Cherringham--Thick as Thieves (3 page)

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 local 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 here.

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.

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.

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.