Constable Through the Meadow (8 page)

‘Can thoo come, Mr Rhea. I’ve summat to show you.’

‘Not another batch of coins, Reg?’

‘Nay, summat else,’ his voice contained an air of mystery. ‘Thoo’ll like this.’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ I said, curious to learn about his latest discovery.

This time, there was a whopping glass of whisky on the kitchen table when I arrived and the family sat around with huge grins on their faces. Even Mrs Lumley was smiling.

Reg made sure I was settled and insisted I drink the whisky, even though I was in uniform. I didn’t like to offend by
refusing
! After this performance, I was handed a letter. It was still in the official buff envelope which had been opened, but it bore the logo of the British Museum.

‘Tak a leeak at yon, Mr Rhea,’ invited Reg.

I did. I read the formal letter and was astounded. It itemised every single coin and identified them by year, reign and
designation
, and an individual valuation had also been added. The letter said that the total official value of the hoard of coins found at West Gill Farm, Aidensfield was £47,884 and a cheque for that amount was enclosed.

I held the cheque … I’d never seen, let alone held, such a huge amount of money.

‘Whew!’ was all I could say.

‘That caps owt, Mr Rhea,’ said Reg. ‘That really caps owt.’

‘It does, Reg. It really does cap owt. And I’m delighted for you all.’

Mrs Lumley, a woman of few words and a severe hair-do, just smiled again.

‘Nay, it’s thanks to thoo,’ said Reg. ‘I read summat in t’
Gazette
aboot thoo and another inquest on summat found at Elsinby, so thowt I’d better tell thoo. If thoo hadn’t said what we had ti deea wiv ’em, Ah might have stuck ’em in t’loft and said nowt. I mean, thoo can’t spend ’em, so in my mind they were worth nowt.’

That was a typical Yorkshire attitude, and he continued,

‘Ah mean to say, who’d have thowt they were worth all this? So we’ll have a party, Mr Rhea. Your missus’ll come, eh?’

‘We’ll be delighted,’ I said, and I meant it.

‘It’ll be soon,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring wi’ t’date.’

‘Don’t spend it all on a party!’ I cautioned him with a laugh. ‘Make the money work for you!’

‘Ah shall, Mr Rhea. Starting next week, me and Ted’ll be off to a few cattle marts. There’s a few young pedigree Friesians we’d like to get oor hands on.’

I was so happy for the Lumleys, and their party was
marvellous
. With a farmhouse full of friends and relations, it was a wonderful event, especially as Reg seemed to have overcome the depression which had plagued him for so long. And he did get his new herd started. Now, when I drive past his farm, I see his fields once again full of beautiful Friesians and Reg has still not retired. He continues to build that ‘new’ herd with just a little help from some past occupants of his lush farmland.

But of all the discoveries made on my patch, it was the one involving Mrs Ada Jowett which was the most intriguing. Ada, a stout and oft perspiring lady in her late sixties, was the church cleaner at St Andrew’s Parish Church, Elsinby, a job which she did voluntarily. She had been St Andrew’s cleaner for more years than anyone cared to recall, and the lovely building sparkled through her efforts.

The brasses always gleamed, the altar cloths were ironed to perfection, the surrounds were tidy and neat, and she managed
to ensure that the flowers were always fresh and readers’ lists and other notices were tidily displayed.

In short, Mrs Jowett was a treasure.

The church, always short of money and in need of constant maintenance and repairs, was soon to learn just how much of a treasure she really was. Conscientious as ever, she decided one year to spring-clean the hidden corners of the church. In addition to her normal brushing and polishing, this meant clearing out cupboards and corners, getting rid of years of accumulated rubbish and paper and generally ridding the church of unwanted junk. The job was long overdue, but no one had dared suggest it to Mrs Jowett. For all her skills, she cleaned only what could be seen …

No one knew what had prompted her to tackle the cupboards and corners, but she attacked the job with much gusto, lots of mops and dusters and gallons of perspiration. The stuff that was thrown out was bewildering – old curtains and cloths, ancient notices and posters, stacks of battered hymn books and a load of assorted jumble which would have graced the best junk-sale for miles around. It is just feasible that some important documents got lost in her enthusiasm, but she operated like a whirlwind. There was no stopping her once she had started and for days the church was almost lost in a cloud of dust or bonfire smoke.

