‘Soon be letting this go out,’ Grahame said, as he dropped another log on the fire. ‘Weather’s warming up at last. Crops need it. The winter barley’s well behind and we haven’t finished drilling the spuds yet. Far too wet.’
‘I know. I’ve never seen the rivers so high.’
‘Yes. And wasn’t it terrible about that John Cripps? And those earlier deaths in the river? Fursey’s all over the news, you know.’
Alan smiled. Yes, he thought, I am aware of that. But in a part of his brother’s subconscious, Alan still led a migrant digger’s life, moving from one remote and cheerless dig to another, far beyond the normal world of newspapers and television.
‘John Cripps is – or rather was – one of my employers. It’s his family that owns Fursey Abbey.’
‘Oh really?’ Grahame paused for a moment, while this sunk in. ‘This morning the T2 news was followed by a trail for another series of live shows from Fursey. I think I even saw your face flash by.’ He took a sip from his coffee. ‘So was that planned before the accident?’
‘Yes it was. But only by a few days.’
‘And do you think all those deaths are accidental? It’s a bit odd, you must admit.’
Alan was going to reply that he had no views on the subject, as he was only an archaeologist. But he knew his brother would never accept it.
‘Well, that’s the conventional wisdom.’
‘OK, Alan, but what do you really think, deep down, in your heart of hearts?’
It was Alan’s turn to take a long drink of coffee. ‘Well, it’s difficult. The thing is, I’ve got a bit wary of following my instincts. I got things so wrong the year before last.’
Grahame wasn’t having any of that. ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous, Alan. Sure, the end results weren’t what anyone expected, but if it hadn’t been for your sometimes bloody-minded persistence, some very nasty people would still be at large. Nobody’s perfect, but you have a real talent for smelling rats. Always did, come to think of it.’
Grahame laughed quietly. They both remembered a time when Alan detected whiffs of a nasty smell in the straw barn, which did indeed turn out to be a large nest of dead rats.
‘The thing is, all the deaths have been put down to either accident or suicide, but it’s not difficult to find reasons why certain people would like to have seen them out of the way. There are hints of clues, too, but they’re only hints. So far there’s been nothing concrete for Richard Lane to work on.’
‘So what does Richard think? Have you discussed it with him?’
‘Good heavens, yes. We’re in close touch. I think he shares my doubts. But as he says, we can’t do a damn thing without a firm clue.’
‘And do you see it all as one single conspiracy, somehow united by the waters of the river?’
‘That’s the way the press and media are starting to go—’
‘But do you agree?’
Alan thought for a few moments. His brother, as ever, had posed the key question.
‘It would certainly make a better story if it was all about a Mr Big. But again, that’s what I suspected last year. But the reality turned out to be more complex, more nuanced, than that.’
‘So why the river?’ Grahame asked.
‘Why not the river is my gut feeling. The thing is, rivers are everywhere down there. Far more than up here. The land is lower-lying too. More liable to floods. If I was a farmer down there I’d eat, drink and sleep rivers—’
‘So you reckon it’s just coincidence, then?’
Alan reflected for a moment. ‘No, I wouldn’t say that. But I think it’s something that’s being used. I also wonder whether the various deaths haven’t inspired others. It’s not hard to fake accidental death in water. It’s not like pushing someone off a tall building or under an approaching train, is it?’
* * *
It was early evening when Alan eventually headed back to Fursey. By now the gangs had long left the fields, and the vegetables they had picked had gone to the packing stations where they had been loaded into chiller lorries, which were now heading down to London and to supermarket distribution centres right across the country – at a closely governed 42mph. So far he had been stuck behind a series of them, and it was proving a very slow journey.
