The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  Clare felt something cold on her skin. ‘Did you feel that? I think it’s starting to spit.’

  Jo ignored her. Without looking up, she said, ‘Grab another leaf and give me a hand, will you!’

  Clare knelt down on the opposite side of the pit and within half an hour the two women had uncovered what even the untrained eye could tell was the skeleton of another infant. This one had no visible signs of injury and was lying on its side. It looked for all the world as if it was asleep.

  Clare looked across at Jo. ‘Three was a sacred number in the Celtic world, you know.’

  Jo just nodded. ‘We need to get this little one lifted before the rain sets in.’

  ‘I’ll nip down to the Portakabin and get the skeleton recording sheets and some bags.’

  As she stood up she could see Crabby in full regalia striding determinedly towards them. ‘Shit.’

  Jo asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You’re about to find out.’

  Crabby panted to a stop beside the side of the cutting. ‘Happy solstice!’

  Clare smiled. ‘Happy solstice, Crabby! I’m surprised you’re not down at Stonehenge.’

  Why, oh why, couldn’t he spend his day recovering from a hangover at a stone circle like every other pagan of her acquaintance? Though, thinking about it, Crabby was probably the first real pagan she’d ever spent any time with.

  ‘I greeted Sol at the dawn ceremony at the Rollrights this morning, but I wanted to come and say a solstice blessing for the old souls.’

  He looked towards the two now empty pits where the first two infant skeletons had been found the day before, his dismay only too evident. Clare stood ramrod straight, frozen to the spot, suddenly realising that she was blocking his view to the pit behind her where Jo was still working.

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘We finished lifting them this morning. We had to make sure they were safe, Crabby, with the weather coming.’ She pointed skyward towards the thickening clouds.

  Before the Druid had chance to reply, a metallic blue Mitsubishi four-by-four swung into the gateway at considerable speed. On its roof it was sporting what looked like a small satellite dish. Every head in the place turned to watch as a man in an impeccably cut dark grey suit, with shoes you could see your face in stepped out. He was followed by a stick-thin young woman in her early twenties who lost no time in retrieving a shoulder bag and a camera that looked big enough to crush her from the rear of the vehicle. She hurried after the besuited man who was heading straight for where they were standing.

  Crabby held up a hand in greeting. Clare stood dumbstruck. Jo, meantime, was now standing beside her.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Mr Crabbs.’ The besuited man ran his fingers through his immaculately cut head of hair. He turned to the young woman, who was valiantly puffing her way up the slope a few yards behind him. ‘Are we ready to roll, Sophie?’

  The young woman nodded, withdrawing what looked like a large furry animal from the shoulder bag and slipping it over the microphone on the camera.

  Clare stepped out of the trench. ‘Excuse me. No one is rolling anywhere until someone explains to me exactly what’s going on.’

  The besuited man turned and bestowed a smile as wide as the Severn on Clare. ‘Ben Jackson. Syndicated News Network. Are you one of the dig team? Is there any chance we’d be able to have a word with your boss?’

  Clare drew herself up to her full five feet six and declared in what she hoped was her most confident voice, ‘Clare Hills. Site director. And for the avoidance of doubt, I am the boss.’

  Ben Jackson appeared to be made of Teflon. The rebuke slipped over him without a hint of recognition. ‘Oh, fabulous. That makes life so much easier. We won’t take up too much of your time. We’re just going to film Mr Crabbs here performing his ceremony. We’ll be out of your hair in no time.’

  Clare glared at the Druid. ‘Crabby!’

  ‘It’s like I said, Clare, I just wanted to perform a ceremony for the old souls. I got chatting with Ben and Sophie when they were up at the Rollrights filming the solstice this morning. When I mentioned I was coming up here later to say a blessing over the babies they said they’d be interested in filming it.’

  Clare said simply, ‘I bet they did.’

  She was gobsmacked. She looked at Crabby. He appeared to be entirely without guile. Could anyone be that naive? If anyone could, Crabby could.

  Crabby turned to Ben Jackson. ‘I’m sorry, Ben, we’re too late. They’ve already dug them up.’