And then, right at the back of a massive oak cupboard in the vestry, she found a chalice. It had obviously been there for years for it was dirty, very battered and full of dust. Like most other discoveries, she decided to throw it in the bin, so removed it from the shelf and took it outside. Then she had a second look in the strong daylight and for some reason changed her mind about casting it in the bin. It was at that precise moment that I arrived. I was undertaking a patrol around Elsinby and had noticed the frantic activity within the church. Attracted by the piles of rubbish outside, I thought I’d pop in to see what was going on and to pass the time of day with Ada.

As I strolled up the path towards the porch, I saw Ada clutching the chalice; she was peering intently at it.

‘Morning, Ada,’ I greeted her. ‘Still busy, eh?’

‘Never been so busy,’ she grumbled. ‘Wish I’d never started this. The more I chuck out the more I find inside, it’s never
ending. Makes you wonder where it comes from.’

‘You’re doing a good job.’ I decided to praise her efforts. ‘It must be benefiting the church. So, what’s that you’ve found?’

‘An old cup,’ she said, holding it up for me to see. ‘Been stuck in the back of a cupboard for years, it has. Junk I’d say, by the look of it. It’s made of tin, I think, been battered about a bit. They’d never use this sort o’ thing now for communion.’

She passed the chalice over to me and I held it, weighing it in my hand.

‘It’s pewter, I think,’ I told her. ‘And very old by the look of it.’

‘It’ll not be worth owt, then? It’s not gold or silver, is it?’

‘No, so what are you going to do with it?’

‘I was thinking about chucking it out,’ she said. ‘Then when I got out, I had second thoughts, I’d like to show it to t’vicar, but he’s away at a conference.’

The Rev Simon Hamilton, Vicar of Elsinby, was away at a Diocesan Conference; I knew that because he’d told me that the vicarage would be empty for a whole week and had asked me to keep an eye on it during his absence.

Still holding the chalice and turning it in my hands, I said, ‘I think he’d like to see this,’ and then, in the strong light of that morning, I noticed the faint engraving on the face. It was very difficult to determine but it looked rather like a crowned sovereign in a sailing ship; he was carrying an upright sword and a shield.

‘You take it and get somebody to look at it,’ she said quite unexpectedly. ‘Then I can tell t’vicar what we’ve done. You deal with found treasures, don’t you?’

‘Yes, if they’re treasure trove.’

‘Well, mebbe it’s a good thing you turned up like you did. Do you happen to know anybody that’ll look at it, say what it’s worth or summat?’

‘I’m going into York tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Off duty, but I’ve a pal who’s in the antique business. I’ll show it to him if you like.’

‘Aye.’ She looked relieved, for the decision had now been taken out of her hands.

And so I took the chalice from her. I found a piece of brown paper among the rubbish and wrapped it up, then placed it in
the cubby-hole of the mini-van. Next day, I popped it into a carrier bag and took it to York. Mary and I did a little shopping, had a meal and then I remembered the old chalice. I went back to my car and removed it, then walked along Stonegate to my friend’s antique shop.

‘Hello, Paul, how’s things in the antique world?’

‘Hi, Nick,’ he said. ‘Things are bloody fine. So what brings you here?’

‘This,’ I said, and I placed the battered old chalice on his counter. ‘I think it’s pewter but wondered if it’s worth
anything
!’

He took it and held it very carefully, turning it in the strong light of an angle lamp as he first studied the cup itself, and then examined the engraving on the front.

‘Bloody hell!’ was all he said. ‘Where’s this come from?’

‘One of the churches on my patch,’ I said. ‘The cleaning lady found it in a cupboard. Been there years by the look of it.’

‘Centuries more like,’ he said, and I saw his face was flushed. ‘You’ve no idea what this is?’

I shook my head and said lamely, ‘A chalice?’

‘A chalice, yes. But what a bloody chalice! Worth a bloody fortune,’ he whistled. ‘A bloody fortune, or I’m stupid. You say she found it in a bloody cupboard?’

I explained the circumstances of its discovery, and then asked why he was so enthusiastic about it.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this engraving. What is it?’ he shone the light upon it and pointed to it.

‘I think it’s a king in a ship.’

‘Right, with a sword and a shield, eh? The sort of arms you’d get on a bloody coin, not on a bloody pewter chalice!’

