Ford led him into the front room and showed him a box of flint arrowheads which had been picked up in the district. Some were good, others not so good. Fawcett picked through them, sorted them, and a deal was done.
"Nothing else?"
"No, I don't think so."
Ford wished fervently that Dr Fawcett had never come. He wished even more fervently that he would go away.
It was at this point that Ford noticed something that made him sweat. He saw suddenly that he had left lying on the mantel over the fireplace the two most beautiful of the Roman spoons from the treasure hoard. These spoons had fascinated him because each was inscribed with the name of a Roman girl child to whom it had been given, presumably as a christening present, by Roman parents who had been converted to Christianity. One name was Pascentia, the other was Papittedo. Rather lovely names.
Ford, sweating with fear, tried to place himself between Dr Fawcett and the mantelpiece. He might even, he thought, be able to slip the spoons into his pocket if he got the chance.
He didn't get the chance.
Perhaps Ford had polished them so well that a little flash of reflected light from the silver caught the doctor'
s eye. Who knows? The fact remains that Fawcett saw them. The moment he saw them, he pounced like a tiger.
"Great heavens alive!" he cried. "What are these?"
"Pewter," Ford said, sweating more than ever. "Just a couple of old pewter spoons."
"Pewter?" cried Fawcett, turning one of the spoons over in his fingers. "Pewter! You call this pewter?"
"That's right," Ford said. "It's pewter."
"You know what this is?" Fawcett said, his voice going high with excitement. "Shall I tell you what this really is?"
"You don't have to tell me," Ford said, truculent. "I know what it is. It's old pewter. And quite nice, too."
Fawcett was reading the inscription in Roman letters on the scoop of the spoon. "Papittedo!" he cried.
"What's that mean?" Ford asked him.
Pawcett picked up the other spoon. "Pascentia," he said. "Beautiful! These are the names of Roman children! And these spoons, my friend, are made of solid silver! Solid Roman silver!"
"Not possible," Ford said.
"They're magnificent!" Fawcett cried out, going into raptures. "They're perfect! They're unbelievable! Where on earth did you find them? It's most important to know where you found them! Was there anything else?" Fawcett was hopping about all over the room.
"Well. . ." Ford said, licking dry lips.
"You must report them at once!" Fawcett cried. "They're Treasure Trove! The British Museum is going to want these and that's for certain! How long have you had them?"
"Just a little while," Ford told him.
"And who found them?" Fawcett asked, looking straight at him. "Did you find them yourself or did you get them from somebody else? This is vital! The finder will be able to tell us all about it!"
Ford felt the walls of the room closing in on him and he didn't quite know what to do.
"Come on, man! Surely you know where you got them! Every detail will have to come out when you hand them in. Promise me you'll go to the police with them at once?"
"Well. . ." Ford said.
"If you don't, then I'm afraid I shall be forced to report it myself," Fawcett told him. "It's my duty."
The game was up now and Ford knew it. A thousand questions would be asked. How did you find it ? When did you find it? What were you doing? Where was the exact spot? Whose land were you ploughing? And sooner or later, inevitably, the name of Gordon Butcher would have to come into it. It was unavoidable. And then, when Butcher was questioned, he would remember the size of the hoard and tell them all about it.
So the game was up. And the only thing to do at this point was to unlock the doors of the big sideboard and show the entire hoard to Dr Fawcett.