The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar and Six More (10 page)

The court was told also that several of the spoons bore the monogram of Christ
(Chi-Rho), and that the two which were inscribed with the names
Pascentia
and
Papittedo
were
undoubtedly christening presents.

The experts concluded their evidence and the court adjourned. Soon the jury
returned, and their verdict was astonishing. No blame was attached to anyone
for anything, although the finder of the treasure was no longer entitled to
receive full compensation from the Crown because the find had not been declared
at once. Nevertheless, there would probably be a measure of compensation
paid,
and with this in view, the finders were declared to be
jointly Ford and Butcher.

Not Butcher.
Ford and Butcher.

There is no more to tell other than that the treasure was acquired by the
British Museum, where it now stands proudly displayed in a large glass case for
all to see. And already people have
travelled
great
distances to go and look upon those lovely things which Gordon Butcher found
beneath his plough on that cold and windy winter afternoon. One day, a book or
two will be compiled about them, full of suppositions and abstruse conclusions,
and men who move in archaeological circles will talk for ever about the
Treasure of
Mildenhall
.

As a gesture, the Museum rewarded the co-finders with one thousand pounds each.
Butcher, the true finder, was happy and surprised to receive so much money. He
did not realize that had he been allowed to take the treasure home originally,
he would almost certainly have revealed its existence and would thus have
become eligible to receive one hundred per cent of its value, which could have
been anything between half a million and a million pounds.

Nobody knows what Ford thought about it all. He must have been relieved and
perhaps somewhat surprised when he heard that the court had believed his story
about pewter. But above all he must have been shattered by the loss of his
great treasure. For the rest of his life he would be kicking himself for
leaving those two spoons on the mantel above the fireplace for Dr Fawcett to
see.

Ernie had been given a .22 rifle for his birthday. His father, who was already
slouching on the sofa watching the
telly
at
nine-thirty on this Saturday morning, said. "Let's see what you can pot,
boy. Make yourself useful. Bring us back a rabbit for supper."

"
There's rabbits
in that big field the other side
of the lake," Ernie said. "
I seen
'
em
."

"Then go out and nab one," the father said, picking breakfast from
between his front teeth with a split matchstick. "Go out and nab us a
rabbit."

"I'll get
yer
two," Ernie said.

"And on the way back," the father said, "get me a quart bottle
of brown ale."

"
Gimme
the money, then," Ernie said.

The father, without taking his eyes from the TV screen, fished in his pocket
for a pound note. "And don't try
pinchin
' the
change like you did last time," he said. "You'll get a thick ear if
you
do,
birthday or no birthday."

"Don't worry," Ernie said.

"And if you want to
practise
and get your eye in
with that gun," the father said, "birds is best. See '
ow
many
spadgers
you can knock
down, right?"

"Right," Ernie said. "There's
spadgers
all the way up the lane in the 'edges.
Spadgers
is
easy."

"If you think
spadgers
is easy," the father
said, "go get yourself a jenny wren. Jenny wrens is '
alf
the size of
spadgers
and they never sit still for one
second. Get yourself a jenny wren before you start
shootin
'
yer
mouth off about '
ow
clever you is."

"Now.
Albert," his wife said.
looking
up from the sink. "That's not nice,
shootin
' little birds in the
nestin
'
season. I don't mind rabbits, but little birds in the
nestin
'
season is another thing altogether."

"Shut your mouth," the father said. "Nobody's
askin
' your opinion. And listen to me, boy," he said
to Ernie. "Don't go waving that thing about in the street because you
ain't
got
no
licence
.
Stick it down your trouser-leg till you're out in the country, right?"

"Don't worry," Ernie said. He took the gun and the box of bullets and
went out to see what he could kill. He was a big lout of a boy, fifteen years
old this birthday. Like his truck-driver father, he had small
slitty
eyes set very close together near the top of the
nose. His mouth was loose, the lips often wet. Brought up in a household where
physical violence was an everyday occurrence, he was himself an extremely
violent person. Most Saturday afternoons, he and a gang of friends
travelled
by train or bus to football matches, and if they
didn't manage to get into a bloody fight before they returned home, they
considered it a wasted day. He took great pleasure in catching small boys after
school and twisting their arms behind their backs. Then he would order them to
say insulting and filthy things about their own parents.

"
Ow
! Please don't, Ernie! Please?"

"Say it or I'll twist your arm off!"

They always said it. Then he would give the arm an extra twist and the victim
would go off in tears.

Ernie's best friend was called Raymond. He lived four doors away, and he, too,
was a big boy for his age. But while Ernie was heavy and loutish, Raymond was
tall, slim and muscular.

Outside Raymond's house, Ernie put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long
shrill whistle. Raymond came out. "Look what I got for me birthday,"
Ernie said, showing the gun.

"Gripes!"
Raymond said. "We can have
some fun with that!"

"Come on, then," Ernie said. "We're
goin
'
up to the big field the other side of the lake to get us a rabbit."

