tradesman’s entrance, they were going to be
disappointed. There was a cheap plasticdoorbell beside the big oak door which looked as out of place as a Post-it note stuck on the nose of the Mona Lisa. He pressed
it and waited. And when nothing happened he pressed it again.
‘Sorry. It doesn’t work. I keep meaning to get it fixed.’
Neil turned and saw a man standing on the drive next to his car. He was in his early thirties, Neil guessed, average height
with ginger hair and freckles. He strode up to Neil, hand outstretched.
‘Richard Catton. I presume you’re the archaeologist.’
‘Neil Watson – County Archaeological Unit.’ Neil shook hands. Catton’s grip was weak and his palms felt a little clammy.
He looked round. ‘I’m not sure where Kevin’s got to. He said he’d be here at three.’ Their eyes met in understanding and Neil
suspected he’d found an ally. ‘What do you make of his … project?’
Neil considered his answer for a moment. ‘It sounds mad on the surface but, archaeologically speaking, it might be quite interesting.
It’ll give us a chance to test the rate of decomposition of various organic materials. I’ve got a team working a couple of
miles away at Fortress Point.’
‘I’ve heard about that. How’s it going?’
‘Very well. We’re looking for the foundations of the prefabricated barracks in a corner of the site that hasn’t been investigated.
We’ve had some interesting finds; personal possessions of the garrison and that sort of thing. I might take a couple of colleagues
off that to give me a hand with Kevin’s project for a couple of days but mainly I’m planning to use a few post-grad students
who are interested in the scientific branch of archaeology.’
‘I was afraid you’d think Kevin was wasting your time. I told him he’d be lucky if he got you to co-operate.’
‘Like I said, it might be interesting. And of course my unit’s always looking for funding.’
Catton gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘He’s paying me rather generously too. Lord knows where he gets all his money from,
but ours not to reason why, eh.’
Neil smiled. ‘I expect people have done far worse things for money.’
‘I see you two have met.’
The two men swung round to see Kevin Orford striding down the drive towards them. He was carrying a large patchwork bag slung
across his shoulder and his calculating, determined expression seemed more suited to a businessman than an artist.
‘I take it you’ve managed to draft in some help, Neil.’
‘We can start on Monday if that’s OK?’
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘And archaeologists always observe the Sabbath? How delightfully archaic.’
Neil felt a sudden impulse to defend himself. ‘It’s the weekend. A lot of the students taking part will be away … or hung-over.’
‘I would have preferred tomorrow. Some people from Tate Modern are down for the weekend and they wanted to be present when
the digging begins.’
‘If you’d given me more notice I might have been able to arrange something.’ Orford was really starting to irritate him, but
he tried to keep visualising the promised cheque. He saw Catton was looking a little wary, as though he was afraid of causing
offence.
‘Have you told him yet?’ Orford’s question was directed at Catton and the words were barked like an order.
Neil wondered how this jumped-up artist had the temerity to speak to the son of the landowner in that way. Here was a man
who knew the balance of power. And it seemed it was in his favour.
Catton cleared his throat. ‘My father’s writing a book about one of our ancestors and Kevin’s been talking to him about his
research.’
Orford interrupted. ‘I’ve had an idea for a new artwork linked to the history of this house. It’s a piece of performance art
and I plan to film it to create an installation.’
‘Some sort of re-enactment, is it?’
Neil earned himself a
disappointed. There was a cheap plasticdoorbell beside the big oak door which looked as out of place as a Post-it note stuck on the nose of the Mona Lisa. He pressed
it and waited. And when nothing happened he pressed it again.
‘Sorry. It doesn’t work. I keep meaning to get it fixed.’
Neil turned and saw a man standing on the drive next to his car. He was in his early thirties, Neil guessed, average height
with ginger hair and freckles. He strode up to Neil, hand outstretched.
‘Richard Catton. I presume you’re the archaeologist.’
‘Neil Watson – County Archaeological Unit.’ Neil shook hands. Catton’s grip was weak and his palms felt a little clammy.
He looked round. ‘I’m not sure where Kevin’s got to. He said he’d be here at three.’ Their eyes met in understanding and Neil
suspected he’d found an ally. ‘What do you make of his … project?’
Neil considered his answer for a moment. ‘It sounds mad on the surface but, archaeologically speaking, it might be quite interesting.
It’ll give us a chance to test the rate of decomposition of various organic materials. I’ve got a team working a couple of
miles away at Fortress Point.’
‘I’ve heard about that. How’s it going?’
‘Very well. We’re looking for the foundations of the prefabricated barracks in a corner of the site that hasn’t been investigated.
We’ve had some interesting finds; personal possessions of the garrison and that sort of thing. I might take a couple of colleagues
off that to give me a hand with Kevin’s project for a couple of days but mainly I’m planning to use a few post-grad students
who are interested in the scientific branch of archaeology.’
‘I was afraid you’d think Kevin was wasting your time. I told him he’d be lucky if he got you to co-operate.’
‘Like I said, it might be interesting. And of course my unit’s always looking for funding.’
Catton gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘He’s paying me rather generously too. Lord knows where he gets all his money from,
but ours not to reason why, eh.’
Neil smiled. ‘I expect people have done far worse things for money.’
‘I see you two have met.’
The two men swung round to see Kevin Orford striding down the drive towards them. He was carrying a large patchwork bag slung
across his shoulder and his calculating, determined expression seemed more suited to a businessman than an artist.
‘I take it you’ve managed to draft in some help, Neil.’
‘We can start on Monday if that’s OK?’
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’
‘And archaeologists always observe the Sabbath? How delightfully archaic.’
Neil felt a sudden impulse to defend himself. ‘It’s the weekend. A lot of the students taking part will be away … or hung-over.’
‘I would have preferred tomorrow. Some people from Tate Modern are down for the weekend and they wanted to be present when
the digging begins.’
‘If you’d given me more notice I might have been able to arrange something.’ Orford was really starting to irritate him, but
he tried to keep visualising the promised cheque. He saw Catton was looking a little wary, as though he was afraid of causing
offence.
‘Have you told him yet?’ Orford’s question was directed at Catton and the words were barked like an order.
Neil wondered how this jumped-up artist had the temerity to speak to the son of the landowner in that way. Here was a man
who knew the balance of power. And it seemed it was in his favour.
Catton cleared his throat. ‘My father’s writing a book about one of our ancestors and Kevin’s been talking to him about his
research.’
Orford interrupted. ‘I’ve had an idea for a new artwork linked to the history of this house. It’s a piece of performance art
and I plan to film it to create an installation.’
‘Some sort of re-enactment, is it?’
Neil earned himself a
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