Cherringham--Thick as Thieves (2 page)

Trouble was — all that rain meant the newly ploughed field had turned to mud when they walked it. Baz’s boots were clogged and heavy. So from his point of view, it didn’t feel lucky at all.

His back hurt. His legs hurt. And his arms hurt from holding the big damn detector that hadn’t detected a thing.

Jerry had picked the lightweight detector: no surprise there. Baz knew he was a sneaky bastard, but he never went up against him. You didn’t want to fight Jerry — he fought mean and dirty. He was thin as a length of spit and all wiry. He never seemed to eat, all he did was drink, but in a fight Jerry was all muscle.

Like one of those horrible dogs that sink their teeth into you then get all locked and won’t let go.

If Jerry was thin — Baz felt fat and slow. He always had been — right the way through school. Obese, they called it now. Same damn difference. Anyway, Abby was just the same as him and she didn’t care so why should he?

He leaned on his shovel and looked across the field for Jerry.

At first he couldn’t see him — then he spotted him sitting resting against a fence post, smoking. Jerry gave him a wave.

Baz waved back.

Lazy bastard.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his energy drink and drained it. Last one — empty. Some fine day this was turning out to be. He’d spent seven quid on drinks and snacks, and what had he found so far?

He scraped inside his trouser pocket and pulled out his treasure. One metal button. Two bits of scrap metal. And three shotgun cartridges.

Still, it was nearly over. Just one last square in the corner to do, then they could head home.

He slung his shovel over one shoulder, put his headphones back on, and adjusted the dials on his detector. Then he held it out so the coil was just above the ground, and set off to finish the field.

Not going to do this again. Waste of bleedin’ time,
he thought.

Jerry watched Baz going backwards and forwards like a zombie in the far corner of the field, and he felt anxious. It was getting close to six o’clock and at this rate they wouldn’t get to the pub till seven. Way too late for him!

And what was it with Baz? Why was he so slow?

Maybe I should get someone else to help
, he thought.
Tell Baz he’s not up to it …

Truth was — he had a soft spot for Baz. His wife was a right bully — and Jerry knew that if he didn’t get him out of the house for a few hours now and then Baz would just top himself one day.

And — you had to hand it to Baz — he was thorough. Never walked away from a job till it was done.

Jerry ground his cigarette into the mud and headed over to tell Baz to stop.

But he didn’t need to. Baz did stop.

Jerry watched as Baz bent down and dug at the ground, then passed the coil over the mud and dug again. Then he got down on his knees and started scrabbling at the dirt with his hands.

Jerry quickened his step.

Baz sat up, took his headphones off and waved to him frantically, suddenly moving fast.

“Jerry! Jerry!”

Jerry didn’t need the invitation. He started running and when he reached Baz, the big man was still scraping hard at the topsoil with his spade, flinging great chunks of soil everywhere.

“Whoa, Baz! Stop! Gently, gently, mate!” said Jerry, kneeling down beside him. “You got somethin’? What is it?”

“Got a giant reading, Jerry.
Immense
!”

“Well calm down, calm down now. Could be anything. Bit of old plough. Buried car. Second World War bomb–”

“Bomb? Jeez!”

Baz stood up fast and backed away, dropping his shovel.

“Or … it could be something valuable — in which case, we don’t want to scratch it, do we?”

He smiled up at Baz who blinked and nodded.

“Yeah, right. Could be valuable …”

Carefully Jerry scraped more soil to one side and felt with his fingers. There was something there all right, something flat, maybe embossed. He tried to lift it — but it was too big, held down by the thick, solid mud and clay which seemed reluctant to release the prize.

Baz kneeled down next to him.

“Like this, Baz,” said Jerry, showing him how to push the soil away a handful at a time. “Nice and gentle.”

It only took a minute — and then finally the shape of the mysterious object was revealed.

It was circular — a good couple of feet across with a raised edge. And heavy. Jerry tried to lift it up.

“Gawd — have a go at that! It’s bleedin’ heavy!”

Baz took the other edge and lifted. His eyes widened in surprise.