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘This might have belonged to a king, see? Or to the priest who was the king’s confessor or something. Henry IV it would be,’ he continued. ‘Reigned 1399 to 1413, he did. And see this?’ He pointed to the shield, but I could not determine precisely what he was showing me. ‘His shield, it’s only got three fleurs-de-lis, not four. He changed his royal arms, you see; coins with only three fleurs-de-lis are so bloody rare it’s unbelievable. And see this rudder on the ship? There’s a star on it. Now most rudders
on Henry IV coins are blank, but some have crowns on and some have bloody stars. Nick, if I’m not mistaken, this is a bloody rare find – a really rare bloody find.’

‘No kidding?’ I was awestruck by the thought.

‘No kidding,’ he said. ‘You need expert valuation of this, my lad. Try Sotheby’s.’

‘I don’t know anybody there.’

‘I do, and he’s a whizz-kid on medieval pewter. I’ll fix up a bloody appointment, right now if you like.’

‘The vicar hasn’t even seen this yet; if it’s what you think it is, no doubt he’ll want to be involved, and maybe even bring his bishop or the Archbishop into this find.’

‘Too bloody right he will when he finds out what it is. Right, show it to him, tell him what I said, then ring me and I’ll fix up an appointment at Sotheby’s for it to be expertly assessed. Somebody’ll have to take it down to London.’

‘Right, Paul, thanks. I appreciate your advice.’

‘And if your church wants to sell this bloody thing, let me know! I’d mortgage my shop to get my bloody hands on that.’

When the vicar returned, I informed him of this conversation (although I omitted Paul’s colourful flow of expletives) and he promptly rang the Archbishop of York who suggested we let the Sotheby expert have sight of it. And, he said, the diocese would pay the train fare of the person who took it. We nominated Ada, with the proviso that she be told to take great care of the chalice at all times. Simon Hamilton felt she could be trusted to look after it – after all, who’d think this countrywoman was carrying treasure?

‘I’m off to London,’ she said next time I saw her. ‘With that cup, Mr Rhea. To show a chap down there. I’ve never been to London, you know, never even been on a train.’

And so, dressed in her heavy brown shoes, lisle stockings, headscarf and her only overcoat which was of heavy tweed, Ada Jowett set about the journey of a lifetime. Excited both at the prospect of travelling to London and of riding on a train, she was driven to York Station by the vicar and would be met at King’s Cross by the man from Sotheby’s. He’d promised to care for her during her visit, bearing in mind the circumstances. I’ve no idea what he made of Ada when they met, but she had a most
enjoyable day. Upon her return that same evening, she was collected from York by taxi and the vicar invited me to go along and hear how she’d progressed at Sotheby’s.

The vicar’s wife had arranged a late supper for her and I was invited. And when Ada came in from the taxi, she was carrying the chalice in a brown carrier bag; in fact, she’d put one bag inside another to give greater protection to the chalice! That was her notion of taking care of it.

‘Well, Ada,’ began Simon Hamilton. ‘How did it go?’

‘By, yon train goes fast,’ she said. ‘And then in London, they rushed me down some stairs under t’ground and there was more trains, coming every few minutes … I’ve never seen owt like it … and folks! Thousands of ’em all pushing and shoving … there’s no wonder folks get bad-tempered with all that rushing about.’

‘Yes, but the chalice …’

Ada ignored the vicar and continued to enthuse about London, giving her highly colourful interpretation of life in the capital. She rambled on about guards in funny hats at
Buckingham
Palace, messy pigeons, Eros, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the department stores, the different nationalities she noticed, buses that came every few minutes instead of twice a week and trains whose doors shut without being pushed by the travellers.

Eventually, she ran out of talk of the City and Simon took the opportunity to mention Sotheby’s and the chalice.

‘They would have nowt to do with it, Mr Hamilton.’ She shook her heavy grey head. ‘Didn’t want to know. This young chap met me off t’train and took me in a taxi where I saw the chap you mentioned, him what reckons to know summat about cups like that.’

‘And he examined it?’

‘He did, in a manner o’ speaking. It took nobbut a minute or two, and that was that.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘You offered to leave the chalice for a more thorough
examination
, as I suggested?’

‘Oh, aye, I made that clear. I said I’d leave it for him to have a
better look and he could mebbe post it back, but he said he’d have nowt to do with it, Mr Hamilton.’