Too Clever by Half

by Will North

  “It’s been a long wait for the spring this year Mrs. Hansen, lovely to have a fire in this room.”

  “Why don’t you take off your jacket, Mr. Townsend? Tea?” She gestured to a tray already prepared on the low table before them. There was a small plate of McVities biscuits coated with dark chocolate on the tea tray as well.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Townsend said, shucking his coat. “Don’t normally get such royal treatment. I am charmed. May I call you Charlotte?”

  Like some Victorian coquette, she ducked her head and tipped it sideways: “Of course you may, Mr. Townsend.”

  He waved a hand: “Please, it’s Richard. Or simply Dicky.”

  “Dicky is it!” Charlotte put a hand across her mouth and faked a blush. “That must be a burden…”

  “Not really, ma’am. It suits.” Townsend smiled, but kept his eyes locked on hers.

  “Does it indeed? Well!” Charlotte said without looking away. “Milk and sugar…Dicky?”

  “Please.”

  She bent to pour the tea into two white porcelain cups, so delicate they were nearly transparent, and let the V-neck of her wrap dress gap.

  Townsend admired the view, which was unfettered by a brassiere. “And will Archie join us soon?” he managed to ask.

  “I’m afraid Archie cannot; he had a meeting in Truro with the county agriculture people about going organic,” she said as she sat again, her stockings whispering against each other as she crossed her legs.

  “Only told me about it this morning, I’m afraid. No choice, he said, and I did not know how to reach you.”

  “Organic?” Townsend said trying to hide his annoyance. “Very admirable, that is, I reckon.”

  “You’d think so, but he doesn’t have much faith in it. I’ve tried to tell him that he’d earn more in the end by converting, but it’s the transition that troubles him: the years before his fields and practices are finally certified. Our neighbors are doing it, and it’s working for them, but he’s still holding out.” She shook her head in disgust: “Stubborn old goat.”

  Townsend knew less than nothing about farming and simply sipped his tea. The woman seated beside him was not a classic beauty. But there was something she radiated, something earthy, which overwhelmed any other impression and aroused him. He tried to stay on topic.

  “Can you tell me about what your husband has found?”

  Charlotte averted her eyes and answered, as if to the room at large, “Mr. Hansen is not the confiding type, Mr. Townsend.”

  “A private chap?” Townsend volunteered, his sympathy like honey dripping from a comb.

  She leaned forward. “And cold, Dicky,” she lied. “Cold and private.”

  Townsend cleared his throat. “While coming to know you better is a special delight, Mrs. Hansen—um, Charlotte—I had intended to do a photo appraisal of Archie’s discoveries so as to ascertain their value.”

  Charlotte ducked her head again. Townsend found this habit charming, and suggestive of submission.

  “While Archie has hinted to me about his discovery, Dicky,” she said, “he has not revealed its location yet. I suspect he has hidden what he’s found in several places about the farm. That would be like him. Secretive, he is. But I have found one of his hiding places, and one of his discoveries.”

  From behind her chair, she pulled an orange plastic carrier bag printed with the Sainsbury’s supermarket logo, and placed it upon the low table before them.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to the bag.

  Townsend reached into the bag and withdrew the intricately braided gold torc. His bulging eyes bulged wider. He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from his jacket pocket and peered at the item closely. But though it had not yet been cleaned, its authenticity, based on his research at the British Museum, was unquestionable. He returned the loupe to his pocket.

  “You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Hansen,” he said finally. “Your husband has found something of great value.”

  “Tell me about it, Dicky. I don’t know if he will.”

  Townsend reached for the teapot to pour himself another cup but she slapped his hand away playfully. “That’s my job, sir!” she said, her voice tinkling like bells.

  Townsend sat back. Charlotte presented his refilled cup and saucer.

  “This, Charlotte,” he said pointing to the relic, “is a gold torc from the Iron Age, probably sometime around 50 BC.”

  “Before Christ?!”

