“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.”
4. Party at The Ploughman
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–
But no. One of his resolutions for the New Year — one which he had been good at keeping so far — was to start living more like a loca
l and less like the visiting Yank.
He was singing in the Rotary Choir, which was a start … but what would a real Cherringham local do from time to time?
That’s right: he’d stop in at the pub, have a chat with whoever might be there. Taking a deep breath, he got out of his sports car and walked up to the double glazed doors of the classic pub.
It definitely seemed like a party inside.
Jack nodded and smiled, seeing a few people that he had bumped into before, and also a lot of new faces. He navigated the crowds to a vacant spot at the bar where three people kept the beers flowing, the foamy heads of pints dotting the bar’s countertop.
“Pint of bitter,” Jack said with what he hoped seemed like practised ease.
The barmaid, Ellie, cute, maybe the same age as his daughter, gave him a smile as she grabbed a glass and brought it to the old-fashioned pump. While she filled the glass, Jack turned and tried to figure out what was going on here.
Two men stood off to the right near the dart-board, seemingly the centre of attention.
One thin, wiry, the other all round and doughy. They were surrounded by people who, glasses held close, acted as though the two men were visiting royalty, when what they really looked like were down-on-their-luck farmhands.
“Here you go, Jack,” Ellie said.
“Thanks,” he said scooping up the pint, and vacating the bar, moving slightly closer to hear what the two men were talking about.
“So, tomorrow’s when we find what’s what. Ain’t that right, Baz?”
The thin man nodded towards his friend who responded with a slur in his voice, indicating that he must have been putting away the pints rather quickly.
“Er … and we’ll tell yers all how it went. Drinks on the house!”
One man in the crowd with a full grey beard that masked his face, turned to the group and shouted: “Hear that boys — drinks on the house!”
But Jack saw the thin guy quickly lose his smile and shoot Baz a look that said … shut the hell up.
Baz hurried to clarify.
“When we get our money. You bet. Just n-not now.”
The old man with a beard seemed to deflate.
He had been that close to a free pint or two.
“The perfessor,” the man continued, “says it could be worth a million. Maybe more.”
The crowd produced a communal ’oooh’. That was a lot of money in Cherringham. A lot of money anywhere.
Jack turned to a young guy, dressed in overalls, skull cap on his head, listening.
“Excuse me — just curious … what’s up with these guys? Win the lottery or something?”
The guy turned to Jack. “Nah, they found treasure! Roman. Worth tons.”
“Really? And they have it here?”
The man shook his head. “Some professor guy has it. Safe keeping until the museum people come tomorrow.”
“Big news for Cherringham,” Jack said.
But the guy had gone back to listening to the two treasure hunters, now describing in detail exactly how it was found, milking their moment. Jack had a thought as he drained his pint. Could be there was an interesting local story here — and he knew just who to tell.
But first, maybe he’d get a bit more information.
He waited until the crowd of people had thinned: the epic tale of the great discovery had come to an end and, with no free rounds on offer, people decided it was time to sail home.
The man called Baz was slumped on a chair in the corner while the other treasure hunter stood by the pool table, talking to a woman who was as round as he was thin.
Good time to get more information.
He walked over and stood by the two of them for a moment.
Finally the man looked up. Though tall, Jack had a good inch on him.
Jack gave him a smile.
“Congratulations,” Jacks said, tilting his glass towards the man.
The man grinned back and clinked his near-empty glass.
“Jack Brennan. And quite the discovery, Mr–”
“Jerry Pratt,” the man said. “Yeahs, helluva find.”
“Had a question.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. Up close, Jack realised that he had seen him at The Ploughman before — not that he was someone to take note of.
Now though, with great wealth heading Jerry Pratt’s way, it was a different story.
“Heard you have a professor looking after your find?”
Jerry told him about the safe, and how tomorrow they’d all be there when the safe was opened and the expert from the British Museum evaluated their prize.
“All? Beside you two, who would that be?”
“Pete, his farm. And Lady Repton, she owns the property.”
“All get a cut?”
Jerry acted like he didn’t like that thought, since his gaunt face screwed up again, lips pursed. Even with a million to be divided, who wants to share?
Humans are indeed funny when it comes to money, Jack thought.
Though maybe that wasn’t exactly the right word.
