The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More (9 page)

Butcher himself was exempt from military service. He was a farmer, a skilled
ploughman, and they had told him when he volunteered for the army in 1939 that
he was not wanted. The island's food supplies must be kept going, they told
him, and it was vital that men like him stay on their jobs and cultivate the
land.

Ford, being in the same business, was also exempt. He was a bachelor, living
alone, and he was thus able to live a secret life and to do secret things
within the walls of his home.

And so, on that terrible snowy afternoon when they dug up the treasure, Ford carried
it home and laid everything out on a table in the back room.

Thirty-four separate pieces! They covered the entire table. And by the look of
it, they were in
marvellous
condition. Silver does
not rust. The green crust of oxidation can even be protection for the surface
of the metal underneath. And with care, it could all be removed.

Ford decided to use an ordinary domestic silver polish known as
Silvo
, and he bought a large stock of it from the
ironmonger's shop in
Mildenhall
. Then he took first
the great two-foot plate which weighed more than eighteen pounds. He worked on
it in the evenings. He soaked it all over with
Silvo
.
He rubbed and rubbed. He worked patiently on this single dish every night for
more than sixteen weeks.

At last, one memorable evening, there showed beneath his rubbing a small area
of shining silver, and on the silver, raised up and beautifully worked, there
was a part of a man's head.

He kept at it, and gradually the little patch of shining metal spread and
spread, the blue-green crust crept outward to the edges of the plate until
finally the top surface of the great dish lay before him in its full glory,
covered all over with a wondrous pattern of animals and men and many odd
legendary things.

Ford was astounded by the beauty of the great plate. It was filled with life
and movement. There was a fierce face with tangled hair, a dancing goat with a
human head, there were men and women and animals of many kinds cavorting around
the rim, and no doubt all of them told a story.

Next, he set about cleaning the reverse side of the plate. Weeks and weeks it
took. And when the work was completed and the whole plate on both sides was
shining like a star, he placed it safely in the lower cupboard of his big oak
sideboard and locked the cupboard door.

One by one, he tackled the remaining thirty-three pieces. A mania had taken
hold of him now, a fierce compulsion to make every item shine in all its silver
brilliance. He wanted to see all thirty-four pieces laid out on the big table
in a dazzling array of silver. He wanted that more than anything else, and he
worked desperately hard to achieve his wish.

He cleaned the two smaller dishes next, then the large fluted bowl, then the
five long-handled ladles, the goblets, the wine-cups, the spoons. Every single
piece was cleaned with equal care and made to shine with equal brilliance, and
when they were all done, two years had passed and it was 1944.

But no strangers were allowed to look. Ford discussed the matter with no man or
woman, and
Rolfe
, the owner of the plot on
Thistley
Green where the treasure had been found, knew
nothing except that Ford, or someone Ford had hired, had ploughed his land
extremely well and very deep.

One can guess why Ford hid the treasure instead of reporting it to the police
as Treasure Trove. Had he reported it, it would have been taken away and Gordon
Butcher would have been rewarded as the finder.
Rewarded with
a fortune.
So the only thing Ford could do was to hang on to it and hide
it in the hope, presumably, of selling it quietly to some dealer or collector
at a later date.

It is possible, of course, to take a more charitable view and assume that Ford
kept the treasure solely because he loved beautiful things and wanted to have
them around him. No one will ever know the true answer.

Another year went by.

The war against Hitler was won.

And then, in 1946, just after Easter, there was a knock on the door of Ford's
house. Ford opened it.

"Why hello,
Mr
Ford.
How are you after all these years?"

"Hello, Dr Fawcett," Ford said. "
You been
keeping all right?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Dr Fawcett said. "It's been a long time,
hasn't it?"

"Yes," Ford said. "That old war kept us all pretty busy."

"May I come in?" Dr Fawcett asked.

"Of course," Ford said, "Come on in."

Dr Hugh Alderson Fawcett was a keen and learned archaeologist who before the
war had made a point of visiting Ford once a year in search of old stones or
arrowheads. Ford had usually collected a batch of such items during the twelve
months and he was always willing to sell them to Fawcett. They were seldom of
great value, but now and again something quite good had turned up.

"Well," said Fawcett, taking off his coat in the little hall.
"Well, well, well. It's been nearly seven years since I was here
last."

"Yes, it's been a long time," Ford said.

Ford led him into the front room and showed him a box of flint arrowheads which
had been picked up in the district. Some were good, others not so good. Fawcett
picked through them, sorted them, and a deal was done.

"Nothing else?"

"No, I don't think so."

Ford wished fervently that Dr Fawcett had never come. He wished even more
fervently that he would go away.

It was at this point that Ford noticed something that made him sweat. He saw
suddenly that he had left lying on the mantel over the fireplace the two most
beautiful of the Roman spoons from the treasure hoard. These spoons had
fascinated him because each was inscribed with the name of a Roman girl child
to whom it had been given, presumably as a christening present, by Roman
parents who had been converted to Christianity. One name was
Pascentia
, the other was
Papittedo
.
Rather lovely names.

Ford, sweating with fear, tried to place himself between Dr Fawcett and the
mantelpiece. He might even, he thought, be able to slip the spoons into his
pocket if he got the chance.

He didn't get the chance.

Perhaps Ford had polished them so well that a little flash of reflected light
from the silver caught the doctor's eye. Who knows? The fact remains that
Fawcett saw them. The moment he saw them, he pounced like a tiger.

"Great heavens alive!" he cried. "What are these?"

"Pewter," Ford said, sweating more than ever.
"Just
a couple of old pewter spoons."

