Page 32 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

A stable government had finally been established in 1899, and Evans had then bought the rest of the site through the Fund – which by then had other contributors.

In March 1900 he had started his excavations.

Every year had brought news of the extraordinary things discovered, evidences of an ancient civilisation, which he had dubbed Minoan, after the Greek myth of Minos.

There were so many wall paintings and mosaics of bulls and bull-leapers he concluded the myths were based on fact and the Minoans had worshipped the bull aspect of Poseidon, placating him with displays of bull-leaping.

But now, in 1905, he had announced the excavation finished, and he was having the walls of what he had called the Throne Room – because of a throne-like stone chair it contained – repainted by a father-and-son team of Swiss artists. Giles’s friends were divided over the wisdom of the move.

‘It’s vandalism, plain and simple,’ Talbot Arthur said, shaking his head. ‘I think the poor fellow’s brain must be touched.’

‘But he’s basing the paintings on archaeological evidence,’ said Jane Lawrence.

‘Which he himself provided,’ said Talbot. ‘With no oversight from his peers. And the man’s a hopeless romantic. As well get Alma-Tadema to paint the whole thing.’

‘Well, I for one love Alma-Tadema’s paintings, and I find it very helpful to see what ancient sites may have looked like.’

‘ May have looked like.’

‘Always with that caveat,’ Jane said. ‘You are such a purist, Tal!’

‘How can one not be? Archaeology is a science. There’s no room for interpretation.’

There was an outcry at that. ‘Oh, come!’ said Giles. ‘When you only have a fragment of something you must interpret, or all you have is a fragment. Most of what we think we know about the ancient world is interpretation of one sort or another.’

‘That’s not our business,’ said Talbot. ‘As archaeologists we present the fragments for academic inspection. What academics do afterwards is their responsibility.’

‘Arthur Evans never got over the death of his wife,’ Mabel Portwine said, with a sigh. ‘So tragic. He was terribly in love with her.’

Max Wolski raised his eyebrows. ‘What on earth has that got to do with it?’

‘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.

‘I think you’ll find it’s different when you’re out on it in a small boat.’

She gave him a pleasant smile. ‘Are you refusing to accompany me, Mr Smith? Shall I have to go alone?’

A spot of vexation bloomed in his alabaster cheek, but he said calmly, ‘I am instructed to take you wherever you want, ma’am. I merely warn you about the discomforts you risk.’

‘Thank you. I am warned. Shall we go?’

Truman Smith called a cab and instructed it to take them to Gunwharf Quays, where he left her with Trump to enjoy the view while he dickered with a weather-beaten type for a trip on a large four-oared wooden boat.

When negotiations were complete, he escorted her to the steps and helped her down into it, and she smiled gaily at the two Guernsey-clad salts, with their caps and clay pipes, to show them she was not in the least afraid.

Smith handed Trump to her, climbed down and seated himself beside her, and they pushed off.

As soon as they were clear of the wharf and out into the harbour, the movement of the boat picked up; and as a cloud crossed the sun at that moment, giving the sea a less gay look, Nina began to have misgivings, and wished she was on a much larger vessel, or better still back on dry land.

After all, she’d seen pictures of Victory , hadn’t she?

She didn’t need to go out there. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she’d changed her mind, but she wouldn’t give Truman the satisfaction.

And, indeed, she didn’t feel seasick. It was only that the water was much closer to her than she liked, and the boat seemed more flimsy than it had looked from the wharf.

She sought to distract herself. ‘Why do they row backwards?’ she asked her companion.

‘I believe they get more traction that way,’ Truman said indifferently. ‘Don’t worry, they’re quite used to it.’

‘I can see that,’ Nina said. She had observed how the one further from her, at the pointed end, looked over his shoulder from time to time and gave instructions to his partner: ‘Pull starboard, Jed. Pull both.’

Jed shifted his pipe to the corner of his mouth to remark, ‘Little feller’s enjoying isself, miss.’

For an instant Nina thought he was talking about Truman, then realised he meant Trump, who had his forefeet up on the gunwale and was looking about with keen interest, whiskers bristling and nose twitching rapidly at the new smells.

A small, graceful sailing boat went past them in the other direction, and he barked at it joyfully.

He wriggled under the wooden plank seat on which she and Truman were sitting to get to the square end of the boat and bark at it some more.

‘Why don’t we have a sail?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t it be quicker, and save these gentlemen some of the hard work?’