Instead of aggregate, it broke into a stone-lined cist, the kind of carefully constructed grave in which prehistoric communities placed their dead, built from upright slabs with flat capstones laid across the top to seal the chamber. This one had lain undisturbed beneath the gravel, in a spot that would have been relatively elevated and dry above the surrounding marsh, which may well explain why it was chosen in the first place.

The excavation that followed, published by Murphy in 1961, revealed the cist in considerable detail. It measured just under two metres in length, oriented roughly east-north-east to west-south-west, and narrowed towards the eastern end. The construction varied slightly from one end to the other: at the western end, capstones rested on upright side stones that leaned outwards, while at the eastern end, smaller thin slabs had been placed against what would have been the feet and legs of the person inside. That person, according to the bone analysis, was a man in late middle life. Beyond that, the record is quiet. No grave goods are mentioned, no dating evidence beyond what the cist form itself implies, no name or story to attach to the skeleton. Just the careful geometry of the stones, and the body someone had taken trouble to lay out and enclose.