The Lost Shrine

by Nicola Ford

  ‘While you were on Wrackley Cop.’

  She said, ‘No. I bumped into him at a talk he was giving.’

  ‘Bumped into! What are you playing at, Clare? We haven’t got time for you to go chasing ghosts. You’ve got enough on your hands trying to finish digging a site started by a madwoman.’

  The derision in his voice was all too clear. She’d had enough now.

  ‘It may have escaped your attention as you’ve spent so little time on-site, David, but everything Beth claimed about Bailsgrove has turned out to be true. And from what Painter told me, Beth Kinsella was anything but mad. She was a dedicated and talented professional trying to juggle her research with caring for a father who’s seriously ill with dementia. Painter said he’s so bad now that he’s in a specialist nursing home at some place called Dronfield. But Beth was caring for him at home. And by all accounts her boyfriend was more concerned about the impact it might have on his career than anything Beth was going through. So, for your information, Beth Kinsella wasn’t a lunatic. She was trying to do the right thing. She was bloody good at her job and like most women got zero sodding support from the men around her. So, if you don’t mind, David, I’m tired and I really want to get some sleep.’

  And with that she hung up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Paul Marshall pulled over into the gateway and climbed out of his car. The field in front of him was a building site – literally. And that was how he liked it. The business had had some lean times recently, but one way or another he’d managed to survive even when he’d seen his competitors going to the wall. And he had no intention of joining them.

  A foreman in hi-vis jacket and hard hat rushed over to greet him, but he dismissed him with a flick of his hand. He had business to attend to first.

  He walked into the site office. A lone workman was sitting, mug in hand, with his feet on a chair.

  Marshall bellowed, ‘Get out!’

  The guy didn’t need telling twice. He sprang to his feet and all but sprinted out of the office door, trailing tea behind him as he went.

  Marshall pulled the door to behind him and twisted the lock before pulling out his phone. He pulled up the number he was looking for and waited while it rang. ‘It took you long enough.’

  A whispered voice said, ‘I was in the middle of something. What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to do what I’m paying you for.’

  ‘I am.’

  Marshall lowered his voice. ‘That’s not what it looks like from here. As I see it, our little problem is getting worse and you need to deal with it. If you want your money you’re going to have to do something to earn it.’

  The strain in the voice was clear. ‘It’s not that easy. There are complications.’

  Marshall said, ‘Sod complications. I’ve had enough of this crap. You’ve dealt with it once. You can do it again.’

  ‘But it’s not that simple.’

  Marshall said, ‘Then let me make it simple. I’ve had that arsehole in charge of the unit round trying to come the heavy with me. No one tries to make me look like a fucking idiot and gets away with it. No one. Do you understand?’

  There was silence on the other end of the phone line.

  This time he screamed, ‘Do you understand!’

  There was a quiet, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then get it done!’

  Jo was feeling distinctly pleased with herself. Things had been ticking along nicely on-site while Clare was away. And she’d even managed to persuade most of the team to come in and work on Saturday to try to get them back on track. They’d all seen Marshall’s antics when he’d turned up on-site. And while in Malc’s stated opinion they should tell him to ‘Go shove it’, that wasn’t going to help them hit their deadline. And, more importantly, it wasn’t going to help take the pressure off Clare.

  Most of them were only too willing to keep going over the weekend – digging a site like this was a once-in-a-career opportunity and they wanted to make the most of it. Even the few that had initially been reluctant had been won over by Jo’s promise of a bonus. Though as yet she had no idea how the unit was going to pay for it.

  They’d been fortunate in that a fair chunk of the shrine looked as if it lay outside of the footprint of the development. So with a bit of luck they should be able to persuade the county archaeologist and the planning department that it wasn’t under threat and didn’t need excavating. But if they were going to do the site justice they still had a supersized task on their hands trying to dig the rest of the site.

