The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  Alan was intrigued. Betting shops? Not at all what he’d have expected. ‘At what? Running the companies, or betting?’

  It was meant as a slightly risqué joke. But to Alan’s surprise, Candice took it at face value.

  ‘Betting. Believe it or not, he made quite a lot of money for himself that way. In fact, I had to make him promise he’d stop. It was starting to worry me. They always say you never win in the long run …’ She trailed off.

  ‘And did you succeed?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course I did. And I don’t think he has the sort of addictive personality that gets sucked ever deeper into gambling. I’m fairly sure he did it with his eyes wide open. And as I said, he was very good at it. So he still goes racing—’

  ‘Really? I’m surprised he finds the time?’

  And I wonder what else he gets up to when he’s away? Alan was starting to wonder whether the John/Candice marriage was quite as Made in Heaven as it first seemed.

  ‘And I used to accompany him. But now it’s purely and simply for the horses, which he loves. In fact, we’d have a race horse if we had the money.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘The thing is, Alan, it’s not like he’s got the sort of personality that enjoys taking unnecessary risks. Far from it. But he can spot opportunities and has got a very sound business head, too. And that’s why for several years he’s been very keen to get involved with White Delphs down the road.’

  Alan didn’t quite get the connection. ‘Sorry, I don’t follow you.’

  ‘Well you know White Delphs?’

  ‘Only vaguely. It’s over towards Outwell, isn’t it? Something to do with wartime remains. Pillboxes. That sort of thing.’

  This was slightly untrue, as Lane had told him quite a lot. But he needed to discover what Candice thought of John’s idea. And what were his motives? Maybe she could give him the Cripps family line on what might be seen as local opposition? Or was there such a thing as a Cripps family line at all? If ever a family was composed of individuals, Alan mused, this surely was one.

  ‘That’s right. Up until recently it was being run by a group of local enthusiasts, but then it was taken over by Historic Projects Management in 1996. They run it very successfully. In fact, even now, their visitor numbers put ours in the shade. I tell myself they’ve got more popular appeal, being wartime – Dad’s Army and all that – but even so, I can’t help wondering how much of it is down to the family’s bad local reputation.’

  Her husband’s familiarity with their operation suggested something to Alan. Was this John’s way of getting away from the Cripps Curse? And did he tell Stan? Alan knew Stan’s views about recent, especially wartime, archaeology – and they weren’t printable. The kindest thing he ever said was: ‘They’ll do the archaeology of The Archers next.’

  ‘And was John anything to do with that takeover?’

  Candice was amazed. ‘How did you guess? Well, actually he was. And still is. He’s their principal projects consultant and between you and me he is very keen that HPM become partners here. They seem to have unlimited access to capital and all the people at White Delphs speak very highly of them.’

  ‘So they’ve had no trouble at White Delphs?’

  ‘I think there were a few problems when they took over. You can image the sort of things: health and safety issues, insurance etcetera, but once the people there realised their work could be properly financed, they shut up. And there’s never been any more trouble since.’

  Now he had been told that John Cripps was involved with them, Alan needed to know more about the company that ran White Delphs. From what Candice had said, he guessed they’d soon be getting more closely involved with Fursey. He was beginning to suspect that John had agendas of his own. But first he needed to discover more about the way Fursey was managed – and by whom.

  ‘So is Fursey Heritage Developments still run by the two of you?’

  ‘Yes, plus Peter Flower,’ she reminded him. ‘And then two years later we had to ask Sebastian to join us.’

  ‘Had to?’ Alan wasn’t sure if he dared ask, but he did. And she didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Yes, had to. He felt it ridiculous that the manager of the estate should be excluded. In fairness, John and I thought he’d be too busy, what with running Woolpit Farm, the hall and his district council work, but of course we invited him to join the board that autumn.’

  Alan had some sympathy with Sebastian: they were wrong not to have invited him from the outset.