But Alan was in no hurry; he needed time to think. Despite all the events of the past weeks, one of the few hard and fast clues he still had to go on was that bottle of whisky in Stan’s little ‘cupboard’, which had originated in Peter Flower’s Cambridge college. Much as he disliked Flower, the simple link between the Cambridge don, his college and Stan’s drinking wasn’t the only one. Maybe it was now irrelevant. If, and only if, Candice had indeed killed her husband, then she would have been perfectly capable of reintroducing Stan to the bottle, too. Maybe Flower encouraged this? It would certainly fit with his agenda: if, that is, Alan was right in his supposition that Flower wanted to control Stan if he were to gain academic credit for his discoveries, which would happen when his name appeared on Stan’s report – and even more prominently if that report was posthumous. Then he remembered what Harriet had told him, that Flower had recently been appointed bursar of Fisher. And what do bursars do? They look after the college’s wealth.
He recalled his research last autumn in the Haddon library. He’d learnt that Fisher had substantial holdings of land around Fursey and Littleport. This was ideally positioned for the second wave of ‘Silicon Fen’ Cambridge expansion. Was Flower somehow trying to get his hands on Cripps land? And if so, how? Perhaps he just wanted closer co-operation, and maybe John, who had a limited stake in the main estate, wasn’t so keen. This would surely explain why Flower and Candice would together want John out of the way.
Alan was now leaving the silt land and the fields were growing blacker as he headed south. He gave an involuntary shudder. Somehow their blackness matched his mood only too well. He thought back to his recent conversation with Grahame about ‘declining high-class families’ and a close link to a renowned Cambridge college would certainly shift attention away from the curse and raise their status, locally – if not nationally.
* * *
As the powers that be at T2 had anticipated, their frequent trails and many press releases had done the trick. The dig was more popular than ever, and Alan was forced to abandon any idea of driving to Fursey on Easter Monday morning. Even by nine o’clock the place was heaving and they didn’t open to the public till ten. So he pulled his hood up and walked through the trees around the edge of the park. Eventually he managed to make his way to the trenches, unrecognised.
Soon he was joined by Jake, Jon and Kaylee who were working in the extended Trench 1. Harriet’s graduate student, Toby Cox, was also there, having spent the night at Jake’s place because Harriet couldn’t be on-site until around teatime as she had agreed to take an elderly relative out for lunch. For a moment Alan was surprised: on a Monday? Then he remembered it was Easter – and he hadn’t so much as seen an egg or a smelled a piece of chocolate.
At morning tea break Candice appeared at the door of the site tea shed – a small Portakabin with a self-contained loo. Considering what had happened to her, this would normally have been quite unexpected, but Alan was far from surprised, given what he now strongly suspected. She was carrying a gift-wrapped box, which she handed to Alan.
‘This is something,’ she said bravely, ‘that John and I arranged last week, when we heard they were planning a second week of live programmes. We both feel …’ She hesitated, then gathered strength. ‘We both felt that the people who were doing all the hard work didn’t get enough credit. So this is our little way …’ She was losing the battle with her tears. Kaylee stood up and put a consoling arm round her shoulder. ‘ … Our way of saying thank you.’
Then she left. There was a stunned hush. People were genuinely moved. Alan was very impressed by her acting, but he was also intrigued by the parcel. Could it be chocolate? Suddenly he realised he could kill for chocolate. With the most s
erious face he could achieve, he undid the glittery ribbon and opened the box. Everyone gasped as he lifted the lid: it was a chocolate sponge cake, decorated to resemble a dig scene, complete with trenches, a Portakabin and a spoil heap. Chocolate archaeologists were barrowing crème Easter eggs. It must have cost a fortune. Alan lifted an egg off the miniature spoil heap and tasted it. Superb.
Sometime ago, he remembered, he’d enjoyed sharing a similar, if much smaller, cake and chocolate treat when visiting Cambridge with Harriet. She’d bought it from the classy pastry shop in Trinity Street – the one he now knew was owned by Smiley’s Mill. He wasn’t suggesting a direct link with the shop, that would be ridiculous, but he bet Candice had arranged a substantial discount. Could the cake be a tiny clue that a link existed between Candice and the Smileys? Maybe even Candice, Flower and the Smileys? That would be quite an alliance. Yes, Alan thought, together, they’d be more than a match for the Crippses. Then he pulled himself up short: that surely was going too far. He must beware of castles in the air. But even so …
* * *
Harriet hadn’t arrived on-site by the time the afternoon tea break ended, and everyone assembled in the trenches for the first evening run-through and rehearsal. Alan wasn’t panicking, as she wasn’t his problem, but Frank was getting very agitated.
