by Unknown
Each of his neat spadesful of earth was the size of a book. He had volunteered on archaeological digs and knew how carefully and methodically professionals liked to work. When he had produced a mound of slices he passed his metal detector over it and verified the absence of metal. He climbed into the shallow hole he’d made and scanned it with the detector head. The symphony was louder.
The hole was getting deeper and the mound of discarded earth higher. Arthur had decided to take everything down to the same level rather than pot-hole it. He didn’t want to be embarrassed by poor technique on the chance that a real archaeologist had to be called in. He took the trench down almost a yard and when he scanned the fresh surface the beeping in his ears was so loud he had to dial back the volume.
Troweling from here on, he thought.
He began scraping thin cuts of earth away, scooping the debris with his hands and inspecting each handful before tossing it onto the pile. Every so often the trowel caught on something hard but each time the obstruction was a piece of flint.
His trowel caught again but this time a stone didn’t pop out of the ground. He probed the obstruction with his hand to see if it was a larger rock that needed digging out but it didn’t feel like a flint nodule. It wasn’t as smooth as an exposed flint surface or as rough as a chalky matrix—and as he ran his finger over it hard, he saw a glint of unmistakable color.
Gold!
He used a ballpoint pen as a scraper lest he scratch the surface of the object with the tip of his trowel. When the pen wouldn’t complete the trick he used his fingernails. Before long a flattened piece of gold the dimensions of his hand lay exposed to the pale afternoon light. He spit on it and smoothed away the adherent soil to get a look at its intricate tooling and held his breath at what he saw: an engraved menagerie of stylized animal-like figures emerging from the golden finish.
It looked like the cheekpiece of a helmet, Anglo-Saxon perhaps.
He eagerly scraped at the earth adjacent to the cheekpiece and another object was revealed. After a minute, Arthur had exposed a braided bracelet, chunky, golden, beautifully crafted.
Judging by the cacophony coming through the headphones, he guessed there would be more. Lots more.
He looked to the ATV in the distance and waved his arms to summon Hengst, the guard.
#
When Jeremy Harp finally arrived he made Hengst jump into the excavation first and help him down. Three crowded the space, so Hengst climbed out to give them more room. Arthur crouched alongside Harp and showed him the cheekpiece and bracelet.
“Extraordinary!” Harp exclaimed, touching the cool golden surface of the cheekpiece with a chubby forefinger.
Then Arthur took him over to the far end of the oval where, while waiting for Harp to arrive, he had uncovered another extraordinary piece, a gold pectoral cross with a central garnet, twisted up rather like a pretzel.
“How old are they?” Harp asked.
“Seventh century, eighth century, somewhere around there, I’d guess. I’m no expert but I reckon it’s Anglo-Saxon. Probably buried for safekeeping in leather or cloth bags, which have long decomposed.”
“Is this it? Is there more?”
“Definitely. All the way to the edges. There could be dozens, maybe hundreds of pieces.”
“Well get digging then while there’s still light. Let’s see what I’ve got.”
Arthur noted the first sign of trouble—what I’ve got. He chose his words carefully. “Actually, Jeremy, we really shouldn’t do any more digging. We need to call in the professionals.”
Arthur saw how the small man stiffened. Despite his plea to be called by his first name, it seemed that Dr. Harp would have been a better choice. And Harp didn’t seem best pleased to have his instructions challenged.
“Professionals? Whomever do you mean?” he said gruffly.
“Suffolk will have an Archaeological Service. All the councils do. They’ll send a team out to make an assessment. For something like this I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d come out tomorrow morning. I can see if they’ve got a weekend number.”
Harp had the guard help him out of the pit and he peered down imperiously from the edge. “This is my land and I’ll do whatever I please on my land. I don’t want strangers on my property.”
Arthur felt his face burn.
