Cherringham--Thick as Thieves

by Neil Richards

  She followed him through, the door clicking shut behind her. Tucked away behind tall filing cabinets was a small kitchen area, with an old table and a couple of chairs.

  “Sit yourself down,” said Alan, putting the kettle on.

  He made the tea in mugs, set them down on the table and sat opposite her.

  “So, who’s asked you to get involved this time?” he said wearily.

  “Actually — nobody,” said Sarah. “You know I was there when the robbery was discovered?”

  “Hmm, I seem to remember reading your statement,” said Alan. “It was pretty funny to be honest.”

  “I tell it how I see it.”

  “You haven’t changed.”

  Sarah could sense the deeper meaning but moved on.

  “Anyway — I want to write something up for the village online news and the police statement in the paper just said, well, nothing. So I thought you might tell me a bit more. You know — old pals and all that?”

  “Hmm, old pals …”

  Alan stared levelly at her and Sarah worked hard to keep her smile open and cheerful.

  He shrugged.

  “All right. Off the record, eh? Truth is — we haven’t really found anything.”

  “I thought it was being pinned on the gang that’s been doing country houses these last few months?”

  “CID put that out,” he said. “Makes the stats look better — not that I quite understand how.”

  “So there’s no real evidence?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Sounds like you’re not working on it?” said Sarah, suddenly seeing an angle.

  “No. It’s gone over to Oxford. Out of our hands.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  Alan shrugged. Sarah knew she had to be careful what she said here.

  “You know, Alan, if we found out anything …”

  “We? You mean you and that American?”

  “Yeah — me and Jack,” she said slowly. “We’d pass it straight to you. We wouldn’t go to CID.”

  She watched Alan think this over. He knew exactly what she was suggesting — and she could tell that he needed the kudos.

  “All I want is what’s in the crime report,” she said. “Wouldn’t go any further. And if there’s a collar — you get it. Cherringham gets it — not Oxford.”

  Alan paused to reflect.

  Then she watched, curious, as he got up, opened one of the filing cabinets and flicked through the contents. Finding what he wanted, he came back and laid a file on the table in front of Sarah.

  “I’ve just got to go and fill out a form at the front desk,” he said. “I’ll only be five minutes. When you’ve had your tea, come on through.”

  He left the kitchen area and went back to the counter. Sarah reached for the file and spun it round so she could read it.

  It was the crime report on the theft at Professor Peregrine Cartwright’s.

  8. A Visit with the Professor

  Jack shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and waited for Professor Cartwright to hand him his tea.

  Regency chairs might have been comfortable back in the eighteenth century if you were rail thin, but Jack’s body, shaped by thirty years of NY-deli breakfasts, was a tough squeeze into the little gold-and-yellow frame and he hoped that the chair’s legs were stronger than they looked.

  He took the tiny bone-china cup and for once rejected the offer of sugar.

  Professor Cartwright sat back on the sofa and faced him, his expression — at least to Jack’s experienced eye — one of unconcealed disdain.

  “Mr Brennan, let me be clear. We are having this discussion for one reason and one reason only.”

  “That is?”

  “The theft of the Roman plate has been deeply embarrassing for me, in both a professional and personal capacity. And while the police regard the matter as just ’one more in a series’ of robberies across the county — and in my opinion are treating this whole affair in a dilatory fashion — I shall not be at ease until the culprits are found and the artefact recovered.”

  “So — any offer of help is welcome, huh?”

  “Precisely. Even yours.”

  Jack decided to ignore the barb and carry on in his chosen ’jovial Yank’ mode.

  “And people are blaming you for the robbery?” he offered.

  “There have been comments — among the faculty, I gather.”

  “That seems pretty unfair.”

  “Academics can be ruthless, Mr Brennan. As merciless as any hardened criminal when they sense weakness.”

  “And you are in a weak position?”

  “Apparently. It seems I … er … omitted one or two formalities in the customary process of registering treasure trove. But I acted as I did in good faith, in order to accelerate the procedure and more quickly bring an extraordinary artefact to the attention of the relevant authorities.”

  This guy swallowed more than a dictionary, thought Jack, working hard to translate.

  “Of course,” Jack said, with a small smile. “Just to be straight — you should have photographed the plate and then contacted the local authorities.”

  “Those are the recommendations for the layman, Mr Brennan.”

  “For Joe Public you mean?”

  “Exactly. But I am hardly ’Joe Public’. I was for twenty years Emeritus Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Oxford. I have a long-standing professional relationship with the British Museum who would have been called in immediately anyway. And I am one of the leading experts — if not the leading expert in this country in Romano-British history.”

  “Impressive.”

  “I think you would agree that in my case those minor regulations need hardly apply.”

  “Romano-British?”

  “Ah, I forget. You’re a colonial. I refer to the period between 43 and 409 when Britain was a province of the Roman Empire, until the latter’s tragic decline. I presume you are familiar with the Roman Empire, Mr Brennan?”

