Dust to Dust (7 page)

‘Change of plan,’ said Blackstone. ‘After what Les said about the press last time, I thought it would be wise to keep the place completely closed off during the dig. We can do without that kind of attention.’

Motram looked out of the window at the rain. ‘Doesn’t look as if we’ll be inconveniencing too many people on a day like this anyway.’

‘Mmm,’ agreed Blackstone. ‘We’ve just been discussing whether or not to call the dig off until the weather improves.’

Motram felt a wave of disappointment wash over him but managed to hide it. ‘I suppose it’s up to you guys,’ he said, looking at Smith and Fielding. ‘I don’t want anyone putting themselves in danger because of unstable ground or mud slides.’

‘It’s not so much the instability I’m worried about as the possibility of flooding,’ said Fielding. ‘We plan to create a forty-degree slope down to the wall of the chamber. If it’s still raining when we reach the stonework, the water’s just going to run down the slope and start accumulating.’

‘Couldn’t you use a pump?’

‘We could, but it’s a question of where would we pump the water to. There’s a fair stretch of ground to cover before you reach the ditch to the south of the abbey; that’s about fifty metres away and we don’t want excess water seeping down into the abbey foundations.’

‘We certainly don’t,’ Blackstone put in.

‘Well,’ Motram sighed philosophically, ‘I suppose our hosts have been waiting seven hundred years; another day or two isn’t going to make that much difference.’

It rained all day Saturday and Motram paced indoors at home like a caged animal, bemoaning his luck and insisting to Cassie that God had it in for him personally. Always had done, he insisted.

‘It’s just Britain,’ countered Cassie. ‘When have you ever known it not to rain when you’ve planned something outdoors? When I was a girl I used to think all invitations had to have “If wet, in church hall” on them.’

John asked if Cassie would like to go out somewhere. ‘We could go into town. Dinner? A film?’

‘Let’s just stay in,’ said Cassie, joining him at the window and giving his arm an encouraging rub. ‘We can open a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and watch some telly?’

‘Celebrity paint drying?’ said John.

‘As a prospective celebrity nail technician, you should be taking notes about how to behave on these programmes. You could be on next week … toenail cutting … on ice.’

John watched some rugby on the television in the sitting room, then went through to the kitchen to get some coffee when the final whistle blew. A news bulletin was showing on the small TV set that Cassie kept in a corner next to the coffee machine. The sound level was low – background noise as Cassie, who was sitting at the table reading a cookery book, called it – but Motram’s arm shot out to turn the sound up as a photograph of a young man appeared on the screen.

‘What on earth …?’ exclaimed Cassie as the sudden increase in volume startled her. Her annoyance faded when she saw the look on her husband’s face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘I have.’ Motram had gone pale. He sat down beside Cassie at the table, eyes still glued to the screen until the report concerning the death of a young Royal Marine in Afghanistan had ended. ‘I knew him.’

Cassie’s eyes opened wide. ‘How?’ she asked.

‘He was the donor I was asked to screen in London.’

‘Did you know he was a soldier?’

‘No. He wasn’t in uniform when I met him and the subject of what he did for a living didn’t come up. We were under instructions to keep everything on a professional level. No idle chit-chat.’

‘His poor family,’ said Cassie; then, as doubts entered her mind, ‘Mind you, I wouldn’t have thought there had been time to get back to Afghanistan … Are you absolutely sure it’s him? Did you get his name?’

Motram shook his head. ‘He wasn’t introduced to me at the hospital. It was part of the secrecy thing: the patient was Patient X and the donor was, well, the donor. But I’m sure it’s him. I liked him; he was a nice chap, a bit nervous about the procedure, ironic really when you consider what he was engaged in abroad.’

‘How bizarre,’ said Cassie. ‘How on earth did a Royal Marine serving in Afghanistan come to be donating bone marrow to a Saudi prince in South Kensington?’

‘It is bizarre,’ agreed Motram. ‘He must have gone back to Afghanistan almost immediately after donating his marrow … and been in action immediately after that. How unlucky was that?’

‘You know what I think?’ asked Cassie, leaning across the table conspiratorially and patting John’s arm.