Then, at four o’clock precisely, she appeared on set. She was dressed in jeans and digging clothes, but she was wearing them with flair. To Alan’s eye the jeans were just a touch closer-fitting than normal and her bright top, while not revealing, left little to an active imagination. Her hair, too, was fresh and lively and gave her movements just a hint of ballet.
‘So sorry I’m a bit late, Frank: traffic was terrible through Grantham.’ She smiled at Alan and the others in the trench. Everyone admired her cool in the circumstances. She looked back at Frank Jones, who was staring at her, almost open-mouthed. ‘Be a dear, Frank. Tell me what you want me to do.’
Alan and the others had to look away. Kaylee’s shoulders were already twitching. Even Grump Edwards, as laconic as ever, was smiling broadly.
Unobtrusively, Trudy, the young production assistant, handed Harriet a script.
There was a short pause while Frank Jones assembled his thoughts. He unfolded and consulted his own script. Then he announced. ‘Right, everyone. I’ll be Craig Larsson. I’ll read his lines: This is Test Pit Challenge. Welcome to the second series of six live episodes from Fursey Abbey, in the shades of the awe-inspiring Ely Cathedral, here in the heart of the Cambridgeshire Fens. In the first series we discovered three completely unexpected graves and the remains of what appeared to be a massive timber wall …’
Sadly, Frank Jones lacked Larsson’s charisma and Alan soon found his attention wandering. Soon he knew the adrenalin would begin to pump, but not yet. Might as well relax and observe the scene. Enjoy it.
At the rear of No. 1 film crew, two gaffers were erecting new lighting stands. Alan was impressed: they looked bigger and better than before. A young technician was positioning a flat-screen monitor on the edge of the trench, just behind Grump’s feet, which he nudged. Grump glanced down, irritated. Alan smiled: all was well. Without thinking, he looked across the trench to Harriet, who was watching Frank, with her eyebrows slightly raised. She was so gorgeous. Quickly, he averted his gaze. But not before he’d caught her smile.
But what did that smile convey? It could have been warmth, but Alan found his confidence had slipped. Maybe it was. Or just mockery – even amusement?
* * *
As always, the real thing was much more exciting than the run-through. And it wasn’t just that they now had the real Craig Larsson with them and he was pumped up and in fine form. Previously Alan had got the slight impression that Craig and Tricia hadn’t exactly seen eye to eye. Maybe he viewed her as competition, since she clearly had no real intention of becoming a full-time archaeology professional and saw television as a much better career option – as she would have put it. Harriet, on the other hand, was already a respected figure in her own world and he immediately found she was easy to work with. In fact, Alan thought as he watched, the two of them hit it off remarkably well. And then she broke all the rules of live TV by making Craig laugh when he wasn’t expecting it. It happened directly after his opening piece-to-camera when a large insect landed on his head and she told him to ‘Hold still, you naughty boy’ as she carefully picked it up and placed it in the grass beside the trench, revealing as she did so her perfectly shaped behind. And then, with seemingly all the time in the world, she stood up, smiled at the astonished Larsson, and to the delight of 6 million viewers, asked in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Now, what were you saying?’
She said this with a huge smile that the close-up camera captured superbly. Craig, ever the professional, managed not to corpse completely. He turned to the camera, wiping an eye.
‘And for everyone at home, this is Dr Harriet Webb. She’s my minder and is also our resident expert on human remains. You may remember seeing her in our last series, when things were running rather more smoothly than they are now …’
Alan couldn’t remember precisely what came next, but he recalled Weinstein’s delighted voice bubbling away in his earpiece. Everyone knew it had been television gold and it came right at the top of the first show. From that moment on, viewing figures and audience share could only climb.
The first two scenes were finished, and it was time to roll Michael Smiley’s five-minute history film. Alan could hear the countdown in his earpiece then the monitor beside the trench flickered and came to life.