“Look—Dr. Harp—I’m afraid there are certain procedures to follow even on private land. As someone who does this kind of prospecting, I’m reasonably up to date on these things. The Treasure Act of 1996 mandates that all possible discoveries of ancient and valuable artifacts—whether on public or private lands—be reported to the local coroner for a determination whether it does indeed meet the definition of treasure. And best practice is to call the archaeologists first.”
“And the definition of treasure is?”
“Artifacts more than three hundred years old and containing at least ten percent gold or silver. I’m quite sure we’re going to meet the definition.”
“And what if I tell you not to call the archaeologists or the coroner?”
Arthur took a deep breath. “I’m obligated to make the call, sir.”
Harp looked volcanic. “And should the coroner and his minions make an investigation, what happens when they are done?”
“The hoard would be excavated and catalogued by the county Archaeological Service and its value assessed by the Treasure Valuation Committee in London.”
“How much might it be worth?”
“Quite a bit I should think. I hesitate to speculate but as I mentioned last night, some hoards have been valued at millions.”
“And this value would accrue to me?”
Arthur decided to hold his ground. “Well, actually to us, sir. As the finder who did the treasure-hunting with the permission of the landowner, I’d be entitled to half.”
Harp began to walk away in a furious state but he turned long enough to say, “You do whatever you feel you must, Malory. My wife and I have another commitment tonight. We’ll have food sent to your room. It would be most convenient if you departed first thing in the morning.”
8
The next two weeks streaked by like a tornado, which had left Arthur decidedly de-roofed. The maelstrom had begun, as most large things do, with a small thing—a one-minute conversation with a newspaper man.
A team from the Suffolk Archaeology unit had, as he had predicted, arrived early on the Sunday morning before he’d cleared out. Hengst tried to shoo the archaeologists away but the threat of police involvement greased open the gate. Hengst watched from a distance as the team members did preliminary investigations, excitedly pointing out each new find to Arthur. Harp was nowhere to be seen that morning.
The buried pieces were indeed Anglo-Saxon, a combination of militaria and jewelry. Peter Saunders, the head of Suffolk Archaeology, a lanky, erudite fellow, guessed from the density of objects at several hundred pieces when all was said and done. He was correct. The dig lasted four days, and each evening Saunders kindly sent Arthur an e-mail attaching photos of cleaned-up artifacts. The final count was 663 gold objects: sword pommels, hilt plates, scabbard loops, buckles, helmet pieces, fittings, strips, studs, buttons, brooches, crosses, and rings. Some of the pieces, the brooches especially, were achingly beautiful renderings of birds, snakes, and lizards. From the clustering of artifacts, Saunders surmised that some East Angle lord, or perhaps someone who had sacked him, had buried two bags of loot in an eighth-century forest with the unrealized intention of returning for it.
Arthur knew, of course, a hefty value would be placed upon the hoard but the preliminary assessment of four million pounds staggered him. The Suffolk County Council made attempts to keep things quiet until a suitable time could be found for a press conference but the leak couldn’t be stopped. Almost instantly, Arthur found himself fielding a call from one Laurence Cole from the Daily Mail, who knew essentially all there was to know and wanted to confirm it. The man sounded breathless, as if rushing to a dead
line.
“So, Mr. Malory, how do you feel about making the discovery of a lifetime?”
“I mean it’s quite unbelievable, really. I’ve been prospecting for years with rather little to show for it. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Would I be mistaken to take you for the same Arthur Malory who was tied up in that nasty business in Oxfordshire back in March?”
“I’m afraid that was me.”
“You’re having quite the eventful time of it, aren’t you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, sounds like you’re on the mend. So you work for Dr. Jeremy Harp.”
“Yes. I’m in marketing at Harp Industries.”
“Yeah, I got ahold of the company newsletter which features you. Says you’re a descendant of the bloke who wrote Le Morte D’Arthur.”
“That’s the family lore. I’ve done some genealogy work but nothing really definitive.”