‘What?’

‘Mistaken identity. You’re getting to an age when all young men start to look the same to you.’

Motram smiled but still seemed preoccupied. ‘You know, I think I’m going to give Laurence Samson a ring …
Sir
Laurence Samson of Harley Street, by the way.’

Cassie made a face to feign how impressed she was, and returned to reading her cookery book. ‘Give him my best …’ she murmured.

Motram retuned a few minutes later looking crestfallen.

‘Well?’

‘You were right. Mistaken identity.’

‘There you are then. Still, it obviously gave you quite a shock.’

Motram seemed deep in thought.

‘John, are you all right?’

‘I just can’t believe it wasn’t him,’ said Motram. ‘That marine was the absolute spitting image … I need to see his photo again, get some more details. Maybe the BBC News website will have something.’ He went off to turn on the computer he shared with Cassie while she, with a slight shake of her head, returned to her reading. She had made her decision about dinner and was in the early stages of making a risotto when Motram returned and said, ‘The report says he was wounded by shrapnel on the 8th: the wounds became infected and he died some days later in a field hospital … I saw the donor at St Raphael’s on the 8th.’

‘So it couldn’t have been him.’

‘I suppose not.’

After a long silence during which John fidgeted a lot, to Cassie’s annoyance, he suddenly said, ‘They said the dead marine came from Glasgow.’

Cassie looked at her husband, wondering why that should be significant.

‘The man I saw had a Scottish accent.’

ELEVEN

Drier weather moved in late on Sunday and there was even a glimpse of sun on Monday morning when Motram set off for Dryburgh in much better spirits. It was agreed upon his arrival that work should begin right away. Fielding and Smith checked their data from their ground-radar survey and placed stakes in the ground at appropriate intervals before firing up a miniature JCB and beginning the excavation. Motram and Blackstone exchanged smiles as its shovel scooped out the first bucket of earth. Motram was as filled with excitement as Blackstone was with apprehension: the Historic Scotland man kept eyeing the distance between the work and the abbey walls.

After thirty minutes, Fielding signalled to Smith, who was operating the digger, that he should cut the engine. The noise died, leaving only contracting metal noises and the sound of birdsong in the air. Fielding negotiated his way down the sloping trench carrying a number of long steel rods in his hand, and started inserting them horizontally into the wall of earth at its face. He turned with a smile on his face as the rods met resistance. ‘Stone,’ he announced. ‘We’re right on the money.’

Taking great care, Smith removed another half-metre of soil with the digger before he and Fielding changed to manual clearing of the final section with their hands and small trowels to leave an area of stone wall of about two square metres exposed. They climbed up out of the trench to allow Motram to descend and take a look for himself. He did so and ran his hand over the stone with barely suppressed pleasure. ‘Well done,’ he said, with a broad smile on his face. ‘We’re almost there.’

The smile faded when he emerged from the trench to see a man with a briefcase walking towards them. The others followed his gaze.

‘Please God, it’s not the press,’ murmured Blackstone.

The four men stood in silence, awaiting the arrival of the newcomer, who did not smile when he reached them. ‘Dr Motram?’ he enquired, looking from one to the other.

‘That’s me,’ said Motram.

The man removed a card from his pocket. ‘Norman Bunce, Health and Safety. I understand you are about to open a tomb containing victims of the Black Death …’

Motram closed his eyes, hoping that divine inspiration might provide him with a better opening line than
What the fuck do you want?
He opted instead for, ‘Seven-hundred-year-old victims of Black Death, Mr Bunce.’

‘Be that as it may, doctor …’ said Bunce, starting out on a soliloquy that ended with the edict Motram had been fearing throughout. Nothing more was to happen on site until Health and Safety had sanctioned it.

Details of contact numbers were exchanged as the four men accepted the inevitable. ‘I must say I’m surprised at you, Mr Blackstone,’ said Bunce. ‘Historic Scotland are usually very much on the ball when it comes to safety.’

‘We still are,’ said Blackstone sourly.

‘No need for that attitude,’ said Bunce.

‘There’s no danger to anyone. The corpses, if they’re there, will be seven hundred years old,’ said Blackstone flatly.

