Sarah had the thought: everyone here not only wants the money from this find — they need it.
Just then the bell to Cartwright’s cottage sounded and everyone snapped to; the discoverers doing their best to stand up straight, Pete Butterworth spinning around to face the front door.
Cartwright patted Lady Repton’s hand, and with a big grin, he dashed to the front door.
Sarah thought: this is exciting.
And as if visiting royalty, the evaluator entered the room.
“Everyone, may I present Doctor Reginald Buchanan, with the Department of Portable Antiquities and Treasure at the British Museum.”
Buchanan had a rotund physique that looked like a throwback to another century. A ’bay-window’ is what they used to call it, Sarah thought. Wearing a vest which struggled to remain buttoned and sporting a carefully manicured moustache, he had the look of a man who had just stepped out of Mr Wells’ time machine.
Something about their manner suggested to Sarah that Buchanan and Cartwright had met before. Made sense — the Oxford history professor and the antiquity expert …
“Cup of tea?”
Buchanan raised a hand.
The evaluator didn’t seem too taken with Cartwright nor had he offered an apology to the assembled group for his delay.
“No,” he said, turning the two-letter word into an elongated call one might use to attract an owl.
Buchanan looked around at the group, making no effort to hide his disdain at the audience for the artefact’s unveiling. Then he looked at Sarah, and she popped to her feet.
“Sarah Edwards” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m writing about this for our local newsletter, the–”
But with a nod, Buchanan turned away.
“Well, let’s get on with it. If you have something real, something of value, I will need considerable time to examine it very carefully.”
He repeated these words.
“Very carefully … to note its condition, to be exactly sure what you have here.”
“It’s the real bloody thing,” Jerry Pratt spurted. “You can be sure of that.”
The room fell silent. The opinion of one of the men who had wielded the metal detector, trolling mud for treasure, didn’t carry any weight here.
Cartwright pulled another chair close to the wall, near Lady Repton.
He clapped his hands together.
“Very well. Then we shall proceed. I’ve prepared my dining room table so you’ll have room to examine the item, evaluate it.”
Cartwright walked over to a painting on the right side of the room, where the ceiling-high bookshelves ended. The painting looked vaguely Klimt-like: two figures covered in patches of gold and silver facing each other, embracing.
Little garish. Not very classic, Sarah thought.
Cartwright pulled at a corner of the painting and it swung open like a door, revealing a safe as big as the painting, and a complex combination lock at dead centre.
Cartwright, with a schoolboy grin, turned back to everyone. “Do hope I remember the combination!”
A quick look left and right showed that no one found any humour in the professor’s not-so-bon mots.
Cartwright turned to the combination lock and began fiddling with the dial, muttering to himself as he did.
“Left, right, left again, and–”
He grabbed the latch but the door didn’t move at all.
“Sorry,” he said, turning back to his audience. “The lock’s very fussy. It has to be exactly on the right spot. Okay. Another go.”
Sarah looked over to Buchanan who seemed poised to crush the chair that held him. Like a miscast group of actors, the other potential recipients of the money — save for Lady Repton — stood near the back, as if ready to pounce once the safe popped open.
Lady Repton’s eyes — Sarah noted — were locked squarely on Cartwright’s fumbling.
If I wrote this up just as it’s happening now, it would make for an exciting piece for the newsletter. Sadly, not to be.
The Roundel’s tone — as requested by the Council — was to be clearly informative, matter of fact, with a smidge of exuberance for good deeds done and the triumphant nights of amateur theatricals and music recitals.
“Left, and–”
Cartwright had finished another attempt to open the safe. This time, moving more slowly, he reached up and pulled down hard on the handle to the safe, gave it a yank.
It went fully down with a resounding click.
Even the jaded Buchanan leaned forward slightly, waiting for the big reveal.
Cartwright swung open the door slowly, and then reached in.
“Wha–”
For a moment Sarah suspected Cartwright was providing a moment of ill-timed play as he ’searched’ for the plate.
But then, his head peered in, even vanishing into the open maw of the safe while his hands noisily flapped around.
Inside the garishly decorated sitting room you could hear the proverbial pin drop.
Only the next sound wasn’t a pin.
Cartwright spun around as if he had seen the dead come to life, lower lip trembling, eyes darting as he gave the news that no one wanted to hear.
“It’s gone! The treasure is gone!”
6. Mayhem in the Morning
For a moment Sarah thought she’d be knocked over in the ensuing tumult.
Jerry and Baz, hungover as they were, came to life as if jolted with a massive bolt of electricity. They ran to the safe, literally pushing the professor to the side as they fought to stick their two heads into the opening.
Lady Repton remained sitting — but now Sarah saw that she had another use for her cane, as she raised it shakily and started pointing at Cartwright, her gravelly, froggy voice demanding: “Where the hell is it, Cartwright? What have you done with my treasure?”
The farmer, Butterworth — who had seemed the most steady of the group — didn’t move at all. But he kept looking around the room as if someone had siphoned off all the oxygen and in minutes he’d fall down onto the thick curlicues of what must be an expensive Persian rug, suffocating.
