Page 60 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘Everything, I should think,’ said Mabel.

‘You think his brain was turned by tragedy, do you?’ said Talbot. ‘Well, I can believe that.’

‘Don’t be horrid, Tal,’ his wife said. ‘Arthur’s a perfectly respectable archaeologist. We went out there in 1903, you know,’ she reminded the company. ‘There was nothing wrong with his methods.’

‘Well, I’ve heard,’ said John Portwine, ‘that those painters have been given a free hand, and the frescoes are pure imagination.’

‘I don’t believe Arthur would allow that,’ Jane Lawrence said. ‘He cares too much about that site.’

‘It’s his child,’ Mabel said. ‘He has no other.’

‘Who knows what he’ll do next?’ Talbot said. ‘Will it stop at one room full of dubious frescoes? Will he start rebuilding the whole place according to his romantic fantasies?’

‘I shouldn’t think he’d have the money,’ said Giles. ‘And won’t the Ashmolean expect him back at his desk some time?’

‘They haven’t yet,’ said Talbot.

Max said, ‘I’m more interested in the scripts he unearthed.’ Evans had found more than three thousand clay tablets inscribed with what were clearly two different languages, one appearing to pre-date the other. ‘Have you read his book, Scripta Minoa? He thinks the earlier one is the model for the Phoenician alphabet. I should think you’d have something to say about that, Giles, with your interest in ancient Etruscan.’

The conversation rambled on as they walked, and Giles spared a part of his brain to note how comfortable it was to be with his own people again, and to have intellectual conversation. This was where he belonged: his father’s death had wrenched him out of his proper orbit.

The party stopped when they came in sight of the motte. It was the only part remaining of the original Ashmore Castle, which had been a simple motte-and-bailey built in 1080 and abandoned in 1202. Over the centuries the stones had been removed to create other buildings, and now there was nothing left of the above-ground works. It was just a green mound.

They walked around it, while Giles told them its history. When they came round the far side, several grazing rabbits were startled and dashed for cover. The dogs hurtled after them joyfully, and Tiger began scrabbling at one hole at the base of the motte, throwing out showers of dry soil and small stones.

Mary Arthur regarded the activity thoughtfully. ‘You know, Giles,’ she said, ‘these old keeps almost always had underground rooms – dungeons and store cellars. Has anyone ever excavated the motte?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. I believe I’m the first and only archaeologist in the family,’ Giles said, amused.

‘Well, then – there’s your next project,’ she said.

Max gave a delighted crow. ‘You’ve hit on it, Mary darling! Poor Giles is always complaining that he’s not allowed to go on digs any more—’

‘I never did!’ Giles objected.

‘The phraseology is immaterial. You can’t come out to the Valley of the Kings – and you’ve missed the whole of the Knossos excavations – but here you are with a dig ready and waiting in your own back yard! I can’t believe you’ve never thought of it.’

‘But I never have,’ Giles laughed.

‘Well, think of it now. A proper, well-conducted, scientific excavation, documented all the way. Who knows what you’ll find? We’ll all come and help you – when we happen to be in England. It won’t be often, of course. We’ll be in Egypt and Palestine. Poor Giles!’

‘You’re baiting me,’ Giles concluded, and Max grinned wickedly.

‘No, too cruel, Maxie,’ Mary said. ‘Don’t mind him, Giles dear. He hasn’t got a wife, that’s his whole problem. He’s jealous of you, because no woman would take him.’

‘Don’t rub it in,’ Max said, with mock ruefulness. ‘After you went and married Talbot, what was I to do but bury my broken heart in some ancient ruins?’

‘Is there a view from the top, Giles?’ Andrew Lawrence asked, tiring of the nonsense. ‘Shall we climb up?’

Mr Cowling was spending the day looking through Feltham’s books, a task he said he preferred to do alone. But it was clear to Nina that Truman Smith did not want to be squiring her. Not a ladies’ man, she thought. He was quite good-looking, in a cool, reserved, unsmiling sort of style, that made her think of Jane Eyre’s cousin Mr Rivers. She was tempted to test him by saying that she wanted to go around the shops and look at hats; but she really wanted to see HMS Victory.

Probably he had been expecting this, because he had his answer ready. ‘You can’t go on board her any more. Her timbers are too rotten.’

‘But I’d still like to see Nelson’s ship,’ Nina persisted.

He didn’t actually sigh, but it was a close thing. ‘There are boats that take visitors out to row around the hull. But it’s a rough sort of ride for a lady. I’m afraid it might make you sick.’

‘The sea looks quite calm to me,’ Nina said. It sparkled under a bright April sky, deep blue and flickering with diamonds.