  “A little,” said Jack. “And you know what? I’m kinda with Gibbon on that one: ’The history of empires is the history of human misery’.”

  Professor Peregrine Cartwright blinked.

  “Ah. Yes,” he said. “Decline and Fall. Well, well.”

  Jack quietly notched up a score for the Colonials.

  “Perhaps you could show me how you think the burglars made their entry?” he said, putting down his tea cup on a side table and giving Professor Cartwright his biggest smile.

  Jack crouched down by the open kitchen door and carefully inspected the broken pane of glass in the panel to the side of the frame.

  The local glass company had put a board in, but it was clear that the glass had been smashed so the intruder could reach in and turn the door handle.

  “The break-in happened some time during the night? And you were here?”

  “That would be the logical assumption, don’t you think? Since the plate was in the safe when I retired and it was gone when I looked in the morning.”

  If this guy was my teacher I’d have decked him before the end of the first term, thought Jack.

  “And you didn’t hear anything during the night?”

  “No. I went to bed early. And I use earplugs on a Saturday night. Even Cherringham is not immune from teenage revellers, Mr Brennan.”

  “And in the morning you didn’t notice the glass was smashed?”

  “I confess not. It was a mild day. I was only briefly in the kitchen before my guests arrived.”

  “No glass on the floor?”

  “Not that I noticed. Of course, once I was aware that the plate was gone, I looked around, spotted the glass and realised I’d been burgled.”

  “So other stuff was taken?”

  “Oh yes. Some miniatures. Silverware from one of the drawers. And coins — but fortunately nothing too rare.”

  “You were insured, I take it?”

  “Of course. But not for the plate. Its valu
e was unknown — or at least, not certified. And it was in my secure safe!”

  Jack paused to think.

  “Shall we have a look at the other door?”

  Cartwright turned and headed back through the kitchen into the house.

  “This way.”

  Jack followed him down the hallway to the heavy oak front door. The professor opened it and pointed to the door catch.

  “You see the scratches?” he said. “The police believe the gang tried to gain entry here first by slipping the lock — but failed. Thus forcing them to enter via the back door.”

  Jack could see the brass catch was scored, and the edge of the door itself had scrapes on the paint.

  He looked down the front garden towards the village square just twenty or so yards away. A path led straight to a picket gate and a tall hedge. Trimmed lawns and a pair of apple trees shaded the path. Shrubs around the porch would have given good cover for anyone trying to break in.

  No surprise that even on a busy night the burglars had been able to work unnoticed.

  “Let’s go look at the safe,” said Jack, not waiting for Professor Cartwright and heading towards the sitting room.

  Sarah had told Jack about the big safe behind the painting, but he wasn’t prepared for its size.

  While the professor muttered to himself and fiddled with the combination dial, Jack took in the room. Would burglars know that the safe was behind this painting?

  On balance — if they knew what they were looking for — he thought, yes. There were no other large paintings and the frame seemed discoloured where, over time, Cartwright’s hand had taken off the varnish. Right now the professor seemed to be having difficulty getting the thing to open. He tugged at the brass handle but nothing happened.

  “Damn this–”

  “Having trouble, Professor?”

  Jack heard the academic tut-tut again as he went to the desk. He pulled out a thin pen-tray built into the frame, withdrew a slip of paper. A quick look, a nod, and then he slipped the paper and tray back into the desk and went back to the safe to try again.

  Jack shook his head.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking this, Professor — but do you actually have the combination written down?”

  “Of course, dear boy. How else would I remember it?”

  Jack went over to the desk and slid out the tray. Clearly written on a small tab of paper was a series of numbers and letters.

  “Did you tell the police that the combination was in here?”

  “I did not,” said Professor Cartwright, indignantly. “I don’t want the whole village to know the number, do I?”

  Jack took a deep breath.

  “No Professor, you don’t. That would be just careless, wouldn’t it?”

  The irony was totally lost on the scholar.

  Throughout his career as a cop in New York, often dealing with the brightest and the best talent that was drawn to that great City from around the world, it had never ceased to amaze Jack how stupid the cleverest of people could be.

  But he had to admit, in Professor Cartwright, Emeritus Professor at the University of Oxford (retired), he’d found himself an absolute zinger.

  9. Drill Down

  Sarah opened the last of Jack’s galley cupboards and drew a blank.

  The guy clearly liked to cook — there was no end of spices, herbs, and food groups from all around the world, some she’d never even heard of. But in terms of crockery, all she’d found so far were a couple of wine glasses, and she was going to need more than that.

  She added another note to the planning list on her phone.

  Turning Jack’s boat into a party venue was going to involve some fairly extensive trips to the supermarket. Jack’s voice came through the hatch from the deck above:

  “Coffee’s getting cold, Sarah — you nearly done?”

  “On my way,” she answered, and climbed the little ladder up into the spring sunshine.

  Jack had cleaned the windows and swabbed the decks.

  Swabbed …Was that the right word? she thought.

  The old boat was looking a lot better than it had in the depths of winter. He’d set up a teak garden table and chairs on the deck with an umbrella and she could see that if the weather held out until the weekend then this area would make the perfect venue.

