The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  Which is why she found herself seated in a Michelin-starred restaurant in the heart of the Wiltshire countryside, sipping an exquisite Riesling.

  James raised a glass. ‘Cheers. To old friends.’

  Clare reciprocated and, looking around her, said, ‘This place is lovely. How did you find it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve brought clients here once or twice in the past. For lunches mainly, but the food is always very good. You’ve been down here a while now. I’m surprised you haven’t discovered it yourself.’

  Clare flushed. ‘I don’t eat out as much as I used to.’ And she could have added, When I do it’s more likely to be at the little cafe at the end of my street than in a swanky restaurant. She lowered her voice and inclined her head in the direction of the menu. ‘And this is a bit out of an archaeologist’s price range.’

  ‘Well, this evening none of that is your concern. I’m going to make sure you have the best of everything. You deserve it after everything you’ve been through.’ He paused. ‘It really is lovely to see you, Clare. And you’re looking so well. So whatever the pay’s like, life in the trenches must suit you.’

  She lifted her glass in recognition of the compliment but swiftly deposited it from whence it had come as she became uncomfortably aware of the contrast between her own work-worn fingers and his plainly manicured hands. ‘Well, thank you, kind sir.’

  It was clear to Clare that life was treating James exceedingly kindly at the moment. When he and Stephen had worked together he’d always been well presented, but this evening he was immaculately dressed in what was undoubtedly a hand-tailored suit. And he’d arrived to pick her up in a Lamborghini, the like of which she suspected the quiet cathedral city had rarely seen. With his lightly tanned complexion and what she’d lay good money on being handmade brogues, he looked every inch the man about town. When they’d entered together they’d turned every head in the place. And it was rather a treat to be the centre of attention for all of the right reasons for once.

  Clare took a bite out of her shellfish torte. ‘Oh my God, James, this is amazing.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it.’

  ‘So what have you been up to since we last met? You seem to be doing rather well for yourself if that car of yours is anything to go by.’

  ‘I always have been a sucker for fast cars. But you’re right. I’ve been extremely lucky. After what happened to Stephen, I guess I decided it was time to take stock of my life. I’d always thought about going it alone, but somehow I’d never gotten round to it. Stephen’s death made me realise you need to get on with your life before it passes you by. You can never tell what’s round the next corner.’ He hesitated, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. ‘I’m sorry, Clare, that was in rather poor taste. But you know what I mean.’

  She raised her hand, waving his apology away. ‘Don’t worry, James, it’s fine. Stephen’s crash made me reassess my life too. It’s funny, isn’t it – if it hadn’t been for the accident, in all likelihood Stephen and I would still be happily married and the two of you would probably still be spending your Sundays together out on the golf course.’

  Even as she uttered the words she doubted the truth of them. After all, Stephen would still have lost every penny they’d possessed without even bothering to mention it to her. And she wasn’t sure that even the strongest marriage was capable of surviving that level of deception.

  But whatever he might be thinking, James was clearly too much of a gentleman to say anything. He nodded. ‘Only goes to show you can never predict the future. I’d never have guessed that you’d end up working in archaeology. It must be a fascinating life.’

  She’d lost count of the times people had said that to her over the last couple of years. And in truth it was a fascinating life, if not quite as glamorous as most people pictured it. She couldn’t remember the last time a colleague had swooped into site on a helicopter bearing instantaneously produced survey data on a top-of-the-range laptop. They were more likely to arrive in a rust bucket of a van, clutching a bag of nails and a couple of balls of string.

  But that was one of the things that appealed to her about it – it was real. So much of her life with Stephen had turned out to be a sham. At least now she’d learnt to recognise things for what they were, and she’d come to realise what she wanted out of life. To follow her passions, and forge a life as her own woman – however difficult that might prove to be at times.

  James said, ‘So I know you’re based at the university in Salisbury, and this may sound like a bit of a daft question, but what exactly is it you do?’

