The Lost Shrine Page 2

  But she’d made the offer on the house before she’d discovered quite what a precarious financial situation the Hart Unit was in. If the institute folded, she’d be out of a job and she could kiss goodbye to her dreams of a new home and the next steps in her new life. The vendors had been prevaricating for weeks. It was clear that they wanted more money than she could feasibly offer, but she’d left the offer on the table and it would seem they hadn’t had as much interest as they’d hoped. As she’d pointed out to them, the whole place needed gutting. They’d inherited it from their elderly mother, and it was patently obvious that there’d been little or no work done to it since she’d moved in – which, judging from the swirling carpets and avocado bathroom suite, had been some time in the 1970s.

  Then finally this morning she’d had a call from the estate agent. The vendors had accepted her offer. So all she needed to do now was to keep the Hart Unit afloat. And she was determined to do just that – whatever it took.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A deep, musty smell like rotting leaves pervaded the atmosphere in the Portakabin. It had been locked and off limits for over a month. Clare had finally managed to persuade the hire company to hand over the keys, but only on condition that they took over the contract at what seemed to her an exorbitant price. And that certainly wasn’t going to help the unit’s precarious financial position. But the truth was they were between a rock and a hard place.

  She ran her hand across the torn fabric on the back of the swivel chair.

  David said, ‘Go on, try it for size.’

  Clare shook her head. The chair had belonged to Beth Kinsella.

  ‘Surely you’re not worried about directing the fieldwork on your own, are you? I’d have taken it on myself if I had the time. But the Runt has been piling on my teaching commitments this year. You’re perfectly capable and, besides, you’ll have Jo with you a lot of the time. And you know you can always call on Margaret if you need advice.’

  Clare knew that the Runt, aka Professor Donald Muir, head of the archaeology department at the University of Salisbury, had, as usual, been doing his very best to make David’s life as much of a misery as possible. And she had no desire to add to his woes.

  David was right, of course. With Californian human bone specialist Jo Granski at her side, she’d not only be working with one of the best in the business but a friend she’d grown to know and trust over the last couple of years. Jo and Margaret between them had seen her through some tough times since they’d first met at Hungerbourne. But somehow despite all that, now that she was actually here, she really wasn’t sure she was comfortable with taking the Bailsgrove job on.

  ‘It’s not that.’

  David looked exasperated. ‘Well, what then?’

  She hesitated. ‘This is going to sound daft. But it feels like I’m standing in a dead woman’s shoes.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You were the one that insisted we take this job. If you were going to get the collywobbles about it, you should have done it before we signed the contract with the developer.’

  She didn’t need any reminding of the fact. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time. The only thing. And logically she knew that neither she nor the Hart Unit had any choice. But right now, standing here in Beth’s site office just a few yards from where her body was found, she wasn’t so sure. David, on the other hand, no longer seemed to have any doubts about their decision. But then he wasn’t the one who’d actually have to be on-site every day.

  Clare raised her hand in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Just ignore me, David. Like you say, it’s probably just nerves. I’ll be fine.’

  He plucked a black plastic seed tray from the wooden shelving at the rear of the Portakabin and started rummaging distractedly through an assortment of pottery fragments, before returning them to the place where he’d found them. ‘At least we could get in. I was half afraid the police were going to have it all taped off as some sort of crime scene.’

  ‘Mark was very helpful.’

  ‘Mark?’

  ‘DCI Stone.’

  David smiled knowingly.

  She flashed a warning look at him. ‘Don’t start.’ David didn’t have the least interest in her love life. It was a distraction tactic and she knew it. Well, two could play at that game.

  ‘Any luck contacting Beth’s excavation team? We’ll need to go through all of her records with someone who’s worked on the site. We need to be sure everything is here.’

  He shook his head. ‘I thought I’d leave that to you – you’re going to be the one that has to work with them. Maybe you could have a word with Mark to see if he’s got any of their contact details.’

  ‘OK. We need to get a move on. I’ve already had the developer on the phone asking when we’re going to be through.’

  ‘Paul Marshall.’

  Clare nodded.

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Judging by the monotonous regularity of the voicemail messages he’s left, impatient.’

  ‘That doesn’t bode well,’ David said sombrely.

  ‘I know it’s not ideal. But you can’t blame him. This business with Beth has put him weeks behind schedule. And the way things are at the moment that could be enough to put a developer out of business. He must be pretty desperate. After all, who’s going to want to buy a house built on a site that’s been splashed all over the red tops as the scene of some bizarre suicide?’

  ‘Well, if he’s that desperate for work we’re his best bet of recovering his investment. So he’ll have to cut us a bit of slack.’

  Clare raised her finger to her lips. ‘Ssh!’

  A low humming sound drifted through the open door.

  ‘What?’

