It was lunchtime when Inspector Aylwin and his driver reached Roehampton. Aylwin's dip into the Police National Computer had put him on his guard. Barry Fantony had been picked up drunk and disorderly a few times, he had been involved in a few fights, paid a few fines and he had spent a night or two in police cells in his younger days.
  As the car turned into an avenue of large, detached houses, Aylwin was impressed by what he saw. He had not been able to find out what Barry Fantony did for a living, but it seemed to pay very well. Aylwin assumed that Barry was involved in some way with his older brother Michael, an accountant.
  Michael specialized in skating around the tax laws on behalf of clients with too much money anyway. He was a semi-legal criminal, in Aylwin's opinion. The inspector was wondering whether Michael had received the imposing silver candelabrum as a payment from a dodgy client, and disposed of it through his brother.
  Barry and Jean Fantony were having lunch in front of a portable television in their spacious back garden. Jean had set out an inviting spread of salad ingredients and cold meats. Detective Sergeant Smith began to feel weak with hunger.
  Barry Fantony glanced provocatively at the bottle of white wine in the earthenware cooler as the visitors were settling themselves into canvas chairs. His absent smile reminded the two thirsty coppers that they were on duty.
  "I believe you once owned this, sir." Inspector Aylwin offered his photograph of the candelabrum. "And you sold it to the Anglian Gallery in London."
  "Oh, that old thing," said Jean Fantony when her husband showed her the picture.
  "I was wondering where you got it," added Aylwin.
  "Why?" said Barry.
  "An expert has cast some doubt on the authenticity of the hallmarks. We're trying to trace its history back."
  "I got it in Doncaster. I used to go racing up there before I got married. There was this antiques shop on the way home. I used to stop in when I had a good win. Buying antique silver was a good way of beating inflation. And saving a bit of cash I might have blown on reckless living otherwise."
  "Do you remember the name and address of the antiques shop, sir?"
  "It should be on the receipts."
  "You have receipts, sir?"
  "They should be in a box somewhere."
  "And you decided to turn your silver back into cash?"
  "It said it was a good time in the paper. The market was up. And I only bought the candle thing as a joke. I mean, it's not the sort of thing you can use without laughing your head off."
  "Can I have a look at the receipt, sir?" said Aylwin.
  "I suppose so." Barry Fantony drained his glass, then led the way into the house.
  Inspector Aylwin took note of expensive furniture and smooth, glossy paintwork. There were no mucky marks on the walls, applied by the grubby hands of children. The room looked lived in but usually fairly tidy.
  The Fantonys had the latest in television technology, a slim video recorder, a good collection of pre-recorded cassettes, a music centre studded with dials and controls and a huge tower full of CDs and audio cassettes. A bookcase that stretched from floor to picture rail was full of china ornaments; nothing startling to Aylwin's experienced eye but every item was worth adding to a collection.
  Barry found a shoebox in one of the cupboards in his pool room. He opened it on the blue baize of the pool table. His filing system consisted of papers held together with bulldog clips. A piece of white self-adhesive label stuck to the spring of the clip gave the year of its contents.
  Barry shook the papers out of one of the clips and sorted through them. "That's it."
  Inspector Aylwin took out his notebook and copied down the name and address on the receipt. "Do you normally keep receipts for things you no longer own, sir?"
  "They don't take up that much room," Barry said with a shrug. "And it's not worth the bother sorting through them to chuck out any I don't need any more."
  "You don't mind if I take this, then?" Aylwin picked up the receipt. It was a printed form with hand-written details.
  "Why?" said Barry, being routinely awkward.
  "It's a concrete reference point in tracing back the history of the candelabrum. The link back from the Anglian Gallery to the shop where you bought it."
  "Yeah, okay," Barry said with another shrug. "You reckon it's a dud, then?"
  "We haven't decided yet, sir. I take it you're not an amateur expert on silver?"
  "I know I sold it for a good bit more than I bought it for. And that's after inflation. That's good enough for me. Anything else you want to know? Or can I get back to my lunch?"
  "I think that'll do for the moment, sir." Inspector Aylwin tucked the folded receipt into his notebook and returned the notebook to his inside pocket.