‘Let’s leave that to the professionals to decide, shall we?’

‘What professionals are we talking about here, Mr Bunce?’ asked Motram.

‘I’ll make my report and my superiors will take the necessary decisions about whom to seek advice from,’ Bunce announced, aware of the growing aggression in the air.

‘They can’t be too few on the ground,’ murmured Fielding.

‘Good day, gentlemen.’

‘Oh, I don’t believe it,’ Cassie exclaimed sympathetically when she heard what had happened. ‘What will you do now?’

‘We just have to wait for a decision.’

‘But surely they couldn’t stop it altogether?’

Motram shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

‘At least you won’t have this sort of thing to deal with when you become a celebrity nail technician.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Motram. ‘Mind you, nail scissors can be extremely dangerous in the wrong hands …’

Two days later Motram got the call he had been waiting for. The excavation and opening of the burial chamber could go ahead subject to the meeting of certain conditions. Health and Safety wanted to inspect the equipment and protective clothing the men would be using when recovering samples from the chamber. They also wanted a Public Health doctor to interview the four of them on site before the chamber was opened and administer any protective injections he thought necessary.

‘Probably anti-tetanus,’ said Cassie when she heard. ‘I could give you that.’

‘You’d probably also have to give me a certificate signed by two independent witnesses and a justice of the peace,’ growled Motram. ‘Best let them do it.’

‘They’re only doing their job,’ Cassie said soothingly. The look she got in return suggested she might be on her own in holding that view. ‘Be positive. You are going to get in to your chamber.’ She hugged Motram and persisted in looking at him until he gave in and smiled.

‘You’re right.’

With all the formalities finally out of the way, health checks over and injections administered, Motram and the others were left on their own to open up the chamber. Motram watched the official vehicles depart and then joined the others in a slow walk over to the site. ‘Quite a day,’ said Blackstone.

Motram nodded. ‘Days like these don’t come along too often in science,’ he said. ‘Research can be a bit of a plod when things aren’t going well but when a moment like this pops up … by God, it’s worth waiting for.’

‘I only hope it lives up to expectations,’ said Blackstone.

Motram paused to look at the abbey in its beautiful setting, parts of its ruined walls as old as the secret he was about to unlock, and felt the excitement of anticipation rise inside him. He put on his white cover-all suit while Smith and Fielding prepared their tools for the breach of the chamber wall. They had already erected a sealable plastic entrance ‘vestibule’ over the area they would open up. They would chisel out the mortar and make sure the stones were loose enough to be moved easily before retreating to allow Motram to enter on his own.

Blackstone chose to pace slowly up and down, leaving Motram alone with his thoughts. John sat on the grass, listening to the sound of chisels on stone and watching the crouched shapes of Smith and Fielding through the plastic screen. The noise stopped and the world seemed deathly quiet for a moment before the pair emerged. Fielding lowered his mask and said simply, ‘All yours, doc.’

‘Good luck,’ said Blackstone.

Motram accepted the stone chisel handed to him by Smith as he passed by – just in case he needed it – and entered the plastic ‘vestibule’, closing the entrance flap behind him. He knelt down and tested the stones by rocking a couple before pulling out the first without any trouble. The gap grew as the stones piled up in neat rows on either side of him, but he resisted the temptation to stop and shine his torch in through the hole until the gap was big enough for him to enter. He took a slight pause to get his breath back, reminding himself in the process that he needed to take more exercise, then crawled head first into the chamber and got slowly to his feet. 

TWELVE

In what little light was coming through the breach in the wall behind him, Motram could see that there were stone benches lined up along both sides of the tomb. It had been sheer good fortune that Smith and Fielding had picked a spot between two of these benches. He clicked on his torch but, strangely, the world remained black. The walls of the chamber were black, the benches were black and the bodies lying on them appeared to be black – or at least what they were wrapped in was black.

It was impossible not to draw parallels with the mummified occupants of the Egyptian pyramids, but in this case nothing had been left to accompany the departed on their journey to the afterlife, no colourful ceramics, no gold, no wine jars, just the blackened shapes of corpses that had lain undisturbed for seven centuries.