The Way, the Truth and the Dead

by Francis Pryor

  ‘And I have important new information,’ the Fen dean broke in for a second time, ‘that was only confirmed two days ago, by no less an authority than Professor Jacob Hawkins of St Luke’s College, Cambridge.’ He paused for the names of the man and the college to drop. ‘The idea was suggested to me by Dr Peter Flower and he agreed to run it past the great man, who was also very excited when it was suggested to him. So it would now seem highly probable – and these were the very words used by Professor Hawkins – that the name Fursey “is a Norse corruption of the much earlier Celtic saint’s name, “Fursey”.’

  Alan almost brought up his lunch. He’d never heard anything so ridiculous: ‘highly probable’? My arse. Wisely, he looked down at the table and said nothing.

  While he was speaking, the dean pushed his chair back to give himself more room to be enthusiastic. It was then Alan caught a glimpse of his trousers. They were being held up by the same narrow shiny belt he’d worn with his jeans the last time they’d met. And then disaster struck. Suddenly it was as if Alan was wearing head phones. The lead singer of Half Man Half Biscuit, right now Alan’s favourite band, was singing the chorus to ‘We Built This Village On a Trad. Arr. Tune’, the last track on the CD he’d just bought. The next verse started with his current favourite line in rock music: ‘Yonder the Deacon in misguided trousers …’

  It was too much. He forced his face into a frown, stared down at the table, then rapidly left the room and headed across the hall to the small downstairs lavatory at the back, where his urge to giggle suddenly vanished. He flushed the toilet, feeling a bit of a fool.

  Alan re-entered the dining room with a composed and serious face. The dean was drawing to a conclusion. He nodded to Alan.

  ‘Of course, Alan knows all this, so I won’t repeat it for his benefit, but I think you’ll all agree, our conclusions must be valid.’

  He stopped, seemingly exhausted by the intensity of his announcement. Just to be safe, Alan kept his eyes off the decanal trousers.

  The dean’s news was greeted with an amazed silence. Alan said nothing. Mercifully nobody asked for his views on St Fursey at Fursey. Maybe, he thought, they detected his scepticism, or remembered it from that afternoon. He could never express his true opinion: that it was a classic example of how to mismatch archaeology and place-name studies. There were so many Viking place names in the area that ended in ‘-by’, which simply meant farmstead. But nobody said a word. So he sat silently. Why make a fuss? What could that possibly achieve? And besides, he knew he had bigger and more dangerous fish to fry.

  Alan had a shrewd suspicion that John and the dean’s ­proposal – however misguided – might actually precipitate action. He also realised that things couldn’t go on like this forever. The small community at Fursey seemed completely unaware of what was happening around them. Although Alan feared the consequences, he knew something was needed to bring everything out into the open. He had prepared a story. Somehow he had to use it, even if he was on his own, without his brother, Graham, to help him. Time to concentrate: look for an opening, then jump in. He leant forward, concentrating hard.

  Candice resumed the discussion. ‘So to put it in a nutshell, St Fursey was a Celtic missionary from Ireland, who converted much of East Anglia to Christianity, then moved on to the Continent. He died around 650. Ely Cathedral itself wasn’t founded until 673, by St Etheldreda – which makes us here at Fursey the senior foundation, yet our name never appears in any of the history books. It’s always Ely, first, second and third.’ She paused for a sip of water. ‘Dean Jason and John thought it would be appropriate, in these days of devolution and the Big Society, for the great cathedral to be seen to be reaching out to make a loving and magnanimous gesture to its more ancient, but far smaller, neighbour. We also know that many small evangelical groups in the area have been very inspired by the recent revelations about St Fursey. They’ve even left small offerings of shamrock and flowers with us after their visits to the abbey and the dig. So our friends at the cathedral have agreed to help us organise an Easter pilgrimage, the Fursey Penance, where pilgrims will set out from Fursey, carrying pieces of rock from the collapsed walls of Fursey Abbey, which they then transport, via water, to Ely Cathedral, where a carefully tended heap, or cairn, will gradually accumulate.’

