The Lost Shrine Page 7

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Professor Margaret Bockford cursed under her breath. An unexpected knock on her office door was rarely a welcome occurrence. What in heaven’s name is Emma thinking of? Her assistant was normally far too efficient to allow unexpected intruders to elude her. Once intercepted, if it was a day for receiving visitors, their presence was invariably announced via the telephone. And today, as Margaret had made Emma aware, was most definitely not a day for visitors. She had been grappling with the journal article she was writing for the best part of a month and the deadline for submission was tomorrow. Why on earth had she allowed herself to be badgered into writing the wretched thing in the first place?

  She let out a deep sigh and pulled herself upright in her chair. ‘Come!’

  The heavy wooden door swung open to reveal a familiar figure. ‘Hello, Margaret.’

  A broad smile spread across Margaret’s face. ‘Clare. This is an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Sorry to drop in unannounced. Emma told me you were busy, but I managed to persuade her I wouldn’t take up too much of your time.’

  Margaret closed her laptop, stood up and navigated her way round to the other side of her heavy wooden desk to greet Clare with a kiss. ‘That’s because Emma knows very well that you’re one of the few people whose presence I welcome at any time.’ And, she could have added, it was something of a relief to see her. Particularly since David had phoned last week to ask her to drop by the Bailsgrove dig to keep an eye on things. Something that, thanks to this benighted article, she had singularly failed to do. ‘Now tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘I was hoping I might be able to pick your brains.’

  ‘Nothing too technical, I hope. I’ve been trying to write a paper on socio-economic relations between the Roman military and the native British population in the first century AD for the best part of a month and I’m beginning to fear the well has run dry.’

  ‘You’re safe with me, then. I was wondering if you could give me a little bit of background on Beth Kinsella.’

  ‘Now that I can manage.’ She gestured towards the door. ‘I could do with some air. Shall we take a turn around the quad?’

  There was something about the quality of the light as it caressed the honeyed limestone of Breakspear College’s quad that Margaret had always found calming, even in the most trying of circumstances. And today the Oxford college where she’d spent almost her entire academic career was showing itself to best advantage. She guided Clare to a wooden bench on the far side of the immaculately tended grass square.

  Clare inhaled deeply. ‘It’s beautiful here, Margaret. So tranquil.’

  ‘Don’t let appearances deceive you, Clare. Underneath its serene exterior this place is a snake pit.’ She laughed. ‘But there’s no denying I do love it. Now what exactly did you want to know about Beth?’

  ‘Picking up her excavations where she left off is proving to be trickier than I’d anticipated. I’m beginning to wonder how much reliance I can place on her records. What was she like?’

  Margaret sat, hands folded neatly in her lap, considering for a moment. ‘If I had to sum Beth Kinsella up in one word I think it would be intense.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for a start, from the very first time I met her when she was a doctoral student it was obvious she was unflinchingly focused on her research.’

  Clare looked at her quizzically. ‘Aren’t all research students focused on their research?’

  Margaret laughed. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised. There are a good many who are full of rip-roaring enthusiasm right up until the moment they actually have to begin to get stuck in and do some genuine hands-on research. Then suddenly almost anything seems to be more appealing than spending all their waking hours in the dark recesses of a museum store or surveying a windswept hill fort in the teeth of a howling gale.’

  ‘But Beth wasn’t like that.’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘No, she couldn’t get enough of her subject. In fact, that was how I first got to know her. She pestered the living daylights out of me at every conference I attended. I have to confess after a while I got heartily sick of it. I began to avoid her.’

  Clare looked shocked. ‘You mean she was some sort of stalker.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that, though she didn’t really mix much with the other post-grads. No, she was more a sort of academic groupie. And it wasn’t just me. She was like a sponge. She would hang around questioning anyone who appeared to know anything at all about the Iron Age and Celtic studies.’

  ‘So, she was genuinely committed to her subject, then.’

  ‘Unquestionably, but one can take commitment too far. Look at how she chose to end her life.’

  ‘Before her suicide, would you have said she was obsessive?’

  Margaret considered for a moment. ‘You have to remember most of what I’ve been talking about was the best part of a quarter of a century ago. But no, I don’t think I would. She wasn’t what David would so eloquently refer to as “a nutter”. At least not in her student days. I bumped into her at various events in the intervening years, and of course I’ve read most of her work since then. And there’s no doubting the brilliance of her academic work. But I never really knew her on a personal level. I’m not sure that many people did. She was very’ – she hesitated, searching for the right word – ‘well, intense. And very private.’ She sat silently for a moment, allowing her gaze to drift across the quad to the lilac-blue wisteria nodding its agreement in the late afternoon breeze. ‘I am certain of one thing, though – something must have happened to make her leave her post at Sheffield.’

  Clare looked at her quizzically. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, she’d been in the department there for years. She was one of their leading lights. And then suddenly, completely out of the blue, she upped and left with absolutely no explanation.’

  ‘Left or was asked to leave?’