  “Yes, and before the Romans. Cornwall at that time was settled by a tribe called the Cornovii. That’s where the name, Cornwall, comes from. Their clan chieftains, and their wives as well,” he said, nodding to her as if she were one of them, “wore these neck ornaments as emblems of their status. Gold was not easily won from the ore hereabouts, so they are very rare. And very valuable.”

  Charlotte clasped her arms across her breasts in excitement, then lurched forward and kissed her guest full upon the lips. “But this is wonderful! Oh, thank you, Dicky!” she exclaimed, bouncing on her cushion like a child.

  “Yes. Well. Um…congratulations.” He was trying to recover from the kiss. It had been awhile for him. “The question, Charlotte,” he continued, “is where the rest is, and of what is it comprised. Archie told me there was more.”

  “I have no idea, Dicky,” she lied. “But I aim to find out. Imagine Archie hiding this from me! What does that say about fidelity?”

  “If I may be so bold…Charlotte…”

  She leaned toward him: “Be bold, Dicky.”

  He swallowed. “I suggest that, after I take photos of this piece, you put it back wherever you found it. That Archie would keep this secret from you does not, if you will permit me, bode well. And I should like to look after your interests…if you will permit me.” Townsend had no idea what he was saying, the words came from him unbidden. He was promising things to this woman he’d just met that he was not even sure he could deliver. It was not clear to him which of them had the upper hand. He could feel himself being drawn into her orbit. Still, he kept on:

  “So, here is my proposal,” he said.

  “You’re proposing, Dicky?”

  Townsend blinked. “You’re already married, Mrs. Hansen…”

  “Actually, I’m not,” she said, arching an eyebrow and then winking. “Not legally, anyway. That ‘Mrs. Hansen,’ is just a convenience. It simplifies things.”

  “Ah,” Townsend said. He didn’t know what else to say.

  After an awkward silence, Townsend retrieved the digital camera from his briefcase, placed the torc on the pine table, and took shots from several angles.

  “I propose that you spend the next few weeks trying to discover, discreetly, where the rest of Archie’s hoard is hidden. As for today, tell him I am sorry to have missed him and I look forward to hearing from him soon. When he does, and he and I meet, I’ll take more photos of the artifacts he’s found, establish their value, and then you and he will have to decide how you want to handle this discovery going forward. There are legal matters, like whether to report this to the Crown as official treasure. I talked to Archie about that in Bristol. He wasn’t game. I could, however, arrange to sell these items privately. To wealthy collectors I know.”

  Charlotte placed her hand on his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I understand. But what if he never tells me what he’s found?”

  Townsend thought for a moment and then smiled. “Tell him that an antiquities dealer called Townsend phoned to follow up on our meeting in Bristol, but nothing else and, of course, nothing about our meeting today. Ask him, in a general sort of way, what it’s all about—no, wait: don’t. Just relay the message that I called. That should light a bit of a fire under him.”

  “He will not be pleased.”

  “All you are doing is telling him about a phone call. Let him consider that and make the next move.”

  Charlotte squeezed his hand again. “You are trying to protect me. Thank you, Dicky. I am not used to having someone look after me.”r />
  Townsend rose. “So there you have it, Charlotte: in time you will have some decisions to make. You understand?”

  At the open front door, he gave her his business card. Charlotte took his hand in both of hers. “I do understand. Come back soon, Dicky,” she whispered.

  A few moments after Dicky’s Mercedes disappeared around a curve in the narrow lane, a cattle gate in a high stone wall fifty yards or so from the house opened and a low-slung dark blue Audi TT coupe emerged from a field. The driver stopped in the road, got out, and closed the gate again. He got back into his car, pulled into the next layby in the one-lane road, and flipped open his mobile.

  “He’s been and gone, boss,” Max said when the call connected. “Very chummy he and the lady were at the door.”

  “The lady? I thought he was meant to meet Hansen!”

  “Only saw the missus. No sign of the farmer. No tractor in the farmyard, and from my viewpoint, no other figures in the windows. Got right close, I did, thanks to a thick stand of old rhododendrons off to one side.”

  “Photos?”

  “Just as he came out. No other angles.”

  “What else?”