  "Here, you might as well have this as well." Barry handed him another receipt taken from another bulldog clip. "This is a silver teapot I sold, so there's no point in keeping it."
  "To the Anglian Gallery, was it?"
  "Right. The bloke there was a bit toffee-nosed, but he gave me a good deal for it. I'd already had another opinion, so I knew what it was worth, like."
  Aylwin added the second receipt to his notebook, then he crossed to the open french window and looked out into the garden. Sergeant Smith was dividing his attention between Mrs. Fantony and the house. Aylwin waved a summons as he stepped out onto the terrace and headed for the front of the house.
  Smith caught him up at the security gate just past a side door. An electronic latch slid back with a click as they reached the gate, proving that Barry Fantony had a video surveillance system and was watching them..
  As they reached the car, Aylwin noticed that his sergeant was carrying a sandwich. "What's in that?" he asked with deep interest.
  Smith tore the sandwich in half and kept the bigger piece. The white meat in it had been carved a quarter of an inch thick. "Chicken with soy sauce and tomato and onion chutney. Mrs. Fantony took pity on a poor, starving copper. She's a real smasher. What did you get from him, Gov?"
  "His receipt," Aylwin said with his mouth full. "For the candelabrum. He had it mixed in with a bunch of other things. And one for the teapot, too. What else did you get?"
  "It was in an old suitcase, the silver, wrapped up in bits of old newspaper. Stuff her husband had got before he met her. Mrs. F. found it when she was having a clear-out. The pieces were all big and flash and they didn't fit in with the way she'd decorated the house."
  "And you reckon she was telling the truth?"
  "Either the truth or what she thinks is the truth. Or she's a bloody good liar. Or a bloody good actress."
  "Yes, that covers everything," said Aylwin sarcastically.
  "She mentioned a couple of the things she remembered from the papers they were wrapped in."
  "She didn't keep them? The papers?"
  "No, they got chucked out with the old suitcase. She seemed genuine enough. What about him?"
  "He's not bothered at all. But he's also had his share of police trouble, so he's got a naturally triumphant attitude when he's being asked about something he's innocent of, which clouds your impression of whether he thinks he's getting away with something."
  "So what does that add up to, Gov?" Smith finished his piece of sandwich with regret and started the engine.
  "I'd say being involved in faking antique silver is out of his league. But he might just be moving pieces for someone like his brother. On the other hand, we might be picking up a trail that's been cold for five or more years."
  "You mean, someone unloaded a fake on him when he was a young lad with a load of cash and no sense? But he's not bothered because he's made a few bob out of it?"
  "Something like that. Our problem is that we have no clear idea of when the piece was faked; or that it is a fake for sure."
  "So we're dashing off to Doncaster to see what we can find out there?" said Sergeant Smith.
  "Not till I've had a decent amount of lunch," said Inspector Aylwin firmly.

In the afternoon, Barry Fantony drove round to his brother's office. Michael was using his computer to work out the best way to present a client's accounts. Barry retired to a corner of the wide room to use the electronic rifle range. Wearing a bulky virtual reality helmet and swinging a realistic replica of an M-16 rifle fitted with a laser sight, he press the start button on the stock of the rifle.
  The last person to use the range had been hunting in the African jungle. Barry found himself looking out over a parched plain that was studded with acacia trees and clumps of bushes. Creatures flitted between areas of cover. Barry swung the rifle up to his shoulder and started shooting. The native porters received much the same treatment as animals and birds.
  "Are you happy in there, B'Wana?" said a mocking voice as Barry was slaughtering a herd of antelopes.
  Reluctantly, Barry pressed the stop button and took the helmet off. He glanced at his watch as he was returning the rifle to its rack. His hunting expedition had absorbed him so much that he had not noticed twenty minutes flying by.
  "Some cops are sniffing round the gallery." Barry joined his brother at the desk and stirred brown sugar into brandy-flavoured coffee. "City Antiques Squad. They were at my place, too. Asking about the candle holder. They took that receipt. And I gave him the one for the teapot as well."
  "Nothing to bother about there," Michael said confidently. "They're both perfect fakes."
  "Adrian sounded a bit bothered when he phoned me."
  "He'll get over it, if he knows what's good for him."
  "I told him we're okay, but he said not to bring him anything else for a while."
