Cherringham--Thick as Thieves (7 page)

Sarah smiled and nodded.

“I’ll keep digging.”

“Good. I’m still playing with the navigation for the prison site. Creeping me out, it is.”

Then a knock on the door, three strong raps.

Not often did they have customers come up the steps unannounced. Usually people called, discussed their needs, then a meeting was set up.

So this … was unusual.

Grace opened the door and was faced with a bony-looking man in a herringbone three-piece suit, black umbrella tightly bound in hand, on this sunlit day.

He seemed to hesitate a moment, and then walked into the office as if it was his.

“The proprietor?” he said, with careful elocution.

“That would be me,” Sarah said. “Can we help?”

The man shook his head, archly.

“
Au contraire
. It is I who can help
you
.”

The man scanned the room and like a predator cornering some frail prey, saw a chair and went over to it.

“Do you mind?”

Not really a question at all.

Then he sat down and, from an inside pocket of his jacket, produced a business card and handed it to Sarah.

“Doctor Lawrence Sitwell,” she read, “Professor of European Archaeology, University of Oxford.”

She noted — in much smaller letters — the initials
ret.

As in ’retired’.

Sarah looked over to Grace who had stopped what she was doing to watch whatever was about to unfold with Lawrence Sitwell in this sunny office.

He produced a sheaf of papers from another pocket.

Sarah could see the logo of her newsletter —
Cherringham Roundel
— the distinctive arches of the medieval Cherringham Bridge across the Thames.

Interesting to see hard copy. Since it was an online newsletter, Sarah had only seen a print-out of the first two issues.

“I imagine it is you who wrote this … article?”

Clearly ’article’ wasn’t the word that he wanted to use.

“I do all of the writing. Except my assistant Grace sometimes–”

“This piece then — about the so-called discovery of the Roman plate and then — its theft — that is you?”

“Guilty,” Sarah said.

This Sitwell chap
— Sarah thought —
isn’t sitting too well with me
.

“It is filled with errors of fact.”

“That the plate was found? That it was stolen?”

Another dramatic roll of his head. The more agitated Sitwell became, the more his enunciation grew clipped, as if his mouth and teeth had turned into an old printing press, spitting out blocks of type into the air.

“The chances of that plate being genuine are virtually — nil. You can be absolutely sure that it is nothing more than another of those clap-trap replicas produced in the tens of thousands in the eighteen hundreds, and therefore absolutely worthless.”

“Hang on, Professor.”

“Your piece is just parroting a lot of ill-informed–”

Sarah leaned close.

This is my office,
she thought.
And professor or not, this academic bully isn’t going to run the show in the shop I built.

“I said …
hang on
. Slow down. If you’re here for a correction–”

“Correction?” he interrupted, “Dare say there should be more than that. Should be an investigation into this hoax, this … scam.”

Sarah wondered if she should tell him that an investigation was in fact in progress.

And if he had information to add, the more the merrier.

“So you think the item, the plate was …”

“Worthless.”

“But Professor Cartwright?”

And that was as if Sarah had just thrown a circuit breaker.

“Professor Peregrine Cartwright?” Sitwell produced a hearty ’ha’ that filled the office. Sarah looked over to Grace who, for Sarah’s benefit, produced a clown-like grimace at their fulminating guest.

“Old Peregrine’s eyes are anything but falcon-like, Miss Edwards.” Sitwell jutted a finger out, pointed at Sarah. “This is not the first time that he has jumped to conclusions.”

“Oh really? I thought he was quite a respected–”

Sitwell shook his head dramatically, stopping her short.

“Respected! Hmph. His knowledge base of Roman metallurgy, well, I can do a whole thesis on what he doesn’t know. In fact, I
have
.”

“But Professor Sitwell, you yourself have not seen the object?”

“One of the men who found it took a photo at the site, you know that.”

“But not terribly clear.”

“Clear enough. Even covered in mud. A replica.”

“So whoever stole it …”

Now Sitwell leaned close, for the first time a smile — albeit a creepy one — bloomed on his face.

“Exactly. They stole nothing. Petty theft at best.”