"Pewter?" cried Fawcett, turning one of the spoons over in his
fingers.
"Pewter!
You call this
pewter
?"

"That's right," Ford said. "It's pewter."

"You know what this is?" Fawcett said, his voice going high with
excitement. "Shall I tell you what this
really
is?"

"You don't have to tell me," Ford said, truculent. "I know what
it is. It's old pewter.
And quite nice, too."

Fawcett was reading the inscription in Roman letters on the scoop of the spoon.
"
Papittedo
!" he cried.

"What's that mean?" Ford asked him.

Pawcett
picked up the other spoon. "
Pascentia
," he said. "Beautiful! These are the
names of Roman children! And these spoons, my friend, are made of solid silver!
Solid Roman silver!"

"Not possible," Ford said.

"They're magnificent!" Fawcett cried out, going into raptures.
"They're perfect! They're unbelievable! Where on earth did you find them?
It's most important to know where you found them! Was there anything
else?" Fawcett was hopping about all over the room.

"Well. . ." Ford said, licking dry lips.

"You must report them at once!" Fawcett cried. "They're Treasure
Trove! The British Museum is going to want these and that's for certain! How
long have you had them?"

"Just a little while," Ford told him.

"And who found them?" Fawcett asked, looking straight at him.
"Did you find them yourself or did you get them from somebody else? This
is vital! The finder will be able to tell us all about it!"

Ford felt the walls of the room closing in on him and he didn't quite know what
to do.

"Come on, man! Surely you know where you got them! Every detail will have
to come out when you hand them in. Promise me you'll go to the police with them
at once?"

"Well. . ." Ford said.

"If you don't, then I'm afraid I shall be forced to report it
myself," Fawcett told him. "It's my duty."

The game was up now and Ford knew it. A thousand questions would be asked. How
did you find
it ?
When did you find it? What were you
doing? Where was the exact spot? Whose land were you
ploughing
?
And sooner or later, inevitably, the name of Gordon Butcher would have to come
into it. It was unavoidable. And then, when Butcher was questioned, he would
remember the size of the hoard and tell them all about it.

So the game was up. And the only thing to do at this point was to unlock the
doors of the big sideboard and show the entire hoard to Dr Fawcett.

Ford's excuse for keeping it all and not turning it in would have to be that he
thought it was pewter. So long as he stuck to that, he told himself, they
couldn't do anything to him.

Dr Fawcett would probably have a heart-attack when he saw what there was in
that cupboard.

"There is actually quite a bit more of it," Ford said.

"Where?" cried Fawcett, spinning round. "Where, man, where? Lead
me to it!"

"I really thought it was pewter," Ford said, moving slowly and very
reluctantly forward to the oak sideboard. "Otherwise I would naturally
have reported it at once."

He bent down and unlocked the lower doors of the sideboard. He opened the
doors.

And then Dr Hugh Alderson Fawcett very nearly did have a heart-attack. He flung
himself on his knees. He gasped. He choked. He began spluttering like an old
kettle. He reached out for the great silver dish. He took it. He held it in
shaking hands and his face went as white as snow. He didn't speak. He couldn't.
He was literally and physically and mentally struck absolutely dumb by the
sight of the treasure.

The interesting part of the story ends here. The rest is routine. Ford went to
Mildenhall
Police Station and made a report. The police
came at once and collected all thirty-four pieces, and they were sent under
guard to the British Museum for examination.

Then an urgent message from the Museum to the
Mildenhall
Police.
It was far and away the finest
Roman silver ever found in the British Isles. It was of enormous value. The
Museum (which is really a public governmental institution) wished to acquire
it. In fact, they insisted upon acquiring it.

The wheels of the law began to turn. An official inquest and hearing was
arranged at the nearest large town, Bury St Edmunds. The silver was moved there
under special police guard. Ford was summoned to appear before the Coroner and
a jury of fourteen, while Gordon Butcher, that good and quiet man, was ordered
also to present himself to give evidence.

On Monday, July the first, 1946, the hearing took
place,
and the Coroner cross-questioned Ford closely.

"You thought it was pewter?"

"Yes."

"Even after you had cleaned it?"

"Yes."

"You took no steps to inform any experts of the find?"

"No."

"What did you intend to do with the articles?"

"Nothing.
Just keep them."

And when he had concluded his evidence, Ford asked permission to go outside
into the fresh air because he said he felt faint. Nobody was surprised.

Then Butcher was called, and in a few simple words he told of his part in the
affair.

Dr Fawcett gave his evidence, so did several other learned archaeologists, all
of whom testified to the extreme rarity of the treasure. They said that it was
of the fourth century after Christ; that it was the table silver of a wealthy
Roman family; that it had probably been buried by the owner's bailiff to save it
from the
Picts
and Scots who swept down from the
north in about A.D. 365-7 and laid waste many Roman settlements. The man who
buried it had probably been liquidated either by a
Pict
or a Scot, and the treasure had remained concealed a foot below the soil ever
since. The workmanship, said the experts, was magnificent. Some of it may have
been executed in England, but more probably the articles were made in Italy or
in Egypt. The great plate was of course the finest piece. The head in the
centre was that of Neptune, the sea-god, with dolphins in his hair and seaweed
in his beard. All around him, sea-nymphs and sea-monsters
gambolled
.
On the broad rim of the plate stood Bacchus and his
attendants.
There was wine and revelry. Hercules was there, quite drunk,
supported by two satyrs, his lion's skin fallen from his shoulders. Pan was
there, too, dancing upon his goat-legs with his pipes in his hand. And
everywhere there were maenads, female devotees of Bacchus, rather tipsy women.