Hidden Treasures. Fern Britton
A silence. Then, ‘Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘Nope. Mum and Dad said they broke the mould when they made me. Couldn’t have another like me, they said. “Simple Tony Brown, you’re a one off, you are.” That’s what they said. That’s what everyone says.’
‘You share the name of another gardener. A very famous one called Capability Brown. I think he’d have liked you working with him. You could have called yourselves Brown and Brown.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Oh no, only of him. He died a long time ago.’
‘Broken heart?’
‘I’m not sure. But you are my Capability Brown from now on. May I call you Mr Brown? If I’m truthful, I prefer it to calling you Simple Tony.’
Tony looked at her, weighing things up.
‘OK.’
‘Thanks. Come on then, Mr Brown, we’ll just plant these last few crocus bulbs and then let’s get digging the vegetable patch.’
*
Together they dug really deep into the fertile soil, and Mr Brown trundled his old barrow back and forth across the village green at least a dozen times to collect the well-rotted manure from Pendruggan Farm. The farmer and his wife were only too happy to let it go.
Helen took her sweatshirt off, her muscles really warm now. The last bit to go was to dig two trenches for the runner beans and fill them with manure too. She and Mr Brown had a quick drink, he Ribena, she Diet Coke, and then they started.
As Tony thrust his spade into the ground, they heard a thud as it made contact with something hard.
‘Ow,’ said Mr Brown, shaking his jarred wrist. ‘What’s this?’
He carefully felt round with the spade, and gradually unearthed a black, painted tin box. It was around two feet across by sixteen inches wide and ten inches deep. He bent down and lifted it out.
‘Treasure, Mrs M.!’
‘Let’s have a look, Mr B.’
They carried it to the wooden bench and brushed as much soil off as they could, revealing a gold pattern in the Indian style which decorated the top and sides.
‘It’s so pretty,’ Helen said, lifting it and shaking it gently, ‘There’s something in it. I’ll wash this mud off my hands and get a damp cloth to wipe it over in case there’s something really precious in here.’
Once it was clean, she dried her hands on her discarded sweatshirt and eased the rusty lid open.
No water or rust had got inside to spoil anything. The first object was a beautiful jet brooch shaped like a black bird. It lay on a white blanket, which, when Helen shook it out, looked to be a baby’s shawl, the yarn spotted with age but the lacy crochetwork still beautiful. Under this lay a photograph of an Edwardian couple. The woman was holding a baby in her arms, and the man had his hand resting gently on the shoulder of a young boy aged no more than four or five years old. The final item was an ancient Peek Frean’s biscuit tin, which was something that looked like crushed ash. Perhaps the cremated remains of something, or somebody.
‘Oh my God. What is all this? Who does it belong to?’ gasped Helen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tony, looking a bit pale. ‘I think we should bury it again so as not to disturb any spirits.’
‘Mr Brown! Don’t go soft on me now. This must be so precious to someone that they hid it. It’s our duty to return it to its rightful owner so that it has a happy ending. Don’t do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Hmm. Well, I’m intrigued. Leave it with me and I’ll have a think what to do next. Maybe I’ll ask around – someone might know something. Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Mr B, this is an adventure for us. What an end to our day! Tomorrow we’ll clear out the privy and see if there’s anything interesting in there, all right?’
‘OK. Bye, Mrs M. See you tomorrow.’
When he’d gone she closed the Peek Frean’s tin securely. As she did so, she noticed a small sticky label on the lid. In copperplate handwriting, it said Falcon.
A clue? She put everything back into the larger black tin and carried it carefully inside.
After making a pot of tea, she carried the tin box and her mug into the sitting room.
She took everything out again to look more carefully. Who on earth had buried all this and why?
She lit the fire and got on the phone to Penny.
10
‘Penny? It’s me.’
‘Hello, darling. I was going to phone and book some dates to see you. How’s it going?’
‘Well, I’ve got quite a lot to tell you. There are some extraordinary people down here. All straight out of central casting! They would be perfect extras for your new programme.’
‘Great! We might need them. Anyone handsome caught your eye?’
‘No! You’re as bad as Chloe. I’m not on the market, as you well know.’ She paused to allow Penny’s scornful laughter to run its course. ‘However, I do have a nice little mystery for you.’
Penny listened to Helen’s story of the tin box, only occasionally interrupting with the odd question.
‘Wow. How fascinating. How are you going to find out more?’ she asked.
‘Well, I thought I’d try Simon first. He’s the—’
Penny interrupted. ‘Simon? A mystery man on the scene already! Come on, don’t keep me in suspense!’
‘He’s the vicar—’
‘A lusty vicar! I love it, tell me more.’
‘Shut up and listen, will you? He’s the vicar who’s very—’
‘Married?’
‘NO! Single. He’s very sweet and—’
‘You want an excuse to see him so you’re going to ask him to take a look at your box! Oooh, matron.’
‘NO! LISTEN!’
‘OK, sorry. Carry on … vicar.’ More sniggers.
Helen sighed, ‘This is too exhausting. I’ll tell you the whole story when you come down. Which is when, exactly?’
They agreed to a date in early October, which was just a couple of weeks away.
‘You can stay here with me, but we’ll have to share my big bed. Do you mind?’
‘I am too old for sleepovers. Can you recommend a good hotel?’
‘The Starfish in Trevay is supposed to be THE place, locally.’
‘Great. I’ll get my PA to book it, and you and I will have a wine-fuelled dinner there. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
After hanging up, Helen made another call.
*
At 6.30 p.m. every evening, Simon was in the habit of praying for his parish and the wider world. It was a part of his routine that was as important to him as cleaning his teeth. He would light a small candle under his simple wooden crucifix in the study and kneel in front of it. Recently he’d begun using the old chintz cushion on his desk chair to spare his knees. When he was comfortable, he would close his eyes and picture the face of Christ in front of him. He’d thank God for his calling, his home and his friends, and then