  It wasn’t only the site they had to worry about; there were the finds too. The post-excavation team back at the university came to the sum total of two: Jo and Clare. And even if they could find the money to employ Neil for a while after the dig finished, the finds coming up now were extraordinary. They’d had more horse fittings, brooches and even a handful of Dobunnic and Roman coins. So, it was looking as if the site had continued in use even after the Romans arrived. But what they were really struggling with was the pottery. There were vast quantities of Roman pot coming up from the periphery of the site now. And if they didn’t get it processed now there was no way they’d get it done back at the department.

  Which was why Jo found herself, despite the glorious sunshine that had miraculously appeared after the morning showers, tucked away in the site office alongside Val, their finds supervisor, scrubbing away furiously at a bowlful of sherds of assorted Roman tableware.

  Jo asked, ‘Don’t you ever just want to get out there and dig, Val?’

  The red-headed Scot laughed. ‘Och, I’ve done my share of pickaxing in my time. But I kind of got into this side of things when the kids were wee. I could fit in the post-exc. stuff around school hours.’ She looked out at the sun blazing down on the hillside outside and touched a hand to the side of her face. ‘And it has its advantages, you know. On days like today I used to end up like a pickled beetroot.’

  Jo laughed and plucked a large piece of shiny red pottery out of the water, holding it up to the light. ‘We must be on the edge of some sort of Romano-British settlement, the amount of this stuff we’re getting. It’s kinda cool when you look up close at this Samian, don’t you think?’

  ‘Alright if you like that sort of thing, I suppose. It’s a bit flashy for my tastes. All mass-produced, y’know. They turned it out by the cartload. I’m keener on the handmade British stuff myself.’

  ‘Careful, Val, your Celtic roots are showing.’ Jo stood up, washing bowl in hand. ‘I’m done with this lot. I’m gonna get some clean water from next door. I’ll put the kettle on for tea break while I’m there.’

  Jo turned to go. But before Val had time to answer there was a sudden crash, followed by a thud. Splinters of glass lay festooned across the lino.

  ‘What the fu—’ Jo halted mid-sentence.

  She turned again to find Val lying slumped across the table, blood pouring from her head.

  ‘Jesus!’ She knelt down, staring in disbelief at what she saw. ‘Val, are you OK? Val!’

  There was no response from the elfin Scot.

  Jo felt dizzy, as if she were going to faint. ‘Shit, shit, shit …’

  She stood up and staggered towards the door, managing to stand upright for long enough to yell, ‘Hey guys, we need some help here!’ And then promptly collapsed.

  Jo opened her eyes to see Malcolm standing over her.

  ‘You OK, Jo? You had us worried there for a minute. You just collapsed. You were clean out.’

  She tried to get to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about me, Malc, Val’s hurt. We need to get her some help.’

  Malcolm said, ‘Take it steady, me old. No need to worry, Neil’s sorting it.’

  With a steadying hand from Malcolm, Jo stood up to see Val, conscious and sitting upright, with Neil standing over her and a wad of gauze pressed against Val’s temple.

  Neil said, ‘I think I managed to get all of the glass out. It looks a pretty clean wound. But once I’ve got her bandage
d up we need to get her over to A & E.’

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Malc said, ‘I’ll take her.’

  Neil said, ‘No, you won’t. She needs someone with first-aid training with her just in case.’ He looked up at Jo. ‘Beth paid for me to be first-aid trained.’

  That explained his dexterity with the roll of bandage he was now swaddling Val’s head with. Malc couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he acquiesced quickly enough once he heard the explanation. She’d always suspected he harboured a bit of a soft spot for Val, and it seemed she might have been right.

  Val, who thankfully now looked to have considerably more colour in her cheeks than Jo felt as if she had in hers at that moment, dug Neil swiftly in the ribs.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘I am here, y’know.’

  Jo deposited herself into a chair, for fear she might fall down again. Her head still felt like cotton wool.

  She must have inadvertently touched her hand to her head because Val said, ‘Are you alright, Jo?’

