‘Luck is right. A chap called Ferguson showed up on the doorstep with them this morning. He works at the Somerset Record Office in Taunton. He’d heard about what we were doing here and thought they might be of interest.’
‘Interest? That’s putting it mildly.’
‘Believe me, Jamie, they’re going to keep you occupied for quite some time,’ said Kingston, excusing himself. ‘I’ll be back in a half hour,’ he said, getting up and picking up the plate and glass. At the door, he paused and looked back at her, rubbing his chin. He was debating whether he should tell her about his new theory; the reason he wanted to talk to Ferguson again. He decided it could wait till later.
Monday morning, at ten thirty, after a short walk from the car park, Kingston arrived at the Somerset Record Office. Ushered into a modern and tidy office, Kingston sat across from Ferguson. ‘I somehow expected more books, more files, papers,’ said Kingston with a smile, gazing around the room. ‘Something more—Dickensian.’
Ferguson returned the smile, looking over the wire rims of his perfectly round glasses. ‘Most people do. The word “archivist” conjures up a stereotypical image, I’m afraid. All our files and records—Lord knows how many millions there are now—are stored throughout this and other buildings. All we really need at our fingertips, nowadays, is the computer.’
‘How far back do the records go?’
‘Eighth century AD up to yesterday,’ Ferguson replied.
‘Quite remarkable.’
‘So, what is it that brings you here, doctor? On the phone you sounded quite wound up.’
‘I don’t want to waste your time, Roger, so I’ll get to the point.’
Ferguson sat back and gave a brief gesture with an open palm. ‘Fine.’
‘Recently we discovered an old well at Wickersham. It’s located in a small chapel that was buried under a fifty-year tangle of ivy and brambles. My guess is that the well predates the chapel by at least a couple of centuries. So, it would seem that the chapel was built to accommodate the well.’
‘My God, that could be a very significant find, you know.’ Ferguson gave Kingston a questioning look over the top of his glasses. ‘I’d really like to have seen that on Saturday. Is there a reason you didn’t mention it then?’
Kingston had anticipated the question. He had since realized that it was foolish of him not to have shown it to Roger at the time. After all, he knew full well how important it was. He had to tell him about the skeleton, too. Roger would learn about it sooner or later. Skeletons didn’t show up in wells with great frequency in Somerset.
‘I didn’t mention it then because it’s the subject of a police investigation. It was locked up.’
‘What?’
‘You see, when the well was discovered, it was found to contain the skeleton of a man. The police pathologist has determined that the bones were down there a long time. It’s doubtful that we’ll ever know who it was.’
‘Very Agatha Christie. Do they suspect foul play?’
‘Apparently there’s no evidence to suggest there was but they’re keeping the case open. I must say, though, when I last talked to the inspector in charge, he didn’t seem too optimistic about their getting much more information. Any clues that might tell them who it was or how it came about.’
‘My goodness, a lot of excitement up there?’
Kingston nodded in agreement. ‘For a while, yes. Things are more or less back to normal now, though. We’ve all got over the initial shock.’
‘So, when would it be convenient for me to see it?’
‘Unfortunately, tomorrow’s out. Don’t worry, though, we’ll do it in the next couple of days.’
‘If it’s okay with you, I may bring a couple of other people with me.’
‘That’s fine. There’s something else,’ Kingston added. ‘Nothing to do with archaeology, nothing like that. It’s—well, we have something of a riddle on our hands, too.’
‘Riddle? What kind of riddle?’
‘How shall I put this?’ Kingston drew in a long breath. ‘I mentioned that when the crew first found the chapel, it was concealed behind a three-foot thick wall of vegetation, built into the side of a small cliff. There was only one way in, through a heavy oak door. By the girth of the ivy at its base—Hedera colochica “Dentata” … the bloody stuff is a house eater—our crew foreman estimated, and I tend to agree with him, that the chapel was probably buried over fifty years ago. Knowing that the gardens were abandoned shortly prior to World War II would seem to corroborate the fact. In fact, that would make it over sixty years.’