  Clare said, ‘Not daft at all. At the moment I’m directing an excavation up in the Cotswolds.’

  ‘So does that mean you’re in charge of all the students, then?’

  She looked at him quizzically. And then suddenly she realised what he was driving at. ‘Ah, I see what you mean. No. Not on this one. This is a contract job. All of our diggers are professional archaeologists. It’s ahead of a housing development.’

  ‘But you are based at the university?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. The unit I work for is based there but we take on contract jobs too, to complement our research work.’ Or to put it another way, she thought, to keep ourselves from going under.

  He took a sip of his wine. ‘So does that mean you have to work away a lot?’

  ‘Not always – it depends. But for this one I’m away during the week and back home at the weekends.’

  He nodded. ‘Seems funny to think of you calling Wiltshire home. You and Stephen were down here as undergrads, weren’t you? I seem to remember him telling me he couldn’t wait to get away from the place. I would have thought that life was a bit too quiet down here for you.’

  It wasn’t something that she’d ever stopped to think about. She and Stephen had called the house they lived in home, but it could have been anywhere. What had made it home was that they’d shared it. And she may have ended up returning to Wiltshire because of a quirk of fate, but now that James had said it she realised she did think of it as home. There was nowhere else she would rather be.

  She leant back to allow the waiter to clear her plate away. ‘Oh, life in the sticks can have its moments too, you know.’

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, whatever makes you happy, I suppose. And if you’re in charge of your own dig that must mean you’re pretty successful in your chosen career.’

  She casually flicked a breadcrumb off the crisp linen table cloth. ‘Well, I’m certainly enjoying it. And you get to work with the most amazing people.’

  ‘I’m sure. Do you think you’ll stay down here?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I’m buying a house – not that far from this place, as it happens. Up on the Downs.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m pleased for you, Clare. You know I didn’t like to say anything at the time, but I was worried about you after Stephen’s accident. You two always seemed like such a close couple. I wasn’t sure how you’d cope without him. But it sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t go quite as far as that. I’ve no idea how I’m going to direct a site in Gloucestershire and organise a house move.’

  ‘Well, at least that flat of yours didn’t look too big. You shouldn’t have too much trouble packing it all up.’

  She said, ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you? But I haven’t finished unpacking from when I moved in yet. I’ve still got to go through all of that stuff from Stephen’s study.’

  James took a sip of his water. ‘Really! I thought you said you were just going to dump all of that.’

  Was it a trick of the light or had the colour suddenly drained from his face?

  ‘I know what I said. But I’m glad I didn’t; there are all sorts of personal bits and pieces in there. He kept all of the birthday and anniversary cards I ever sent him, you know. They’re all in there.’

  ‘Well, you know what I said at the time. I’d be happy to
go through it all for you. Or just to dump it, come to that. It can’t be easy rummaging through all of those memories.’

  ‘It’s sweet of you, it really is, James. But to be honest I’m finding it sort of cathartic. I think it’s helping me to lay some of my ghosts to rest.’

  ‘Well, the offer stands. If there’s anything I can do, just ask. I know that as it transpired Stephen’s business judgement wasn’t always the soundest. I only wish I’d discovered what he was up to sooner. If I’d known he was intending to make those investments I might have been able to stop him, to persuade him not to go through with it.’

  She could see the anxiety etched into his face. She lowered her voice. ‘You can’t blame yourself, James. I was his wife and I had no idea what he was up to. He was a grown man. It was his choice to make those investments. No one else’s. And in the end he was the one who paid the price for his decisions. I’m rebuilding my life and you’ve done as much as anyone to help me out of the mess that he left behind.’