“Blimey. It’s metal. But what is it, Jerry? Is it treasure?”

Jerry took the bottle of water sitting in his jacket pocket and poured it onto the object. The mud flowed away, leaving the surface underneath black with a slight blue tint. He looked closely. There were figures etched onto the metal, people without any clothes on, dancing, playing trumpets, holding spears.

“I don’t know, Baz. It might be an old tray. It might be junk. It might be one of them plates you carve a roast on …”

“B-but it might be treasure?”

Jerry looked at Baz, his face lit up like a little kid at Christmas.

“It might be.”

Though in truth, he didn’t think it was.

When had he ever got that lucky?

Pete Butterworth sat at the old farmhouse kitchen table, his arms folded, waiting. On his shoulder he could feel his wife Becky’s hand — warm, reassuring. He looked around the room. There were five of them in the kitchen altogether — but no one had spoken for some minutes.

At the head of the table, peering at the metal plate through a magnifying glass like some kind of Sherlock Holmes, sat Professor Peregrine Cartwright, one-time Head of Roman Archaeology at the University of Oxford. Every now and then he rotated the heavy object and made another entry in a small notebook which sat on the table in front of him.

Sitting in the kitchen chairs across the table from Pete sat Jerry and Baz — ’the world’s most unlikely treasure hunters’ he used to call them.

Until now, perhaps.

They’d traipsed in just as he’d finished milking, bringing a trail of mud into the house and both talking so much he didn’t at first have a clue what they were on about.

Then they’d gently up-ended the old sack onto the kitchen table and he and Becky had both stepped back in surprise.

“We reckon it’s a historic tea-tray,” Baz had said.

“Medieval, probably,” Jerry had added.

The object still had clods of mud on it and the darkened metal didn’t look promising, but Pete had seen enough farm finds in his time to know this wasn’t a tea-tray.

And it certainly wasn’t medieval.

While Becky carefully rinsed it off in the big old kitchen sink, then placed it on newspapers on the table, Pete had explained to the two lads the complicated formal process of recording archaeological finds.

The authorities had to be informed immediately and if that didn’t happen you’d swiftly get fined five-thousand pounds.

After that the British Museum itself decided whether your find was what they called ’treasure trove’. Then they valued it and paid you the market value after which the amount was usually split between the farmer and the finders according to the agreement they had in place.

 “And luckily, Jerry,” Pete had said with a smile to his wife, “I’ve got that very agreement which you signed with me — right here.”

And he’d taken out the piece of paper which — if this ’tray’ was what he thought it was — would save the house, the farm, his livelihood and his family from going bust before the year was out.

He thought again.
How unlikely.

Because Pete Butterworth was very broke indeed, and it seemed like only the miracle of hidden treasure would save him from financial meltdown. Lady Repton, who owned this land that Pete’s family had farmed for three generations, had already made it clear that come April the rents were going up — again.

Professor Peregrine Cartwright laid down his magnifying glass, closed his notebook and surveyed the room dramatically.

Uh-oh, here comes the news,
thought Pete.
What will it be?

His heart was beating like a steam hammer.

“Firstly,” said the elderly archaeologist, “I’d like to say that you acted correctly in calling me here this evening, Mr Butterworth. All historical finds must be correctly notified to the authorities as soon as possible. Requesting the assistance of an expert such as myself — albeit retired, I must add — to verify such finds always … How may I put it … oils the wheels of the relevant processes–”

“Eh?” said Baz.

“He means we’ve got to do this ’by the book’ and he’s going to help,” said Jerry, as if he was a translator.

“Right,” said Baz, though he still looked confused.

“If I may continue?”

“Please do, Professor,” said Pete.

He realised that Cartwright was used to being in charge and decided he should just let him carry on. Becky moved round, pulled the chair out and sat next to him. Her hand reached for his under the table and she gave it a squeeze.

“Thank you so much,” Cartwright continued smoothly. “Now, first of all we must establish the security of the site. Mr Butterworth, perhaps tomorrow you could get some fencing organised and hire in some additional help in advance of further excavation?”