  ‘I’m fine. I just passed out, that’s all.’ She felt their collective eyes on her awaiting an explanation. ‘It’s the blood, OK. It’s just the blood.’

  Even saying the word was making her feel woozy. And she was studiously avoiding looking at the sticky red substance splattered across the tabletop in front of her.

  She said, ‘But Neil’s right, Val, we need to get you checked out at a hospital.’

  Val protested, ‘Rubbish, I’ll be fine. Can’t you just give me the once-over, Jo? I’ve got to pick the kids up from school.’

  Jo said, ‘Don’t worry about the kids, we’ll sort something out. And I’m strictly bones only. I wouldn’t even want me treating me. Besides, you’ve just seen what happened. I’d probably hit the deck again if I tried.’

  Val’s chuckle was cut short by a wince.

  Thrusting his hand into his pocket, Neil flung Malcolm his car keys. ‘Can you bring my car round, Malc, while I finish bandaging Val’s head?’

  Malc nodded and was out through the door almost before Neil had finished the sentence.

  Jo watched as Neil expertly cocooned Val’s head in swathes of bandage. ‘Did you see what happened, Neil?’

  Neil shook his head. ‘I didn’t, but it’s pretty clear what did the damage.’ He inclined his head towards the corner of the office where a large red brick lay on the glass-strewn lino with what appeared to be a piece of brown paper wrapped round it.

  Neil said, ‘Have a word with Malc. He reckons he saw someone chuck it. He was on his way down here when it happened.’

  ‘But why would anyone do it?’ Jo nodded towards the brick. ‘That thing could have killed one of us.’

  Neil glanced down at Val and hesitated before replying. ‘It’s like I told Clare, we need to get done and dusted here. It’s dangerous working at Bailsgrove.’

  Jo said, ‘Do you think it’s Marshall? He wants us gone.’

  Neil said, ‘Maybe, but there were threats before. When we were digging here with Beth.’

  Val cut in, ‘It’s true, Jo. I found a note shoved under the office door when I opened up one morning telling us to clear out or face the wrath of the old souls. And someone trashed the Portaloos. That wasn’t a pretty sight, let me tell you.’

  Jo stood with her mouth open. ‘Why didn’t anyone tell the police?’

  Neil said, ‘We did. But they just thought it was local louts mucking about.’

  ‘Jeez, why did any of you guys agree to come back here?’

  Val looked up at her. ‘Simple. There are no jobs in archaeology out there. We needed the money.’

  Malcolm poked his head through the door to announce that the car was ready, and Val was duly clucked and fussed over as she was loaded gently, but still protesting, into Neil’s car.

  Returning to the site office, Malc and Jo flopped down into the chairs.

  Malcolm said, ‘I’ll kill the bastard if I get my hands on them.’

  ‘I get where you’re coming from, Malc, but that’s not gonna help anyone.’

  Malcolm growled, ‘Maybe not, but it’d make me feel a hell of a lot better.’

  ‘Neil was saying you saw what happened.’

  Malcolm nodded. ‘Yeah, I was just on my way down to get some more finds bags when I saw it. They were hanging round outside the gate for a bit. At first I thought they’d maybe lost their dog or something. Then they just ran round to the front of the office and lobbed that thing’ – he nodded towards the corner – ‘in through the window. After, they legged it.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

  ‘Not close up. They were wearing a waxed jacket and a big floppy hat with the brim pulled down.’ After a moment’s pause, Malcolm added, ‘Bit like that hoity-toity piece who came round shouting the odds at Clare.’

  Was it possible? Had it really been Sheila Foggarty? The description could have fitted half of the middle-class inhabitants of Gloucestershire. But she was the only one who’d already picked a fight with them.

  It had been one hell of a day and after what had happened none of them felt like wielding a trowel. As soon as they’d swept away the shattered glass and boarded up the broken window, Jo had told the team to pack up and go home. They’d all agreed readily enough, except Malcolm, who in a somewhat unexpected display of chivalry had insisted on hanging around until Jo had left site too. An offer she was only too grateful to accept, and in recompense for which she’d promised him a lift home.