Cartwright had staggered away, his now-shaky hands using the rich wood of the bookshelves to steady himself, muttering quietly at first but then — in case anyone didn’t hear — raising his voice.
“I’ve been robbed. Good God, someone has … robbed me!”
Not exactly the item I had planned on writing, Sarah thought.
And lastly there was Buchanan.
Had he ever experienced a scene like this? Or was this an everyday occurrence in the life of the esteemed representative of the British Museum?
Either way, without revealing his thoughts on what was unfolding, he stood up.
“This,” he announced, his voice rich, commanding, “is not a matter to be trifled with. Professor, you others. A treasure has been found, and now — this … charade?”
He said the last word with disgust.
Cartwright ran from the wall to Buchanan who was already navigating his blimp-sized physique to the door.
“This is impossible! I have alarms. And that safe, it’s top-of-the-line, one of the best.”
Buchanan didn’t let the entreaties slow his progress to the door out of the house.
But Pete Butterworth put a hand on the evaluator’s shoulder. “What will happen? What’s going to happen now?”
Buchanan turned to him. “Why, I will report to the Museum and the relevant authorities and you lot must report this absolutely immediately to the local constabulary. The item must be found, and whoever did this–”
A pregnant pause delivered with all the force Buchanan could muster.
“Well, let’s say they have made a serious error. You do not trifle with a treasure of the Queen!”
And with that he shrugged off Butterworth’s hand.
Jerry and Baz returned from their caving expedition in the empty safe. They went to Cartwright, one on each side.
“You
said it would be safe, you old fool!” Jerry yelled, his mouth mere inches from the man’s right ear.
“This is on you, Perfesser,” said Baz. You’ll answer for this, you will!”
And to bring the point fully home, Baz jabbed his finger at the tip of Cartwright’s nose.
“Stop that you buffoon!” Cartwright yelled.
Even Lady Repton tried to get in on the accosting Cartwright game, but her cane couldn’t reach the man. Still, she waved it in the air, from Cartwright to Buchanan.
“This is a robbery. The Museum must help us–”
At that Buchanan, Burberry already on, turned to her.
“I’m afraid, M’Lady, that the Museum only gets involved when there are artefacts to be examined, evaluated. In this case, it appears there is nothing but fraud, theft. That’s all I can evaluate here! Either way, not in my bailiwick. If your plate surfaces, you know how to reach me.”
And with his exit line expertly delivered, the man from London left.
Which to Sarah — seeing the entire crowd yelling at each other, accusing one, then the other — seemed like exactly the right thing to do.
She sprang from her chair and, without anyone taking any notice at all, Sarah dashed to the door and out into the chilly spring air outside, now amazingly refreshing.
7. Tea for Two
Sarah and Jack sat at a table at the back of Huffington’s, which was already beginning to fill with a lunch crowd.
Jack was laughing, wiping his tears from his eyes.
When he stopped: “Oh, I wish I’d been there.”
“Best of all was the expert from the museum. Straight out of Oscar Wilde.”
Jack shook his head. “More than a million. Gone, just like that.”
“If it was the real thing, of course.”
“Well,” said Jack. “There is that …”
Sarah nodded. As the place filled, it was hard to have a private conversation. People at the teahouse tended to chat to their friend, then — eyes darting left and right — they checked out the other conversations orbiting their table.
She lowered her voice.
“Anyway, the police have now had a week to investigate and guess what their verdict is?”
“You tell me,” said Jack.
“According to today’s paper, they are ’following a number of promising lines of enquiry and welcome any information which will be treated in the strictest confidence’.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Sarah, laughing. “They haven’t got a clue — right?”
“You know me — I’m never one to knock the cops but …”
“But?”
“But that sounds to me like they’ve hit a dead end.”
“I agree,” said Sarah. “They’re hinting it’s the work of a gang that’s been breaking into country houses in the area, stealing art works.”
“Hmm. Seems unlikely. Gangs like that tend to plan ahead, not jump in.”
“So what do you think happened?”
Jack looked around him as though for inspiration. “Don’t rightly know. Not having met the ’players’ so to speak. From what you described, seems like they all had a motive for stealing the plate.”
“But it was in the safe, locked away, and–”
Jack held up a hand. “According to Cartwright. We only have his word.”
“He opens his safe, and it’s empty. Wouldn’t that make him the main suspect?”
“Funny thing about safes, they can be opened.”
Jack took a sip of his Earl Grey. One sweetener, no milk.
Sarah knew his tastes nearly as well as her own.
“So it could have been a robbery?”
“Could have. If someone knew it was there. Or — even if they didn’t.” Another smile. “A nice surprise.”
Sarah shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t picture those two lads with their detectors figuring out how to do that. And Lady Repton? I think she has enough of a challenge opening the front door to her manor house. I suppose Butterworth could–”
“Butterworth?”
“The farmer. Rents the place from Lady Repton. He seems pretty competent.”