  Margaret shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. The university seemed to think very highly of her – or at least of the research ratings she brought the department. But she never did have any truck with academic politicking and intrigue. She was only interested in her work. So it’s possible she told someone in the university hierarchy one too many home truths. On the other hand, if she really believed Bailsgrove was a shrine site it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that she resigned simply in order to be able to dig there and prove it.’

  Clare’s astonishment was obvious. ‘Do you really think that’s possible? That she might have given up an established academic position just to dig at Bailsgrove? I know postdocs at Salisbury who’d kill for a full-time teaching post.’

  ‘From what I remember of Beth, I certainly wouldn’t discount the idea.’ She glanced down at her watch. ‘Well, as lovely as it’s been to see you, Clare, I really must get back to that wretched paper.’

  As she went to stand up, Clare placed a hand on her arm. ‘There’s something else, Margaret.’

  There was something in her tone that Margaret found troubling. Sitting back down, she turned to face the younger woman. ‘Is everything alright, my dear? It’s not something to do with Stephen and his accident, is it?’

  Clare shook her head. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. I’m no further along with finding out what really happened.’

  She was relieved to hear it. She’d grown fond of Clare during their time together digging at Hungerbourne. Working alongside her, she’d come to realise that she was a talented archaeologist with a rare gift for the subject. And a gift like that was not to be wasted. Margaret knew only too well how tough it could be to forge a path in archaeology. She was a well-respected professor at one of the world’s most esteemed academic institutions now, but her own upbringing had been among what today might have been described as the rural poor. Her chair at Breakspear had been hard won, and it was a world away from the secure, respectable position as a bank clerk that her own mother and f
ather had aspired to for the young Peggy Grafton. Her own struggle had made her all the more determined to do everything in her power to ease the path of others she encountered who had a love of, and an aptitude for, the subject.

  She’d never met the man, but from the bare facts she’d gleaned from Clare, it seemed to Margaret that marrying Stephen had been a mistake of massive proportions. He appeared to have been a man who had entirely disregarded the passions and potential of the woman he’d claimed to love in order to make his own life more comfortable. Such behaviour was quite simply unforgivable; a waste of talent and of a large part of her young friend’s life. She would never say as much to Clare, but Stephen exiting her life was the best thing that could have happened to her. It was only regrettable that it had been in a manner that had caused her so much pain – both emotional and pecuniary.

  ‘The thing is, Margaret, I’d really value your advice, but I’d rather David didn’t know about our discussion.’

  Margaret eyed her warily. ‘Well, that rather depends on what you want to ask me. I can’t make any promises, Clare, but I’m willing to listen.’ Clare hesitated. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. You know I would never tell David unless it’s something illegal or risks life and limb.’ Clare just looked at her. ‘You’re starting to make me nervous. What on earth is it? I promise I won’t tell him.’

  The worry was only too clear to read on her young friend’s face.

  ‘Alright, I promise I won’t say a word to David. Just tell me what’s happened.’

  Clare took in a deep breath. Margaret could see she was nervous. ‘OK. Well, we’ve found a whole series of quite sizable pits on-site that Beth and her team hadn’t spotted before the site was closed down.’

  Margaret said, ‘I grant you that’s a little troubling and I’d always assumed that Beth was a better excavator than that, but sadly archaeologists who display more talent in the lecture theatre than in running an excavation are not unheard of.’

  Clare looked down at her feet. ‘That’s not the problem, Margaret. I wish it was. We’ve got almost all of Beth’s old dig team working with us and from what I’ve seen so far, they’re a pretty decent bunch of diggers. Even if Beth had missed something I’m not convinced they would, and the only things we’ve found in those pits are a couple of bits of modern rubbish.’

  Margaret was starting to understand why her young friend was so anxious. ‘I’m not sure I like where this is heading, Clare. Are you telling me those pits were dug after Beth’s team stopped digging on-site?’

  Clare nodded. ‘It gets worse, Margaret.’

  Clare reached down into her bag, withdrew her laptop and started it up. Margaret sat silently, hands folded neatly together in her lap, waiting for Clare to find what she was looking for. When Clare turned the laptop screen round to show her, Margaret was confronted with the image of what gave every indication of being an Iron Age sword.

  ‘May I?’

  Clare nodded, and Margaret took hold of the laptop, holding the screen out in front of her so that she could see the image more clearly. She placed the machine on her lap and adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of her nose to allow her to read the text that accompanied the image, mouthing the word ‘Bailsgrove’ as she did so.

  Looking up from the screen, she let out a long sigh. ‘Oh Lord, Clare, this is serious!’

  ‘Quite. And there are more of them, all claiming to be from Bailsgrove. I’d be really grateful if you could take a look at the website for me and see what you make of them.’

  Back in her office thirty minutes later and having partaken of her afternoon pick-me-up of a cup of Assam with just a splash of Irish whiskey, Margaret looked up from the laptop and across her desk to where Clare sat patiently, sipping her unadulterated coffee, waiting for Margaret to deliver her verdict. ‘Well, I think you’re right, Clare. They definitely all look Iron Age to me. How did you find them?’