  All of a sudden Sophie let out a squeal and pointed. ‘No, they haven’t. Look, Ben!’

  Ben Jackson turned to look and made as if to step into the trench.

  Before he could get any further Jo stepped forward and placed a hand firmly on his chest. ‘No, you don’t, Ben.’

  From the look of total incomprehension on Ben Jackson’s face he clearly wasn’t used to hearing the word ‘no’. And, Clare suspected, most particularly not from a woman.

  Clare said, ‘I’m afraid we can’t have just anyone careering about in the trench, Mr Jackson. This is an archaeological excavation, not a circus. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Ben Jackson gave no indication of having heard a word she’d said, and instead, standing on tiptoes to see over Jo’s shoulder, he began gesticulating wildly. ‘But I can see it. You’ve still got one down there.’

  Crabby intervened. ‘Isn’t that where you found that piece of horse harness yesterday?’

  Clare looked at Jo, who just shrugged. There was no point in denying it. ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  Crabby murmured to himself, ‘Three of them.’ Then, his voice gentle, he said, ‘I’d count it as a personal kindness if you’d let me say a solstice blessing, Clare. To settle the souls of the old ones.’ He glanced up towards the stand of beeches crowning the top of the hill. ‘There’s been enough death at this place.’

  For several seconds Clare just stood and looked at him. With his white sheet, staff of twisted hazel and biker boots, at first glance most people would assume he was, as David had so quaintly put it, ‘away with the fairies’. But there was a quiet certainty and calm about him that Clare found impossible to refuse. And though she didn’t have a religious bone in her body, there was no denying that if anywhere could benefit from a blessing right now, it was Bailsgrove.

  ‘OK, Crabby. Jo will show you where it’s safe to stand.’

  Without warning, Crabby stepped forward and enfolded Clare in a bear hug. As he did so he whispered into her ear, ‘Thank you. You’re a good woman, Clare Hills.’

  She couldn’t have explained why if you’d asked her, but as Jo helped Crabby down into the trench Clare felt tears welling up in her eyes. She turned to wipe them away with the back of her hand and as she did so she found herself looking directly at Ben Jackson.

  He pointed towards Crabby. ‘Honestly, it won’t take a minute. Then we can be on our way.’

  What harm could it do? And if she said no to them filming on-site they were bound to do a piece with Crabby afterwards anyway. She could see the headlines now: ‘Archaeologists refuse access to death site. More bodies found.’ It would run and run. At least this way it would be a positive story.

  Finally, she conceded. ‘Fine. But you can’t go into the trench. You’ll have to film from up here.’

  Ben Jackson was nodding furiously and waving Sophie towards him. ‘Of course. Fabulous. Sophie, have you got that thing set up yet?’

  Clare walked away, leaving Jo to invigilate the proceedings. She might as well go and get the recording sheets from the Portakabin. At least then they’d be able to get on with lifting the skeleton as soon as the news crew had gone. In the event, it took her a while to find out where Jo had put them. And when she left the office to make her way back up to the cutting she could see Ben Jackson hurrying towards her.

  She asked, ‘Have you got what you needed, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Crabby was fabulous.
Just fabulous. There’s only one more tiny thing that would make it perfect. And then we really will get out of your hair.’

  Clare was thinking they’d been in her hair for quite long enough and she wished they’d do as they’d promised and leave. But better not to rile them. She pinned on a smile. ‘And what would that be, Mr Jackson?’

  ‘Ben, please.’ There was that mile-wide smile again. ‘It’s just that you’ve been so kind letting us film here. It would be great to get your views. A real expert – the person in charge of all this.’

  There was no denying she was indeed ‘in charge of all this’, although she was beginning to feel less and less like an expert as the days wore on. But she could see that there was no getting rid of him. And Jo still looked perfectly happy chatting away with Crabby. Things couldn’t have gone too badly.

  ‘OK, Ben. As long as it won’t take long.’

  ‘Fabulous. Let’s just have you back up by the side of the trench so we’ve got some action in the background.’ He hallooed across to Sophie, who was rummaging round in the back of the four-by-four. ‘Sophie, be a love and bring the kit back up, would you? Clare here is going to do a piece for us.’