  Candice continued. ‘Then he wanted his wife, Sarah, to join, but we drew the line at that.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  He asked that question in a casual and unconcerned voice. He feared it wouldn’t work and she’d ask him to mind his own business. But instead she smiled, and replied, ‘She had never run a company of any sort and had no business background at all. At least I ran quite a successful restaurant in London before I joined John at Fursey.’

  ‘So what made you change your minds?’

  She sighed heavily. ‘I know it sounds odd, but quite suddenly she seemed to grow up. She wasn’t the rather brain-dead county bimbo we thought Sebastian had married. I don’t know, but then in March 2004 there was that tragic accident.’ She trailed off and lifted up her handbag, probably for her phone, Alan thought. He knew he mustn’t let her stop. This was crucial.

  ‘An accident? What, here, on the estate?’

  ‘Yes, in the river.’ She put down her bag and looked Alan in the eye. ‘You’ll find out sooner or later; everyone who stays here seems to. One of the tenants at the hall was a London banker called Hansworth. He was a keen fisherman …’ She trailed off, unsure of how to phrase the next bit. ‘And he drowned.’

  Alan decided not to reveal that Lane had already told him about it. There was a short pause, while Candice again contemplated her handbag. She was frowning heavily.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ Alan said as gently as he could. ‘And was he well liked?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what made it worse. He was. And of course it revived all that rubbish about the family curse. It was so sad, because Sarah and he had worked closely on improving the hall’s gardens, which were then very run-down.’ She paused. Alan could see that the memories were still very fresh and painful. With a sigh she continued. ‘No, it’s hard to find anything positive from such a horrible event, but I often think it was Hansworth’s death that made Sarah change. She seemed to become more serious and focused overnight. It was shortly afterwards that she began to make a big effort with the social side of the shoot – doing lots of catering and organising house parties. That sort of thing.’

  ‘But commercially?’

  ‘Oh yes, her enterprises were making money for the estate. And remember, they’ve barely got 400 acres at Woolpit Farm, so they need every penny they can earn.’

  Alan was smiling. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected. Sarah hadn’t impressed him with her business acumen. Alan began to imagine Fursey Heritage board meetings, with the huge bulk of Sebastian dominating the table.

  ‘And what does Sebastian think about John’s plans to collaborate more closely with HPM and White Delphs?’

  ‘Oh, he’s dead against them. Thinks it’ll bring in the wrong sort of people – whoever they are. And so far he’s managed to convince his father, too, which is rather more worrying, although John thinks he’ll come round in time.’

  Alan was nervous about asking any more questions and thought he’d pushed his luck as it was. He needn’t have worried.

  Candice glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘Heavens, is that the time? I must be off. And don’t forget, Alan, do try to squeeze in a visit to White Delphs. I think you’ll be impressed.’

  And with that, she walked briskly to the farm office and shut the door.

  Alan turned around and looked across to the car park. He couldn’t just shut the door on that one. How on earth were they going to get it dug in time? It would be bad enough if that was all he had to worry about. But it wasn’
t. It certainly wasn’t. He felt very low.

  * * *

  Alan strolled across the car park into the wintry shadows cast by the lime trees lining the avenue. He moved behind a large tree, pulled out his phone and dialled Richard Lane.

  ‘Richard, I’ve just had a very long conversation with Candice Cripps.’

  ‘I’m sure that must have been interesting.’

  Lane was being drily inscrutable. He did it sometimes for effect. But Alan needed to get to the point. ‘She gave me lots of interesting details about the management companies at both Fursey and White Delphs. Anyhow, it’s clear that her husband John, is the driving force behind them both, although I suspect it’s she who does the lion’s share of the real work.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lane broke in. ‘I’ve suspected as much myself. But I think their relationship is straightforward compared with Sebastian and Sarah. They’re the strange ones …’ He trailed off, deep in thought.

  Alan was thinking about Sarah and the banker Hansworth working in the garden together. How did Sebastian see that? But this was getting nowhere. Time to focus on the current problem. ‘But what I want to know, Richard, is what did John do for a living after he left Cambridge?’