  "Far too much imagination, some people," Michael said contemptuously. "When your copper gets to Doncaster to check out the receipts, he's going to find the shop changed hands three years ago, when the owner died. Most of the old records were chucked out, but he'll find one book to prove you bought that silver tankard there. You've still got it at home?"
  "Yeah, I use it at home."
  "So it'll look like you, a non-expert, bought some flash bits of silver when you'd done well at the races. And if any faking went on, it happened long before you bought the stuff."
  "Okay, that's fair enough," said Barry, "but what are we going to do about unloading the silver now Adrian's dropped out? Or have you got another bent bastard like him lined up?"
  "Lining up someone like Adrian is a difficult and delicate job, Baz. You need to pick just the right sort of person. A little bit bent but not an out-and-out crook."
  "I'll take that as a no, then?"
  "And you have to get the approach just right. I do have someone else in mind, a Yank, but we have quite a bit more negotiating to do."
  "So how long do we have to wait before we can turn more of the silver into cash?"
  "As long as it takes," Michael said firmly. "You may be itching to spend every penny you can get your hands on, but if we go too fast, we're bound to come unstuck. And I have no intention of getting some first-hand experience of prison food, even if you're trying to tell me you're not bothered about risking it."
  "So how soon does this Viking lark come off?" Barry chose not to get into an argument.
  "As I keep telling you, it can't come off before the middle of next year at the very earliest. There's a hell of a lot of preparation involved, starting with getting all the stuff made. And if we don't get every detail right, we lose the lot. I'm sure you don't fancy starting all over again from scratch?"
  "What we need is a team of silversmiths on the job."
  "What we really need, Baz, is the fewest number of people in on the scheme and a lot more patience from you. But you can do something to help things along."
  "Like what?"
  "You could take another trip to Devon. The inquest on the sovereigns your pal Mr. Haig found is the day after tomorrow, according to a journalist I was talking to."
  "So?"
  "It wouldn't hurt to know where the sovereigns are, and what their security's like. And whether they'll be brought to the court as evidence."
  "You're thinking of nicking gold bullion now?"
  "They're worth over three hundred grand and getting rid of them is quite straightforward. One sovereign looks very much like another and there's a huge market for them in places like the Far East, India, Arab countries and so on. Even Russian gangsters go for them in preference to dollars."
  "You reckon we'll get a chance at them?" frowned Barry.
  "There'll probably be a queue a mile long of people with the same idea, but it won't hurt to take a look."
  "Pity they don't make silver sovereigns."
  "Yes, pity," said Michael.
  He was considering the economics of making fake silver coins, such as antique US dollars or his own versions of modern silver coins such as dollars, Canadian Maple Leafs and Australian Kangaroos, but he had no intention of giving his brother another hare to chase; certainly not when he would have to invest in a lot of equipment for making such coins. Michael preferred to keep things simple and employ a skilled craftsman, who used tools of his trade that were also used for quite legitimate purposes.
  "So we're in the motor caravan again?" said Barry.
  "Jean seemed to enjoy herself last time."
  "Yeah, it made a change."
  "And take your metal detector."
  "You want me to get out in the bay at Farne and have another word with the Haig bloke?"
  "Yes, you can pump him for more info on the Viking stuff he found. And you can deliver some stuff to a bloke in Exeter on your way."
  "I hope it keeps fine for us," said Barry. "My mate Jezzer's not going to be out with his metal detector in the rain."

Jean and Barry Fantony were glad that they had their own mobile hotel when they reached North Devon. Farne and the immediate area was enjoying a rush of journalists and members of the public with nothing better to do. All were hoping for a good show at the treasure trove inquest.
  The newspapers and television had given the inquest a big build-up, partly because it offered a human drama and partly because there was nothing much of interest happening in the country at the beginning of September.
  Just about everyone asked in street interviews and radio phone-ins believed that finders should be keepers, especially if the cast on Jeremy Haig's side of the argument was better looking than the Fullerton descendants. But a majority was certain that the Fullerton family's lawyers would we able to swindle Haig and his companions out of their treasure. Faith in the ability of the British judicial system to get anything right was at a low ebb.