Jack cleared his throat. He too seemed aware that the place was filling with people, people likely picking up an intriguing word here or there.
“Here’s the thing … you’d be surprised what people can do. The two guys who found it? Maybe they know someone more, um, capable. And Lady Repton? If there is big money on offer, even the crotchety dowager could find an accomplice. Then there’s the professor. His home, his safe–”
“He definitely seemed surprised.”
Jack grinned. “From your description of him, I think acting could be one of his many talents.” He took the last bite of his small chocolate cake, a bit of dark icing sticking to his moustache, which he quickly wiped away. “These cakes, they’re addictive. If I ever start coming here every day, stage an intervention.”
“Absolutely.”
Then she saw Jack looking at her. “Let me guess, you’re feeling like you want to, um, do some investigating?”
At that she broke into a smile. What they had done in the past, looking into unsolved crimes, had been so exciting and — better yet — it had worked. People had been caught, crimes solved.
And this? Such a major heist.
“Things in the office are a little slow,” she said. “So I do have some time. And it would make a great follow-up to my story on the robbery.”
“Tell you what,” he paused, taking another look around the room. “I’ve been meaning to have — I dunno — a little soiree on the Goose. Invite some people I’ve met here. Drinks and — what do you call them here … nibbles?”
“Sounds nice.”
“Show people I appreciate their not treating me as if I just walked off an American spaceship. Feeling accepted, you know?”
“You’re not the oddity you were when you arrived.”
Another smile from Jack. “Thank you for that. Been trying to fit in. So, a little party. Gives me a good excuse to clean the boat. Single guy … it’s gotten a bit messy.”
“Need me to give you a hand?”
“I’m good with the cleaning, thanks. But planning the party, what to have, who to invite? The precise nature of the … nibbles? With that, I could use some help.”
“Of course,” she said, laughing.
“Well in that case, I’d be glad to dig into this a bit with you. Still early for fishing anyway.”
Sarah smiled. “Great. So where do we start?”
“I’d love to hear what the police have to say.”
“A visit to Alan?” said Sarah.
On a previous case, Alan, who Sarah had known for years, hadn’t seemed too happy with Jack and Sarah’s involvement in — what he called — strictly police matters. Still, she knew Alan liked her and, better yet, Jack’s former superiors had in the past put in a useful call to Alan’s supervisors.
“One for you I think,” said Jack.
“And you?” said Sarah, finishing her tea.
“I want to look into how this treasure law works. Figuring that out might explain who’d want that plate so badly … and exactly what they would do with it.”
“I think the renowned Professor Cartwright is the man you need.”
And with people waiting for a free table, Sarah stood up, and she left Huffington’s with Jack talking about stolen treasure, and wondering where this trail might lead them.
Sarah watched Jack drive off in his little sports car, his hand raised in a cheerful wave. Who would she invite to his drinks party? This was going to be fun …
But first — they had a robbery to solve.
She walked up the High Street, passing the shops on the Square — the little art gallery, the antiques shop, the organic grocers — until she reached the squat old building that was the police station.
Above the door, carved deep in the warm Cotswold stone, were the words ’Police Stati
on and Petty Sessions’ — left over from the days when arrest, justice and punishment were all effectively delivered in the one building.
She pushed open the door and entered the secure lobby.
Years ago, when she was a kid in the village, there was just a worn old oak countertop in here to separate the forces of law and order from the unruly villagers.
Or, in her day, drunk teenagers.
Now, automatic door-locks, a sheet of armoured glass and a microphone system were required.
Have we really changed that much? wondered Sarah.
In truth they were lucky to still have a police station at all. Most of the surrounding villages had lost theirs and were now dependent on sporadic visits from patrol cars whose drivers came from the nearest city.
“Sarah!” the uniformed policeman behind the glass welcomed her in.
“Hi Alan,” said Sarah.
At least I know my local cop, she thought. Maybe too well.
Sarah had gone to school with Alan, and from the age of thirteen onwards he had made it clear he fancied her. She knew that he still did, but no matter how many times she’d made it clear he just wasn’t her type, it seemed he still clung to the hope that one day she’d see the light.
These days though, his forlorn love was also mixed with irritation at her ventures into crime-busting.
“Now then,” he said through the armoured glass. “You’re not here to report a stolen bike.”
“Nope.”
“Or complain about a parking ticket.”
Sarah smiled innocently. “Nope.”
“And there aren’t any murders to report.” He shook his head. “Or to investigate.”
“Nope.”
“So let me guess … You want to know about the break-in at Professor Cartwright’s, don’t you?”
“Yes!” said Sarah. “That’s amazing Alan. Have you ever thought of joining–”
“–the police force?” he asked, wryly. “These days I wonder why you didn’t!”
Alan pressed the button to release the door and nodded to her to come through.
“Come on, I could do with a cuppa anyway.”
“Oh me too — I’m parched,” said Sarah, although in truth the last thing she wanted was another cup of tea.
Cherringham--Thick as Thieves Page 3
