The Lost Shrine Read online

  He nodded. ‘Up in the Peak District. Without Beth I’d never have got into this game in the first place.’

  ‘She sounds inspiring.’

  ‘She was. She was so passionate about everything – like it really mattered to her. Like it was personal. Maybe in the end that was the problem.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  He raised his eyes towards the ceiling, avoiding her gaze. ‘Look, I’m not sure—’

  ‘Neil, I’m not here to judge anyone. I just want to know what we’ve got ourselves into here. Was there something Beth was involved in that I should know about?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. It’s just that Beth was so soaked in the world of the Celts and the Iron Age that she took things a bit far sometimes.’

  ‘You mean she was making it up.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have seen it like that. She would have said everyone else wasn’t reading the evidence right. She was convinced this place was the site of an Iron Age shrine.’

  ‘Wow, she genuinely thought it was a temple! Marshall told me she did, but I thought he was having me on.’

  ‘Well, it would have been “wow” if there’d been a scrap of evidence to support it. But the less we found, the more convinced Beth was that she was in the right place. She’d found some reference in a journal article from 1800 and God knows when to a Latin inscription that was turfed up around here somewhere. She reckoned it proved the place had been a sacred site before the Romans arrived. After that everything we found just made her more convinced she was right.’

  ‘It must have made her difficult to work with.’

  ‘I never had any complaints. It wasn’t as if she asked us to tamper with the records or anything. But not everyone thought like me.’

  ‘Did some of the rest of the team have a problem with her?’

  ‘Not here – our lot all loved her. She wasn’t like some site directors; she’d get stuck in with the rest of us. But …’

  He hesitated.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure exactly what went on, but I don’t think she left Sheffield by choice.’

  ‘You mean the university sacked her.’

  ‘Look, like I say I don’t know all of the facts, but she ended up running a tinpot commercial dig in the middle of nowhere when she’d spent most of her career pulling in massive research grants and shaking hands with vice-chancellors. I bumped into Stuart Craig a few months back at a conference. He wouldn’t say exactly what had gone on, but he reckoned the way Beth had acted had made things very difficult for the department.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. He’s a lecturer at Sheffield, isn’t he?’

  He nodded. ‘He was. He was a junior lecturer when I was an undergrad. Good bloke. He seemed really cut up about what happened and I didn’t like to push him. But I can’t blame him. He was more than just Beth’s colleague. They’d been an item for years before she got the push. So it can’t have helped his career much. And Beth seemed to blame him for what happened – that’s why they split. But he’s done really well for himself since. They promoted him to reader after she left. And now he’s landed a job as head of department at Bristol.’

  Clare said, ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, Neil, given how close you were to Beth, but is there any way you’d consider coming back and working for me here on the dig? I could really do with someone who knows the area – and the site. I’m not sure exactly what Beth was paying you, but we could offer you the going rate with a bit on top for fuel for the car journey.’

  He grimaced. ‘I’d like to say yes.’

  A sudden thought struck her. ‘If getting your car fixed is all that’s stopping you from saying yes, don’t let that stop you. I’ll sub you the money.’

  ‘I might not be able to pay it back all at once.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll work something out. What do you say?’

  He hesitated for a second before smiling and sticking out a hand. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

  Clare nearly shook his hand off. ‘Thank you so much, Neil. I really appreciate it.’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t have to thank me. I could do with the money. And I figure the least I can do is finish the job I started.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘You know, Clare, I never met anyone who didn’t have time for Beth. She was so committed. Put her heart and soul into everything she did. But she was her own worst enemy. She made it very difficult for people sometimes. Towards the end it wasn’t commitment, it was obsession. She just wouldn’t let go.’

  ‘Thanks for coming over, Margaret, I really appreciate it.’ Clare handed Margaret a mug of tea.