  “Just that I don’t think he come away with anything. Just carried a thin black briefcase.”

  There was long pause, and then: “Okay, well done as usual, Max. Send me your hours when you return. We’ll wait and see now.”

  “That is fine…”

  But Reg Connor had already rung off.

  Dicky backed the Benz into a blind farm lane at the top of the steep hill above Gillan Creek, got out, hunched close to the break in the high stone wall and waited. He’d sussed his tail hours earlier on the A30 as he drove to his meeting at Higher Pennare. The tail was a pro, slipping far behind in the stream of southbound traffic, then creeping within visual range again, mile after mile, the whole length of the spine of Cornwall. When Dicky left the A30 and took the A39 south toward Truro, Falmouth, and the Lizard, he’d caught the sporty coupe, barely visible, drafting close behind a long Sharps Brewery delivery lorry. He’d thought of shaking him, but decided he’d rather know more about the car. Someone on Reg’s payroll, he was sure.

  Now, at the point where the single lane road from Higher Pennare pitched over the lip of the hill down into Carne and then Manaccan in the Gillan Creek valley, the road was overhung by trees and a driver would have to adjust to the suddenly leafy shadows while, at the same time, negotiating the twisting tarmac. He would be focused on the curves, not the farm gates in the stone boundary walls.

  As Townsend watched, the tail flew right by.

  Seventeen

  THE MAJOR CRIMES investigation team had grown beyond the confines of the Falmouth nick; they’d moved to the nearby St. Michaels Hotel and Spa, overlooking the beach at Falmouth. By Tuesday, twenty-second May, the day after Saga had been found, they’d set up in the hotel’s “Starboard” conference room. Davies entered the hotel’s maritime-themed lobby and was impressed by its clean lines. Unlike the fusty “Grand Dame” hotels which lined the slopes above Falmouth’s long beachfront, the St. Michaels was unabashedly contemporary, its interior largely white with accents of sunny yellow and sea foam blue. It boasted a well-respected restaurant and a full spa, complete with indoor pool. Davies doubted they’d be availing themselves of these amenities.

  In the Starboard room, four young Falmouth PCs were running phone and computer lines and moving in tables and chairs, white boards for notes, cork boards for posting images, the lot.

  On one of the cork boards, Terry Bates was just placing a pushpin in an Ordnance Survey Explorer map for the Lizard Peninsula at a spot marked “Higher Pennare” when one of the young Falmouth uniformed constables stopped as he passed by with a coil of cable. She sensed him behind her and turned.

  “Yes?”

  “Been there,” the PC said, pointing. She reckoned him about her own age. His brown eyes were lustrous as polished stone.

  “The Lizard? Yeah, most of us have.”

  “No. Higher Pennare. Case I was assigned to last month. With the finds liaison lady from the Royal Cornwall Museum in Truro. It was a Treasure Act investigation. Not that it went anywhere.”

  “Treasure Act?”

  “Farmer there apparently found some Roman artifacts and tried to flog them on the open market. But under the Treasure Act, they’re supposed to be reported to the county coroner and then to the Crown. Only it turned out the chap whose name the museum lady had wasn’t the one who’d allegedly found this stuff. Said his neighbor might have, though, nearby at Higher Pennare.”

  “Did you get on to the neighbor?”

  “This liaison person, Boden her name was, she was supposed to follow up.”

  Bates looked around the conference room and saw Morgan Davies in conversation with DCI Penwarren, who’d come down from Bodmin to oversee the set-up.

  “Can you wait here a moment, Constable…?”

  “Novak. Adam Novak.”

  She put a hand up: “I’ll be right back.”

  WHILE WORKERS BUSIED themselves around her, Davies sat at a folding table with Novak. Bates was at her side, taking notes.

  “So this farmer, Tregareth, took you to a field where he claimed his landlord, Mr. Hansen, had found an underground chamber?”

  “That’s it. Said Hansen dropped into the chamber alone and told him nothing when he emerged, except to swear Tregareth to secrecy. Tregareth was right frosted Hansen later had used his name.”

  “Why the secrecy?”