Sarah shot another look at Grace.

Could be,
she thought,
that Sitwell was right.

And if so, not only were the police wasting their time, so were she and Jack.

But still, there was that key question …

“Someone did steal it, Professor. Along with other things of value belonging to Professor Cartwright.”

“I am sure that any items of ’value’ old Peregrine had squirreled away have long been sold. It’s a little tough to make ends meet when your pension has been cut.”

Sarah made a mental note to check up on exactly how Cartwright left Oxford.

Perhaps he hadn’t been retired with full honours.

Sitwell seemed to freeze for a moment as if he had said something out of turn. But another snort, and he recovered his balance.

“There,” Sitwell said, warming to his conclusion. “You have the unvarnished truth of this fiasco. I expect to see clarifying details in the next edition of this …” he waved the printout of the online newsletter.

“The
Roundel
,” Sarah said. “And I will certainly look into these things.”

Sitwell stood up and sniffed the air, while gazing around the office.

Sarah stood as well. There was one more detail she wanted to ask him since he seemed to know so much about this affair.

“Professor Sitwell, before you leave.”

Sitwell’s eyebrows went up.

He must have been quite a sight in the classroom.

“Despite everything you have said … do you have any theories on who broke in and stole the plate?”

“Theories?”

At that, Sitwell laughed. Sarah couldn’t imagine what she had asked that was so funny. “My ’theory’ is that it would be someone who doesn’t know a damn thing about Romano-British artefacts!”

Still chuckling, Sitwell turned, walked to the door and left the office.

Grinning, Grace said: “I wish we’d recorded that. Could have been Cherringham’s first viral video.”

Sarah laughed, wondering what his odd visit had meant. Was there something she and Jack were missing?

Jack decided that the pub, with an offer of a free pint or two would be the best inducement to get Jerry Pratt to meet him for a chat.

“Thanks for coming,” Jack said.

Jerry nodded, his eyes locked on Ellie pulling a pint of best bitter. Just after lunchtime, and young Jerry seemed mighty thirsty.

Taking the pint, foam spilling over the side, Jerry took a sudsy sip. “No problem, mate. Anything to get that damn treasure back.”

“That’s more the police’s line,” Jack said. “I’m just asking some questions. Helping out, as it were.”

Another big gulp, suds giving way to beer.

“You’re a Yank. Yanks are smart. Smarter than the local lot ’ere. Bleedin’ keystone cops they are. Maybe with you helpin’, we’ll ’ave a better shot at finding them bastards who did this.”

“Maybe.”

Jack thought:
Yanks are smarter? Guy must watch too many American cop shows.

“I was thinking it might help to hear your side of the story …”

Jerry cocked an eyebrow, finally looking away from his beloved pint, suddenly wary.

“Yeah. My story? About how we found it?”

Jack shook his head. “No, the night of the break-in.”

Jerry shook his head. “You seen us, haven’t you? Celebrating right here. Even chatted with you. Me and Baz, both right here.”

“I get that. Great celebration.”

Jack looked around the quiet pub. The lunchtime rush was long over and the place was still in anticipation of the early afternoon crowd. “But after that, you went straight home?”

The question stopped Jerry.

Then a small grin.

“Not exactly, mate. Like I said — was a bit of celebration, and we–”

“You and Baz?”

Jerry nodded. “Yeah, we drove over to Boughton. Got ourselves a little …” Jerry lowered his voice, “massage.”

“Really? You and Baz, hmm? That’s not what Baz told me.”

“Too right he didn’t tell you. Poor sod’s got a wife now, doesn’t he? She hears about any goings on like that, and well — don’t have to draw you a picture. Though must admit, he was none too steady once we got there.”

“I can believe that. Looked like he had trouble holding his head up.”

“That’s not all he had trouble keeping up!” Jerry said, laughing loudly.

Jack didn’t know what to believe … Baz’s story of immediately crashing on the couch, or Jerry’s little road trip for some stress relief. All things considered — the latter was more likely. He’d keep quiet though — none of his business, as long as it didn’t impact the case.