  ‘Don’t judge him too harshly, Clare. I know he wasn’t perfect but Stephen was a good friend to me over the years. And I know that if I’d been lucky enough to have a wife like you and anything had happened to me, he would have done everything in his power to see that you were OK. So if you change your mind, you know all you have to do is call.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Clare could taste the acid welling up in her mouth. She’d enjoyed the most relaxing weekend she’d had in a long time. And it had been lovely to catch up with James again, but today was a different story. She couldn’t remember feeling as anxious about anything as she did now since she couldn’t remember when. Standing here high on the edge of the Cotswold scarp looking westwards across the Severn Vale, they could see all the way to the Brecon Beacons. Margaret had been right: Crickley Hill really was the most stunning viewpoint.

  Margaret pointed to a spot on the far horizon. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it. I’ve always loved this view. Look, that’s Sugar Loaf!’

  ‘I don’t know how you can stay so calm, Margaret. Aren’t you even a tiny bit nervous?’

  Margaret turned to her. ‘Oh, of course I am, my dear. Half of me wants nothing more than to dash back to the car and hotfoot it back to the Spread Eagle in time for last orders. But that wouldn’t get us anywhere, would it? You don’t suppose I’ve spent my entire career floating serenely thorough the hallowed halls of Oxford without a care in the world, do you? You seem to forget it was a very different world when I first entered academia. Women, particularly young working-class women, were not always made to feel welcome. I’ve had to face my fair share of anxious moments over the years. And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt during that time, it’s not to dwell too much on them before the fact. It really doesn’t get one anywhere. Once you’ve decided to do a thing, you’re much better off just getting on and doing it.’

  Clare smiled. There was something about being with Margaret Bockford that always made her feel that no matter how dreadful the crisis, everything would be alright. And that was a valuable commodity at this particular moment. It had taken them a while to come up with their plan, but so far things had worked out pretty well.

  Clare had set up an Outlook account in the name of Emily Draper and then she’d emailed the seller on the auction site saying that she was contacting them on behalf of her mother, who was a collector and potentially interested in buying all of the items on the website that were from Bailsgrove. Clare could almost picture the pound signs lighting up in the vendor’s eyes when she’d read his reply. If, he’d said, her mother was genuinely interested in purchasing all of the items he was willing to put all of the lots on hold for up to a fortnight while they negotiated a price. He wasn’t quite so delighted, however, when she’d emailed back saying that they were happy to proceed on that basis, but as the sum involved was likely to be considerable, her mother wanted to examine all of the items in person before committing herself.

  After a brief exchange he’d agreed to a meeting in a ‘mutually convenient location’. It had been evident from the exchange that that didn’t include the home or office of the vendor – who still hadn’t revealed his, or for that matter her, name. In the end it had been Margaret who had suggested Crickley Hill. As the site of not one but two Iron Age hill forts, the connection had seemed to appeal to Margaret’s sense of humour. But that particular nicety seemed to have entirely escaped the seller, who was more interested in knowing how many other people were likely to be around and if there were any CCTV cameras in the car park.

  They’d settled on meeting in the bottom car park at eight-thirty, an hour before the park gates were due to be locked, but a time when there were guaranteed to be hardly any visitors still about.

  Clare glanced down at her watch. It was eight-fifteen, and despite Margaret’s advice she couldn’t help feeling distinctly queasy at the thought of what they were about to do.

  Her anxiety had evidently communicated itself to her ‘mother’, and Margaret slipped a reassuring arm through hers. ‘Come along, my dear. We can’t put this off any longer. You’ll be fine.’ She added, ‘You know, David dug up here when he was an undergraduate. He told me once it was why he decided to go in for prehistory.’

  ‘But this place was a hill fort, wasn’t it? I would have thought the Iron Age was more your sort of thing than his.’

  ‘It is, but Crickley was a Neolithic enclosure millennia before the hill fort was built. It was the site of Britain’s earliest battle – the excavators found hundreds of flint arrowheads. The whole place was burnt to the ground. The first farmers didn’t inhabit the peaceful rural idyll popular television might have one believe.’

  Clare looked around her. With the sun’s rays dancing across the tops of the tall grasses on the side slopes of the hill, it was difficult to conceive of anywhere more tranquil. How many of the dog walkers and Sunday picnickers that used this place now had any idea of the lives that had been lived and lost on this very spot over the centuries?