  ‘And I should add here,’ the dean said enthusiastically, ‘that the cathedral’s dean has given us permission to place the cairn in the transept – directly below the magnificent lantern, which should bathe it in light.’

  Alan was astonished. Everything about this was wrong from a conservation point of view. But on the other hand, it might trigger something. So he bit back his indignation and asked in the pleasantest voice he could manage.

  ‘Surely you’re not telling us that this cairn will be permanent, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ the dean replied, all smiles. ‘That would be out of the question, and I’m sure the cathedral archaeologist wouldn’t hear of it, either. English Heritage have also insisted that the stones be returned to the stockpile at Fursey on Tuesday. And a local contractor has already kindly agreed to do that for us, for free.’

  Candice then finished. ‘The cairn will be blessed by the bishop himself on Easter Monday. At the same time, a small plaque to the memory of St Fursey will be unveiled in the north aisle. That should provide a fitting, and permanent, memorial. Finally, I should add that local media are already showing great interest in the project, and the cathedral dean has kindly arranged for us to hold a press conference at his offices in the Close, next Monday, at 10am.’

  At the end of the practical discussion, Candice asked if anyone had any further questions. Alan raised his hand.

  ‘Yes, Alan,’ Candice smiled. ‘You haven’t said much this evening.’

  This was the opportunity he had been seeking. He had decided on a humble, diffident approach. But he was finding it hard to conceal his anger: were these unfortunate pilgrims about to carry lumps of rock to Ely, as penance for John Cripps’s, or his family’s role in Stan’s, Hansworth’s and now Thorey’s deaths? Or was it a bare-faced attempt to lay the curse myth? Either way, Alan couldn’t see it working.

  ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’m not a regular churchgoer, so I thought it would be inappropriate if I commented on this splendid scheme, which I’m sure will be a huge success, both for Fursey, the cathedral and, of course, for the pilgrims themselves.’ He paused. That seemed to have gone down very well. Everyone was listening intently. ‘But I thought you might be interested to know that I have just been informed by Dr Hilary Porter of Saltaire University that the building stone used at Fursey Abbey originated in the Barnack quarries, which of course provided the stone used in the cathedral.’

  Alan was watching his audience closely as he released the news. Whoever had carefully chosen those mass-produced bricks to weigh-down Thorey’s body must have been well aware that the limestone used at Fursey could have been identified. It was almost as good as a fingerprint – especially given that Thorey worked for the Cripps family. With the exception of Steve Grant, at least one person around the table once had a strong motive for stealing Dr Porter’s original identification and then for killing both Stan and maybe Thorey too – for why else were his pockets exclusively filled with modern bricks? It was very odd for a suicidal person to be worried about such things. And would Thorey have understood? But now the secret was out, and their reactions were absolutely crucial.

  Alan watched everyone intently, carefully noting every detail of their responses: John and Candice were wide-eyed with amazement. They seemed genuinely surprised – and pleased. The Fen dean was delighted, too – there was no disguising that. Young Steve Grant had just received a text and was looking down at his screen, so no surprise there. Then Sebastian yawned and rose to his feet to pour himself a cup of cold coffee. Not guilt so much as bored indifference. Alan was terribly disappointed: nobody was looking even slightly shifty, embarrassed, or guilty. It had certainly not been like a library scene in an
Agatha Christie novel.

  The dean was the first to speak. ‘Alan, that is splendid news. In our outline of the pilgrimage route we included a stretch of the Padnal Delph to symbolise St Fursey’s crossing of the Irish Sea. But your announcement now gives it added symbolism.’

  ‘And we also know,’ Alan found himself saying, ‘that the stones were transported across the Fens by water, as hewn blocks of limestone were revealed on the bottom of Whittlesea Mere after its drainage in the nineteenth century. We assume these blocks were pushed overboard when the boats transporting them south, ran aground in the shallow lake. But what’s interesting is that those blocks carried mason’s marks that can be matched at Ely. It would now appear that by the time work started on the Norman Cathedral, cross-­Fenland trade links had already been long-established.’

  This was news to the Fen dean, whose previous appointment had been in Sunningdale. He was obviously astonished. Alan deduced that he had not come across such direct links with the remote past before.

