Cherringham--Thick as Thieves

by Neil Richards

  “Jack — my wife, Becky.”

  Jack shook her hand.

  “Have you found out anything, Jack?”

  “Not yet. In fact, I was just saying — I think you’re going to be dependent on the police for that.”

  His words clearly had a depressing effect on both of them — had they been expecting him to be bringing good news? And was this tidy little farm perhaps not as serene as might first appear?

  He decided to jump straight in.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking — but does this find mean a lot to you?”

  Becky Butterworth was quick to answer.

  “Life or death — is that a lot?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, love–” interrupted her husband.

  “Well, isn’t it? Life at least — our lives here at the farm.”

  Pete put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “We don’t own this farm, Jack. We’re just tenants. Third generation, mind you, but that doesn’t protect us. If we can’t pay the rent each year, we lose the place.”

  “Then your share of the treasure trove would have helped you stay on?”

  “More than that. You see in June we hit our three-year rent review and the owners of the land–”

  “Lady Repton?” said Jack.

  “The Repton family, yes,” said Becky.

  “They’ve already made it clear they’re going to have to raise the rent to cover repairs they need to make to Repton House,” continued Pete. “Raise it more than we could possibly afford.”

  Becky looked away, out to the fields … perhaps — Jack thought — imagining it all vanishing.

  “So the share of the value of the plate would have kept us safe on this land not just for us — but for our kids too when they grow up and want to farm it.”

  I do like this guy, Jack thought.

  Not that it rules him out.

  “That’s tough,” said Jack. “And for a day and a night you must have felt you were saved?”

  “Too right,” said Pete.

  “I guess you must have celebrated there and then?” suggested Jack carefully.

  But just when he was expecting both of them to start on a story of champagne bottles and going out for dinner, he saw straight away a nervous look between them. A look that he had seen so many times in interviews.

  Something wrong here.

  Could be a look that indicated a lie.

  “Well, we, er …” started Becky.

  “I had to get up early for milking next day, so we just had an early dinner. Extra beer. Just the one,” said Pete, looking to Becky for confirmation.

  “Went to bed early,” she said, still nervously avoiding Jack’s eye.

  “Best to be cautious, huh?” said Jack.

  “Exactly,” said Pete.

  He waited for them to say more, but he could see that they just clammed up.

  “Tell you what,” Jack said. “Why don’t you show me where your two treasure hunters found this famous plate? The police are good, Pete, Becky. They may well get it back.”

  Nothing in their eyes showed that either of the couple had any hope in that.

  ”Love to see the spot. That way — when we get it back I can say I was part of the story.”

  “Sure,” said Pete. “I’ll bring the Land Rover round.”

  The farmer headed over to one of the barns where the vehicle was kept. Jack turned to Becky Butterworth.

  “Guess Pete would do anything to get his hands on that plate, huh?”

  Just the slightest nod from Becky, then she thanked him for visiting and made her goodbyes, turning back into the farmhouse.

  He’d take a quick look at the spot where the plate had been found. Then, onto the next in line of the lucky quartet, now probably all feeling anything but lucky.

  11. A Visit with the Family

  Jack couldn’t quite remember when he’d last held a baby in his arms, but he could remember how nervous the experience always made him.

  And wow, this one was a wriggler.

  Luckily it only took a moment for Baz and Abby — the little girl’s parents — to clear a space in the tiny flat for Jack to sit and soon, with some relief, he was handing the little creature back to her mother.

  “Sorry about that, mate,” said Baz. “Chaos this place.”

  “First child — always hits like a hurricane,” said Jack, thinking back to his own daughter who wasn’t so little any more.

  “Too bleeding right,” said Abby. “No way I’m having another. Not unless we win the lottery. Or,” she paused, her tone suddenly bitter, “find some hidden treasure, eh?”

  This last remark was clearly aimed at Baz.

  The baby suddenly quieted, and turned to look at Jack, eyes wide and — like all babies — irresistible.

  “You should be proud,” Jack said, meaning it.

  And at the same time not sure these two were heading towards ’Parents of the Year’ awards.

  “Cup of tea?” Abby said.

  “Or something stronger?” Baz added.

  Jack gave the beleaguered couple a smile. “I’m good, thanks.”

  If ever two people looked like they needed a windfall, it was this couple.

  “Baz, I wonder — I know how much that treasure might have meant to the both of you — Could I ask you some questions?”

  In response, Baz’s wife took a chair and sat down, eyes locked on Jack.

  She — for one — was ready.

  Baz looked around the room as if cornered.

  He put his hand on the back of the wooden kitchen chair and slowly pulled it back from the table with a fraction of the speed of his wife.

  Tad more reluctant, Jack saw.

  Baz sat down, cleared his throat.

  “Sure. Anything that can get it back for us. I mean, we know who you are, what you’ve done.”

  “That night at The Ploughman’s. You told a lot of people about what you found and who had it.”

  “Stupid, bloody–” Abby muttered.

  Baz seemed to wilt in the wooden chair.

  “Well, yeah, me and Jerry were celebrating. Guess we got a little carried away.”

