George Wetherhead, a painfully shy man who lived in the old schoolmaster’s house, was the last of the villagers to appear, nodding bashfully to his neighbors and studiously avoiding Peggy Taxman. George, like everyone else, was bundled up against the wind, but he was the only member of the audience to refrain from talking. The lively conversations slowly rose in volume, as they always did, until Mr. Barlow stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
“A bit of hush, if you please,” he said severely. “That includes you, Sally Cook.”
“Sorry,” said Sally, who’d been discussing the price of malt vinegar with Christine Peacock.
“We’ve all met James Hobson,” said Mr. Barlow, “and I’m sure we’re grateful to him for coming out here on such a raw day to talk to us about his interesting hobby. Let’s give him our full attention, shall we?” He glared at Sally, nodded cordially at James, and inserted himself into the audience.
There was a smattering of applause as our featured speaker took center stage.
“Thank you, Mr. Barlow,” said James. “And thank you, everyone, for allowing me to talk to you about one of my favorite subjects. I put in an order for perfect weather, by the way, but the delivery was delayed.”
The villagers chuckled and would have broken into speech if Mr. Barlow hadn’t cleared his throat threateningly.
“If you become involved in metal detecting,” James continued, “you’ll soon discover that weather doesn’t matter. You’ll go out on the nastiest days—though possibly not on the snowiest—because your natural curiosity won’t allow you to stay at home.”
Lilian and I exchanged amused glances, and I knew that we were thinking the same thought: A hobby that rewarded curiosity was guaranteed to find followers in Finch.
“I brought some brochures that give a detailed explanation of how a metal detector works,” James said, gesturing to the table. “They also spell out the rules and regulations that govern my hobby. Please feel free to take one with you at the end of the program.”
An appreciative murmur ran through the assembled throng, but it was quickly stifled.
“You didn’t come here to read pamphlets, though,” James went on, smiling, “and you didn’t really come here to listen to me. You came here to see a demonstration, so I won’t try your patience any longer. Before I start, however, I must emphasize the first rule of metal detecting: Do not trespass. Obtain a landowner’s permission, preferably in writing, before you set foot on private property. The village green is communal property, so you can scan it to your heart’s content, but private property is off limits without the owner’s permission. And now, on with the show!”
The villagers shifted their positions and craned their necks to get a better view of the bent-broom-handle device as James lifted it from the table.
“Here we have a basic metal detector,” he said. “It has four parts: the shaft, the stabilizer, the control box, and the search coil. The shaft is self-explanatory. The stabilizer”—he strapped his forearm into a plastic cradle at the top of the shaft—“keeps the unit steady as you sweep the detector back and forth over the ground. The control box”—he pointed to a small black plastic box affixed to the bottom of the shaft’s L-shaped curve—“contains the detector’s microprocessor, speaker, and batteries. The search coil”—he pointed to the Frisbee at the bottom of the shaft—“is the part that senses metal.” He looked every inch the schoolteacher as he lifted his gaze to survey his informal classroom. “All clear?”
My neighbors and I behaved like typical students and nodded, whether it was clear to us or not.
“When the search coil detects a metal object underground,” James continued, “it sends an electronic signal up to the control box. The control box then emits an audible signal, to let you know that you’ve found something. Any questions?”
“What does the audible signal sound like?” asked Charles Bellingham.
“I’d describe it as the mournful wail of a brokenhearted robot,” said James, “but I’ll let you decide for yourself.”
He pressed a button on the control box and swept the coil from side to side a few inches above the ground in front of him. Nothing happened. He looked up and shrugged, then walked slowly forward, moving the coil back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm. Bess and I followed the coil’s movement intently, then flinched along with everyone else when the control box gave a mournful wail.
“Sounds as though we’ve found something,” said James.
The wail grew louder and softer as he continued to move the detector over one particular spot in the tufty grass.
“The louder the signal, the closer you are to an object,” he explained.