  When they got back up to the trench, Clare handed Jo the recording sheets and whispered, ‘Everything OK?’

  Jo mouthed, ‘A breeze.’

  Reassured, Clare turned back to Ben Jackson. ‘Sorry about that. But we need to get on with the job.’

  ‘No problem, we’ve taken up a lot of your time.’ Waving again, he said, ‘Sophie, Sophie. The wind’s picking up a bit. Can you get a mic on Clare?’

  After five tedious minutes of wires, microphones and power packs being passed up, down and through various items of Clare’s clothing with varying degrees of embarrassment on everyone’s part, Ben and Sophie declared themselves to be content with the situation. Clare was positioned in front of the trench with Jo in the background attending to her task.

  Ben Jackson said, ‘So just look at me, not the camera, Clare.’

  She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to run screaming into the Portakabin. Come on, pull yourself together! You’ve seen David do this umpteen times. How difficult can it be? She opened her eyes wide and took in a deep breath.

  Ben Jackson said, ‘Ready?’ Clare nodded. ‘So, if you can just say your name and job title to the camera for me.’

  Clare’s mouth was so dry she could barely force the words from her lips. ‘Clare Hills, Site Director for the Hart Archaeological Research Institute.’

  ‘So, Clare, we’re here at the Hart Unit’s dig site in Bailsgrove. And we hear you’ve made some rather amazing discoveries. What exactly have you found here?’

  Where to start? ‘Well, there’s some evidence to suggest that Bailsgrove was an important site before the Romans even set foot in Britain.’ Ben Jackson nodded encouragingly. ‘Some people think it might have been an Iron Age shrine.’

  He lowered his voice to an almost reverent whisper. ‘So here, lying just inches beneath our feet, you’ve found a Celtic temple.’

  Clare said, ‘Well, we might have. It’s early days yet.’

  ‘And right in front of us’ – Sophie swung the camera round to focus on Jo in the trench – ‘you’re excavating the burial of a child.’

  The camera swung back to focus on Clare. ‘Err, yes.’

  ‘And this is the third baby you’ve dug up so far.’

  Clare nodded nervously. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Talk us through what happens to them when you find a burial, Clare?’

  This didn’t seem to be going too badly after all. She began to relax.

  Clare launched into her subject with gusto. ‘Well, as you can see we excavate them with extreme care. We’re lucky to have Dr Josephine Granski on our team. Jo here is one of the world’s leading human bone specialists.’ Jo glanced up and smiled. Ben gestured at her to keep digging and Jo duly obliged. ‘Jo records the position of every bone and photographs the burial before it’s lifted. And then the remains will be taken away for detailed analysis.’

  Ben Jackson said, ‘We’ve spoken to the local Druid, Wayne Crabbs, this morning, Clare. And Mr Crabbs is concerned that the souls of these dead babies should be at peace.’ Clare didn’t like the way this was heading. ‘How do you justify disturbing the last resting place of these children, Mrs Hills?’

  Clare managed to maintain her smile. ‘It’s part of our job. We’re here to tell their stories. By studying their bones we can help reveal the details of their short lives and discover what life was like here in the past. We can give these children a voice.’

  Ben Jackson nodded. ‘Is it true that one of the babies had had their throat cut, and another had been beaten to death with a rock?’

  Clare wiped the sweat from her palms on the front of her moleskins. She could feel her heart pumping ten to the dozen. She took in a deep breath before answering. ‘Two of the skeletons did show some signs of violence.’

  ‘So what do you say to those who say these children have suffered enough?’

  Clare could feel her colour rising. Keep calm, just keep calm! She struggled to control the pitch of her voice. ‘But no one would have known they’d suffered a violent death unless we’d dug them up in the first place.’

  ‘Don’t you think what you’re doing here is disrespectful, Mrs Hills? Digging up babies, just to build houses. Aren’t you putting profit before people?’

  Clare could feel the last vestiges of her self-control slipping away. ‘We’re just doing our job. Without our work no one would know what happened here.’