“So a guy who’s a descendant of the man who made King Arthur famous finds a treasure hoard that could’ve come from King Arthur’s days.”
“Well … I think most believe that King Arthur lived a few centuries earlier than the Binford hoard.”
“Close enough, though, don’t you think? It’s the story that counts and this is a good ’un. So, the archaeologist, this Saunders chap. He tells me the British Museum’s keen to buy this off of you. Were you aware that your cut could be worth two million quid? Does that put a spring in your step?”
Arthur remembered exactly how he had felt at that moment. He’d said his piece and never once regretted the sentiment. He just wished he hadn’t stepped in so large a cow pie.
“There’s no way I’d accept a penny. This kind of treasure belongs to the country. It’s our collective heritage. I may be entitled to money by law but I will certainly donate my share to the British Museum.”
In the pause that had followed, Arthur heard the journalist furiously typing on his keyboard. “What would you say if I told you that when I informed Dr. Harp about the British Museum’s cash offer he replied, and I quote, ‘The more the merrier, I’m sure I’ll put it to good use on my estate’?”
At that moment Arthur had caught a glimpse of a thorny future but he refused to backpedal. He thought long enough for a diplomatic response to come to him. “I think one has to do what one is comfortable with under the circumstances.”
“But you’re not a billionaire like Dr. Harp, are you?”
“Of course not!”
“Not wealthy at all, are you?”
“Hardly.”
“And yet, you’re giving your country a gift worth a couple of million.”
“Look, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, Mr. Malory. I think we’re good. You have a nice day. I expect it’ll be the last sane one you have in a while.”
Cole’s newspaper story begat other stories that begat TV and radio pieces that begat a torrent of blogs and postings and tweets until Arthur and his brave recovery from a brutal attack, his treasure and his altruism, became a self-perpetuating set of memes that eclipsed all others up and down the British Isles.
For his part, Jeremy Harp, when informed by the press of Arthur’s intention to donate his share, quickly changed his mind and announced that he too would make a donation. But the damage was done. A billionaire belatedly donating millions wasn’t news.
At first, Arthur had been merely shy about the attention; but as the phenomenon built up steam his sheepishness turned to embarrassment and finally irritation when it became more and more difficult for him to perform everyday activities. There were incessant phone calls to his home and office and somehow his mobile number and e-mail address became known too.
To his amazement, he now had become the target of paparazzi, shadowing his every mundane movement, trying to land photos of the handsome young man. That Arthur’s house was on a busy road worked to his advantage. No parking allowed police to move the paparazzi along but they congregated on side streets, prowling the sidewalk outside his home wielding telephoto lenses and calling to him to poke his head out the door.
An unpleasant thought plagued him as well: wouldn’t the presence of a mob make it easier for a man with a gun to mingle and get close?
Stu Gelfand appeared at the threshold of Arthur’s office, interrupting the spreadsheet work he was doing on his departmental budget.
Stu looked at the cluttered desk. “Looks like you’re waist-deep in alligators. All right, then?”
Arthur bridled as always at Gelfand’s smarminess. “I’m doing fine, Stu, and more to the point so are my projections. Next year should be outstanding.”
“I’m sure it will be. Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, just give us a shout. My presentation’s in the can so I’ve got buckets of free time.”
“You’re too kind.”
Gelfand grinned. “The least I can do for a real-life British hero.”
#
Jeremy Harp was well into a bottle of Armagnac. Binford Hall was large enough that he and his wife usually saw each other by appointment. But they surprised each other by their accidental collision in the kitchen when he wandered in for leftovers and she for a cup of herbal tea before retiring.
She watched him peel the plastic wrap from the lamb joint. “Do you want me to get Marie over to heat that up? She’s probably still awake.”
“I’m a bloody physicist, Lillian. I can operate a microwave oven.”
She watched in disdain as he fumbled unsuccessfully with the timer clock and elbowed him aside to set it for him.
“You’re a drunken physicist, I think.”