  The Fantonys arrived in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon and chose a sheltered parking spot on the seaward side of the coast road, on common land more or less mid-way between the village and Fullerton's Folly. Like many others, they strolled out along the cliff-top path to Holland Point to watch the sea retreating. Unlike the others, Barry took a good look at the path down to the beach just outside the bay. He was planning to take his metal detector down to this much shallower bite into the coastline when the tide was out.
  The return trip gave the Fantonys another excuse to walk past the ‘lighthouse'. Barry was amused to see that the price of a tour had gone up to £8 a head and that taking photographs or making videos inside the tower were not permitted. Jeremy Haig and his companions seemed to be making sure that they would come out of the saga of the sovereigns with a profit, no matter which way the coroner's jury ruled at the treasure trove inquest.
  When they reached the caravan again, Jean wanted to carry on into the village to look at the shops in case they reminded her of something vital that she had forgotten to pack. Prices everywhere reflected the influx of rich journalists on expense accounts. The Galleon Restaurant had a sign outside to say that it was fully booked for dinner until Monday. Barry had phoned ahead the day before.
  While Jean examined a rack of postcards, Barry fed a small fortune into a public telephone and reported to his brother. Farne was a bad reception area for mobiles and he had no wish to leave the conversation open to any nosy bugger with a scanner.
  After delivering a small suitcase to an office in the centre of Exeter, Barry had driven to Farne via Barnstaple. He had looked over the ground for a sovereign robbery, and asked a few casual questions while cashing a cheque in the bank, while Jean had been buying a souvenir for her china cabinet.
  "The sovs aren't going to the inquest," Barry told his brother. "Too many security problems. I mentioned them in the bank that's got them. Asked the girl if they're planning to put them on show. She said there would be too many security problems and they're staying in the vault."
  "What's the bank like?" said Michael.
  "Security's tight as a duck's bum, I'd think. Cameras all over the place. Probably big, obvious ones for bank robbers to smash plus the little ones with a miniature lens. And a police station less than fifty yards away. You'd never get in there if they're expecting you. Unless you spend a fortune on some really wild scheme."
  "Oh, well, it was worth a look."
  "Someone else thought that. I saw a couple of real dodgy blokes coming out of a pub. Proper East End Cavalry."
  "Yes, I thought we might have a bit of competition. I don't suppose you've had a word with your mate yet?"
  "Give us a chance, Mike! There's a big queue outside his place for tours. He must be shagged out from going up and down all them stairs," chuckled Barry. "The tide's out around six tomorrow morning. I thought I'd wander out into the bay with the old metal detector and see what's doing."
  "Okay. Don't forget: be casual, don't push him."
  "Yeah, I know. Don't worry, Mike."
  "And I'll expect to hear from you soon," finished Michael.
  "Right," Barry said as he watched the display in the phone box change from a credit of 10p to 0. "Cheers!"
  An impatient queue had formed outside the phone box. Indignant stares told Barry that he had been taking his time. He responded with a mocking smirk and headed down the road to rejoin his wife.
  Jean had bought a life-size china model of a Devon Rex kitten for her collection. She let Barry carry the box up to the Seadog's Roost, the pub on the other arm of the bay.
  Barry established himself as a semi-regular by telling the landlord that he had not had the same struggle to get served three weeks earlier. The landlord blamed everything on the inquest with transparent insincerity. He had no complaints about the level of business.
  Hungry latecomers were being turned away from the Galleon Restaurant when the Fantonys arrived for their meal. The sun was heading for the Seadog's Roost when they returned to their motor caravan. A good dozen people were waiting outside Jeremy Haig's tower for the last tour of the day. Farne was doing very well out of the inquest. It was a welcome tourist attraction at the end of the summer season.

There was a warm breeze blowing out to sea when Barry ventured out into Farnescombe Bay. He was surprised to see the odd vehicle moving along the coast road, and one or two people wandering about in Farne at five-thirty in the morning. Swinging his metal detector across his path, just in case he got lucky, he trekked across crisp sand toward the Farne Rock. He had two plastic carrier bags in one pocket of his anorak and a trowel in the other.