  David thought the least Clare could do was thank him too, particularly as he’d driven all the way up from Salisbury after back-to-back tutorials. And he’d had to persuade a colleague to cover his afternoon lecture – for which a large favour would no doubt be extracted at a later date. But for once he managed to hold his tongue. The three of them were jammed into the grandly named but microscopically proportioned welfare unit. In truth it was little more than a miniature Portakabin with a sink, fridge, microwave and the tiniest table David had ever seen, behind which he was now jammed with Clare and Professor Margaret Bockford seated either side of him.

  Margaret, sporting her familiar site attire of baggy green cardigan and purple Doc Martens, peered over the top of her spectacles and offered a beatific smile. ‘Not at all. It’s lovely to have an excuse to come and see you both. It’s only a short hop from Oxford. But what is this all about?’

  ‘And why the hurry?’ David asked.

  Clare offered an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about that. The dig team are due on-site tomorrow and there’s a couple of things I really needed to discuss with you both before we start digging.’

  David couldn’t disguise his surprise. ‘I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d manage to pull a team together this fast.’

  ‘It wasn’t too difficult once I’d got Neil Fuller on board. It didn’t take him long to persuade most of Beth’s old crew that they should come back to site.’

  David asked, ‘How’d you manage that? Jo seemed to think Fuller was still a bit wibbly about it all when I spoke to her a couple of days ago.’

  Margaret glared reprovingly at David over her spectacles. ‘I think we’d all be somewhat “wibbly” if we’d been on-site when our much-respected director’s body was found hanging not two minutes from where we were working, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘Margaret’s got a point, David. And once I met Neil it was pretty obvious his reluctance had as much to do with his car being off the road as anything else. So I subbed him the cost of a new exhaust and he was good to go.’

  ‘Christ, Clare, we’re not a charity. We’re almost broke as it is.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I knew what you’d say so I paid for it out of my own pocket. And it was worth every penny – Neil’s been brilliant. Without him we wouldn’t have a team.’

  David raised a hand in a gesture of surrender. He knew when he was beaten. ‘Fair enough. I’ll take your word for it.’

  He glanced down at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Sal back at her place in Devizes at seven and at this rate he’d be hard-pressed to make it.

  Clare took the hint. She opened up her laptop. After a couple of taps of the keys she positioned it so both he and Margaret could see the screen. In front of them was a fuzzy grey image with a selection of ill-defined, slightly darker splodges splattered across its surface.

  He said, ‘I can see it’s a magnetometer survey, but what’s it meant to be of?’

  ‘It’s the site. According to Neil, Beth was convinced there was an Iron Age shrine here somewhere.’

  David let out a long, low sigh. Iron Age shrines were as rare as hen’s teeth and normally the prospect of digging one would have made his year. But right now what they needed to do was to get in, dig the site and get out again. The last thing they needed was something that would take months to dig and be a b
loody nightmare to keep a lid on. It was so good to see Clare excited by something again. The last couple of years since Stephen’s death had been tough on her. But he couldn’t afford for her to get carried away on some wild goose chase looking for a long-lost Iron Age temple.

  To his relief Clare sounded matter-of-fact. ‘The trenches that are open at the moment were positioned to see what this is.’ She pointed at one of the darker splodges that seemed to be a little longer than the others. ‘What do you make of it?’

  He scoffed. ‘I think she must have had bloody good eyesight!’

  Margaret removed her glasses and peered at the image in front of them. ‘Maybe. But I’m not so sure, David. There might be something there. Do you see?’ She pointed a finger at an elongated dark splodge running close to one side of the image.

  Clare said, ‘And now you see why I needed to speak to you. But there’s something else. Neil told me that Beth had found a journal article that she reckoned proved this place was a shrine site well before the Romans arrived. So I had a look through her site diaries and found a reference to this.’

  With a few more strokes of the keys a scanned image of a journal article appeared in front of them. From the typeface it was obviously of some antiquity.

  David asked, ‘What’s this from?’

  Clare said, ‘The Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society for 1877.’

