Classic Mistake by Amy Myers

coast near Deal and Dover and chiefly known for its golf and the Roman fortress of Richborough.
    Dr Ambrose Fairbourne was only too eager to tell me about Eastry. Indeed, he looked shocked that I needed telling. ‘In Anglo-Saxon times it was the capital of Kent,’ he told me with almost personal pride. ‘Not just a village – the whole area around it was then known as Eastry.’ A pause while I wondered whether his archaeological memories had deserted him too. I could see that a whole shelf of the books in the study were written by him, but there would be no more, however good his memory for the past was. I thought he had stopped speaking, but he took us both by surprise.
    ‘Murder!’ he yelled.
    ‘Whose?’ I asked cautiously.
    ‘King Egbert. Seventh century. Don’t you know his palace was at Eastry?’ He spoke with great indignation. ‘Lambarde relates the story of the murder, admittedly based on Mathew of Westminster, who is now thought never to have existed, although the work cited, the
Flores Historiarum
, certainly does. The bodies are buried somewhere.’
    ‘King Egbert’s body?’ I asked cautiously when he paused.
    Ambrose beamed at me. ‘Yes, young man. Probably in St Augustine’s Abbey, but also there at Eastry. It is. It’s there all right.’
    ‘Who murdered the king?’
    He stared at me aghast. ‘No, no,
no.
You will never make a historian, young man. Legends spring from fact, however far removed. His nephews, or cousins – sources vary – Ethelbert and Ethelred. Some term him Ethelbright. The king murdered
them
,
afraid they would take the throne from him
.
Or perhaps it was his steward Thunner on his behalf.’ He half rose from his chair, and his arm swept through an arc. ‘The bodies were hidden, but a great shining beam of light showed where they lay. The ley line. That’s the answer, my friend. The true answer. Egbert gave land for an abbey to their sister – minster not abbey – in restitution and became a good Christian.’ A pause, and a sly look. ‘Grave goods. Gold.’
    Josie was giving me no help, so I had to proceed cautiously. ‘Buried treasure?’
    ‘Certainly. Gold.’
    I thought I saw where this was going. ‘Is this something to do with the legendary golden statue of the Norse god Woden thought to be buried near Woodnesborough?’ I knew it was only a mile or so from Eastry. ‘And the prehistoric golden Ringlemere cup was found near there too.’ If I’d hoped to please him with my feeble knowledge of the subject, I’d failed miserably.
    Ambrose frowned. ‘Eastry. It’s there at Eastry.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said hastily.
    ‘They say,’ he told me confidentially, ‘that the bodies were moved to Romsey abbey. The king lies elsewhere, but I shall find him.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘That’s settled then,’ he said briskly. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go to Eastry, young man. You’ll pack my equipment, Josie?’
    ‘Yes, Ambrose. It’s always ready.’
    ‘Then I’ll leave it to you. You’re both dismissed.’ He changed his mind. ‘No, stay. I don’t get many visitors. I had one yesterday or the day before, and there will be one tomorrow too. I’m sure of that. I’m going to Eastry. Do you know it?’
    ‘A little,’ I said. ‘Tell me about it.’ While he did so and his eye was not on me, I stole a look at some of the photographs of a younger, healthier Ambrose. One was at a book launch, another a wedding photo with his wife – mid nineteen fifties? – and another with her, standing by, yes, a grey Morris Minor 1000 outside an unmistakable May Tree Inn. I put that one as late sixties or early seventies, judging by the clothes.
    ‘Do you remember Carlos and the Charros?’ I shot at a whim, after I’d thanked him for telling me about Eastry again.
    He looked doubtfully at Josie. ‘Do I?’
    ‘Yes, Ambrose. Remember? I was the singer and we performed at the May Tree Inn.’ She took one of the photos to remind him. ‘You liked that pub.’
    ‘Bang,