The Dig (7 page)

“What is it, my dear?”

She did not answer; she simply continued fastening my buttons.

“There we are,” she said, pulling my cuffs straight once she had finished. While her voice sounded steady enough, there was some uncertainty about her lower lip.

“Has something upset you?” I asked. Still she did not answer. “If there is anything you wish to tell me, I can promise that nothing will go any further than this room.”

At this, she pulled back abruptly. “There’s nothing the matter with me, ma’am,” she said. “Nothing at all … Although it’s very kind of you to ask.”

I stood and waited by the mirror while Ellen fetched the clothes brush. She wielded the brush with her customary dexterity, only just letting the bristles touch the material. While she was doing so, I realized it had been several days since she had asked if I would like my hair combed before dinner. Perhaps this too was a form of tact.

The following afternoon it started to rain again. When I went out to the mounds after tea, I found Mr. Brown by himself in the shepherd’s hut. Immediately, he offered to come outside, but I told him that I was quite happy to join him. He helped me up the steps, shook out my umbrella and swept a place clean with his hand for me to sit.

Jacobs and Spooner, it turned out, had already left for the day, it being impossible to do any further digging in this weather.

I had barely sat down when Mr. Brown said, “I don’t think there’s anything there, Mrs. Pretty.” He spoke in more of a rush than usual, as if this was something he’d been brooding on for some time and wished to get off his chest.

“Are you sure?”

“Not sure, no. But I’ve got a feeling, if you like.”

“Is that what your nose is telling you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

The sense of dejection was even stronger than I had expected. It seemed to sweep through me like a river, pushing everything aside.

“What do you suggest, then, Mr. Brown?” I asked.

“I don’t rightly know. That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Trying to work out what’s best.”

He appeared just as downcast as I was. We sat in silence for a while. Partly in order to give myself something else to think about and partly because it was something that had made me curious for some time, I asked how he had first become interested in archaeology.

“My granddad used to do a bit of scratching about,” he said. “Just as a hobby, mind. Then my dad taught me about soil. He’d made a special study of it — Suffolk soil. He knew just about everything there was to know. They said you could show him a handful from anywhere in the county and he could tell you whose farm it had come from.”

“How extraordinary.”

“When I was fifteen, I received a certificate signed by Arthur Mee himself, saying that I had a reliable knowledge of
geography, geology and astronomy. After I left school, I tried all sorts of things — farming, keeping goats, being a milkman. I even sold insurance for a while. Trouble was, I couldn’t stick at anything. I spent all my time reading, anything I could find. It scarcely mattered what. May says I have far too many books. They nearly drive her mental.”

“And how did you meet Mr. Maynard?”

“I met Mr. Maynard at the Suffolk Institute. The Reverend Harris from Thornden introduced us. Do you know the Reverend Harris?”

I shook my head.

Mr. Brown chuckled. “He reads even more than me, the reverend does. About archaeology especially. And scripture, of course. I’d done some digging of my own by then. Mainly around the Roman kilns at Wattisfield. Mr. Maynard asked if I might like to do some freelance work for the museum. Bits and pieces, you know. Whatever they chose to send my way.”

We sat and listened to the rain falling on the roof. The smell of wet grass came up through the floorboards. Mr. Brown was sitting with his elbows resting on his knees.

“I wonder if I might ask a question, Mrs. Pretty,” he said.

“By all means.”

“It’s just — it’s just that I can’t help thinking, why now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“Well, I’m wondering to myself why you want the mounds excavated now. After all, it’s not as if you’ve just arrived here, or anything like that.”

As soon as he had finished speaking he glanced away. I suspected he thought he might have overstepped the mark.

“You are quite right, of course,” I said. “I often discussed it with my late husband. It was a subject that greatly interested us both. But unfortunately he died before we were able to make a start. Then, after he died, I found that it did not seem appropriate somehow. As for what changed my mind, I can only say that I felt that if I did not do it now, then it might be too late.”

He nodded several times. Slowly, the sound of the rain died away. When it had stopped completely, he said, “Shall we go outside and take a look?”