  The river was flat calm and, in the distance, up on the far hill, just a few fluffs of cloud floated above Cherringham.

  She sat at the table and Jack poured her coffee into what he called the ’visitor’s mug’. Riley ambled up from the dog bed that lay to one side and offered his head on her lap for his customary ear scratching.

  “So — you got the whole thing planned?” said Jack, sitting back in his chair. “I sure hope so! This party is beginning to scare me.”

  “I’ll send you an email, Jack. Let’s just say you’re going to have your work cut out over the next few days.” She laughed. “But don’t worry, I’ll help.”

  “Ah, well. About time I brought the Grey Goose up to a proper sociable standard.”

  A big white cruiser chugged slowly by, moving upriver, and the family behind the wheel gave a wave.

  Sarah and Jack waved back.

  “First warm weekend brings the vacation boats out,” said Jack.

  “You mind them invading your patch?”

  “Heck, I like it,” said Jack. “River’s here to be used. Shared. Gives me something to look at too — free entertainment some days I can tell you.”

  Sarah sat back in her chair too, feeling the first real warmth of the year on her face.

  Bliss.

  “So Ms Detective,” said Jack. “What’s next in our search for the infamous Cherringham Plate?”

  “I was hoping maybe you’d have a few ideas.”

  “No such luck,” said Jack. “Like I said — all I learned at Professor Cartwright’s house was that a fine education doesn’t make you a clever guy. Anyone who really wanted to crack that safe could have done it without breaking into a sweat.”

  “Then the police might be right about the gang?”

  “They might be. Though the failed attempt at the front door followed by the smashed window kinda nags at me. Not sure why though.”

  “You think the professor could have been involved?”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Sure, he could have been. But he’s got a lot to lose and nothing to gain as far as I can see — I mean why would a guy with his reputation steal an artefact like that? He could dine out on identifying the great find for life. And how does he sell it?”

  “That’s true for whoever’s stolen it. What about the others?”

  “I don’t buy it. And Lady Repton? That seems like a stretch.”

  “So it’s a dead end?” said Sarah.

  “For now,” said Jack. “Which means?”

  Sarah knew where this was going.

  She’d already picked up a lot of techniques from the New York cop — and no small number of principles.

  “It means we go back to basics,” she answered. “Talk to everyone. Find out where all the possible suspects were on the night of the theft. Work out who’s got a motive. See who needs the money.”

  “Exactly,” said Jack. “Drill down.”

  “Who do you fancy on your dance card?”

  “Farmer Butterworth, I think. Take a look at his field of silver …”

  “Okay,” said Sarah. “How about you invite young Jerry out for a drink?”

  Jack laughed.

  “Maybe his pal Baz as well?”

  “Which leaves Lady Repton for me.”

  “Shame. There was I thinking I’d have myself a one-to-one with nobility and maybe invite her over to my little drinks party too.”

  “Who knows. All options open. She might be the thief, Jack.”

  “From what I’ve read about the English upper classes Sarah … that’s quite likely these days. But even if she’s guilty, you know what? I’d still invite her. Felons can be quite
interesting.”

  “You Americans, still suckers for the English upper classes.”

  “Sure,” said Jack. “Just so long as they can’t tell us what to do.”

  “Talking of invites,” said Sarah, taking out her phone. “Shall we see if we can put a list together for Saturday?”

  Jack leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, lazily.

  “I guess so. But you know, sitting here with the river just waking up and the sun in the sky, I’m kinda wishing I didn’t have to throw a party. Maybe I should put it off till next month?”

  With two kids at home, Sarah had heard these thoughts many times before and she knew just how to deal with them.

  “Nonsense, Jack. Soon as people turn up you’ll have the time of your life. Now let’s get started, shall we?”

  And just like a school-kid, Jack shrugged, sat forward, put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  10. Down on the Farm

  Jack pulled up in the yard of Low Copse Farm and turned the engine off.

  He looked around. Although he was a city boy, his grandparents had had a farm — and he knew enough from those childhood memories to recognise a well-run outfit.

  This place looked tidy enough. Bales of straw still left over from the winter neatly stacked. Tractors lined up. No piles of scrap in forgotten corners, jumbles of metal or old sleepers.

  The door to the farm opened and a tall man in his forties came out, crossed the yard to greet him.

  “Mr Brennan? Pete Butterworth.”

  Jack shook his outstretched hand. He liked the guy already — some instinct at work there.

  “It’s Jack. Good of you to see me.”

  “Couldn’t resist, to be honest. My wife and I have heard about some of your exploits — and we felt if anyone could find the plate — you could.”

  Jack rarely felt awkward — but he did now. The whole private detective thing conflicted with his natural desire to keep a low profile.

  “Well, I wouldn’t count on anything, Pete,” he said quickly. “So far, it looks to me like the police are on the right track.”

  Behind Pete Butterworth, a woman appeared from the front of the house, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Pete turned to introduce her.