  The hum grew louder, rising and falling with a rhythmic insistence. David made his way to the doorway. Clare followed, standing on tiptoe so that she could peer over his shoulder. The noise was coming from a spot about a hundred metres uphill from where their newly acquired office was located. A broadly built man with greying tufts of unruly hair protruding from beneath a battered blue baseball cap was standing with his back to them, facing the stand of beech trees at the top of the hill. Above his head he twirled a length of rope on the end of which was a flat slat of wood about a foot long from which the whirring sound appeared to be emanating.

  Clare whispered to David, ‘What the …?’

  David gave her one of his self-satisfied smiles. ‘It’s a bullroarer. Indigenous Australians and some Melanesian peoples use them in their ceremonies.’

  Clare dug David in the ribs.

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’

  Trying to keep an even tone, she whispered, ‘I know what it is. But why is there a man in a white sheet waving one about on our site?’

  David coughed and flushed uncomfortably. ‘Dunno. Let’s ask him, shall we?’

  Clare caught him by the arm as he was about to step down from the Portakabin. ‘We can’t just walk up and demand to know what he’s doing.’

  David turned and looked up at her. ‘Why the bloody hell not? It’s our excavation. We’ve got every right to know what he’s up to.’

  ‘What if he’s performing a ceremony or something. It just seems’ – she struggled to find the right word – ‘rude.’

  But it was too late; David was already marching upslope towards the man. Halfway up the hill he turned and beckoned for her to follow him. ‘Don’t be soft. Get up here!’

  Hearing David’s words, the figure in the white sheet turned to face them, bringing the bullroarer slowly to rest in a series of low arcs.

  Lowering her head to avoid the possibility of having to meet the stranger’s eyes, Clare muttered, ‘Give me strength!’ and trotted uphill to join David. She caught up with him just as he reached the stranger.

  David said, ‘Afternoon.’

  The man looked the pair of them up and down. Then in a deep baritone said, ‘Blessed be!’

  For once David seemed lost for words. Clare smil
ed, stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘Hello.’

  The stranger, whose hands were fully laden with the bullroarer, lifted it towards her in an apologetic gesture and, inclining his head to one side, gave a slight bow. ‘Greetings, my lady.’

  David stood beside her, immobile. His broad, fixed smile was quite evidently, to Clare at least, a mask adopted to stop him from laughing. She shot him a warning glance, willing him to succeed.

  For some inexplicable reason she found herself offering a small bow in return. ‘I’m Clare.’

  She dug David in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘Dr David Barbrook.’ She glared at him. ‘David.’

  The stranger, whom Clare now noticed was sporting black leather biker’s trousers beneath his knee-length white tunic, smiled. ‘Wayne Crabbs. But most folks call me Crabby.’ He nodded in the direction of the open Portakabin door. ‘Surprised they’ve still got you lot raking over Beth’s ashes. From what I heard I thought the coppers had long since made their minds up about what happened.’

  David hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No, I’m not that sort of doctor. We’re archaeologists. We’re here to take over the excavation.’

  Crabby narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re going to be carrying on with the dig?’

  David was unable to suppress the note of suspicion in his voice. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You wanna go careful, then.’

  Clare glanced nervously at David.

  Crabby nodded in the direction of the copse at the top of the hill. ‘It’s none too healthy round ’ere for the likes of you.’

  Recognising the familiar signs of rising tension in David, Clare decided to step in before he said something he, or at least she, might regret. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough if you hang around.’

  David took a step towards Crabby. ‘Is that meant to be some sort of a threat?’

  The older man swung the bullroarer in an arc and for a moment Clare thought that he was going to take a swipe at David with it. But instead he deposited it with pinpoint accuracy in a heap a few feet from where they stood. He stepped towards David, placed his hands on David’s upper arms and smiled. ‘Friend, it’s half a lifetime since I threatened a man.’ He looked sideways and winked at Clare. ‘And I’m not sure I was too convincing even back then.’

  David stiffened, and Crabby removed his hands and took a step back.

  For a moment the two men just looked.

  It was Clare that broke the silence. ‘You knew Beth.’

  Crabby nodded. ‘As well as anyone round here. Better than most.’

  Clare asked, ‘Didn’t she mix much with the locals?’

  ‘More a case of most of ’em didn’t want to mix with her.’

  David seemed to perk up at this information. ‘Oh, why was that?’

  Crabby sniffed. ‘That’s obvious, ain’t it?’

  David looked perplexed. ‘Not to me, it’s not.’

  ‘It’s the houses. They don’t want ’em.’

  ‘Who don’t?’ Clare said.

  ‘That lot.’ He pointed in the direction of the village that lay far below them at the foot of the hill.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not posh enough for ’em. Bunch of snobs the lot of ’em. It’s alright for them to live in their fancy mansions. But woe betide any of us who’ve got the nerve to want to live where we was born. Time was the kids round here could move into one of the cottages or get a job on the land and a tied house that went with it. Not these days – they’re all holiday cottages or second homes for city types.’

  David said, ‘And some of the city types object to the houses.’

  ‘What planet do you people live on? Course they do.’