Pete nodded, not sure where this was going.

“In the meantime, I shall contact the British Museum myself, first thing in the morning,” said Cartwright. “Now, if the artefact is to stay here, you will need twenty-four-hour security. I can recommend a trusted service based in Oxford. They’ve done this type of thing before and you’ll only need it for the weeks it takes the British Museum to kick into high gear.”

Pete looked at his wife.

Round-the-clock security? How in the world could he pay for that? He had heard it could take a year to get the money from something like this.

There had to be another way.

“Professor, is there something else we might do? The bank perhaps. Could they–”

Cartwright produced a small laugh as if the idea was absurd.

“Banks steer clear of such things. Liability issues all over the place. But …”

Cartwright paused, and looked as though an idea had just occurred to him. He stroked his beard and nodded.

“There is one thing you might do. I could — perhaps — take it with me to my own house in Cherringham? I have a substantial safe designed specifically for the storage of such valuable objects. I suppose … I could adopt stewardship in this case.”

“That would be excellent,” Pete replied.

 “Then we’re agreed?”

“I think that’s for the best,” Pete looked to Becky for agreement. Luckily, she nodded.

“Hang on,” said Jerry. “You mean you’re going to
take
the tray? But it’s ours!”

“My dear boy,” said Professor Cartwright, “I couldn’t possibly let
you
have charge of it.”

“Why not? It’s our tray. We found it.”

“I do not dispute that fact. There is no argument about ownership here. Though I should perhaps disabuse you of the notion that this is a tray.”

“Eh?” said Baz again.

“Professor Cartwright,” Pete interjected, asking what he’d been dying to know since Jerry and Baz had brought it to him. “I just wonder if you could tell us what in fact it is?”

“Of course, of course!” Cartwright replied enthusiastically. “It’s a rather fine example of fourth-century Roman silverware. A platter — or plate. Decorated with various marine deities, and with a fine Bacchus and some breathtakingly detailed Maenads.”

“Silver?” said Jerry, sounding disappointed. “So, not gold then?”

“Of course not,” Cartwright replied, as though the very suggestion was absurd.

 
“So not worth very much then?” said Baz, now looking rather downhearted.

“On the contrary, I would surmise it is worth rather a lot of money.”

Pete’s heart skipped a beat.

“Come on prof,” said Jerry. “Let the monkey see the nuts! How much are we talking about?”

Professor Cartwright sighed as if the very notion of placing a value on a Roman artefact was the height of bad taste.

“Well … The Mildenhall Platter — a similar find from the ’forties — is far inferior in workmanship and quality. And the complete hoard was valued then at approximately fifty thousand pounds, if my recollection is correct.”

Pete swallowed and felt his wife’s hand squeeze his own tightly. Fifty thousand pounds! Even split down the middle, ten or twenty grand would be enough to get the family out of trouble. Across the table Jerry and Baz gave each other a high five.

“Result!” said Jerry. Then to Baz: “What I tell ya?”

“Wahey!” echoed Baz rubbing his hands together in glee.

Professor Cartwright coughed impatiently.

“However, with inflation to consider of course, you might confidently expect the plate to be valued by the authorities today at somewhere between one and one-and-a-half million.”

Pete felt the blood drain from his face.

“Give or take a few hundred thousand,” the professor added, as if playing with them.

At this the room went silent again and Pete could swear they had all stopped breathing. Professor Cartwright stood and looked down at them all.

“So we all agree that it is probably the wisest course of action that I take the plate — the Cherringham Plate as it will no doubt be known — and store it overnight in my safe?”

Pete was unable to speak. He looked at his wife and saw there were tears streaming down her face.

“Yes,” he said, holding back the tears himself. “I’m sure you’re right.”

“Now if we can wrap it in some material, and help get it into my car … and then I’ll be off.”

Jack Brennan pulled his Austin Healey Sprite into a space off to the side of The Ploughman’s car park, and killed the engine.

Just about the last free space. Must be some kind of celebration going on, he guessed. Maybe he should just head back to The Grey Goose, fix a martini and–