  Ben Jackson leant forward and in hushed tones said, ‘These children have lain here undisturbed for centuries. Wouldn’t you agree that the bones of the ancient dead deserve to rest in peace, Mrs Hills?’

  Clare lost it. She jabbed a finger at Ben Jackson and all but yelled at him. ‘Now look here. You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. We don’t even know yet if the bones are ancient.’

  Ben Jackson sensed blood. ‘Are you saying these burials could be recent?’

  ‘Well, yes. What I mean is probably not. They’re almost certainly old. But we won’t know for sure until we get the radio carbon dates.’

  ‘Given recent events at Bailsgrove, Mrs Hills, shouldn’t the police be informed about this?’

  Clare’s jaw stiffened. She almost spat the words out at him. ‘We’re professionals, Mr Jackson. They have been.’

  ‘And you can confirm that Gloucestershire constabulary have allowed you to continue excavating at a potential murder scene?’

  Clare said, ‘For your information they were perfectly fine with it. Even if you’re not.’ She ripped the microphone from her T-shirt and flung it at Ben Jackson’s feet. ‘Now if you’ve got what you came for, Mr Jackson, will you kindly leave my site.’

  ‘Christ on a bike, Clare! What on earth possessed you?’

  David was standing behind his desk in the archaeology department. The moment he’d finished watching the piece about the dig on the late-night news he’d picked up the phone to Clare, demanding to see both her and Jo first thing in the morning in his office in Salisbury. Last night’s debacle had been bad enough, but this morning fanned out on his desk in front of him were a host of tabloid newspapers all featuring Bailsgrove. The top one sporting the unforgettable headline, ‘Death Rate Soars at Hart Unit’s Bailsgrove Horror Dig’.

  He plucked one from further down in the pile. ‘Do you want me to read them to you? Just so you can understand what your fifteen minutes of fame has cost us. Here we go. Have a listen to this!

  ‘“Death has revisited the ill-starred Bailsgrove dig site. Recent scene of the grisly suicide of Druidic specialist Dr Beth Kinsella, Bailsgrove has now become the scene of another bizarre pagan ritual, with local Druid and ex-biker Wayne ‘Crabby’ Crabbs performing rituals over what the archaeologist in charge of the excavations, Clare Hills, maintains may be modern baby burials. When asked about the burials, DCI Mark Stone of Gloucestersh
ire constabulary refused to comment.”’

  Clare held up a hand. ‘Please, David. I know what they say. You don’t need to labour the point.’

  He slapped the paper down in front of her. ‘Oh, but I think I do, Clare. You’re the one who insisted we take this job. If you recall our conversation at the time I was less than convinced. But I let you talk me into it because we were desperate for the money. As you so correctly pointed out, without the money from Bailsgrove the Hart Unit is finished. So you of all people should understand the consequences of what you’ve done.’

  Jo, who up until that point had been perching precariously on a pile of boxes in the corner of the office, stood up. ‘Hey, come on, David, cut Clare some slack! It wasn’t all her fault.’

  David turned his ire on the Californian. ‘No, too damned right it wasn’t, Jo. It wasn’t all Clare’s fault. What the bloody hell were you doing while all this was going on? Clare’s only just started in this game, but I thought you’d know better with your experience. I couldn’t believe what I was watching on the news last night. Not only was Clare standing there happily telling the world we could have a baby killer on the loose and the police don’t seem to care, but there you were chit-chatting with that weirdo in a bed sheet as he chanted some sort of gobbledygook over a dead child.’

  He turned towards the window, refusing to look at either woman for fear of what he might do. Exams finished, the scene below was quieter now, with just a few postgrad students ambling to and from the library. Increasingly over the last couple of years he’d found himself wishing he could roll the clock back. Things had seemed so much simpler when he’d been down there among them studying for his doctorate. At least until Stephen had come along. He shook his head, pushing the thought from his mind. ‘I despair. Really I do.’ He turned to face them, depositing himself in his chair, his anger suddenly dissipated. ‘Are you two trying to deliberately sabotage our last hope of keeping the institute afloat? Because that’s what it’s beginning to look like from here. You pair make quite a double act, don’t you?’