrong place.”
“That’s about the gist of it, yes. Course, I might be wrong.”
“But you might conceivably be right.”
“It’s a possibility,” he allowed.
“I see … But I have told Mr. Reid Moir that you will be free to go to Stanton by the end of the week.”
“We should have an idea by Saturday,” he said. “One way or another.”
“What do you think, then, Mr. Brown? Would you care to attack it?”
He cupped a match over the bowl of his pipe. The tobacco lit with a hiss and he blew out a mouthful of smoke.
“No harm in trying, is there?”
That evening I ate all the food on my plate, as well as a piece of Cheddar cheese afterwards. As Grateley was taking the plate away and after I had asked him to thank Mrs. Lyons, I said, “It has come to my notice that a member of staff has been using one of the bedrooms upstairs.”
He did not falter. “A member of staff, ma’am?”
“Or rather two members of staff.”
“Two members of staff?”
“There is no need to repeat everything I say, Grateley. I do not know who is responsible, nor do I intend to make any effort to find out. However, I do not wish this to happen again. Will you make my feelings on the matter known?”
“Of course. Certainly I will, ma’am.”
With my plate in his hand, he moved across to the sideboard. Before he reached it, I said, “By the way, Grateley, I have not inquired for some time, how is your lumbago?”
He stopped in mid-pace.
“My lumbago? It is very much better, thank you, ma’am.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear that. And do be sure to give my regards to Mrs. Grateley,” I added.
His composure was badly holed by now. “I — I will indeed, ma’am,” he said.
No more hurriedly than usual, although rather less fluently, Grateley gathered up the serving dishes. He disappeared through the swing door with one long leg trailing behind him.
My efforts to find Robert a new governess have proved fruitless. Several of those who had advertised in the newspaper did not even reply when I wrote to them. None of those that did sounded remotely suitable. There are noticeably fewer advertisements than usual for domestic positions; no doubt people are loath to think of new jobs at such a time.
Mr. Brown, I am afraid, has found nothing. Nothing except for a few minute fragments of blue glass and some splinters of bone. These have been packaged up and sent off to the museum in Ipswich for analysis. The work is taking longer than anticipated — due in part to the size of the mound. It has been, he says, like digging into the side of a small mountain.
By the end of the third day it was plain that all three men were not just tired but disillusioned. I noticed they seldom talked to one another any more when they were working. At their break times they sat around looking contemplative and glum. Mr. Brown, in particular, is taking it all personally, plainly feeling that his failure to find anything is a reflection on his competence. As for Jacobs and Spooner, I suspect they cannot wait for Saturday to come around and for the excavation to be over.
Still it has continued to rain, this incessant, lowering, halfhearted drizzle. But instead of clearing the air, the rain merely seems to make it even heavier. My fingers have swollen, the joints in particular. If I was to take off my rings, I doubt I would be able to put them on again.
Robert too has been affected, by both the weather and the general atmosphere. He seems listless, devoid of enthusiasm. At luncheon today he scarcely said a word, while his appetite, I noticed, was almost as poor as mine. Afterwards he said he was going outside to see Mr. Brown and the men. However, the tone of his voice suggested this would be as much of a chore as everything else.
In the afternoon, I went to Frank’s study and sat at his desk. Even if it were not for its associations, I think this would be my favorite room in the house; it seems to hold the daylight longer than any of the others. I had been intending to sort through his papers; there are still some bundles that have not been properly collated.
But once there I found I had neither the resolve nor the energy even to make a start. Clouds sat above the estuary, so gray and low it was virtually impossible to tell where the water ended and the sky began. Only a thin pencil line separated them.
On the shelf above Frank’s desk was a pigskin-framed photograph of the two of us on horseback. We were both wearing our riding clothes, both gazing impassively at the camera.
I took the photograph down. It had been taken twelve years ago on a pony-trekking holiday in Iceland. Together, we had ridden across a great plateau in the north of the country, a region referred to in our Baedeker as “The Uninhabited Highlands.” These highlands were renowned for a type of lichen that was reputed to glow in the dark. Both Frank and I had been rather sceptical about this. Our Icelandic guide, however, insisted that it was well worth seeing, even though it meant we would have to spend the night under canvas.
Setting out in the early afternoon, the three of us rode across the plateau — our guide leading the way, followed by Frank. As the more experienced rider of the two of us, I brought up the rear. The plateau was a forbidding place, edged on either side by black basalt cliffs. The tops of these cliffs were covered in snow. When the sun set, we kept going. There was a smell of sulphur from the volcanic pools. The smell disturbed the ponies; they began skittering about and had to be steered into the wind.