  There was a short pause, before Lane replied: ‘Yes, that’s something I’ve been meaning to look into myself. Leave it with me; I’ll get back to you ASAP.’

  * * *

  The next two days were hectic. Contractors arrived to lift the cellular car park reinforcement, which they took away, but it left a very rough surface behind. Alan’s heart sank. He phoned Clare, the county mounty to tell her it was far too uneven for a geophysical survey. He suggested that instead they should very carefully remove all the alluvium and then do the survey on the surface of the exposed palaeosol beneath. He wasn’t at all sure she’d agree to this, but to his surprise she did. He also told her he wasn’t planning to lay out any trial trenches until they’d got all the field walking and geophys results in front of them. And again, she thought this an excellent idea. Alan still felt very pessimistic about meeting the deadline but at least things were starting to move. With the survey done, they’d be able to start digging. And time was pressing.

  Once Alan’s plans had been agreed with County Hall, he set about his next and most important task: to find a good digger driver. As any experienced field archaeologist is well aware, a skilled machine driver is at the heart of a good excavation. So he needed some advice on who to hire. Alan knew that his old friend Jake Williamson was working on a watching brief at White Delphs, so he decided to give him a call. It had been far too long since they’d spoken and Alan felt bad about the fact that he’d called Jake in to supervise at Impingham after that terrible accident when the cistern collapsed and Steve had been killed. It had been a very difficult time for both of them. With hindsight Alan realised that Jake had treated him with kid gloves. He had always avoided any rows or major disagreements and Alan was still grateful for that. In fact, he had a very soft spot for Jake and he was acutely aware that he had never thanked him adequately.

  He phoned Jake who, as chance would have it, was busy machine watching as he spoke, so was able to ask his driver, Davey Hibbs, whether he’d be available to do another archaeological job the day after tomorrow. He was. Jake handed Davey the phone and Alan asked him a few questions about the machines he could get hold of and ordered a long-reach 20-ton 360 on bog-crawler tracks: the sort of digger that the internal drainage boards used to clean the dykes. Then Davey returned the phone to Jake, who spoke very highly indeed of Davey. He said the county mounties approved of him, too, which was always comforting. Before he rang off Alan mentioned that he was planning a visit to White Delphs.

  ‘Why not come on Saturday?’ Jake suggested. ‘The trench will still be open and I could give you a quick site tour. We finish on Sunday.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Jon and Kaylee, my two oppos. They’re great. You’d like them.’

  ‘So you’re all going to be available after the weekend?’

  ‘Yes, at least I don’t think any of us have work planned. There’s not a lot around as it is – and seeing as how it’s early January, we’re dead grateful to have this. It wasn’t very big, but it was work.’

  Alan knew only too well how hard things still were in commercial archaeology.

  ‘Would you be interested in coming across to Fursey? There’s a bit of a panic here. I’ve got nobody on my books and I desperately need help. Any chance you three could join me here Monday morning? I don’t know what you’re all getting now, but I promise we’ll match it. How does that sound?’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Alan. I’ll speak to the others, but we’ll meet up on Saturday and can discuss any problems then. Cheers.’

  And with that he rang off. All of a sudden, Alan could see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Was he starting to feel a bit more optimistic?

  * * *

  The digger was delivered on a low-loader late on Wednesday afternoon. Davey Hibbs followed the lorry in a small and very muddy white van. By now it was getting dark. After Davey had unloaded the digger, which he did very expertly but in the non-approved way, straight over the side, using the long-reach digging arm as a huge mechanical crutch. The lorry driver, grateful that he hadn’t had to lower the rear wheels and go through all that performance, gave Davey a big thumbs up and headed back down the drive. As the driver eased the low-loader out into the road behind them, Alan introduced himself to Davey Hibbs.

  Davey was a good-looking, fair young man in his early thirties. When Alan asked where he was based, he explained that he had been born and brought up in the village and that he owned this slightly ageing JCB 360 plus another standard, smaller digger. The lorry driver was a mate of his. When Jake had mentioned his name on the phone it rang bells with Alan.