He passed the detector to Mr. Barlow, knelt on the damp ground, and pulled the red-handled knife from its sheath. The blade had one straight edge and one deeply notched serrated edge.
“My digger,” said James. “I use it to cut through turf so I can replace the plug neatly when I’m finished. Always replace the turf. If you don’t, there will be an outbreak of twisted ankles, and Finch will begin to look like a gopher hotel.”
The villagers chuckled distractedly, and I could only manage a tense smile. My heart began to beat faster as the suspense built. It suddenly seemed as if anything were possible. James might uncover gold doubloons or a glittering tiara or the Treasure of the Sierra Madre, though the last find was the least likely, since it was fictional.
James carefully removed the square plug of moist, grass-covered soil he’d cut from the green, then pulled the fire-lighter-like instrument from his utility belt.
“My pinpointer,” he explained. “It’s a miniature metal detector. It zeros in on an object so I won’t have to dig around blindly.”
He moved the pinpointer over the plug of dirt, then stuck it inside the hole. Bess and I flinched again as a high-pitched beep rent the air. James returned the pinpointer to his belt, reached into the hole, and clasped something in his fingers. I could almost feel my neighbors holding their breath as he withdrew his hand and held his find high in the air for all to see.
It was a round brooch made of pearls inset in gold to mimic a daisy’s petals.
Dick Peacock gave a shout of laughter. “It’s the same brooch!” he exclaimed. “The same tatty brooch you showed us the other day in your back garden!”
The laughter spread as the others caught on to James’s trick.
“I thought the turf came away too easily,” said Henry Cook, smiling ruefully. “You’d cut it already, hadn’t you?”
“I cut it first thing this morning,” said Mr. Barlow, stepping forward to stand beside James. “And I buried the brooch. James and I reckoned you wouldn’t take much notice if I was mucking about on the green, seeing as I look after it.”
“You’d make a fine magician’s assistant,” said Lilian Bunting.
James replaced the plug of soil and grass, returned his digger to its sheath, and got to his feet.
“Mr. Barlow has been an invaluable ally,” he said. “I hope the rest of you will forgive our little deception. If my demonstration had taken as long as a real hunt, we might have been here all day.”
Peggy Taxman, who’d been uncharacteristically silent throughout the program, gave a disparaging sniff.
“Seems like a lot of nonsense to me,” she boomed. “Grown men playing in the dirt. Whatever will you think of next? Toy soldiers? Skipping ropes? Come, Jasper,” she bellowed to her husband. “We have less childish things to do.”
She wheeled around and sailed imperiously back to the Emporium, with Jasper trailing meekly at her heels.
“Don’t bother your head about Peggy,” Sally Cook said to James. “Her nose is out of joint because no one asked her to take charge of the demonstration.”
“Does Mrs. Taxman know anything about metal detecting?” James asked, looking baffled.
“She does now,”
said Elspeth Binney, “but she didn’t before. It wouldn’t have stopped her from taking charge, though.”
“She always takes charge,” said Selena Buxton.
“She thinks it’s her right to take charge,” said Millicent Scroggins.
“And we let her,” said Lilian, with a hint of reproof in her tone, “because someone has to take charge, and most of us don’t want to.”
“True enough,” said Mr. Barlow. “Peggy may be bossy, but she gets things done. Have you finished with your talk, James?”
James, who had been following the conversation closely, looked blank for a moment, then nodded.
“The demonstration is over,” he announced. “Thanks for coming. Don’t forget to take a brochure home with you. If you have any questions, or if you’d like to have a go with my metal detector, please feel free to knock on my door.”
He received a rousing round of applause that wasn’t as loud as it should have been because nearly every member of his satisfied audience was wearing gloves.
“Who’s for hot cocoa?” Sally asked the group at large.
The group responded by snatching brochures from the table and moving as one toward the tearoom.