Jack knew it would be easy to have the police check that the two of them did go to Boughton. Still, it didn’t rule either of them out.

Jack nursed his beer, but when Jerry’s emptied he gave a wave to Ellie for a refill.

“Thanks. Generous of yer
.”

“The next morning, you must have been — really upset when that safe popped open?”

“Upset? Why I’d take whoever did that and–” Jerry caught himself.

Bit of a temper there.

“Understandable. Any thoughts on who could have done it?”

Jerry looked away.

“Dunno. Been told a thing like that is hard to fence.”

“Almost impossible, is what I’ve learned.”

“Right. So can’t imagine any of us would have done it. We had a sure thing–”

He banged his glass down on the bar.

“Money in hand,” he said.

Jack could feel the pain of all the cash vanishing overnight.

“So you think?”

“Must have been that gang the police are talking about. Hitting all the villages around here. Maybe they didn’t even know it was there, won’t know what the hell to do with it. I just know one thing,”

“What’s that, Jerry?”

“Sure screwed up my life, know what I mean?”

Jack nodded, gave the bereft Jerry a smile.

“Think I do,” he said.

Jack feigned looking at his watch.

“Gotta dash — thanks for talking though.”

“Right. Anytime. And hope you find ’em, the ones that did it!”

Just a smile in response since — right now — that seemed pretty unlikely, and Jack sailed out of the Ploughman’s.

Tony Standish looked up at the grandfather clock that sat in the front corner of his office, next to two large windows that overlooked the High Street.

“She did say she’d be here at three o’clock sharp.”

Sarah nodded. “Not to worry. I’m way ahead on deadlines for a change. I can wait.”

Standish got up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and looked out.

The estimable Lady Repton had agreed to meet, but insisted it be at her solicitor’s office, Tony Standish Esq — which was fine since Sarah trusted Tony implicitly.

Cherringham felt like a better place with a lawyer like Tony watching her back.

Funny though … she knew so little about his life, and he knew everything about hers, her parents, kids …

He looked down to the street, pulling aside the net curtain.

“Ah, there’s her taxi. No driver, sadly. Those days are over.”

He turned back to Sarah.

“Been a difficult time for her. Cutting back, and all that–”

“I imagine.”

Standish’s receptionist knocked, and then opened the door to his office.

“Mr Standish, Lady Repton is here.”

Tony nodded, keeping his position at the window, and then Lady Repton walked in.

Her cane punctuated every step with a sharp clack on the wood floor until she reached the thick plush Persian carpet, a crimson sea that surrounded Tony’s desk and chairs for clients.

Lady Repton barely shot Sarah a nod as she made a surprisingly quick beeline for one of the chairs.

“Some tea, if you don’t mind, Standish.”

“Absolutely. Sarah?”

“I’m fine, Tony.”

Repton snorted at that. Whether at Sarah’s refusing a perfectly good cup of tea in the afternoon or calling
her
solicitor ’Tony’, Sarah didn’t know.

Once tea had been brought in, Tony offered to take the lead starting the meeting.

“Lady Repton, as you know Sarah, who is also a client, has been–”

“Oh, do get on with it. I’m not getting any younger, Standish. Let’s cut to — what do the young people, say — the chase.”

Lady Repton took a sip of the tea, both saucer and cup held perfectly, in a way they must have been drilled into young debutantes decades ago.

A century ago!

“Precisely. Sarah?”

Standish turned to Sarah, passing the ball.

Lady Repton kept her eyes locked, looking forward as Sarah began.

“Lady Repton, I have been working with Mr Jack Brennan to see if we can learn anything about the plate that was stolen.”

Repton shook her head in a move that screamed ’now I’ve heard everything’.

“Amateur detectives,” Lady Repton said.

Another shake of her head.

Sarah was tempted to tell this old … woman … that the two of them had had a good degree of success, and Jack was anything but an amateur. But she felt holding her tongue might better serve the cause here.

“I’d like to review with you the events of that morning.”

Now the turret of Lady Repton’s head turned, and with a slight angle adjustment, the lowering of her chin, she addressed and looked at Sarah squarely.