  To which end Malcolm now sat waiting in her VW campervan while she gathered her kit together. Alone in the office, she picked up the brick from the shelf where it had been safely stowed.

  She’d called the police the moment Val had been dispatched to hospital. But as soon as they’d established no one had been seriously hurt, and despite Jo’s protestations that they couldn’t be sure until Val’s head injury had been assessed, they seemed to be remarkably uninterested in the afternoon’s events. There wasn’t even a perceptible increase in interest when Jo had insisted on telling them that a member of staff had thought they recognised the perpetrator and given them Sheila Foggarty’s name.

  The voice on the end of the phone had dutifully issued Jo with a crime reference number – ‘You’ll need it for your insurance claim.’ But when Jo had asked when they’d be sending someone round and should she wait to clear up, she’d been told to go ahead and make the place secure – they’d email details of the officer who’d been assigned in due course.

  Jo got the distinct impression they weren’t likely to receive a visitation from the police any time soon. But, even if they weren’t interested, she wanted to know what was on that piece of brown paper. She placed the brick on the desk and slipped the brown paper carefully out from under the string. There were large red blotches of what looked like marker pen bleeding through from the other side. She turned the paper over to see just two words scrawled across its reverse: ‘GET OUT!’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Clare turned towards Margaret. ‘Well, when I called you and you said you’d meet me in the Pitt Rivers Museum, I didn’t realise that we’d have company.’

  The two women were standing alone in front of a glass case displaying a collection of shrunken human heads – or, as the label called them, tsantsas – which apparently originated on the border between Ecuador and Peru. Clare had called ahead to arrange to see Margaret on her way back to Bailsgrove. She was in need of a clear head and some dispassionate advice, two things she knew she could always rely on Margaret to provide.

  Margaret stood motionless, seemingly entranced by the contents of the cabinet. ‘Strictly speaking, company no longer. After the heads had been taken in battle, the tribesmen would treat them to preserve them then perform a ritual to incorporate the soul of the dead warrior into their own kin groups. The idea was to capture the strength of their enemies. Once the ceremony was over the heads themselves would be discarded. Or, as almost certainly happened in the case of these chaps, trad
ed to some poor unsuspecting white fellow who thought they still had some element of meaning attached to them. Fascinating, aren’t they? I’m considering writing a paper on the comparison between these practices and head hunting in Iron Age societies.’ She turned towards Clare. ‘Now what can I do for you? I trust your weekend away went well. You certainly look better for it. Where did you go, by the way?’

  Clare said, ‘The Peak District.’

  ‘Any reason for that particular choice of location?’ Margaret smiled. ‘It’s where David grew up, you know.’

  Clare mustered a fixed smile in response. ‘I do know. But that’s not why I went there.’

  Margaret said, ‘Oh,’ in a tone that suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by Clare’s denial.

  Clare cleared her throat. ‘No. I went there to visit Wrackley Cop.’

  ‘Wasn’t that the hill fort that Beth excavated?’

  Clare nodded. ‘That’s right. I wanted to try to get a better understanding of the way Beth’s mind worked.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to David again. “Places make people and people make places.”’

  ‘No,’ Clare said, just a little too defensively. ‘Or at least, not entirely. I do have a mind of my own you know, Margaret.’

  ‘I know you do, my dear. I’m only teasing. And as it happens it’s an aphorism that I have a great deal of sympathy with – although it’s not the whole story, of course. But the important thing is, did it help?’

  ‘I think it did. And I met Clive Painter too. He drew a somewhat more sympathetic picture of Beth than Stuart Craig had. Did you know she spent years caring for her father, virtually single-handed?’

  ‘No. I had no idea. But then I really didn’t know her that well.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s not why I asked to see you, Margaret. I wanted to ask you what you made of this.’ Clare withdrew the folded sheets of A4 from her bag and handed them to Margaret.