  Abby tilted her head in Baz’s direction as if about shoot a laser from her eyes right into her husband’s thick skull.

  “You and your big mouth. Letting everyone know we were going to be rich. La-de-da! And even where the prize was.”

  “Yeah, that might have been a mistake,” Jack said.

  Baz pleaded his case. “But they’re our mates! We’ve known those guys for ever. Who’d want to steal from us? Besides with it safe and sound in the professor’s safe we thought–”

  “Safe? Sound?” Abby interrupted, snorting.

  “In that group of ’mates’, Baz,” Jack carried on, ignoring Abby. “Is there anyone at all you know that might have thought about stealing the plate?”

  Baz shook his head quickly, showing that he had allotted no time to think of his answer.

  “No. All mates. Most of them.” He hesitated, thoughts catching up with tongue. “I mean, I dunno … I guess anybody could –”

  “Too right,” Abby agreed. “Anybody could have heard you two idiots, and planned the theft. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  Jack now wondered if he had been better off having these two still address him as ’Mr Brennan’.

  Not sure I want to be chummy with them.

  The baby burped, making Jack smile.

  The moment was lost on the two parents.

  “Okay,” Jack said, “We know that a lot of people knew about the treasure and where it was being kept.” He took a breath. “Can I ask you about the rest of that night?”

  Because though Jack thought it unlikely, he couldn’t rule out Baz wanting the treasure all to himself.

  “You were — as we say — under the weather?” Jack continued.

  “We was celebrating, that’s all–”

  “I get that. Who wouldn’t?”

  Jack look
ed at Abby hoping she didn’t fire off another volley since that wouldn’t help this process at all.

  “What about the rest of the evening?”

  Baz shifted in his seat.

  “As you say, I was a bit wobbly. So Jerry said I could take his couch. Sleep it off. Didn’t want to disturb the missus, and little Daisy here.”

  “More like you couldn’t get your two damn feet to move in a straight line. That Jerry … he’s an enabler, that’s what he is.”

  “Best mate,” Baz added for clarification.

  The baby started squirming again, obviously in need of feeding or a change. Abby excused herself with the little girl and Jack spotted an opportunity to get in a few questions to Baz without Abby’s commentary.

  He pulled his chair closer to where Baz sat. A window of opportunity here, and he’d best jump on it …

  “That night, you remember …?”

  “Hitting Jezzer’s couch. I was flat out, mate. Next morning, woke with a massive head. I mean, you saw me in the pub. Too much damn celebrating.”

  “Yeah, I could see that. Your friend though — he seemed better.”

  “Jezzer? Yeah, I mean I guess so …”

  “And do you know what he did? After he brought you to his place?”

  Baz seemed surprised by the question.

  “Whadya mean? He went to sleep, same as me. Didn’t see him until the morning. That’s what we did. Just crashed at his place until the morning, when the museum bloke was to come.”

  Jack nodded.

  Then he felt he should point out the obvious to Baz.

  That is, if Baz didn’t already know it.

  “But since you were flat out, on the couch, then there is no way you would know what Jerry did, right?”

  “He said he went to sleep, same as me.”

  “But no way you would know for sure?”

  Baz stopped as if some distant chamber in his brain, long unused, maybe even unknown, suddenly lit up with dusty light bulbs flickering to life.

  Baz looked away. “I mean, no, but I guess … he could have–”

  Jack finished the thought: “–done anything?”

  The treasure hunter turned to him and his eyes looked sick, sunken and now more than a bit confused, and he nodded. Jack guessed that the interview was over, though he wasn’t sure that he’d learned anything of any use.

  But he also thought that speaking to Jerry next might be quite interesting.

  Always fun to compare stories.

  12. A Conflicting Opinion

  The sun had reached a point where it squarely hit the front window of Sarah’s office, making her office desks and worktables — piled high with paper and layouts from a half dozen projects — look positively golden.

  A good spring day in Cherringham was something amazing, Sarah thought.

  As if the icy grip of winter, the leafless trees, the days of freezing rain had suddenly been banished, blown away by the glorious sun, making everything come back to life.

  And business was good!

  Maybe the economic doldrums were indeed over. Local shops wanted websites designed, and lots of posters were needed for spring sales, events — and she even had a major website build on the go for the grisly tourist attraction, Penton Prison.

  That one was going to be fun!

  “Grace, how’s the image search coming?”

  Her PA came over with her laptop.

  “Not sure. I found a few stock photos of the Thames. But I’m still looking for something that says ’perfect village’. Don’t know … what do you think of these?”

  Sarah took a look. “That one,” she said, pointing to a scene where the river curved by a mill and then wandered past a riverside restaurant. “It’s not too bad.”

  “Still not spot on though, right?”

  Grace had the same high standards she did, Sarah knew. Both of them wanted everything — image, layout, copy — to be as perfect as possible.

  Sarah smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll keep digging.”

  “Good. I’m still playing with the navigation for the prison site. Creeping me out, it is.”

  Then a knock on the door, three strong raps.

