Lane was still chewing, but he nodded. Eventually he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I agree, Alan. It’s all very odd. And the boat was moored in such a deep spot. Was that intentional? I mean, she could have chosen a proper mooring with a floating wooden stage, like we’ve got here. There was one just a few yards away. But no, instead she secured the boat to two willows.’
‘Yes, I noticed that. There was also a long pole nearby – the boat-people use it as a washing line support in winter. But it was also very convenient, if you wanted to test the depth of the water.’
‘Or maybe push somebody back under, should they float to the surface,’ Lane added grimly.
Harriet looked up. ‘Are you sure about that?’ she asked. ‘Sounds a bit of a wild accusation, don’t you think? A pole is just that: a pole. It doesn’t have to be used as a weapon, as you suggest.’
‘No, you’re probably right,’ Lane agreed. ‘But it was odd the way she hadn’t used the proper moorings. She must have known who owned them. And I doubt if they’d have charged much, if anything, at that time of year. I think Alan’s right: the water at the moorings is much shallower. He might even have been able to stand up.’
They continued eating for a few minutes, while a couple of afternoon strollers passed by along the towpath. For a moment, Alan wondered if they had any idea that the relaxed group of people eating fish and chips were discussing something as dark as a man’s death and a woman’s suicide. Then a thought struck him. He waited till the walkers were out of earshot.
‘But what lay behind it all, Richard?’ He was frowning: they were still missing something; there must have been more to it. ‘What else do we know about John’s life?’
Alan remembered a conversation with Candice, shortly before they began the car park excavation. John’s consultancy was looking after the affairs of two large betting franchises. So he kept in touch with that world, even after he had supposedly given up gambling himself. Mary had been listening closely. Candice and John had long fascinated her.
‘So is personal betting quite common behind the scenes in the gambling world?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ her husband replied. ‘But as with drinking in the pub sector, people learn to keep it under control. Or else they get out, which is what John Cripps did. He then used the experience he had gained in the racing world to move into the management of visitor attractions. It wasn’t a big step.’ He munched on a chip. ‘Anyhow, at some point he met up with Blake Lonsdale.’
‘The man behind White Delphs,’ Alan added for Mary’s benefit.
She smiled at him in thanks.
‘That’s right,’ Lane continued. ‘He and John formed the HPM partnership in 1990. And they’ve been remarkably successful.’
‘Yes,’ Alan added, ‘Jake told me that they were never short of funds at White Delphs, and my brief experience at Fursey showed them to be efficient. Money was always there if you needed it. I certainly had no complaints.’
‘Well that doesn’t surprise me,’ Lane resumed the story. ‘My sources at the Met now reckon their Water World historical theme park near Hackney Marshes is largely used to launder gambling money acquired through a number of shady partners abroad. They’re watching them closely.’
‘Which might explain how and why John and Blake got together in the first place,’ Alan suggested.
Harriet hadn’t said much so far. Alan got the impression she was having trouble coping with all the changes around her. She liked stability, even though right now it was in short supply. But like Mary, she had been fascinated by John and Candice – and one question still puzzled her.
‘So presumably, John’s conversion to evangelical religion had something to do with his gambling?’
‘Yes, it did,’ Lane replied. ‘In fact, I was able to check on that myself. His conversion happened September 1985 when an American evangelist visited Ely. You might remember, he pitched a circus-style big-top on the outskirts of town and attracted thousands of people to his gatherings. I understand they were very emotional affairs. But the rejection of drink and gambling were a big part of his mission. And in John’s case, the cure seemed to have worked. But then last year rumours began to spread that he had returned to his old habits.’
‘But he didn’t drop the religion?’ Alan asked.
‘No, he didn’t. If anything, he became more mainstream – and hence his friendship with the Fen dean. And I don’t think that was unusual: I can think of many alcoholics who are devout Christians.’
Harriet stood up and stretched. She had eaten too much.
‘So do you think, Richard,’ she asked, ‘that Candice was aware John had resumed gambling?’
‘Yes. I don’t see how he could have hidden it from her. She was bound to have found out sooner or later, because he was in it in a big way – or that’s what local bookies have been telling us.’
‘So his gambling,’ Mary said quietly, ‘would have given her a reason for pushing him overboard. How very sad.’
It was a sorry tale. They were all silent for a moment.
‘And what did she do then?’ Alan asked.
