John Preston - The Dig

The other three men climbed out of the pit and dusted themselves down. Still nobody had spoken. I thought it best that we should leave. I indicated as much to Lyons and also to Robert, who seemed to understand — certainly he made no protest. Lyons picked up the wicker chair and, in the same order as before, the three of us walked away.

Two letters arrived in the post the next morning. The first was from Mr. Reid Moir, asking how the excavation was going. Unfortunately, there was little to report. Further digging beneath the butcher’s tray had revealed nothing. Mr. Brown had advised that there was no point in continuing. We therefore decided that he should start on another mound. I left the choice of which up to him and resolved to stay away from the excavation until he had something to report.

The second letter was from Miss Price, telling me that she would not now be returning to Sutton Hoo House to continue working as Robert’s governess/companion. She apologized profusely for this, but said that she felt she should remain with her family in the West Country.

It was a letter I had been both half-expecting and dreading. Looking up, I met Robert’s inquiring gaze. I said nothing, hoping that he had not recognized Miss Price’s handwriting. After breakfast, I sat in the sitting room and wondered, inconclusively, what to do.

I have no recollection of falling asleep, or even of feeling particularly tired. The next thing I knew, however, I had awakened to a clamor of voices. Beneath the voices there was another deeper, darker sound, like the growling of bassoons. Through the French window I saw Grateley running across the lawn. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him outdoors before. The sunlight seemed to exaggerate his cadaverousness, causing him to skip agitatedly about in his tail coat.

My surprise was compounded by the fact that Ellen was running beside him. The two of them were moving in tandem. As they ran along together, Grateley’s hand appeared to slide down her back.

When I rang the bell there was no response. Again I rang the bell, jangling it impatiently from side to side. Finally Mrs. Lyons came in. Her hair was white with flour.

“What is happening?” I asked her. “Has Mr. Brown found something? Why was I not informed?”

“Ma’am… I believe there has been an accident.”

“An accident? What kind of accident?”

“An accident with the excavation.”

I stood up, fetched my coat from the hallway and hurried outside. As I came close to the mounds, I could see immediately what had happened. A trench had been driven into the second mound, just as it had into the first. However, the whole of one side of this trench had collapsed. A shelf of mud had slid down, covering everything below it. In front of me I could see Jacobs, Spooner, Grateley and Ellen. All of them were kneeling down and digging away at the earth with their hands. Even then, it took me a moment or two to realize that there was no sign of Mr. Brown.

“Are you sure you are looking in the right place?” I called out.

“Not sure, no,” said Jacobs, tossing clods over his shoulder. “Mr. Brown was the only one inside when it happened. But we think it was here.”

I knelt down beside them, plunging my hands into the damp earth. Although there were shovels close by, no one dared use them for fear of causing further injuries. Several more minutes went by, with all of us scrabbling away. Still there was no sign of him. Scooping up another handful of earth, I glanced at my wrist watch and tried to calculate how long Mr. Brown had been buried for.

And then came a shout from Spooner: “There’s something here!”

I looked up to see that Spooner was holding Mr. Brown’s cap. We all moved in a circle around the spot where he had found it and continued digging away.

A few minutes later Jacobs found Mr. Brown’s hand. It was sticking out of the earth, his fingers bent and splayed, his cuff still buttoned at the wrist. The men took hold of his wrist and pulled. As they did so, Mr. Brown slid out of the ground towards them. There was mud in his eye sockets and in his nostrils. His skin had a yellowish tinge.

Spooner pinched the mud away. Meanwhile, Jacobs put an ear to his chest. Mr. Brown was not breathing. His chest was quite still. Jacobs sat astride him and began pumping away. Still nothing happened. Jacobs leaned forward, putting his mouth over Mr. Brown’s and trying to force air into his lungs. He waited a few seconds and tried again.

In desperation, he began to pound Mr. Brown with his fists, hitting him so hard I feared he might break his ribs.

“Come on, Basil!” he shouted. “Come back!”

Still there was no response. Beside me, Ellen started to cry. Jacobs rocked back onto his heels. Just as he did so, a shiver passed all the way along Mr. Brown’s body. He started to shake; his back was bucking, his legs jerking up and down. He gave a long, hacking cough and sucked noisily for air.

I felt such a sense of relief that it made my head spin. Meanwhile, Grateley had fetched some water. He held a tin cup to Mr. Brown’s lips, tipping it up. The cup rattled against his teeth. Most of the water ran out of the side of his mouth. Some, though, he managed to swallow.

For several more minutes he lay there, his breathing becoming less tremulous. Then he raised himself up on one elbow. He looked at each of us, blinking the mud away.

“Damn…” he said. “Damn and blast.” His voice was faint, but perfectly clear.

“Just lie back and try to relax,” I told him.

He took no notice of this. Holding on to Jacobs’s sleeve, he tried to force it downwards towards him. At the same time, his feet started paddling round, churning up the dirt.

“What on earth are you doing, Mr. Brown?”

His feet continued to spin feebly as he clutched at Grateley. “Be fine once I’m standing,” he said.

“You will do no such thing. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, you just listen to Mrs. Pretty, Basil,” said Spooner.

But again he took no notice. With some difficulty, Jacobs managed to unclench Mr. Brown’s fingers from his sleeve. Looking greatly offended, Mr. Brown fell back onto the ground.

“Could you find something to carry him to the house on?” I said to the men.

In the end they used a tarpaulin, rolling Mr. Brown over onto the center of it. He was so light that the three of them had no difficulty in carrying him; the tarpaulin scarcely sagged in the middle as they did so. I asked them to take him into the sitting room and lay him on the sofa. Then I went to the cloakroom to wash my hands and to fill a jug of water.

When I came back, once again Mr. Brown tried to stand up, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa. Immediately, they crumpled beneath him and he collapsed onto the cushions.

“Mr. Brown, kindly do as you are told. You are clearly suffering from shock. And quite possibly from concussion.”

He did not reply to this, but lay there, looking up at the ceiling with his lips pressed together. A few moments later his chest began heaving again. Immediately afterwards, he started to retch. A stream of coffee-colored vomit spurted onto the carpet.

As he was being sick, I sat beside him, holding the back of his head. Once he had finished, I gave him some more water to drink before fetching a bowl and a cloth and wiping up the vomit.

“So sorry,” he said.

“There is no need to apologize.”

Once again he started to shake, emitting a series of faint moans as he did so. Breaths bubbled and burst on his lips. When the shaking subsided, he lay back and stared at the ceiling through unblinking eyes. I gave him more water to drink. I could hear the gurgle as it passed down his throat. We both waited to see if it would come back up. When he was confident that it would not, Mr. Brown started to say something else.