Viewers at home might well have expected a rather dumbed-down, jokey series of short films, given their presenter’s quiz show past. But as Alan had recently discovered, the real Michael Smiley was thoughtful and intelligent and it was that persona who came across in the documentaries. The first was about the Fursey Estate as it was today. Sebastian made a fleeting, and very wooden, appearance but most of the interview was with his wife Sarah. As he watched, Alan was impressed: yes she did have a Sloaney accent and said ‘Yah’ rather too often, but that went with her role as the squire’s wife. An intelligent, amusing and business-savvy woman lay behind the thin upper-crust exterior.
Smiley asked her about the history of the house.
‘It’s been in the family for some 400 years, although the building you now see was built in Georgian times. The earlier house was timber and not as grand as this one, which reflects our family’s growing prosperity in the later eighteenth century.’
She spoke with fluency and charm and Alan enjoyed the way she used the word ‘our’ to describe the family she had married into. She clearly identified with the Crippses and was completely at ease with their class and status. In fact, Alan thought, as he watched her finish, she positively enjoyed being a member of the county set. Again, he recalled Grahame’s ‘declining families’ remark. She certainly wouldn’t welcome it.
The first half of the film was a rapid tour of Fursey Hall and Park. There were cut-away shots of the river and the mill, taken the previous year, when the trees were in full autumn colour. Then the film moved on to the large panorama case in the new museum. To guide the viewer through the various traps, guns and gadgets Smiley had brought in a gamekeeper from a large estate in the West Midlands. Alf Kammidge was also very knowledgeable about game and shooting history and made regular appearances on the BBC’s hugely popular Wax Jacket Show. Alan had seen him before and although he slightly suspected the intensity of his rustic accent, he couldn’t deny the depth of his knowledge. But it had been an exhausting two days, and as he watched the screen, he felt his eyes beginning to droop.
Then suddenly he was wide awake. Kammidge was walking towards the large mantrap that stood with the other traps and snares at the front of the case.
‘That looks like a vicious thing, Alf.’
‘Yes, they were, Michael. Absolutely vicious. When those jaws shut there was no escape. The springs were far too strong. Most of the poa
chers they caught soon passed out through loss of blood.’
‘And presumably,’ Smiley said, ‘their legs were broken, too?’
‘Surprisingly not. Especially with these very large ones that closed above the knee. The femur bone is very tough. It was the smaller traps that bit on or below the knee that did the most lasting damage. Thinner bones got shattered. Many transported criminals in Australia were said to have walked with “mantrap limps”.’
‘And those horrible teeth: they seem rather unnecessary?’ Smiley couldn’t conceal the horror on his face.
‘The main point of these traps was to deter organised gangs. Quite often the head keeper would put word out in the local pub on the night they set them. They weren’t after village lads out to shoot the odd rabbit for the pot. So they nearly always set several traps and placed them at the main entranceways into the wood.’
‘Presumably,’ Smiley suggested, ‘local chaps would have their own, private, ways into the woods.’
‘Precisely. And anyhow, the keepers weren’t after them. They wanted to get the big boys up from Smithfield and the large London markets. The problem got even worse when the railways came, and gangs could get their poached birds and deer to any local station.’
Alan looked up from the monitor. Suddenly it all became clear to him. He had been so dense! They were there all the time – the two clues he had been seeking for so long. And it wasn’t just the nature of the injury these traps inflicted: it was the setting of the traps themselves. And that took expertise, experience and knowledge.
Twenty-One
As soon as the filming was over, Alan left the trench and phoned the pathologist, Dr Lindsay Harris. He told her he had important new information about Thorey’s death. She agreed to come over tomorrow morning, first thing.
Then he returned to the set. Coffee was being taken around by Trudy Hills on a large two-handled wooden tray borrowed from the Fursey kitchens. Alan helped himself to a mug, then started to approach Harriet and Craig, who were talking animatedly to one side of the main gathering. After a few steps he had second thoughts. Was this wise? They were so deep in conversation. He dropped back and faced the other way.
The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 38