"Of course," Ford said, "Come on in."

Dr Hugh Alderson Fawcett was a keen and learned archaeologist who before the war had made a point of visiting Ford once a year in search of old stones or arrowheads. Ford had usually collected a batch of such items during the twelve months and he was always willing to sell them to Fawcett. They were seldom of great value, but now and again something quite good had turned up.

"Well," said Fawcett, taking off his coat in the little hall. "Well, well, well. It's been nearly seven years since I was here last."

"Yes, it's been a long time," Ford said.

Ford led him into the front room and showed him a box of flint arrowheads which had been picked up in the district. Some were good, others not so good. Fawcett picked through them, sorted them, and a deal was done.

"Nothing else?"

"No, I don't think so."

Ford wished fervently that Dr Fawcett had never come. He wished even more fervently that he would go away.

It was at this point that Ford noticed something that made him sweat. He saw suddenly that he had left lying on the mantel over the fireplace the two most beautiful of the Roman spoons from the treasure h.o.a.rd. These spoons had fascinated him because each was inscribed with the name of a Roman girl child to whom it had been given, presumably as a christening present, by Roman parents who had been converted to Christianity. One name was Pascentia, the other was Papittedo. Rather lovely names.

Ford, sweating with fear, tried to place himself between Dr Fawcett and the mantelpiece. He might even, he thought, be able to slip the spoons into his pocket if he got the chance.

He didn't get the chance.

Perhaps Ford had polished them so well that a little flash of reflected light from the silver caught the doctor's eye. Who knows? The fact remains that Fawcett saw them. The moment he saw them, he pounced like a tiger.

"Great heavens alive!" he cried. "What are these?"

"Pewter," Ford said, sweating more than ever. "Just a couple of old pewter spoons."

"Pewter?" cried Fawcett, turning one of the spoons over in his fingers. "Pewter! You call this pewter pewter?"

"That's right," Ford said. "It's pewter."

"You know what this is?" Fawcett said, his voice going high with excitement. "Shall I tell you what this really really is?" is?"

"You don't have to tell me," Ford said, truculent. "I know what it is. It's old pewter. And quite nice, too."

Fawcett was reading the inscription in Roman letters on the scoop of the spoon. "Papittedo!" he cried.

"What's that mean?" Ford asked him.

Pawcett picked up the other spoon. "Pascentia," he said. "Beautiful! These are the names of Roman children! And these spoons, my friend, are made of solid silver! Solid Roman silver!"

"Not possible," Ford said.

"They're magnificent!" Fawcett cried out, going into raptures. "They're perfect! They're unbelievable! Where on earth did you find them? It's most important to know where you found them! Was there anything else?" Fawcett was hopping about all over the room.

"Well. . ." Ford said, licking dry lips.

"You must report them at once!" Fawcett cried. "They're Treasure Trove! The British Museum is going to want these and that's for certain! How long have you had them?"

"Just a little while," Ford told him.

"And who found them?" Fawcett asked, looking straight at him. "Did you find them yourself or did you get them from somebody else? This is vital! The finder will be able to tell us all about it!"

Ford felt the walls of the room closing in on him and he didn't quite know what to do.

"Come on, man! Surely you know where you got them! Every detail will have to come out when you hand them in. Promise me you'll go to the police with them at once?"

"Well. . ." Ford said.

"If you don't, then I'm afraid I shall be forced to report it myself," Fawcett told him. "It's my duty."

The game was up now and Ford knew it. A thousand questions would be asked. How did you find it ? When did you find it? What were you doing? Where was the exact spot? Whose land were you ploughing? And sooner or later, inevitably, the name of Gordon Butcher would have to come into it. It was unavoidable. And then, when Butcher was questioned, he would remember the size of the h.o.a.rd and tell them all about it.

So the game was up. And the only thing to do at this point was to unlock the doors of the big sideboard and show the entire h.o.a.rd to Dr Fawcett.

Ford's excuse for keeping it all and not turning it in would have to be that he thought it was pewter. So long as he stuck to that, he told himself, they couldn't do anything to him.

Dr Fawcett would probably have a heart-attack when he saw what there was in that cupboard.

"There is actually quite a bit more of it," Ford said.

"Where?" cried Fawcett, spinning round. "Where, man, where? Lead me to it!"

"I really thought it was pewter," Ford said, moving slowly and very reluctantly forward to the oak sideboard. "Otherwise I would naturally have reported it at once."

He bent down and unlocked the lower doors of the sideboard. He opened the doors.

And then Dr Hugh Alderson Fawcett very nearly did have a heart-attack. He flung himself on his knees. He gasped. He choked. He began spluttering like an old kettle. He reached out for the great silver dish. He took it. He held it in shaking hands and his face went as white as snow. He didn't speak. He couldn't. He was literally and physically and mentally struck absolutely dumb by the sight of the treasure.

The interesting part of the story ends here. The rest is routine. Ford went to Mildenhall Police Station and made a report. The police came at once and collected all thirty-four pieces, and they were sent under guard to the British Museum for examination.

Then an urgent message from the Museum to the Mildenhall Police. It was far and away the finest Roman silver ever found in the British Isles. It was of enormous value. The Museum (which is really a public governmental inst.i.tution) wished to acquire it. In fact, they insisted upon acquiring it.

The wheels of the law began to turn. An official inquest and hearing was arranged at the nearest large town, Bury St Edmunds. The silver was moved there under special police guard. Ford was summoned to appear before the Coroner and a jury of fourteen, while Gordon Butcher, that good and quiet man, was ordered also to present himself to give evidence.

On Monday, July the first, 1946, the hearing took place, and the Coroner cross-questioned Ford closely.

"You thought it was pewter?"

"Yes."

"Even after you had cleaned it?"

"Yes."

"You took no steps to inform any experts of the find?"

"No."

"What did you intend to do with the articles?"

"Nothing. Just keep them."

And when he had concluded his evidence, Ford asked permission to go outside into the fresh air because he said he felt faint. n.o.body was surprised.

Then Butcher was called, and in a few simple words he told of his part in the affair.

Dr Fawcett gave his evidence, so did several other learned archaeologists, all of whom testified to the extreme rarity of the treasure. They said that it was of the fourth century after Christ; that it was the table silver of a wealthy Roman family; that it had probably been buried by the owner's bailiff to save it from the Picts and Scots who swept down from the north in about A.D. 365-7 and laid waste many Roman settlements. The man who buried it had probably been liquidated either by a Pict or a Scot, and the treasure had remained concealed a foot below the soil ever since. The workmanship, said the experts, was magnificent. Some of it may have been executed in England, but more probably the articles were made in Italy or in Egypt. The great plate was of course the finest piece. The head in the centre was that of Neptune, the sea-G.o.d, with dolphins in his hair and seaweed in his beard. All around him, sea-nymphs and sea-monsters gambolled. On the broad rim of the plate stood Bacchus and his attendants. There was wine and revelry. Hercules was there, quite drunk, supported by two satyrs, his lion's skin fallen from his shoulders. Pan was there, too, dancing upon his goat-legs with his pipes in his hand. And everywhere there were maenads, female devotees of Bacchus, rather tipsy women.

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 ent.i.tled 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 gla.s.s 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.

n.o.body 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.

The Swan

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 Sat.u.r.day 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. "n.o.body'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 Sat.u.r.day 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 cla.s.s. 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 sc.u.m 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 cla.s.s 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.