Nobody made any suggestions. So he answered his own question. ‘I think she made eyes at Peter Flower.’
Harriet was pouring herself a small beer. ‘Oh yes,’ she said under her breath. ‘She certainly did that.’
‘And I think it makes sense,’ Alan continued. ‘I mean, look at it this way: he was now bursar of a famous Cambridge college. He had strong links with a well-established television series and he wasn’t a habitual gambler. And make no mistake, she was attractive, too – for her age.’
Alan realised that hadn’t been the most tactful thing he could have said – and Harriet shot him a reproving look. He decided to press on, to cover his confusion.
‘It would also have made business sense for Peter to have closer relations with the Cripps family, given the college’s large land holdings in the area. So all in all, I don’t understand why Flower didn’t respond.’
‘But Alan,’ Harriet broke in, ‘we don’t know for a fact that Flower didn’t respond, do we?’
‘I suppose not.’ Alan was frowning.
‘He was – is – a very successful man,’ Harriet resumed, ‘and he continued to act very responsibly after things had collapsed at Fursey, You’ve said so yourself, Alan.’
‘Well, it’s true, he did.’
‘So don’t you think,’ Harriet continued, ‘that Flower could have acted kindly to her, as everything had gone so horribly wrong. He wasn’t the sort of person who’d kick someone when they were already down.’ She paused, then looked up. ‘And I know you’ve good reasons not to like him, but he’s quite well-liked in college. He wouldn’t have been made Bursar, otherwise.’
‘So you think she misread Flower’s kindness to her?’ Lane asked. ‘Thought he was making a pass at her?’
‘Well, why not?’ Harriet replied. ‘Put yourself in her position: she was desperate. Her husband was an obsessive gambler. The family business was in tatters and then along comes this attractive and highly successful, intelligent man – who was being kind and considerate to her. I can see how it could have happened. I honestly can.’
‘And you think that was strong enough motive to kill her husband?’ Lane asked.
‘Added to everything else – the gambling and so on – yes, I think it was.’
‘But then the truth dawned?’ Alan asked, more to himself than anyone else.
‘Yes,’ Lane replied, ‘and very quickly, too. But by then she could see there was only one way out.’
Then Alan muttered, almost under his breath: ‘And I saw her take it, poor woman.’
Harriet wiped her eyes.
Epilogue
They drove back to Fursey the pretty route to avoid Sunday drivers on the main roads. Alan knew the road well from when he had worked on a follow-up survey of fen dykes in the landscapes south and east of Peterborough in the late 1990s. It was during the o
riginal survey of the early 1980s that the now famous site of Flag Fen had been discovered. Alan frowned. He’d recently been helping Steve Grant establish closer links with them, and it had all been looking very promising. Now everything had been cancelled. What a waste.
As they approached Fursey from the west, they could just see the ruined tower of the abbey church protruding above the high, and dead straight, banks of the Padnal Delph. The road swung round a right-angled corner by a row of a dozen gnarled and pollarded willows. Beyond was a sign: Private Road to Padnal Delph IDB Pumping Station. Alan indicated left. Harriet looked at him, surprised.
‘You’re turning off?’
He smiled, and placed a hand reassuringly on her knee. ‘Wait and see.’
Beyond the pumping station, where Alan had met the chief engineer a few weeks ago, the road suddenly deteriorated and the Fourtrak pitched its way through ridges and flooded pot holes. Then the land around rose perceptibly and suddenly they were driving past ash trees and shrubs. The road surface had improved, too. They were now on the Isle. On their right another sign read: Isle Farm, 300 Yards Ahead and just beyond was a ‘For Let’ notice on behalf of a large local estate agent.
They drew to a halt in front of a substantial, wisteria-clad Italianate farmhouse, probably built around 1850.
Harriet turned to Alan. ‘Are you mad, Alan, we couldn’t possibly afford such a place. It must cost thousands a month.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to see the place that had motivated a man to kill. It must be pretty special.’
Lane knew the nice lady at the estate agents and had persuaded her that Alan could be trusted to look around on his own. When she gave him the keys she included a bit of paper with the burglar alarm code. Alan opened the back door and turned it off. From there they passed through to the large kitchen, equipped, of course, with a deep-red four-oven Aga. There was a fashionable island worktop in the centre of the room on which Alan placed a shopping bag.