  In the middle of the page was a line drawing of what appeared to be one half of a slab of stone with parts of an inscription on it. It was obvious that the other half must have contained more of the text.

  Margaret leant forward. ‘Now that is interesting.’

  David asked, ‘Where was it found?’

  ‘Difficult to say for sure. According to this account it was “happened upon in the garden of Bailsgrove vicarage” when the new vicar took over the living. But the story he had from the housekeeper was that the previous incumbent had found it “somewhere near the foot of Bailsgrove hill”.’

  David said, ‘Thoroughly reliable source, then.’

  Margaret said, ‘You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss these old accounts, David. There’s often more than a grain of truth in them.’

  Clare said, ‘That’s all very well. But what do you make of the inscription on it? I don’t read Latin.’

  David said, ‘It looks like a dedication to Mercury.’

  ‘But Mercury was a Roman deity.’ Clare sounded almost deflated. ‘Beth was wrong, then.’

  Margaret shook her head, ‘Not necessarily. The Romans had a habit of twinning their gods with those of the native Brits. You know Bath was originally called Aquae Sulis.’ Clare nodded. ‘Well, Sulis was a local water deity, but in the temple they built at the spring site, the Romans worshipped her as Sulis Minerva.’

  Clare said, ‘A sort of Romano-British mash-up.’

  Margaret said, ‘If you like.’

  David said, ‘Some might call it identity theft.’

  In his opinion the Romans were much overrated and the best thing they ever did was bugger off home. It was just a shame that it had taken them four hundred years to do it.

  Margaret was obviously of a different mind. She turned towards Clare, studiously ignoring his remark. ‘The thing is, Mercury is one of the gods that is frequently twinned with local deities. In his case it’s often Lugh, the native sky god.’

  ‘So, Beth might have been on to something.’

  Margaret said, ‘It’s possible.’

  David said, ‘Oh, come on. It’s hardly proven beyond doubt, is it? We don’t know for sure that thing’ – he jabbed his finger at the drawing – ‘actually came from anywhere near Bailsgrove, let alone this site. And even if it did and there was an Iron Age shrine somewhere near Bailsgrove, there’s no hard evidence to suggest it was here.’

  Margaret cast him a withering look. ‘It’s always wise to keep an open mind about these things. And there’s only one way we’re going to find out. Clare here needs to get on and dig it.’

  ‘Well, that at least we can all agree on.’

  As David stepped down from the welfare unit, Margaret placed a hand on his shoulder and leant down to whisper in his ear. He was expecting a lecture on his attitude to Romano-British relations, but instead Margaret’s concerns were somewhat more grounded in the present. ‘I do hope you’re not intending to let Clare pay for that exhaust, David. You know she’s not as financially well-placed as either of us. If you don’t reimburse her, I will.’

  He could feel himself flush from head to toe. He’d never even considered the fact that since Stephen’s death Clare had been struggling financially.

  Once they were out of earshot of Clare, he turned to face Margaret and took her hand in his. ‘Don’t worry, Margaret. I’ll look after her.’

  ‘You just see you do, Dr Barbrook.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The wall was moving. At least that’s what it felt like to Jack Tyler as he slithered down it. He hit the pavement with a bump and sat, legs splayed out across the alleyway, head lolling forward against his chest.

  He hadn’t been as wrecked as this in he couldn’t remember how long. But right at the moment he couldn’t remember much. It had been a good night. That much he knew. He’d bumped into an old mate who’d stood him a few pints. The only stroke of luck he’d had in a very long time.

  He let out a belch. There was no way he was going to be sick. He always felt like shit the next day when he threw up. With a huge force of will he lifted his head up, gulped in air and hiccupped. And in so doing cracked the back of his skull against the solid Victorian brickwork behind him.

  Lifting his hand to rub the back of his head, he succeeded only in grazing his knuckles on the masonry. ‘Shit.’