  Not often did they have customers come up the steps unannounced. Usually people called, discussed their needs, then a meeting was set up.

  So this … was unusual.

  Grace opened the door and was faced with a bony-looking man in a herringbone three-piece suit, black umbrella tightly bound in hand, on this sunlit day.

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, and then walked into the office as if it was his.

  “The proprietor?” he said, with careful elocution.

  “That would be me,” Sarah said. “Can we help?”

  The man shook his head, archly.

  “Au contraire. It is I who can help you.”

  The man scanned the room and like a predator cornering some frail prey, saw a chair and went over to it.

  “Do you mind?”

  Not really a question at all.

  Then he sat down and, from an inside pocket of his jacket, produced a business card and handed it to Sarah.

  “Doctor Lawrence Sitwell,” she read, “Professor of European Archaeology, University of Oxford.”

  She noted — in much smaller letters — the initials ret.

  As in ’retired’.

  Sarah looked over to Grace who had stopped what she was doing to watch whatever was about to unfold with Lawrence Sitwell in this sunny office.

  He produced a sheaf of papers from another pocket.

  Sarah could see the logo of her newsletter — Cherringham Roundel — the distinctive arches of the medieval Cherringham Bridge across the Thames.

  Interesting to see hard copy. Since it was an online newsletter, Sarah had only seen a print-out of the first two issues.

  “I imagine it is you who wrote this … article?”

  Clearly ’article’ wasn’t the word that he wanted to use.

  “I do all of the writing. Except my assistant Grace sometimes–”

  “This piece then — about the so-called discovery of the Roman plate and then — its theft — that is you?”

  “Guilty,” Sarah said.

  This Sitwell chap — Sarah thought — isn’t sitting too well with me.

  “It is filled with errors of fact.”

  “That the plate was found? That it was stolen?”

  Another dramatic roll of his head. The more agitated Sitwell became, the more his enunciation grew clipped, as if his mouth and teeth had turned into an old printing press, spitting out blocks of type into the air.

  “The chances of that plate being genuine are virtually — nil. You can be absolutely sure that it is nothing more than another of those clap-trap replicas produced in the tens of thousands in the eighteen hundreds, and therefore absolutely worthless.”

  “Hang on, Professor.”

  “Your piece is just parroting a lot of ill-informed–”

  Sarah leaned close.

  This is my office, she thought. And professor or not, this academic bully isn’t going to run the show in the shop I built.

  “I said … hang on. Slow down. If you’re here for a correction–”

  “Correction?” he interrupted, “Dare say there should be more than that. Should be an investigation into this hoax, this … scam.”

  Sarah wondered if she should tell him that an investigation was in fact in progress.

  And if he had information to add, the more the merrier.

  “So you think the item, the plate was …”

  “Worthless.”

  “But Professor Cartwright?”

  And that was as if Sarah had just thrown a circuit breaker.

  “Professor Peregrine Cartwright?” Sitwell produced a hearty ’ha’ that filled the office. Sarah looked over to Grace who, for Sarah’s benefit, produced a clown-like grimace at their fulminating guest.

  “Old Peregrine’s eyes are anything but falcon
-like, Miss Edwards.” Sitwell jutted a finger out, pointed at Sarah. “This is not the first time that he has jumped to conclusions.”

  “Oh really? I thought he was quite a respected–”

  Sitwell shook his head dramatically, stopping her short.

  “Respected! Hmph. His knowledge base of Roman metallurgy, well, I can do a whole thesis on what he doesn’t know. In fact, I have.”

  “But Professor Sitwell, you yourself have not seen the object?”

  “One of the men who found it took a photo at the site, you know that.”

  “But not terribly clear.”

  “Clear enough. Even covered in mud. A replica.”

  “So whoever stole it …”

  Now Sitwell leaned close, for the first time a smile — albeit a creepy one — bloomed on his face.

  “Exactly. They stole nothing. Petty theft at best.”

  Sarah shot another look at Grace.

  Could be, she thought, that Sitwell was right.

  And if so, not only were the police wasting their time, so were she and Jack.

  But still, there was that key question …

  “Someone did steal it, Professor. Along with other things of value belonging to Professor Cartwright.”

  “I am sure that any items of ’value’ old Peregrine had squirreled away have long been sold. It’s a little tough to make ends meet when your pension has been cut.”

  Sarah made a mental note to check up on exactly how Cartwright left Oxford.

  Perhaps he hadn’t been retired with full honours.

  Sitwell seemed to freeze for a moment as if he had said something out of turn. But another snort, and he recovered his balance.

  “There,” Sitwell said, warming to his conclusion. “You have the unvarnished truth of this fiasco. I expect to see clarifying details in the next edition of this …” he waved the printout of the online newsletter.

  “The Roundel,” Sarah said. “And I will certainly look into these things.”

  Sitwell stood up and sniffed the air, while gazing around the office.

  Sarah stood as well. There was one more detail she wanted to ask him since he seemed to know so much about this affair.

  “Professor Sitwell, before you leave.”

  Sitwell’s eyebrows went up.