  Early rising was not one of Barry Fantony's hobbies. Both he and his wife were natural night-owls. Strolling about in pre-dawn solitude was an enjoyable experience, however, and he was encouraged by the occasional rising songs from his metal detector. He found a lot of scrap iron, but it was relieved by coins and some pieces of blackened cutlery. Barry was still absorbed in the hunt for treasure when wavelets began to lap at his wellingtons.
  It was time to bale out. Recalling Jeremy Haig's advice, Barry headed straight for the rocks on the eastern side of the bay, into deep shadow. The tide was coming in very quickly. It took a determined effort of will to head diagonally across its path instead of directly away from the inrushing sea, but he reached safety before the water was no more than half-way up his rubber boots. Haig had not shown himself, but Barry felt that he had had an interesting and enjoyable time.

Colonel March, the coroner, had chosen the appropriately named Fullerton Hall for his treasure trove inquest. James Fullerton had presented the building that was now known as the Community Centre to the village to give the freer spirits somewhere to hold dances and musical entertainments, to the annoyance of their elders. A weekly bingo night and cinema shows had been added to the long list of other efforts to keep the people of Farne amused.
  Witnesses, legal representatives, the coroner and his clerk took up positions behind a barricade of tables in the well of the hall. The stage was the press gallery. Areas to the left and right of the court had been reserved for relatives and allies of the Fullerton descendants and Haig's party. Ushers tried to control the free-for-all as the rest competed for the remaining seats toward the back of the hall.
  James Fullerton had been survived by two brothers and a sister. Their descendants formed three camps, each represented by its own solicitor. Each faction wanted to keep a close eye on the others to make sure that they got at least their fair share.
  The solicitor for the Castles and Moorheads, descendants of James Fullerton's sister, tried to sabotage the proceedings right away. He attempted to argue that it was obvious that the sovereigns belonged to the estate of the late James Fullerton, no matter where or when they had been found, and that the treasure trove inquest was unnecessary. To the relief of the rest of the audience, Colonel March decided to carry on.
  Mikki gave her evidence first. Nigel Faraday, the solicitor for Haig's faction, had warned his clients to be brief and to the point, but to feel free to take their time to consider an answer when questioned by the opposition. Mikki outlined her project, explaining where she had been digging in the garden and why, and then described how she had found the earthenware jugs.
  Arthur Catesby, solicitor for the Castles and the Moorheads, had some questions for her. He tugged at a long, thin nose, then sniffed loudly. "Now, then, Miss Val-ni-ko-va. I'm pronouncing your name correctly? Is it Russian?"
  "Czech," said Mikki.
  "Ah," Catesby said significantly. "And I see you're a student. I must compliment you on your English. Did you learn it at school?"
  "Well, yes, we did English at school," Mikki said doubtfully. "But we spoke it at home too."
  "In Czechoslovakia?"
  "At Thetford. In Norfolk. I am British, you know."
  "Ah!" Catesby changed course quickly before he became bogged down in a failed trap. "This project of yours. Did you discuss it with Mr. Haig?"
  "Well, yes, of course. It is his garden."
  "And did he make helpful suggestions?"
  "Well, yes," Mikki said with a mild frown, not feeling brave enough to ask the point of the question.
  "And there's you and Miss Tendry living at Fullerton's Folly with Mr. Haig?"
  "And my father, and Mr. Haig's sister, and his nephew."
  "When the coins were ‘found'?"
  "Oh, no. It was just Van and me. Miss Tendry."
  "Thank you, Miss Valnikova." Arthur Catesby drew out the name, taking care with each of the four syllables.
  As Nigel Faraday had predicted, neither of the other solicitors had any questions for Mikki. She was not the right focus for an assault. Jeremy Haig took Mikki's place on the witness stand and gave an account of his part in the discovery of the sovereigns. When he had finished, David Hamilton, another of the Fullerton solicitors, got to his feet first.
  Hamilton was around forty, just a little older than Haig, but he looked as if his life had been harder. He was wearing an expensive but slightly crumpled suit of a dark material and he looked as if he had been working on his case until the early hours of that day.
  "You say you were there when the sovereigns were found, Mr. Haig," Hamilton said in a nasal whine.
  "Thereabouts," nodded Haig. "I was in the garden."
  "Which is about twenty yards square, so you weren't too far away?" The solicitor brushed imaginary fluff from his lapel.