‘Wow,’ Harriet’s face was alight. ‘What a fabulous kitchen!’
They explored the house from top to bottom, including the four bedrooms, three fitted with en-suite showers or bathrooms. But compared with Fursey Hall it was quite a modest house, really. The views from the ground floor were limited to the south-west by the banks of the Delph, but from upstairs they were absolutely superb, with the ruins of Fursey Abbey in the middle distance, and further away, but nonetheless dominating everything, the vast mass of Ely Cathedral and its single slender tower. Although they both knew it was an illusion, the view seemed to change from every window.
He found they were holding hands in the master bedroom, standing in front of the large Venetian window.
‘Do you know what,’ Alan said softly. ‘That really is a view to die for.’
It wasn’t meant to be humorous and she didn’t take it as such. There were tears in her eyes as she said, ‘How sad. How very, very sad.’
* * *
Back in the kitchen, Alan lifted a flask from the shopping bag and poured coffee into their insulated site mugs: hers in pink shiny plastic and his Nikon lens lookalike.
Harriet smiled as she asked, ‘Do you like that mug?’
‘Yes. It’s my favourite. I take it everywhere. And I’ve got the lens it’s modelled on.’
‘Yes, I know you do.’
Her eyes were staring deep into his.
It was like an electric shock. How could he have been so stupid? The mug had arrived last Christmas by post. Anonymously. He had split up with Harriet acrimoniously a year earlier. It had never occurred to him that she had sent it.
He put the mug down, took her in his arms and held her for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually they drew apart.
‘Isn’t the world strange, Alan. This place has led to the death of three people, yet the man who killed them is still alive and the woman who may have helped her gambling husband to die, is no longer with us. Is that justice?’
Alan took a long sip from his mug of surprisingly warm coffee. He looked out of the window, where a red sun was approaching the top of the Delph bank. He thought for some time.
‘I’d have agreed with you a few days ago, Harry, but I’m not so sure now. I don’t see how she could ever have lived with herself, because I’m convinced that deep down she loved John. She must have done, to have put up with his bad habits for so long. Her suicide laid that ghost to rest.’
He paused to screw the lid on his emptied mug. His gaze was on the slowly fading light that bathed the tall lime trees beyond the orchard, but his mind was in the exposed, wet fields around Fursey.
‘But Sebastian,’ he continued slowly, ‘will never achieve any sort of peace or resolution. Every day of his life will be torture. And he will be his own tormentor – and believe me, they’re the worst. They know all your fears and weaknesses and how to exploit them in the cruellest ways imaginable.’
He shuddered. It was a horrible thought.
They shut the back door. Harriet was wiping her eyes. Alan was grim-faced. Together they had glimpsed heaven and hell. And all in one Fenland farmhouse.
Acknowledgements
It’s an open secret that I have always rather disliked what the Roman Empire stood for. Maybe this was a way of rationalising my horror at the complexity of the period’s archaeology and history. And of all its many aspects, the army in the province of Britannia is surely the most difficult, especially to the uninitiated. So I have relied heavily on my old friend Guy de la Bédoyère’s very reader-friendly introduction: Eagles Over Britannia: The Roman Army in Britain (Tempus Books, Stroud, 2001).
Very special thanks are due to two other leading experts in their fields:
Professor Simon James of Leicester University, who has advised me on matters pertaining to cohorts equites, and other facets of Roman Britain, with his characteristic good humour, wit and clarity. I am led to believe that it was when he was one of Simon’s undergraduate students that Alan learnt the phrase the ‘Bloomsbury Lubyanka’.
The other expert is, of course, somebody no crime writer can ever do without: an authority who knows and understands forensics at a very profound level. And here I have the great pleasure to acknowledge Dr Chris J. Rogers of Glyndwr University, Wrexham. I suspect it’s only a rumour, but Chris might have been an external advisor to the forensic archaeology course at Saltaire, which Alan attended in the late ’90s.
As with The Lifers’ Club before it, the writing and production of this book would have been impossible without the constant advice, help and encouragement of my editor, Elizabeth Garner. The detailed work of copyediting was done by Gillian Holmes, with great care and consideration. She was assisted by Annabel Wright and Molly Powell. The staff at Unbound have been their normal, helpful selves and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Justin Pollard who first suggested that I should try crowdfunding. It has been hard work, but the greatest fun.
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The Way, the Truth and the Dead Page 45