  Clare said, ‘Well, I’m hoping for a slightly more peaceful encounter this evening.’

  The car park was situated in an old limestone quarry. According to Margaret, it had been quarry workers that had first accidentally encountered parts of the fort’s ramparts in the 1960s. And as the two women drew closer to the lip of the quarry they could see a white van sitting on the other side of the car park from Margaret’s silver Range Rover. As they approached, a balding middle-aged man with thick metal-rimmed glasses appeared from behind the van.

  Margaret half turned her head towards Clare and whispered, ‘Remember that number plate. It might prove useful later.’

  Clare silently chanted the letters and numbers to herself, but with little confidence she would retain them. The man stubbed out the cigarette he’d been smoking and crushed it underfoot before looking up. There wasn’t the hint of a smile.

  He stuck out a hand towards Margaret. ‘Mrs Draper.’

  Margaret, hair swept back beneath a pale blue patterned headscarf and sporting outsized sunglasses to prevent any chance of recognition, looked for all the world like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and the Queen, and every inch a woman of means.

  Margaret said, ‘I think you have, in a manner of speaking, already met my daughter.’

  Clare, who, unlike Margaret, had never put in an appearance on television and consequently, they’d agreed, ran no chance of being recognised, was clad in an open-necked white blouse and black jeans, smiled at him. In return she received only an abrupt nod. And he showed no inclination to complete the social niceties by sharing his name.

  Margaret said, ‘Shall we get down to business, then?’

  ‘You want to see the finds.’

  Margaret said, ‘I do hope we haven’t come all of this way for nothing, Mr …’

  Still he didn’t give his name. Instead he opened the double doors on the back of the transit to reveal a tartan travelling rug spread across the back half of its interior. Clare moved aside to allow Margaret
to get closer. He drew back the rug to reveal a dozen bubble-wrapped objects, two the size of baseball bats, which Clare guessed must be the swords. Glancing behind him, he leant into the back of the van and began unwrapping the items one by one. As he did so, it was all Clare could do to stop her jaw from dropping open. As well as the two swords there was a clutch of what looked like elaborate but enormous bronze safety pins, a dagger with its hilt entirely covered in delicately incised geometric decoration, and a six-inch-high figure of what appeared to be a man with his arms raised high on either side of his head.

  Margaret turned to face the man, the palms of her hands turned upwards. ‘May I?’

  He nodded, and Margaret reached into the back of the van. Lifting her sunglasses onto the top of her head, she began examining the objects one by one. When she came to the dagger, she picked it up and turned round towards the daylight.

  He stepped sideways, barring her path. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  Clare held her breath. It had all been going so smoothly. But Margaret was taking enough of a risk taking her sunglasses off. What if he recognised her? And now she was facing him down.

  But she needn’t have worried; Margaret didn’t miss a beat. ‘If you want me to purchase these items I need to be sure of what I’m getting. And for that I need daylight.’

  The man hesitated, grunted and then grudgingly stepped aside. As she moved the object out of the shade of the van doors, the hilt of the dagger caught a shaft of sunlight. To Clare’s amazement she could see the decoration wasn’t, as she’d first thought, on sheet copper but on gold. My God, if this stuff came from Bailsgrove it was a huge discovery. Clare could feel her heart drumming away in her chest fit to burst. But Margaret’s face betrayed no hint of excitement. After turning the dagger over in her hand several times she placed it gently back in the van, this time selecting the small figure to bring into the light. From what Clare could make out it was more roughly wrought than the dagger. But even from this distance she could clearly see that the smith who’d created it had still managed to imbue the face with a lively expression. Not only his hands but his eyes were turned heavenwards, and he had tiny individually crafted ears and a perfectly formed nose. But his feet appeared to still have parts of something else attached to them. It looked very much as if he had once formed part of a larger object.