The air was warm and humid. Steam was already rising from the mounds and the surrounding fields. In places, the rain had beaten the barley flat, the stalks snapped through. The expanses of exposed earth were dotted about with brown puddles.

We stepped around the puddles, scattering rabbits as we went, and walked over to the largest of the mounds. It rose before us, a good four or five feet taller than the others, with a bulkier, much less graceful shape.

“I know you’ve always fancied this one, Mrs. Pretty.”

“Yes, but plainly there is no point in excavating it if you are sure it has already been robbed.”

“Even so, let’s have another look, shall we?”

As he had done on our first meeting together, Mr. Brown ran up the side of the mound, his feet sliding on the wet grass. When he had reached the summit, he stood there, looking
down, with his hands on his hips. Then, as before, he vanished. Just when I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him, he reappeared.

“No, it’s definitely a flute, Mrs. Pretty. Deeper than most too, so it looks as if they must have dug quite a wide shaft.”

He started to come back down. But after only a couple of steps, he stopped. I thought at first that he must have caught his foot in a rabbit hole. Then, turning around, he climbed back up. Once at the top of the mound, he began to pace, very deliberately, around its circumference.

When he did come down, he scarcely looked where he put his feet, slithering the last part of the way. Then he started pacing, just as deliberately, around the base of the mound. First, he went one way and then the other. As he was on his second circuit, I saw that his face had taken on the same pointed look he had had when he found the butcher’s tray. I heard something too: his tongue had begun clicking against the roof of his mouth,

“What is it, Mr. Brown?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he ran back up the mound, remaining there for several minutes with his hand cupping his chin. This time, when he came down again, he did so more slowly. At the bottom he began filling his pipe.

“I suppose you are eventually going to tell me what is on your mind,” I said.

“It may be nothing, Mrs. Pretty. Nothing at all. But I happened to notice that this mound is not symmetrical. If you look down from the top, it’s more obvious than it is here.
You’d expect it to be circular, like the others. But it’s not. It’s more oval, like a hog’s back.”

“Is that relevant?”

“All the other mounds are symmetrical. Why not this one?”

“Perhaps whoever constructed it simply made a mistake.”

“Mmm … But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Not if you think about it. This is the biggest mound of all. It’s the only one you can see from the river. Even on a day like today, it’s clearly visible from the opposite bank. Surely they would take more trouble over it. Not less.”

“What is your explanation?”

“Not an explanation, Mrs. Pretty. Just a theory, that’s all. What if the mound was originally symmetrical? At some stage, this land must have been plowed up. After all, everywhere else round here has been. That ditch over there —” he pointed towards the road — “that looks like a medieval field boundary to me. And there’s also another one running along the edge of the wood. What if whoever plowed the land knocked a bit off the mound, as it were. Nobody would have noticed, still less cared. By the time the robbers came along, they would have sunk a shaft into what they thought was the center of the mound. Or so it would have appeared to them. But it might not have been the center at all.”

“Let me make quite sure I understand you, Mr. Brown. You are saying that while the mound has been robbed, or an attempt has been made to rob it, the thieves might have been looking in the wrong place.”

“That’s about the gist of it, yes. Course, I might be wrong.”

“But you might conceivably be right.”

“It’s a possibility,” he allowed.

“I see … But I have told Mr. Reid Moir that you will be free to go to Stanton by the end of the week.”

“We should have an idea by Saturday,” he said. “One way or another.”

“What do you think, then, Mr. Brown? Would you care to attack it?”

He cupped a match over the bowl of his pipe. The tobacco lit with a hiss and he blew out a mouthful of smoke.

“No harm in trying, is there?”

That evening I ate all the food on my plate, as well as a piece of Cheddar cheese afterwards. As Grateley was taking the plate away and after I had asked him to thank Mrs. Lyons, I said, “It has come to my notice that a member of staff has been using one of the bedrooms upstairs.”

He did not falter. “A member of staff, ma’am?”

“Or rather two members of staff.”

“Two members of staff?”