  He slumped down, closing his eyes, resigning himself to a night sleeping it off in the alley. As he drifted towards semi-consciousness he was vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching. The adrenalin surge was enough to shoot him bolt upright and, bracing himself against the wall, he managed to clamber into a standing position.

  Peering at the half-hidden figure in the shadow cast by the street lamp, he brandished the bottle of WKD he’d been clutching, splattering his trainers with the last dregs of its contents in the process. ‘You can keep your hands off my wallet, you bassshtard …’

  ‘No need for that, Jack.’

  The voice was familiar. Who was it? The harder he tried to squeeze his eyeballs into focus, the blurrier the figure became. Mesmerised by the hypnotic motion of his own shadow swaying back and forth in the phosphorescent glow of the street light he tried, without success, to steady himself. Who did that voice belong to?

  The figure lunged towards him. But before he could do anything he felt an arm being slipped around his waist, then his own arm being lifted upwards and draped around a pair of bony shoulders. His every instinct was to resist, but his head was spinning and it was all he could do to stop himself from throwing up.

  ‘Come on, my ol’ lover, you’re in a right state. Let’s get you home.’

  Jack opened his eyes and looked up to see the familiar yellow stain on the ceiling above him. He wasn’t sure how he’d got here, but he was lying on the settee in the living room of his flat. He ran his tongue around his mouth. It felt like someone had taken sandpaper to it. A near empty glass of water and an open box of paracetamol were sitting on the coffee table. He touched his hand gingerly to the back of his head and felt a lump the size of an egg. He had a vague memory of cracking it against something hard. He sat up cautiously, his head banging fit to burst. The bowl from the kitchen sink was lying on the floor next to the sofa. A sudden whiff of its contents made him scramble over the end of the sofa and dive for the toilet.

  He was still kneeling in front of it with his head down the pan when the doorbell went. He tried to ignore it, but they weren’t giving up. He hauled himself to his feet and turned on the cold tap, splashing his face with water, then shoving his mouth under it and gratefully gul
ping down the cooling liquid. The bell rang again.

  ‘Keep your hair on.’ He grabbed a towel, rubbing it across his mouth before dragging his unwilling carcass back into the living room.

  He opened the front door just as his visitor started hammering on the other side.

  They stopped mid-knock. ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune. You were the one who wanted to talk to me last time, remember? Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

  Jack gestured for his visitor to sit. ‘Does this mean you’ve been thinking about what I said?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe his luck really was changing. ‘Look, I don’t know about you, but I could murder a tea.’

  ‘Not for me. But you go ahead. I can see why you’d be in need of one.’ The visitor pointed towards the bowl. ‘You never could hold your drink.’

  Ignoring the comment, Jack made his way into the kitchen. As much as he welcomed the change of mind, he could do without the crap that went with it. He flicked on the kettle, grabbed a mug from the worktop and swilled it out under the tap. However shit he might feel right now, he needed to get his head together. He had to make sure he played this right – it might be his only chance. He dredged his memory. What exactly had he said last time they’d met? He stirred the tea bag, trying to make some sort of order of his thoughts.

  He sniffed at the milk carton, splashed some into his mug and, still trying to replay the scene in his head, headed towards the living room. Stepping through the door he looked up, momentarily confused. Where was his visitor?

  He sensed rather than saw the movement behind him. And then came the crashing blow that propelled his scalding mug of tea across the living room carpet and him into oblivion.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Let’s take a look at that, Malcolm.’ Malcolm stood aside and Clare stepped into the trench. Kneeling down, she examined the shallow hole in front of her. As she deftly scraped her trowel through the soft, dark earth she was sure she could feel Malcolm’s eyes boring into her back. He seemed a decent sort of bloke. But he was a hardened digger, with over two decades’ experience on commercial dig sites. And here she was in charge of him, and twenty of his equally experienced colleagues. She remembered reading an article somewhere about impostor syndrome and now she began to understand what it felt like.