Jack found out the professor’s name — Peregrine Cartwright — but by that point Jerry looked suspicious. “Why all the questions?” he asked.
Jack smiled, hoping to defuse that suspicion. “Got a friend. She puts out the Cherringham Roundel, the online newsletter for the village.”
Jack might as well been speaking Esperanto.
“Anyway, bet she’d like to cover that story, be there when the expert examines the plate, get your picture.”
Jerry nodded. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
“Good. Big news for Cherringham, right?”
The man leaned into Jack, not as bad as Baz, but still a bit wobbly. “Big damn news for me, that’s all I know.”
Then he laughed, turning back to the dumpling of a woman, all wide-eyed, standing in apparent adoration of a man who — though he looked like he was shy of two nickels to bang together — in truth might now be a millionaire.
Jack put his glass down on a nearby table and, with another nod to Jerry, headed out to the car, thinking.
Interesting night to drop in at the local. You never know …
“It’s sometime tomorrow morning, Sarah,” Jack said. “Think you can get an invite?”
Sarah sounded excited at Jack’s idea. As she had told him, sending out the weekly online newsletter for the Cherringham Council — filled with local updates and events — wasn’t much of a gig, but she enjoyed putting it together.
And, he guessed, every penny counted. The discovery of the Roman artefact came as close to real ’news’ as anything.
“I heard that Professor Cartwright had retired. Never met the man, seen him about the village. But I could try calling him.”
“And the woman who actually owns the ground?”
Jack thought that this whole legal process of discovered treasure was incredibly convoluted and fussy.
Never fly in the States, he knew. Finders definitely keepers there.
“Lady Repton. Never met her either. The Reptons own a lot of the land round here — but word is they’re struggling. This could save her …”
“I’m guessing a lot of people are thinking just that.”
“Jack — shall I try to get you an invite as well?
“No. I can read about in the Cherringham Roundel.”
Sarah laughed. “Along with the results of the St James Bring-and-Buy Sale.”
“Oh, that too.” He looked around at the night sky, dotted with stars. It was getting late.
“I’ll let you know how it goes,” Sarah said.
“Great.”
“And Jack — thanks for the heads-up.”
“Sure. Speak soon.”
The call ended, Jack paused another few moments, taking in the unusually clear sky.
He was struck with an amazing thought. That perhaps right here, on this ancient road down to the river, Roman legions marched by, camped out, battled local tribes.
Right he
re.
I’m not in Kansas anymore, or the good old USA.
Coming to England and being surrounded by all that history made it seem more alive, somehow — like the plate — buried a few feet underground, a marker left by an empire that once conquered this island.
Maybe tonight, he’d sit for a while and read some Gibbon. Not the easiest bit of reading, but he knew if you wanted to understand how empires rose and fell, Gibbon’s history was the one to go to, even after all these years. And with that Jack walked to the Sprite, glad tonight to be a ’local’ … and maybe even thinking it could be permanent.
5. A Surprise at the Professor’s
Sarah sat straight-backed in Professor Peregrine Cartwright’s sitting room.
Lady Repton occupied a leather chair, a walking stick held tightly in her right hand, with Cartwright by her side. They chatted quietly, while the men stood around the perimeter of the ornate room with its brilliant bronze walls and thick purple drapes, now pulled open, letting sun fill the room.
As for the men — a motley crew indeed, Sarah thought.
The two treasure finders looked as though they’d had a rough night, faces puffy, eyes sunken as if the morning sunlight streaming in might damage their brains.
The farmer — Pete Butterworth — looked nervous; fidgeting as he shifted on his feet, looked at his watch, checked his phone, then began the routine all over again.
Cartwright had seemed delighted when she called, excited that Sarah wanted to cover the evaluation for the Cherringham Roundel.
“It’s only an online newsletter,” she explained. “The Village council asked me to–”
“Of course. It’s simply wonderful to have an event like this covered. Why, it’s history coming to life!”
“And fortunes to be made,” she said.
“Er, yes that too. I will need to check with Lady Repton, of course, but I can’t imagine she’d have any objections at all. The more attention we bring to this great find, the better!”
Enthusiastic didn’t exactly capture the professor’s response.
Except now the treasure evaluator from the British Museum was late. Apparently road trouble on the M40. He had sent Cartwright a text to say that he was close, but the delay had put everyone in the room on edge.
Cherringham--Thick as Thieves Page 2
