“Bruce. You alright mate?” he called out anxiously. “Come on, stop messin’ around. I never connected. It just hit your arm. Come on, say somethin’.”
Bruce had struck his head on a starter motor that Joe had meant to fit that day. The pool of blood and beer spread out like a fan across the floor. Joe straightened up. He picked up one of the beer bottles and threw it across the room. He looked around at the mess. He thought of calling an ambulance, but he didn’t. With one arm he swept the table clear. Then he sat down in the silent room and began to sob.
It was a lot later and the light had faded before Joe finally came to his resolve. Bruce was dead and he had to get rid of the body. I can say he went away, he thought; that he went back to Australia. I can say that he only came for a visit. His mind raced. He had been so wrapped up in what to do with Bruce’s body and concocting a story about why he had left that for a few brief moments he had forgot about the treasure. Suddenly it dawned on him; it was all his.
He fetched the rug from his bedroom floor and rolled Bruce’s lifeless body onto one edge of it. Then he rolled the rug and Bruce up in what would have been funny skit if Bruce had not been stone cold dead. He dragged it to one of the inspection pits and tipped it in. He started up the cement mixer that he had hired to finish levelling some rough areas at the back of the lot where he parked the cars. Two hours later and he had erased all trace of his friend.
He had moments over the next few days when he thought about what he had done, but he convinced himself that it had been an accident. He focused on his work and pondered his next move. It was time to shift his treasure and find some legitimate looking way to get the money out of the joint account; no one must suspect anything. He started to whistle as he formulated the plan in his head. He concentrated on setting the timing mechanism on a 1950’s MG Sports. It’s all goin’ well, he mused. It’s all goin’ bloody well.
***
Ralph and Katie had done all that was needed to prepare Gypsy Lady for the upcoming race and had decided to take a day off. There had been a notice in the local paper about a cricket match at Simonsbath, only a few miles up the road from Sherracombe Ford. Ralph wanted to combine a chance to watch some village cricket with another look at the site of the dig. The notion that Dr Franks at the British Museum had planted in his mind that only a portion of the total Romano- British hoard at Sherracombe had been unearthed had intrigued him. Could Joe Minton and Bruce Ansell have kept some of it for themselves? He had pondered that question since speaking with Dr Franks. But after seeing how much pride Joe took in his work at the garage, he had begun to discount the notion. He had not mentioned anything to Katie about it, but he also wanted to show the youths at The Bell that he was not easily intimidated.
The setting was perfect. A warm summer day, blue sky and a green swathe of grass that looked like a billiards table. Years of attention to drainage and loving care with the heavy roller had obviously paid off. As they parked and strolled towards the cricket ground he listened for the distinctive ‘thwack’ when a willow bat strikes a leather ball. It was every boy’s dream of being the hero who wins the game for his School.
It was a mid-week match. Ralph guessed that most of the players were either college lads or else youths who had not managed to get a job. Unlike the big city shops and supermarkets that stayed open seven days a week, rural places like South Molton, Simonsbath, Lynton, and other small towns in the area still observed Wednesday half-day closing.
“Lance would love this,” Katie said as the batsmen ran between the wickets to a round of polite applause from the small crowd of spectators who sat in deck chairs outside a small, green painted, wooden pavilion.
“It’s been an English tradition for nearly five hundred years,” Ralph remarked as they strolled toward the pavilion.
“Do you fancy a cup of tea,” Katie asked. “I could murder for some tea, and a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam myself.”
A tall willowy lady in a large floral patterned hat saw them and waved.
“Do you recognise her?” Ralph asked as the woman came towards them. Katie just shook her head.
“I’m Mary Richardson,” the woman said when she reached them. “We do cream teas to help support the club, if you’re interested.”
“We were just talking about that,” Katie said. “I’m Katie and this is Ralph.”
“It helps pay for the upkeep of the grounds now that the council don’t do it any longer. Can I get a plate for you and your husband?”
Katie told her that that would be lovely and asked where they should go for it.
They were interrupted by a shout of ‘hows that!’ from the players. As they turned to see what was happening, the white-coated umpire held up his arm and pointed his finger to the sky.
“Oh dear. That’s our lot out, I’m afraid. Our secretary, John Wilkes was our last hope.” Their quintessential English hostess swept straight on. “Never mind. At least we can all have tea.”
Mary Richardson
