Free The Dig by John Preston

I asked him to show me where he’d found it, he pointed at a pinky-brown patch in the sand. As soon as I saw it, I asked the men to step away. Then I knelt down with mytrowel. I was all set to start scraping when I noticed another patch of pink sand. This one was about six inches away, on the left-hand side. Although not as big or clear as the first, it was still clear enough.
    I dug down. An inch or so below the patch of sand was a second piece of metal — even more corroded than before, but the same shape. Just like a bolt. I moved along, not scraping now, only looking. Another six inches away from the second patch of sand there was a third one.
    Now what have we got here? I thought.
    Before going on, I had another look at John’s piece of iron. Also at the one I’d just found. I had a strong suspicion that I’d seen them before. Or something very like them anyway. But where and when?
    I sat down on the ledge and tried to remember. I was damned if I could dredge anything up. I was close to banging my head with my fist when all at once it popped into my mind: Aldeburgh. Yes, that’s it. There’s another one of these at Aldeburgh, I was positive there was, although it must have been a good fifteen years since I saw it.
    Brushing myself down, I told John and Will that I’d be gone for a few hours and that it was very important they shouldn’t disturb anything while I was away. Then I put the pieces of iron into my pocket, climbed on my bike and headed north — towards Orford.
    As I rode along, the clouds finally began to lift. By the time I reached Rendlesham Forest the mist was already rising off the trees. Coming closer to the sea, the breeze was so strongit nearly took my cap off. Beyond Orford, I carried on along the coast road. On the right-hand side, the land shelved down to the water. I rode through fields of wheat and sedge, until I reached the ferry crossing opposite Slaughden. As luck would have it, a ferry was waiting there, about to depart. I cycled on and then hung about impatiently for several more minutes while some further dawdling took place.
    Slowly, the ferry cast off and inched its way across the river. I spent the crossing astride my bike, staring at the opposite bank, willing it to come closer. The moment the ferry touched land, I was off, pedaling into town, past the boathouses and the beach huts. A couple of people called out to me. One of them — I’ve no idea who — shouted, “What’s the hurry?” but I didn’t stop. I just lifted a hand as I rode past.
    I parked my bike outside the museum. There was a woman behind the desk who I didn’t recognize. I asked if Mr. Bright-ling was in. Oh, no, she said in a shocked voice, sounding as if he’d either died or emigrated years before. I didn’t inquire which. I just explained who I was and asked if I could have a look in their storeroom.
    She wasn’t at all happy about this. She spent a while wobbling about on the edge of refusing, glancing at her watch and explaining how the museum was due to close in less than half an hour. They did stay open later, she explained — until six, in fact. However, that was only on a Wednesday, which wasn’t a great deal of help. Not with this being a Thursday.
    “It could be important,” I said. “Very important.”
    Still she wouldn’t budge, though. In desperation, I said, “Mr. Reid Moir sent me.”
    That did the trick, of course. The change in her was instantaneous. “Why didn’t you say so straightaway?” she wanted to know. I muttered something about not wishing to make a fuss. Afterwards, she set about being as helpful as could be, showing me through into the storeroom, apologizing for the mess and offering me a cup of tea.
    I turned down the tea and set to looking through the drawers. Although the room was small, there were cabinets stacked up from floor to ceiling on all four walls. There was only just enough room to allow the door to open and shut. She wasn’t wrong about the mess. I