Bruce stood there with rain streaming from his cap. In his muddy hand he held what looked like the lid of a frying pan.
“It’s gold, Joe. Bloody gold. I knew it. Just under an old sheep wriggle. Them sheep must’a been walking over it for years. That’s why those blokes from Exeter missed it.”
Joe took a rag from his pocket and wiped off some of the mud and soil. He could see that it gleamed in spite of having been in the earth for nearly 2000 years.
“It’s bloody silver, Bruce. It’s not gold. Look, once we get this green stuff off, it’ll shine like it was bran’ new.”
“You’re right. A bloody silver plate.”
“What else you got over there?” Said Joe, as he tried to keep the tremor from his voice. But Bruce was already out of earshot. Joe watched him stagger through the slippery mud back to the gap in the stone and slate wall that a farmer had constructed to allow his sheep to squeeze through into the next field. Joe caught up to him and they both scraped away at the muddy soil. In less than 10 minutes they had unearthed what looked like two decayed wooden boxes made of oak or ash. Someone had packed them with enough gold coins, ornate shields and silverware to fill the two hessian sacks that the prospectors carried for such a moment. When they were finally filled, it was a struggle to lift the sodden sacks.
“We’ll have to tell the police or the local council about this, mate,” Bruce gasped. “It’s worth a bloody fortune and there’s probably more.” Bruce shook with a mixture of excitement and fear. He looked around but there was no one out on such a day. The discovery was their secret.
“Steady up, Bruce. Don’t rush me. We need to think this one through. It’s our one big chance to change our lives. No one knows we found anything. We could hand some of it in and keep the rest; no one’d be the wiser.” If there was one thing that Joe knew, it was that no one was going to get their hands on their find if he could help it.
As they waded through the rain and mud to his truck, Joe thought he saw a figure move among the trees. He stopped and stared into the mist and rain.
“Some bugger’s out there,” he whispered. “Watchin’ us.”
“Might be a ghost,” Bruce laughed. “Come on mate. You need a drink. Next you’ll tell me that you saw a bloody Roman legionary or that ruddy bloodhound you keep prattling on about”
They laughed as they staggered and slipped down the hillside.
***
The North Devon Archaeological Society held their spring meeting early in April in the Village Hall at Simonsbath. Like most old wooden buildings, it smelled of damp and floor polish. The local dance school met there on Wednesdays and insisted that the floor was waxed and then polished.
Mary Richardson fingered the thin cord that attached to her glasses and glanced across at the Secretary, John Wilkes. She knew that there was a full agenda to get through that evening. In previous years they had worked on a number of joint projects with the University of Exeter, English Heritage and the National Trust. The Society members were all volunteers who gave their time to help preserve the Exmoor National Park heritage, and to meet with friends.
The moor covered a large area and their resources for excavation work were limited. The teacups clinked as the members tried to muffle the sounds as they chewed on their custard cream biscuits. Those who were confident about their teeth tackled the ginger snaps. Supplying biscuits at meetings was something that Mary had used as a way of getting the parents and staff at her school to like her. It had been only marginally successful. She called the meeting to order.
“Welcome back to another exciting year, everyone.”
There were murmurs of agreement.
“I know that you have all read the schedule of sites that we’ll be working on this year. The first one’s at Sherracombe Ford over near Brayford.”
She paused as the members murmured among themselves. Her years as Head Mistress of the local school had taken its toll. Country villages were a breeding ground for gossip, and her tendency to think everyone was waiting for her to fail had grown over the years. She drew a deep breath and remembered that it made your voice carry if you spoke in a deep tone. She gave a nervous cough.
“I know that we’ve done a lot there in the past few years, but at last we’ve managed to gain national recognition; or we will have soon.”
“What’s the mystery, Mary? Get to the point. We all read the papers. A couple of blokes using metal detectors find some Roman treasure and we all go crazy. They should’ve been locked up fer trespassin’. Damn vandals. As Chairman you should’ve made a formal complaint at the Coroner’s inquest.”
She tried not to rise to what she saw as an attack on her character. Seth Raines was a cantankerous old man, she thought. It was only one of several expressions that she used when anyone annoyed her.
“Thank you, Seth.” She tried to change the grimace into a smile as everyone in the room watched her intently; cups had been put back in their saucers and the munching had stopped.
“The Coroner declared it treasure trove. Under English Common Law the treasure belongs to the Crown. The two men may have been wrong in digging it up and disturbing the integrity of the site, but the British Museum decided they wanted the treasure and so they paid the men a fair reward.”
“Not moy point,” Seth mumbled.
Mary heard him but ignored his remark. She had some good news that she hoped would reestablish a sense of decorum.
“We received a letter today from the Parks Authority advising us that Mr. Tony Robinson