  ‘Davey, I’m sure I’ve come across the name Hibbs before. It rings loud bells.’

  Davey laughed. ‘Yes. We were in the news. It was my little brother Sam who got hit by that willow tree at Smiley’s Mill.’

  ‘That’s right. It smashed through the grille. And is he OK?’

  ‘Yes, much better, thanks. Dad said he did it to get the time off.’

  Alan smiled at this. Fen humour: dry, unlike the landscape. Yes, he thought, he seems a nice bloke. When Alan returned to his Portakabin, he left Davey starting to grease the machine for the next day. A good sign that. Some drivers left it to the following morning, when they could add it to their time sheets.

  * * *

  Alan drove the Fourtrak onto the old pig yard and drew up. When he turned off the headlights he could see that, far away on the south-eastern horizon, the sky was just starting to lighten up. He peered out of the window. Not too bad. Light cloud cover, a slight breeze. The farmers’ forecast had said the next three days would be dry with just the occasional shower along the east coast. Ely was well inland, so they should be OK.

  He got out, walked round to the back, opened the big single door and took out his steel-capped rigger boots. Then he started to pull them on. As he was finishing, his eye was caught by three sets of headlights turning into the drive off the Ely-March road. That must be the crew. It didn’t make him feel particularly good. In fact, for a brief moment he wished they weren’t coming. The site was starting to get into his blood and he wanted to give it all his attention, but he knew that would be impossible once the filming started. It was so frustrating: they were off to a good start, with an experienced young digger driver, and Alan would have liked nothing better than to spend a day with him alone, watching how he worked, without all the distractions of the film crew. He sighed heavily; it was not to be.

  He reached deep into the back of the Fourtrak and dragged out a large and very dirty hi-vis topcoat which he struggled into. It always felt cold – he much preferred good old-fashioned donkey jackets, but they’d long gone. He returned to the front and reached onto the sill, where he kept his trowel. Instinctively he thumbed it clean. Nothi
ng worse than a dirty trowel.

  By now the three vehicles had drawn up alongside him. Two VW vans and a very clean Citroen hire car. The car was closest and both passenger side windows wound down as it drew alongside him. Through the half-light Alan could discern two faces. In the front was a lady in her mid-forties; in the back a younger woman.

  The older woman was the first to speak. ‘You must be Alan Cadbury?’

  Alan nodded and stepped closer.

  ‘I’m Sonia Hawkes, the production manager. I always like to visit any major new locations so I know what I’m dealing with. Offices and screens can be so impersonal.’ Then she turned towards the back seat. ‘And this is Trudy Hills, our PA on this shoot.’

  It had been several months since Alan had last filmed and for a moment he couldn’t remember the difference between an AP and a PA. Then Trudy stepped out of the car and he could see she was very young.

  ‘This is only my second shoot, Alan, so you must be patient with me.’

  Alan couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound hopelessly patronising. So he smiled benignly. Then the driver’s side door opened and Frank Jones, the director, got out. He gave a huge stretch, his arms straight out, and yawned widely.

  ‘Ah, that’s much better. Morning, young man. I trust you’re feeling alert. Lively and well-informed. We’ve got to get this film off to a good start, you know.’

  Alan could see these words were just a long way of saying hello. Frank opened the boot and hunted around for his ­wellies.

  ‘Alan, be a treasure and show young Trudy here where you keep the tea-making stuff. I think we’re all desperate for a cuppa,’ said Sonia Hawkes.

  Trudy produced two large bags from the boot. Alan took one and escorted her around the perimeter duckboard walk, past the reed barn, to his Portakabin office, where he had a small fridge and an electric kettle. He told Trudy, who was looking rather anxiously at the tiny shelf, that over the weekend contractors would be delivering two more Portakabins for the dig, and one would have a larger sink and more power points. Meanwhile they would just have to make do.