  ‘Thank you so much for that, Alan.’ Candice was almost gushing. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come this evening.’ Suddenly she stopped. John was looking at her, slightly shocked. Then she resumed quietly, her eyes down. ‘It would seem that our Penance is very timely indeed.’

  But Alan wasn’t quite so certain – about anything. Ruefully, he thought, I have to admit it: my cunning set-piece didn’t work. But surely somebody at Fursey must have known about the Barnack stone and what it implied for any future development in the area. It was so frustrating.

  Then he had second thoughts: or maybe someone in the room is a very good actor?

  * * *

  Alan was the first on-site the following morning. It was cold and there had been a sharp frost overnight. He needed a coffee. As if reading his mind, Candice called out from the back door of the temporary farm shop.

  ‘Fancy a coffee, Alan? I’ve just made some.’

  Anything was better than instant, and hers was always good. He was soon inside the steamy Portakabin, grasping a hot mug. They were sitting at the table where flowers were cut and prepared for sale. Even though it was now the last day of March, Alan could still detect quite a strong smell of daffodils.

  ‘Alan, I do hope you didn’t think we were springing the pilgrimage thing on you. As we talked I couldn’t help thinking that you looked slightly overwhelmed by it all. And dear Dean Jason is such an enthusiast, isn’t he?’

  Alan smiled. This didn’t need a reply.

  ‘But I have to confess,’ she continued, ‘John and I do have an ulterior motive – if you can call it that. Of course, as you’re no doubt aware, John is a devout believer, so his motives are – how can I put it? – more Christian than mine, but he agrees with me that this Thorey business is reviving that stupid curse myth.’

  In other situations, Alan might have denied this, but there was a limit to how far he could push the truth, especially when talking to Candice, whom he knew to have closer relationships with local people than the other members of her family. And the truth was that every time he went to the village pub, somebody mentioned the curse – even if just in passing. But after the discovery of Thorey’s body, it had once again become a hot topic.

  ‘Still,’ he said, as brightly as he could manage, ‘don’t you think it’ll prove a flash in the pan?’

  Alan had run out of clichés for ephemeral. And his own words sounded hollow to him.

  ‘No, sadly, I don’t – and nor does John. Because, don’t forget, this comes on the heels of dear Stan’s death and then, of course, there was poor James Hansworth’s death in 2004. And it’s not as if the background story is modern. It has ­genuine roots that extend way back in history.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Alan had to agree with her.

  And yes, on reflection he could see they did have good grounds to be worried – especially as she and her husband depended for their living on a visitor attraction, which in turn relied heavily on local goodwill.

  ‘John thought – and I have to say I agree with him – that the pilgrimage idea might cause local people to view the family in a new light. I mention all this to explain why we’re so very keen that this Penance goes ahead smoothly. To be honest, I don’t think it should affect the dig, but it’s always good to know what’s going on, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the team. They’re all very professional, but sometimes on digs the language can get a bit fruity. Devout churchgoers might get upset – and of course we’ll keep an eye out for more offerings.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. We’ve put up a sign asking religious people to show restraint when they arrive. We’re also pro­viding a special mini-altar for offerings in the abbey ruins. That should deal with the problem.’

  The clinical way in which Candice outlined how they ­proposed to ‘deal’ with the ‘problem’, confirmed Alan’s impression that, unlike her husband, she wasn’t a believer. Not even an agnostic. But did that make him feel warmer towards her? It took a few moments to think this over, and then, rather to his surprise, he realised it didn’t. Candice was someone who ‘managed’ situations, and it occurred to Alan, not for the first time, that perhaps she was managing him.

  * * *

  Alan unwrapped the fish and chips he had just bought from the travelling chippy, which came in a converted London Transport red Routemaster and parked round the back of the village shop on Friday afternoons. There was always a short queue there, but it was worth the wait. Greasy but gorgeous – and with a double portion of chips. He’d just wolfed down the fish and was about to start lingering over the second portion of chips, when his mobile rang. Reception wasn’t too bad, so he didn’t bother to run upstairs. It was Lane.