Soon Frank and the guide were almost invisible. But still we carried on. On either side of me I could hear the mud plopping in the volcanic pools, a sound at once solemn and ridiculous. All at once my pony stopped. I think I must have pulled on the reins without being aware of it. To begin with, I doubted the evidence of my eyes. Only slowly did I allow myself to acknowledge what I was seeing.
An enormous illuminated blanket, the palest green in color, appeared to have been spread on the ground. On either side, it stretched right to the furthest edges of the plateau, rippling away in impossible, luminous waves. Ne
ver before have I experienced such wonder and awe. Yet with it came the strangest feeling of displacement, as if the world had been turned on its head and we were riding our ponies along the bottom of the sea. I tried to hold on to the memory now, hoping that some of the wonder I had felt then might help dispel this gnawing, corrosive sense of emptiness.
The door swung back with a bang. Robert ran in. His shirt was not tucked in properly and his collar was all twisted round.
“There you are, Mama!” he exclaimed.
“Will you please knock before you come in, Robert!” I said. “How many times have I told you not to run? What on earth is the point of my telling you things if you don’t take the slightest notice of what I say?”
Robert stopped immediately.
He looked as if he had been slapped across the face. For several seconds he was unable to say anything. His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing.
I could still hear my voice, angry and querulous. It continued ringing in my ears as I said, “Was there anything in particular you wished to see me about, Robbie?”
“Yes — yes, there was …” he said.
He paused, apparently unsure whether to go on.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s about Mr. Brown, Mama.”
“What about Mr. Brown?”
“He says he has found something.”
Basil Brown
MAY–JUNE 1939
All week it kept bucketing down. The rain came in over our boots. It seeped under the tarpaulins and leaked through the roof of the shepherd’s hut. The wheelbarrow kept sinking into the ground, right up to the axle. We laid down planks for tracks. The trouble is that the barrow is so heavy when it’s fully laden that it’s near impossible to steer in a straight line. Also the rain makes the planks slippery, of course. At times it felt as if we were hardly going forward at all. Then, at around three o’clock on Thursday, I was down at the bottom of the trench when I heard John Jacobs shout, “Baz!”
“What is it?”
“Can you come here?”
I scrambled up the bank to where John was standing. He was holding a piece of iron. It was about four inches in length, much corroded and roughly the shape of a bolt.
When I asked him to show me where he’d found it, he pointed at a pinky-brown patch in the sand. As soon as I saw it, I asked the men to step away. Then I knelt down with my trowel. I was all set to start scraping when I noticed another patch of pink sand. This one was about six inches away, on the left-hand side. Although not as big or clear as the first, it was still clear enough.
I dug down. An inch or so below the patch of sand was a second piece of metal — even more corroded than before, but the same shape. Just like a bolt. I moved along, not scraping now, only looking. Another six inches away from the second patch of sand there was a third one.
Now what have we got here? I thought.
Before going on, I had another look at John’s piece of iron. Also at the one I’d just found. I had a strong suspicion that I’d seen them before. Or something very like them anyway. But where and when?
I sat down on the ledge and tried to remember. I was damned if I could dredge anything up. I was close to banging my head with my fist when all at once it popped into my mind: Aldeburgh. Yes, that’s it. There’s another one of these at Aldeburgh, I was positive there was, although it must have been a good fifteen years since I saw it.
Brushing myself down, I told John and Will that I’d be gone for a few hours and that it was very important they shouldn’t disturb anything while I was away. Then I put the pieces of iron into my pocket, climbed on my bike and headed north — towards Orford.
As I rode along, the clouds finally began to lift. By the time I reached Rendlesham Forest the mist was already rising off the trees. Coming closer to the sea, the breeze was so strong it nearly took my cap off. Beyond Orford, I carried on along the coast road. On the right-hand side, the land shelved down to the water. I rode through fields of wheat and sedge, until I reached the ferry crossing opposite Slaughden. As luck would have it, a ferry was waiting there, about to depart. I cycled on and then hung about impatiently for several more minutes while some further dawdling took place.
Slowly, the ferry cast off and inched its way across the river. I spent the crossing astride my bike, staring at the opposite bank, willing it to come closer. The moment the ferry touched land, I was off, pedaling into town, past the boathouses and the beach huts. A couple of people called out to me. One of them — I’ve no idea who — shouted, “What’s the hurry?” but I didn’t stop. I just lifted a hand as I rode past.