“I hope you’ll join us, James,” said Henry. “My wife makes an excellent cup of cocoa.”
“I’ll pack up my things and fetch Felicity,” said James. “She loves cocoa. And she can’t find ours,” he added when the others were out of earshot. “Are you coming to the tearoom, too, Lori?”
“I wish I could,” I said, “but duty calls. Bess needs a diaper change, a snack, and a nap, so I’ll drink my hot cocoa at home. Bravo, James. I think you’ll be hearing quite a few knocks on your door.”
“I hope so,” he said. “Metal detecting is a peaceful pastime, with brief spikes of excitement that keep me coming back for more.”
“You could be describing Finch,” I said, smiling.
As it turned out, I had it backward. There was plenty of excitement in store for Finch, but peace would be hard to come by.
Thirteen
The perfect weather James Hobson had ordered arrived the following morning. The wind faded, the temperature rose, and the sun smiled down on my little corner of England.
London was not so fortunate. The rain that had driven Adam and me into Carrie’s Coffees had decided to extend its stay in the city. Carrie Osborne had touched base with me the previous evening, but her call had merely confirmed what she’d already told me: Her Battle of Britain boys would remain at home until the wet weather passed.
“You could ask Carrie if she has their addresses,” Bill suggested over breakfast.
“They’re old men nursing war wounds,” I reminded him. “If they’re feeling too lousy to go to their favorite coffeehouse, I’m not going to disturb them in their own homes.”
“Why do the old men have war wounds?” Will asked.
“They were injured in battle a long time ago,” I told him, “and their injuries still ache when it’s rainy.”
“Why do their injuries ache when it’s rainy?” asked Rob.
“I think it has something to do with the change in air pressure,” I replied, and since it was far too early in the morning to explain the concept of air pressure to a pair of inquisitive nine-year-olds, I continued, “Daddy knows much more about it than I do. He’ll explain it to you when you get home from school.”
Bill gave me a “thanks a lot” look and went back to eating his porridge.
After waving him off to work, dropping the boys off at school, and looking in vain for chores Bill hadn’t done, Bess and I enjoyed a midmorning snack, then drove to Finch to deliver a box of baby clothes to the vicarage for the next jumble sale. We were instantly diverted from our mission by the sight that met our eyes as we topped the humpbacked bridge.
Mr. Barlow was using James Hobson’s metal detector to scan the village green, while a knot of villagers followed his every move. Dick Peacock, Henry Cook, and the Handmaidens looked as if they were watching a Lilliputian tennis match as Mr. Barlow swept the device back and forth over the ground. I’d never thought of metal detecting as a spectator sport, but it had clearly become one in Finch.
Mr. Barlow wore his own utility belt and knee pads, but he’d borrowed James’s red-handled digger as well as the pinpointer. To judge by his rapt expression, I had little doubt that he would have his own equipment the next time I saw him.
The action was taking place on a narrow swath of green between the Emporium and the tearoom, so I parked the Rover in front of the tearoom, put Bess in her pram, and joined Mr. Barlow’s retinue. I was given a neighborly welcome, and Bess received her usual chorus of accolades. While Dick, Henry, and the Handmaidens passed her around, I asked Mr. Barlow if he’d found anything.
“Six tenpenny nails, a horseshoe, and a handful of coins,” he replied, patting a pocket on his utility belt.
“An impressive haul,” I said. “What kinds of coins?”
“Mostly modern,” he said. “Post-decimalization, that is. I did find a 1965 halfpenny, though. You don’t see many of them around anymore.”
“I have a milk bottle filled with old halfpennies,” Dick said dampingly.
“You don’t see them in circulation, is what I meant,” said Mr. Barlow.
“They’re not in circulation,” Dick pointed out. “That’s why you don’t see them around anymore.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Barlow with a long-suffering sigh.
I suspected that his next foray into metal detecting would take place in a less conspicuous location.