The two boys set off. This was a Saturday morning in May, and the countryside
was beautiful around the small village where the boys lived. The chestnut trees
were in full flower and the hawthorn was white along the hedges. To reach the
big rabbit field, Ernie and Raymond had first to walk down a narrow hedgy lane
for half a mile. Then they must cross the railway line, and go round the big
lake where wild ducks and moorhens and coots and ring-ouzels lived. Beyond the
lake, over the hill and down the other side, lay the rabbit field. This was all
private land belonging to
Mr
Douglas
Highton
and the lake itself was a sanctuary for waterfowl.

All the way up the lane, they took turns with the gun, potting at small birds
in the hedges. Ernie got a bullfinch and a hedge-sparrow. Raymond got a second
bullfinch, a whitethroat and a yellowhammer. As each bird was killed, they tied
it by the legs to a line of string. Raymond never went anywhere without a big
ball of string in his jacket pocket, and a knife. Now they had five little
birds dangling on the line of string.

"You know something," Raymond said. "We can eat these."

"Don't talk so daft," Ernie said. "There's not enough meat on
one of those to feed a woodlouse."

"There is, too," Raymond said. 'The
Frenchies
eat '
em
and so do the Eyeties.
Mr
Sanders told us about it in class. He said the
Frenchies
and the Eyeties put up nets and catch '
em
by the
million and then they eat '
em
."

"All right, then," Ernie said. "Let's see '
ow
many we can get. Then we'll take '
em
'
ome
and put '
em
in the rabbit
stew."

As they progressed up the lane, they shot at every little bird they saw. By the
time they got to the railway line, they had fourteen small birds dangling on
the line of string.

"Hey!" whispered Ernie, pointing with a long arm. "Look over
there!"

There was a group of trees and bushes alongside the railway
line,
and beside one of the bushes stood a small boy. He was looking up into the
branches of an old tree through a pair of binoculars.

"You know who that is?" Raymond whispered back. "It's that
little twerp Watson."

"You're right!" Ernie whispered. "It's Watson, the scum of the
earth!"

Peter Watson was always the enemy. Ernie and Raymond detested him because he
was nearly everything that they were not. He had a small frail body. His face
was freckled and he wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was a brilliant
pupil, already in the senior class at school although he was only thirteen. He
loved music and played the piano well. He was no good at games. He was quiet
and polite. His clothes, although patched and darned, were always clean. And
his father did not drive a truck or work in a factory. He worked in the bank.

"Let's give the little
perisher
a fright,"
Ernie whispered.

The two bigger boys crept up close to the small boy, who didn't see them
because he still had binoculars to his eyes.

"
'Ands
up!"
shouted Ernie, pointing the
gun.

Peter Watson jumped. He lowered the binoculars and stared through his
spectacles at the two intruders.

"Go on!" Ernie shouted. "Stick '
em
up!"

"I wouldn't point that gun if I were you," Peter Watson said.

"We're
givin
'
the orders round 'ere!" Ernie said.

"So stick '
em
up," Raymond said,
"unless you want a slug in the guts!"

Peter Watson stood quite still, holding the binoculars in front of him with
both hands. He looked at Raymond. Then he looked at Ernie. He was not afraid,
but he knew better than to play the fool with these two. He had suffered a good
deal from their attentions over the years.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to stick '
em
up!"
Ernie
yelled at him. "Can't you understand English?"

Peter Watson didn't move.

"I'll count to five," Ernie said. "And if they're not up by
then, you get it in the guts. One. . . Two. . . Three. . ."

Peter Watson raised his arms slowly above his head. It was the only sensible
thing to do. Raymond stepped forward and snatched the binoculars from his
hands. "What's this?" he snapped.
"Who you
spyin
' on?"

"Nobody."

"Don't
lie
, Watson.
Them
things is used for
spyin
'! I'll bet you
was
spyin
' on us? That's right,
ain't
it? Confess it!"

"I certainly wasn't spying on you."

"Give '
im
a clip over the ear," Ernie said.
"Teach '
im
not to lie to us."

"I'll do that in a minute," Raymond said. "I'm just
workin
'
meself
up."

Peter Watson considered the possibility of trying to escape. All he could do
would be to turn and run, and that was pointless. They'd catch him in seconds.
And if he shouted for help, there was no one to hear him. All he could do,
therefore, was to keep calm and try to talk his way out of the situation.

"Keep them 'ands up!" Ernie barked, waving the barrel of the gun
gently from side to side the way he had seen it done by gangsters on the
telly
.
"Go on,
laddie
,
reach!"

Peter did as he was told.

"So '
oo
was you
spyin
'
on?" Raymond asked.
"Out with it!"

"I was watching a green woodpecker," Peter said.

"A what?"

"A male green woodpecker.
He was tapping the
trunk of that old dead tree, searching for grubs."

"Where is '
ee
?" Ernie snapped, raising his
gun. "I'll '
ave
'
im
!"

"No, you won't," Peter said, looking at the string of tiny birds
slung over Raymond's shoulder. "He flew off the moment you shouted.
Woodpeckers are extremely timid."

"What you
watchin
' '
im
for?" Raymond
asked
suspiciously.
"What's the point? Don't you '
ave
nothin
' better to do?"

"
It's
fun watching birds," Peter said.
"It's a lot more fun than shooting them."

"Why, you cheeky little bleeder!"
Ernie
cried. "So you don't like us
shootin
' birds, eh?
Is that what you're
sayin
'?"