river down below. Madame’s just been telling me there’s a lovely lake somewhere near. I’ll get directions from her, shall I?”
“Lovely, dwoorlink,” I replied, most sincerely.
One more lovely and I’d go mental. But I smiled, and wondered when they’d come. Our holiday was only supposed to be ten days. If they delayed much longer there’d be hardly any time to shift their antiques. If any. I felt pretty sure I knew who we were waiting for. I wasn’t quite correct, as it happened, in fact not even near.
Incidentally, don’t hide from fraud. Hiding from it’s the easiest thing to do, and always brings disaster. Yet we do it, every single day. The fact is, fraud is always—for always read but
Once, I went to a night lift in Cambridgeshire. I’d been in a Cheesefoot Head pub when this maniac wandered in and surreptitiously showed a fragment of shredded silver. My chest bonged like Great Tom’s clapper and I was across the taproom like a ferret. The bloke let me touch it. Honest Early Christian silver, seventh century. I almost wept.
“Look, mate,” I told him. “You a moonspender? Give me three days. Name’s Lovejoy. I’ll have a syndicate together, honest to God. Money up front.”
A massive aggressive hulk shoved me aside and showed me his craggy yellow teeth. The pub went quiet.
“You’re off your patch. I’ve heard of you, Lovejoy. This be local business, boy.” He had two enormous goons for help he didn’t need. It’s always like this, because field finds of Dark Age silver can bring in nearly enough to settle the National Debt. East Anglia’s taverns have this illicit trade sewn up. (You’re supposed to tell the Coroner, who on a good day promises you maybe perhaps some reward money, possibly, with any luck. Whereas illegal syndicates pay cash on the nail, the night your little electronic detector goes bleep. Guess who wins?)
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t want to get left in a dark ditch. “You called Poncho? You’ll know I’m a divvy. Want me along?”
Which did it. Poncho hired me for a few quid and a free look at the treasure as it was dug up. We drove out in tractors—tractors, for God’s sake, on an illicit night steal of pre-mediaeval buried silver. All the stealth of a romp. Cambridgeshire wallies—antique dealers working the bent side—are like this, half business acumen and half gormless oblivion.
We were dropped in some remote place. I’m clumsy at the best of times and kept falling over in the pitch. Countryfolk go quiet after dusk, except when they’re cursing me for being a noisy sod. Just the five of us, including the moonspender with his detector and earphones. No moon. I wanted to go straight to the spot and get digging, but away from civilization rural people suddenly acquire a terrible patience, think nothing of standing still for an hour so’s not to disturb an owl or a stray yak. I can’t see the problem. They made me sit down on the ground so’s not to make a din, bloody nerve. All I’d done was stay still. I was excited at what we’d dig up.
The field was standing grain. I’d asked a few times why didn’t we get going. Nobody was about. Poncho growled that he’d thump me silent if I didn’t shut up. After a whole hour, I drew breath to ask if there were rival moonspenders bleeping their discs at our treasure out there but Poncho’s hand clamped over my mouth. His two goons were suddenly gone. They returned twenty minutes later, suddenly four instead of two. We all ducked out then, and finished up in a barn two miles away interrogating two sheepish oldish chaps. Poncho was furious, but our moonspender laughed all over his face when the goons lit their cigarette lighters as the barn door clamped to.
“It’s only Chas and Dougie!” he exclaimed.
“Hello, Lol.”
They stood there crestfallen, blinking. We should have had Joseph Wright of Derby to paint the scene for posterity, intriguing faces illuminated by the stubby glims. Two more innocuous gents you never did see. Thinnish, grey of hair, meek of mien. No trouble here. I walked round them, curious. I’d never seen gear like it. They carried a short plank, a huge ball of string. The one called Dougie wore a flat cap with wire hanging from the neb, like a threadbare visor.
“You were in my field,” Poncho growled.
“No, we were just making a pattern. Honest.” They were scared. They’d realized we weren’t police.
“It’s all right,” the moonspender said, still grinning. “It’s what they do.”
“They’m grain-burners,” a goon mumbled. The barn chilled at least twenty degrees. The two blokes went grey with fear and started vigorous denials. Countryfolk are vicious if they think you’d dare damage crops, haystacks, farm gates. Really barmy, when there’s so much rurality to spare.
“No,” Lol scoffed, laughing. “They’re artists, loike.”
And suddenly I twigged. “You two from Outer Space?”
They looked even more embarrassed. “We do no harm.”
Poncho wasn’t satisfied. His illegal night lift had been spoiled. He wanted blood. Lol explained that Doug and Chas were the crop circlers.
“They make rings in the grain. Bend the wheat down—”
More growls from the goons. Farm people, they hated this.
“What for?” Poncho had to know.
I joined in, to spare a couple of lives from Planet Mongo. “It’s in
“It’s only you two bleeders?” Poncho said, amazed.
Chas said yes. “I like wheat fields, but Doug here likes making patterns in barley because the grain heads hang —”
“We don’t spoil any crop, honest!” Doug put in, nervy at the countrymen’s hatred.