  Clare’s heart sank. She’d been worried enough already about stepping into Beth’s shoes. But now it looked as if those shoes were none too comfortable. She was already beginning to regret persuading David to take this job and they hadn’t even stuck a trowel in the ground yet.

  As site offices went, this one was a bloody mess. Clare stood alone in the Portakabin surveying her new domain. Aside from her and David, the only people who’d been in here in the last month were the police. And either Beth Kinsella was the crazy woman that David seemed to think she was or the Gloucestershire police were less than particular about the state in which they left their crime scenes. Open box files containing the completed context sheets that would tell them what every layer, pit and post hole on the site were lay strewn across the trestle tables that served as desks. And a seemingly random assortment of seed trays and plastic boxes that had been pressed into service to dry the finds on were teetering at unlikely angles on the wooden shelving that lined the walls. It looked as if the place had been burgled.

  If this was Beth Kinsella’s idea of how to run a dig, they were going to have an even more difficult job on their hands than she’d thought. And to cap it all she didn’t even have any staff yet to help her sort it out. They’d picked up the job so fast there hadn’t been time to recruit anyone, and given the reason Beth’s dig had come to such an abrupt halt, Clare suspected it wasn’t going to be easy to pull a team together.

  She puffed out her cheeks. One thing at a time, Clare. Before she could even begin to contemplate trying to hire anyone she needed to get the site office into some sort of order. Then she might have a better idea of what the real size of the task was. Focusing her attention first on the thick layer of dried mud that carpeted the floor, she searched in vain for a broom. In the end she found a brush and hand shovel in the back of the tool shed, and a floor cloth and bucket from beneath the sink of the euphemistically named ‘comfort unit’. But it took her the best part of an hour – and the application of a not insignificant amount of elbow grease to remove the worst of the muck from the tattered lino. She’d spent the rest of the morning rehousing the record sheets into their respective box files and ring binders, then bagging up all the bits of bone, pot and metalwork and filing them neatly into several trays that now lay on the desk in front of her.

  Feeling distinctly pleased with her efforts she settled down to reward herself with lunch in the shape of a somewhat unappetising egg and tomato sandwich purchased from a petrol station on the interminable journey to site from her flat in Salisbury. She’d just taken her first bite when she heard a car pull up outside. Reluctantly shoving her sandwich back into its packet, she stood up. But before she could get as far as the door it flew open, clattering back against the flimsy Portakabin wall. A burly, ruddy-cheeked man in his mid-fifties thrust himself into the Portakabin.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You can if you’re able to tell me where I’ll find Clare Hills.’

  She had no idea who he was, but she’d already decided she wasn’t warming to him. ‘You’re speaking to her.’

  He looked her up and down, as if weighing up a slightly unsatisfactory purchase. ‘You! Christ, are your lot all cut from the same cloth?’

  Clare could feel her face flush. ‘Look, I’m not sure who you are, but maybe you should start by telling me what business you’ve got charging in here like this.’

  ‘I’m the bloke who’s paying your wages, love.’

  ‘You’re Paul Marshall?’ She’d thought the voice sounded familiar and now she knew why.

  ‘That’s right. And this is my development. So I’d like to know why exactly you’re sitting on your arse doing sweet Fanny Adams when you should be out there digging.’

  ‘I appreciate your desire to get on with the job, Mr Marshall, but we’ve only just taken possession of the Portakabins.’

  ‘Not my problem, love. You’re being paid to do a job. Time is money. Sodding archaeologists have already cost me a bloody fortune, and I’ve had police and journos crawling all over this place because of that mad cow.’ He waved his hands vaguely in the direction of the copse.

  Clare was so stunned that for a moment she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. ‘Y
ou mean Dr Kinsella.’

  ‘That’s right. Mad as a box of sodding frogs. Trying to convince anyone that would listen that this place was some sort of bloody temple or some such. Bailsgrove a temple! Load of total bollocks. That never bothers the press, though, does it?’

  ‘Well, I grant you Dr Kinsella’s investigations were at an early stage, but we really don’t know what we might find here as yet.’

  He took a step closer to her and Clare instinctively took a step back. ‘Listen, don’t go getting any bloody ideas. That mad bitch topping herself has put this development back months. I’m paying you to be in and out of here like that’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘and you’d best make sure you are or you won’t get a penny out of me, not a sodding penny.’

  Clare’s every impulse was to tell him to take his job and shove it, but she was only too well aware that the contract with Marshall Construction was the only thing that gave the institute half a chance of staying afloat. She took in a deep breath before replying, ‘I do understand your concerns, Mr Marshall. The institute is always very mindful of the need for efficiency on commercial developments.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. But talk is cheap. I can’t see anyone out there with buckets and spades. Doesn’t look much like you’re doing anything about it to me.’

  ‘Well, no. Because of the urgency of getting things rolling here, we wanted to get access to site as soon as we could, but that’s meant we haven’t had time to pull our additional team members together yet. We’d like to keep as many of the team as local as possible.’ Marshall glowered at her. ‘It will save time in the long run.’