I parked my bike outside the museum. There was a woman behind the desk who I didn’t recognize. I asked if Mr. Bright-ling was in. Oh, no, she said in a shocked voice, sounding as if he’d either died or emigrated years before. I didn’t inquire which. I just explained who I was and asked if I could have a look in their storeroom.
She wasn’t at all happy about this. She spent a while wobbling about on the edge of refusing, glancing at her watch and explaining how the museum was due to close in less than half an hour. They did stay open later, she explained — until six, in fact. However, that was only on a Wednesday, which wasn’t a great deal of help. Not with this being a Thursday.
“It could be important,” I said. “Very important.”
Still she wouldn’t budge, though. In desperation, I said, “Mr. Reid Moir sent me.”
That did the trick, of course. The change in her was instantaneous. “Why didn’t you say so straightaway?” she wanted to know. I muttered something about not wishing to make a fuss. Afterwards, she set about being as helpful as could be, showing me through into the storeroom, apologizing for the mess and offering me a cup of tea.
I turned down the tea and set to looking through the drawers. Although the room was small, there were cabinets stacked up from floor to ceiling on all four walls. There was only just enough room to allow the door to open and shut. She wasn’t wrong about the mess. I remembered that old Bright-ling had never been much of a one for cataloguing. Nor had his successor made much effort to improve matters, not by the look of it. In one drawer alone I found a boxful of Bronze Age arrowheads, three half-hunter watches — one missing the back of its case as well as one of the hands — and a container of Joyce’s anti-corrosive percussion gunpowder, along with several packets of mustard seed apparently from the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem.
After half an hour my mouth was dry and I wished I’d accepted that tea. Still, it was too late now. I was crouched down, searching through one of the lower drawers, when I saw a piece of purple cloth. It was all tattered round the edges, with threads coming away. I picked up the cloth and realized it had been rolled round something. Something heavy and cylindrical.
When I unrolled the cloth, there it was. I took out the first piece of iron that I’d found at Sutton Hoo and compared them. The one in the drawer was smaller, but the same shape. Any fool could have seen that. Underneath it was a typed label giving the date of discovery, along with the place where it had been found: May 1870, Snape Common.
I turned the label over. Handwritten on the back was an identification. Or a possible identification at least — whoever had written it had stuck a question mark on the end to cover themselves. I must have stayed staring at the label for several minutes. Trying to take it in and think through the implications. Steady on, Basil, I told myself. Easy does it. But even as I was doing so, I could hear my heart thumping. As for my mouth, it was drier than ever.
Rolling up the piece of iron in the purple cloth, I put it back in the drawer with the label. On my way out, I thanked the woman behind the desk for her help.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.
“Not sure exactly,” I told her.
“I do hope you haven’t had a wasted trip,” she said. “Do be sure to give my regards to Mr. Reid Moir, won’t you?”
“Oh, I will,” I promised. “I will.”
&nb
sp; Needless to say the blasted ferry was on the opposite bank when I got back to Slaughden. I had to stand and wait while it idled its way across. On the way back it began spitting with rain again. I cycled as fast as I could. By the time I’d covered the eight miles to Sutton Hoo House I was wheezing away like Puffing Billy.
John and Will were waiting inside the shepherd’s hut. Mrs. Pretty’s boy, Robert, was in there too. I can’t say I was best pleased to see him. Right at that moment, I didn’t want any distractions.
“Any joy, Baz?” asked Will.
“Come with me, will you, lads,” I said. “And bring the tape measure.”
We went back outside. Before we started, I remembered to take a note of the time. It was just after five thirty. Next, I knelt down where John had found the first piece of metal. I took the tape measure and measured off six inches to the second patch of colored sand. Then, carrying on in a straight line, I looked for another pink patch six inches away.
There was nothing. I brushed around to make sure. No, definitely nothing. I couldn’t understand this. It must be there, I thought — it has to be. Then I realized I was being an idiot. Naturally they wouldn’t be in a straight line. They’d have to widen out as they went along. Of course they would.
Moving half a pace to the left, I tried there. This time, I had to go a little deeper, but soon the pinkish sand began to show through, just like before. Within half an hour I had uncovered five patches of pink sand. All of them were the same distance apart, but spreading out towards the edge of the trench. Each one set a little deeper than the one before.
“What is it?” the boy kept asking. “What have you found, Mr. Brown?”
I didn’t want to tell him. But it wasn’t just him. I didn’t want to tell anybody. Not for a little longer. Once I did, everything would be out in the open. Then there’d be no going back. Besides, I told myself, I needed to uncover one more patch before I could be sure.