  "No."
  "And how long have you lived in your lighthouse?"
  "About a couple of years. Or do you want exact dates?"
  "I'm just finding it rather strange you didn't explore your own garden with your metal detector in those two years."
  "I wouldn't say it's all that strange. It just never occurred to me. I've always had much more promising territory to explore."
  "Would your metal detector work indoors?"
  "Yes, I suppose so..."
  "You must be aware of the discrepancies between Mr. James Fullerton's expenditure and his estate," Hamilton said smoothly. "Did it never occur to you to make a search for the missing money?"
  "You'd have a bit of a job. When you consider just how much metal there is in the place. Nailed down floor boards, wiring, metal pipes and so on. And I never thought it would be worth the effort," Haig added confidently. "Old Fullerton kept his money in the bank. And his relatives ripped the place to bits when he died. I've got all the bills for putting the floors and everything back in order before they sold the tower."
  "Do you have a point to make, Mr. Hamilton?" Colonel March asked.
  "I'm just wondering whether it's possible Mr. Haig found the sovereigns in his tower and buried them in the back garden for Miss Valnikova to find," said the solicitor. "Or found them in the garden himself, reburied them and told Miss Valnikova where to dig."
  "No, that's not possible," Haig said firmly. "I find it a thoroughly disgraceful suggestion."
  "We do have the note, which says that the jugs were buried, not hidden in the house," said Colonel March. "By Mr. James Fullerton himself."
  "With respect, if the note is genuine."
  "We shall be hearing expert testimony on the note this afternoon. Do you have any further questions for Mr. Haig, Mr. Hamilton?"
  Hamilton thought it over, then shook his head.
  "I have one," said Giles Rommily, the solicitor for the oldest group of Fullertons. He was in his sixties, in Colonel March's age group, and he too seemed to be enjoying himself at the inquest.
  "About your reaction to discovering all those sovereigns, Mr. Haig," Rommily added. "I know I'd be doing hand-springs round the garden, despite my great age, if I'd found them. Yet according to all that we've heard about the find, you were cooler than the proverbial cucumber. This could just suggest that your surprise was less than total."
  "If I'm cunning enough to arrange for Mikki to find the sovereigns after I reburied them," Haig said, "as the other gentleman is saying, I hope I'd be cunning enough to jump up and down with excitement when she found them."
  "I still find your reaction extraordinary, Mr. Haig."
  "Well, you must know by now how I came to be living here, and all about how I found the site of a ninth-century ford..."
  "Not to mention a lot of very valuable silver."
  "And some artefacts of less valuable metals that were absolutely priceless. Okay, the silver was worth a lot of money, but I spent two years looking for the other things. The artefacts with real history attached to them but little intrinsic value. The bits of bone and iron that the archaeologists got excited about. I jumped about a lot when I found them after looking for two years."
  "But this find was just everyday routine?"
  "These sovereigns just turned up. Mikki found them when she was just digging a hole in the garden. I remember thinking about my find in Yorkshire when I went to fetch Vanessa. We thought we'd found forty or fifty sovereigns at that point. It was an interesting find but they were just ordinary sovereigns, of no archaeological interest at all."
  "Could you not become mildly excited over five thousand sovereigns as opposed to fifty, Mr. Haig?"
  "I did," Haig said defensively. "But people get excited to different degrees over things, depending on past experience. I was walking a foot off the ground in Yorkshire because I'd found something I was looking for. Something important."
  "And you didn't think so many sovereigns are important?"
  "Obviously not, when they come in thousands. Everything we found isn't worth one of the swords we found in Yorkshire, when you think about their relative scarcity."
  "I think we've pursued what it takes to get Mr. Haig jumping around long enough. Unless someone has an original contribution to make?" Colonel March looked along the tables of Fullerton solicitors. "No? In that case, can we hear from Miss Tendry."
  When Vanessa had given her account of her part in finding the sovereigns, there was just one question from Giles Rommily, the senior member of the opposition. He established that she had come on the scene after the first sovereigns had been found. The solicitors exchanged significant nods – mainly for the benefit of the jury, Nigel Faraday told his clients – and began to collect up their papers as Colonel March announced a break for lunch.