“We’ve been talking, Lori,” Elspeth Binney said.
“Yes, you have,” Mr. Barlow muttered grumpily.
He continued his slow march while his entourage—and Bess—stayed behind with me.
“We think we should take a page out of James Hobson’s book,” Elspeth went on, “and create a little museum of our own, right here in Finch.”
“Where?” I asked.
“In the schoolhouse,” said Millicent Scroggins, with the triumphant air of someone who’d solved a challenging riddle. “We could display our finds in a glass case in the schoolhouse.”
“Our finds?” queried Mr. Barlow over his shoulder.
“I’m sure most of us will regard it as a duty as well as a privilege to donate our finds to the village museum,” Elspeth said pointedly. “We’ll give full credit to the donors,” she added in a slightly raised voice, looking hopefully at the back of Mr. Barlow’s head.
“We’re studying calligraphy with Mr. Shuttleworth,” Selena Buxton informed me, referring to the Handmaidens’ art teacher. “We could make beautiful handwritten labels for the items in the glass case.”
“We’d record the donor’s name as well as where and when the donated item was discovered,” said Opal Taylor. “It would be just like James’s museum room, only with more than one donor.” She, too, raised her voice as she addressed Mr. Barlow’s back. “I’m sure everyone in the village will be eager to participate in such a worthy project.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Do you have a display case?”
“Not yet,” Millicent admitted.
“There’s a glass case in the back room of the Emporium,” said Henry Cook. “Maybe Peggy would lend it to us for the museum.”
There was a brief silence, as if everyone present had recalled Peggy Taxman’s disparaging comments about “grown men playing in the dirt.”
“Or we could buy one secondhand,” Henry Cook amended hurriedly, realizing his mistake.
“With whose money?” called the ever-practical Mr. Barlow.
“We could take up a collection,” Millicent Scroggins proposed. “Or we could hold bake sales. Or—”
“Maybe we should see what kind of things people find,” Dick interrupted, “before we start raising money for a museum.
If it’s just a load of old nails and a handful of coins I can find in my own till, I don’t see the point of—”
He, too, was interrupted, but not by a human voice. Every head swiveled in Mr. Barlow’s direction as the detector’s mournful wail cut through the chatter.
“Wait!” Henry shouted at Mr. Barlow. “I promised Sally I’d tell her when the thing went off again.”
Henry ran into the tearoom, and the Handmaidens ran toward Mr. Barlow. After passing Bess to me, Dick Peacock scurried over to gaze, enraptured, at a spot a few inches in front of Mr. Barlow’s work boots. Mr. Barlow laid aside the detector, knelt on the ground, and pulled the red-handled digger from its sheath.
Having received a surfeit of adoration, Bess was happy to return to the pram and munch on the shark-shaped teether her brothers had picked out for her. I was still fastening her safety harness when Henry and Sally trotted out of the tearoom and sped past us, hand in hand. Bess and I reached the circle of observers in time to see Mr. Barlow pull the digger out of the soil and slide it back into its sheath.
“Probably another ruddy nail,” he grumbled as he pulled the square plug of dirt from the ground. He pointed the pinpointer at the plug of dirt, and to his evident surprise, the miniature metal detector beeped. With the delicacy of a man who knew every blade of grass on the village green personally, he dug his finger and thumb into the spot the pinpointer had indicated and removed a small, mud-covered object. It didn’t look like a nail.
“It’s a ring,” Mr. Barlow announced, brushing the wet soil from his find.
The rest of us responded with a sharp communal intake of breath, except for Bess, who continued to chew placidly on her shark.
“A lost ring,” breathed Elspeth, who was a romantic at heart. “How tragic.”
“It could’ve been thrown away in a fit of pique,” said Opal, who was less of a romantic.
“Maybe she threw it at her boyfriend’s head,” said Millicent, “because she saw him kissing another girl.”
Aunt Dimity and the Buried Treasure Page 12