“There is no need to repeat everything I say, Grateley. I do not know who is responsible, nor do I intend to make any effort to find out. However, I do not wish this to happen again. Will you make my feelings on the matter known?”

“Of course. Certainly I will, ma’am.”

With my plate in his hand, he moved across to the sideboard. Before he reached it, I said, “By the way, Grateley, I have not inquired for some time, how is your lumbago?”

He stopped in mid-pace.

“My lumbago? It is very much better, thank you, ma’am.”

“Good. I am pleased to hear that. And do be sure to give my regards to Mrs. Grateley,” I added.

His composure was badly holed by now. “I — I will indeed, ma’am,” he said.

No more hurriedly than usual, although rather less fluently, Grateley gathered up the serving dishes. He disappeared through the swing door with one long leg trailing behind him.

My efforts to find Robert a new governess have proved fruitless. Several of those who had advertised in the newspaper did not even reply when I wrote to them. None of those that did sounded remotely suitable. There are noticeably fewer advertisements than usual for domestic positions; no doubt people are loath to think of new jobs at such a time.

Mr. Brown, I am afraid, has found nothing. Nothing except for a few minute fragments of blue glass and some splinters of bone. These have been packaged up and sent off to the museum in Ipswich for analysis. The work is taking longer than anticipated — due in part to the size of the mound. It has been, he says, like digging into the side of a small mountain.

By the end of the third day it was plain that all three men were not just tired but disillusioned. I noticed they seldom talked to one another any more when they were working. At their break times they sat around looking contemplative and glum. Mr. Brown, in particular, is taking it all personally, plainly feeling that his failure to find anything is a reflection on his competence. As for Jacobs and Spooner, I suspect they cannot wait for Saturday to come around and for the excavation to be over.

Still it has continued to rain, this incessant, lowering, halfhearted drizzle. But instead of clearing the air, the rain merely seems to make it even heavier. My fingers have swollen, the joints in particular. If I was to take off my rings, I doubt I would be able to put them on again.

Robert too has been affected, by both the weather and the general atmosphere. He seems listless, devoid of enthusiasm. At luncheon today he scarcely said a word, while his appetite, I noticed, was almost as poor as mine. Afterwards he said he was going outside to see Mr. Brown and the men. However, the tone of his voice suggested this would be as much of a chore as everything else.

In the afternoon, I went to Frank’s study and sat at his desk. Even if it were not for its associations, I think this would be my favorite room in the house; it seems to hold the daylight longer than any of the others. I had been intending to sort through his papers; there are still some bundles that have not been properly collated.

But once there I found I had neither the resolve nor the energy even to make a start. Clouds sat above the estuary,
so gray and low it was virtually impossible to tell where the water ended and the sky began. Only a thin pencil line separated them.

On the shelf above Frank’s desk was a pigskin-framed photograph of the two of us on horseback. We were both wearing our riding clothes, both gazing impassively at the camera.

I took the photograph down. It had been taken twelve years ago on a pony-trekking holiday in Iceland. Together, we had ridden across a great plateau in the north of the country, a region referred to in our Baedeker as “The Uninhabited Highlands.” These highlands were renowned for a type of lichen that was reputed to glow in the dark. Both Frank and I had been rather sceptical about this. Our Icelandic guide, however, insisted that it was well worth seeing, even though it meant we would have to spend the night under canvas.

Setting out in the early afternoon, the three of us rode across the plateau — our guide leading the way, followed by Frank. As the more experienced rider of the two of us, I brought up the rear. The plateau was a forbidding place, edged on either side by black basalt cliffs. The tops of these cliffs were covered in snow. When the sun set, we kept going. There was a smell of sulphur from the volcanic pools. The smell disturbed the ponies; they began skittering about and had to be steered into the wind.

Soon Frank and the guide were almost invisible. But still we carried on. On either side of me I could hear the mud plopping in the volcanic pools, a sound at once solemn and ridiculous. All at once my pony stopped. I think I must have
pulled on the reins without being aware of it. To begin with, I doubted the evidence of my eyes. Only slowly did I allow myself to acknowledge what I was seeing.