  “So the county archaeology people wouldn’t shut down this field, is what Hansen told Tregareth. Could they do that?”

  Davies ignored the question. “And what, exactly did you and Ms. Boden find in that field, constable?”

  “Not much. Like Tregareth said, beneath a patch of new grass was a section of corrugated metal shed roofing. I dug through to it with my fingers.”

  “And?”

  “Well, detective, there was no way I was going to uncover it and move it without authority. It wasn't a police matter. Ms. Boden said she’d make arrangements. And then we were done there.”

  “What’s she done since?”

  “No idea. I wanted to pursue the case, but I haven’t the remit. I’m just a PC.”

  Davies did see. She also saw a policeman with brains and promise. She made a mental note and dismissed him.

  Bates made a mental note, too: Handsome devil...

  Davies was on the phone to the Royal Cornwall Museum immediately. Patricia Boden confirmed Novak’s report, explained what Scotland Yard had told her, and sketched out the requirements of the Treasure Act.

  “I’ve called the Hansen farm several times about this matter since our visit,” Boden explained, “but I only ever get his voicemail and I don’t have his mobile number. And the thing is, I am so overloaded with museum-related work I haven’t had the time to follow up in person. Budget cuts, you see. I don’t understand why he hasn’t replied.”

  Davies made a face. Hansen clearly hadn’t replied for any number of reasons, mostly having to do with not wanting to report his find, whatever it was; not wanting to admit he’d tried to flog his discovery to a major London auction house; not wanting to admit he’d used his neighbor’s name as an alias; and not wanting to let anyone know he was looking for unofficial channels for selling whatever he’d found.

  “Look, why don’t I drive down there right after work,” Boden volunteered. “Maybe he’ll be home at suppertime.”

  “Unlikely, Ms. Boden. He’s dead. Murdered.”

  Leaving the woman gasping, Davies rang off and turned to Bates.

  “Since he contacted Bonhams in London, I think we can assume that whatever Hansen found, it’s important and valuable.”

  “Motive.”

  Davies cocked her spikey blond head to one side and grinned. “You think?”

  “But for whom?”

  “You’re catching on.”

  Her next call was to Calum West at Bodmin. “Go
t a job for you,” she said when he answered.

  “Sorry, who’s calling please?”

  “You know damn well!”

  “Ah yes, I’d know the dulcet tones of that voice anywhere. And I’m fine, thank you, Morgan…not that you asked.”

  “Christ, Calum.”

  “Never been mistaken for Him before, but thank you for the compliment. And how are you this fine day, DI Davies?”

  Outside, it was pouring with rain.

  “You’re giving me a headache…”

  “Probably the weather. Did you say there was something about which you’d like to chat? My place, or yours?”

  He heard her take a deep breath, calming herself.

  “It seems our floater discovered treasure on his farm some weeks ago and was trying to flog it.”

  “Treasure? Doubloons? Pirates? That’s so Cornish…”

  “Roman treasure, you idiot. And reportable under the Treasure Act.”

  “Treasure Act? What’s that when it’s at home? Sorry, luv, I’m all about bodies, not plunder. But do carry on. I swoon at the mere sound of your voice.”

  “About time you sobered up.”

  “You intoxicate me, you siren. Can’t help it.”

  “Do please shut up and pay attention: the Treasure Act’s about how most everything gold and silver that’s found from ages ago belongs to the Crown…”

  “Doesn’t everything in Cornwall belong to the Crown anyway, or at least to our dear Duke of Cornwall, Prince Charles?”

  “…and anyone who finds stuff like that—they’re usually metal detector hobbyists, but sometimes farmers like our floater—is required to report their find and pass it on to the British Museum for valuation.”

  “Except our boy didn’t?”

  “You aren’t as dim as you seem, apparently.”

  “Don’t overestimate, my dear.”

  “No, he did not. And now he’s dead.”

  “Well, yes. Certainly seemed that way in the mortuary.”

  “Are you ever serious, Calum?”

  Calum paused. “I try not to be, Morgan, because so much of what I see every day is so bloody serious...”