He sat down hard on a chair and mumbled. “Now you know what it’s like living with you, darling.”
She clammed up at that and when the microwave beeped she loudly slid his hot plate of meat in front of him. Before departing to her bedroom with her mug she said, “I realize you’ve endured a period of rare rebuke, Jeremy, but it’s beneath contempt to take it out on me.”
Here he was, a man who preferred to keep out of the public eye, enduring withering attacks at the hand of cartoonists, bloggers, and chat show hosts as the most haughty, out-of-touch man in Britain, the embodiment of all that was rotten about the wealthy elite. He had no idea that his offhand comment to a reporter would turn him into a caricature—and no doubt it wouldn’t have happened without Arthur Malory’s ridiculously altruistic stance. He had hoped rather naïvely that reversing his position on the treasure would repair his image, yet that had hardly happened. Publicity of any sort was the last thing he wanted. Particularly now.
He carved into the meat, stewing in resentments. Drink only fueled his anger, aimed at all those who had belittled him throughout his life. Although richer than most rich men in the corridors of power, his was new money, earned in the grubby world of modern commerce. He wasn’t one of them. He was a northerner. His father had been a surveyor, his grandfather a pipe fitter.
As a small lad with more brains than brawn, he’d been accustomed to taunts and beatings. But hard work and inventiveness had elevated him out of poverty to the ranks of the ultrarich. With his kind of wealth he had bought his way into most of the right clubs but he never truly belonged. He had come to hate those smug bastards with their correct schools, correct accents, and sniggering inside jokes.
But he, not they, was a member of the most exclusive club in the world, and that long had afforded him a platform of inner superiority. In his early forties he had been tapped by the eminent Hungarian scientist Andris Somogyi to join an extraordinary circle of elite physicists.
Now, as the alcohol soaked his brain, he thought, I am a Khem! Don’t forget it, Jeremy. Don’t lose sight of it. And if we do find the Grail, I’ll have my revenge on all of them.
The telephone rang, bringing him crashing back to the dimly lit kitchen.
“Lillian, the phone!” he shouted.
There was no response from upstairs. He shouted again then swore and rose to pick u
p the extension.
“Harp,” he answered gruffly.
“Jeremy, it’s Andris.”
Somogyi rarely called and Harp bore down, trying to squelch the alcohol in his system. Somogyi was getting on in years and was less active than in the past but he was still imperious and still commanded respect.
“Andris, what can I do for you?”
The Hungarian accent was ponderous. “Concerns have been expressed, Jeremy. I’ve had calls.”
“I see.”
“We don’t appreciate the press you’ve received. You know we don’t like any of us to receive that sort of attention. Win a Nobel Prize, fine. Get into the tabloids for this kind of thing—not fine.”
“I made a mistake, Andris. I shouldn’t have spoken to a reporter. This treasure hoard has been a stupid distraction.”
“Yes, it’s certainly a distraction. What progress have you made on the Grail? I’m an old man. I don’t have all the time in the world. I want to find it.”
“As do I. Let me say this, Andris. For years I’ve felt like Malory’s puppet master. Remember what I said when he joined Holmes’ circle? When we found out he was a likely descendant of Thomas Malory?”
“You said you wanted to know this man better.”
“Yes. I had a strong feeling he’d be important to us one day. That’s why I pulled the marionette strings and got him a job at my company. That’s why I pulled the strings and monitored his calls and e-mails. Now there’s this nonsense with the treasure. It’s giving me an opportunity to give those strings another big tug.”
“How so?”
“It pains me to say it, Andris, but we have a two-thousand-year history of failure. We’ve been successful scientists but unsuccessful detectives. Arthur Malory is simply in the best position to rediscover what Holmes found and to go on from there. He has the blood of Thomas Malory in his veins and we have instilled the fear of death in his heart. The only thing he needs is more time to pursue the Grail. I intend to use the treasure fiasco to make sure he has all the time in the world.”