  ‘Hi, Richard. Any news about Thorey?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m ringing.’

  ‘Changed your mind about the suicide?’

  It was worth a try. For his part, and despite all the evidence against it, Alan increasingly suspected foul play. Why would a suicide want to conceal the source of the weights he used? More to the point, would Thorey have even known about the Barnack quarries – let alone their significance? And what about the link to Stan’s death?

  ‘No. Can’t say we have. Trouble is, the pathologist, Dr Lindsay Harris, couldn’t be as helpful as she, and we, had hoped. And she’s one of the best.’

  Alan had heard Lane talk of her with approval before.

  ‘But why couldn’t she be more certain?’

  ‘Two things, really: the length of time since death and the fact that the body had been in water.’

  ‘Could she tell if he’d been drowned?’

  ‘No, decay was too far advanced for that. But it seems more than likely.’

  ‘Could anything else have killed him?’

  ‘Again, it was very difficult to say for certain. There were no major traumas to the skull, for instance, and they didn’t find any shot in his body, either – which you might have expected, given that he was a gamekeeper.’

  ‘So she didn’t think he’d been killed in a struggle and then dumped in the water?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. But again, it was hard to be absolutely ­certain.’

  ‘Presumably the weight of the bricks stopped his body from floating off?’

  ‘That’s an interesting point. A fit and healthy swimmer should just be able to carry that sort of weight if, that is, he was desperate to stay alive. But that’s not the mindset of ­suicides, is it? And of course, if he’d been weakened in any way – even something like a nasty cold – he’d have gone fairly rapidly to the bottom.’

  Alan was thinking hard. ‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘So what would have happened then? Presumably his body would start to decay and pretty soon the gasses would bring him to the surface?’

  ‘That’s right. But you’ve got to remember that river levels were high, so the body could have been moved while it was still submerged.’

  ‘And drink? Any signs of that?’

  ‘After that
length of time, in or out of water, any ethanol in the corpse would have been a by-product of putrefaction.’

  Then Alan had a thought. ‘So the alcohol they found in Stan’s body was probably real?’

  ‘Yes, if by that you mean he’d drunk it. But then we don’t reckon his body had been in the river more than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘What about that deep mark just above Thorey’s knee? That is a bit odd isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I agree, it is. Lindsay reckoned it had happened sometime around the time of death, but she couldn’t be more precise than that. The body snagged on a sluice gate grille, or something similar, which held it below water and caused the damage to the leg. However, when she came to examine the surface of the femur—’ The line went fuzzy for a few seconds. Then it returned.

  ‘The bone itself?’ Alan wanted to be quite clear.

  ‘That’s right. It had been scratched on one side. Even odder, there were two small, fresh cuts – scratches more like – into the surface of the bone, one a bit deeper than the other.’

  ‘And when did that happen?’

  ‘As before, she can’t be certain. But it was around the time of death.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘We discussed it in the station. There’s a certain amount of river traffic, so it could be damage from a passing boat, and, of course, there’s Smiley’s Mill at Fursey, and a couple of even larger mills downstream, not to mention all the various pumps and sluices. If you counted all the puncture marks on your friend Stan Beaton’s body, there were many more than just the two on Thorey. But none were so deep.’

  Briefly Alan held the phone away from his ear. His mind was racing.

  ‘Thanks, Richard. You’ve given me lots to think about.’

  He rang off. He knew he’d been a bit abrupt, but he needed time to think. He dipped a near-cold chip into salt then ketchup and munched. He didn’t taste anything. His brain wouldn’t slow down. Carefully he went over everything they’d said. Line by line, word by word. And again, he had to agree with Lane: it all seemed plausible. Almost too plausible. And there was another thing that neither he nor Lane had mentioned, but which both of them knew: Stan and Thorey both worked outdoors doing physically demanding jobs. They were both fit, strong men. Even if they were taken by stealth or surprise they would not have gone down without quite a struggle. And that, surely, was the explanation for the deep cut on his thigh. Maybe he’d been hit by a fork-lift? Or a tractor? Something big, powerful and with sharp edges. That cut, he now realised, was the key to it all.