  ‘A local resident, Sheila Foggarty, tipped me off.’

  ‘That was good of her. It’s a welcome change to see some of the members of the Great British public taking an active interest in their heritage for once.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure that was her only motive. She’s a parish councillor and made it very clear that she’s opposed to the housing development.’

  ‘Well, whatever her motives, she seems to have done us a favour in bringing this to our attention. I can see why you’re worried, Clare, but what I don’t understand is why you don’t want David to know about this. I really think you should tell him. After all, he’s ultimately responsible for the institute.’

  Clare put down her coffee cup and straightened up in her chair. ‘Oh, I’ve already told him.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand; why all the secrecy?’

  ‘He told me I should leave it to the police.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Well, he’s got a point. If this is the work of nighthawks we’re in dangerous territory here. You need to report it.’

  ‘The thing is, I have. And they weren’t interested. They said there was nothing they could do unless there was some actual evidence that anything had been stolen from our site.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I can understand that from their point of view. If there’s no hard evidence that this material has come from our site, then they could never attempt to bring any sort of prosecution. What did David say when you told him what the police had said?’

  ‘I haven’t told him.’ Clare hesitated. ‘I spoke to them before I told David.’

  ‘Ah, now I’m beginning to see why you don’t want him to know about our conversation. I’m assuming that you neglected to mention that small detail when David told you to report this to the police?’

  Clare nodded reluctantly. ‘The thing is, Margaret, he’ll only tell me to drop it. And how can I do that?’ She pointed at the laptop screen. ‘I’m not an idiot, Margaret, I know these guys could be dangerous. If this stuff is genuinely from Bailsgrove then it would make it a nationally significant site – this could be the evidence that Beth Kinsella was looking for. I really don’t understand where David’s coming from on this. We can’t just do nothing.’

  But Margaret understood exactly where David was coming from. She’d come to know David pretty well since they had first worked together at Hungerbourne. And she’d come to understand that, though he would never admit it, there was only one thing in this world that he would ever consider putting before his archaeology and that was Clare’s well-being. But she also knew that Clare was right. She couldn’t in all conscience sit by and do nothing if there was even the faintest possibility that a site of such importance was being destroyed by nighthawks.

  ‘David is just being cautious, Clare. He needs to think of the welfare of everyone who works for the institute, not just the archaeology. But I agree with you, we can’t just do nothing.’

  With the use of the word ‘we’, Margaret could see a look of relief spread across Clare’s face and break into the first inkling of a smile. ‘But what do we do, Margaret?’

  ‘Well, for one thing I think you’re right not to tell David about this. He would only stop us. And for another you mustn’t tell anyone else on-site.’ The worried look returned to Clare’s face as quickly as it had vanished. ‘Do I take it that it’s too late for that?’

  Clare nodded. ‘Neil Fuller, our site supervisor, already knows about the pits and I got him to set up a couple of wildlife cams on-site for security, but I haven’t said anything about the website.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Just the police. Oh, and I mentioned it to Jo.’

  ‘Well, don’t say anything else to Fuller and ask Jo to keep quiet about it. The last thing we want is anyone shouting about it in the local pubs. If this is what it looks like, the more people that know, the greater the danger that one of them will end up getting hurt.’

  ‘Understood. But what do we actually do?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Well, first of all we need to establish whether these finds are real or fake. T
here are plenty of gullible individuals out there who wouldn’t know a La Tène sword from a Sabatier. And just as many online antiquities dealers who are willing to take advantage of that fact. And we also need to establish whether there is any actual evidence of provenance.’

  Across the desk from her, Clare nodded thoughtfully. ‘And I’m guessing that means we need to see these things for ourselves and meet the people who are selling them.’

  Margaret lowered her head and peered over the top of her glasses. ‘And in that assumption you are wholly correct, Clare. If we are going to do this thing the most important part is the “we” element. Do not contemplate even for an instant attempting to do this alone. Even if these artefacts don’t come from our excavation, if they’re not replicas and they’ve been found by metal detectorists then they’re almost certainly being sold illegally. Under the Treasure Act, even if they came from a ploughed field, finds like this have to be reported to the coroner, not sold to the highest bidder on an auction site. So whatever else the people behind this may be, they’re clearly not worried about the forces of law and order. And that should give us both pause for thought.’

  Clare leant back in her chair and smiled. She was determined to enjoy this evening. It had been an exhausting few weeks at the dig and she’d spent most of her weekends working. But this evening she felt as if someone had opened a small portal into her old world. And as much as she loved the life she was making for herself here, she was looking forward to being pampered for once.

  The call from James had come completely out of the blue. He had business in Salisbury, he’d said, and would she be free for dinner on Saturday evening? His treat. For a split second she’d considered refusing. James was part of her old life and she wasn’t sure that she wanted to revisit it. But what harm could it do? And he’d been such a support since Stephen’s accident, it would have seemed positively rude to turn him down, particularly as she couldn’t think of any good reason to do so. Besides, it would give her an excuse to dust off her little black number and get dressed up for once.