The North Devon legend of Spanish gold now became firmly rooted in rural Wiltshire, strengthened by a second search, reputedly by Oliver Cromwell himself, in 1653. Since then there have been at least four other major treasure-hunting operations, the last in 1928 by the late dummy5
Mr. Edgar Ratcliffe's father.
This long record of failure, which led most historians to discount the whole story, has now been ended by Mr. Charles Ratcliffe's brilliant historical detective investigation.
Standing beneath the crenellated outer ramparts yesterday, Mr. Ratcliffe, a youthful and colourful figure, said: "I have never believed the experts who said either that there never was any gold, or that Cromwell must have found it in 1653. As a boy I listened to all the old stories, and I believe that local traditions are worth far more than the half-baked facts in the history books."
Mr. Ratcliffe, who is a postgraduate sociology student and runs a workers' paper in his spare time, said that he had not searched haphazardly for the gold.
"First I studied all the known facts and compared them with the local tales," he said. "Then I simply put myself into Colonel Nathaniel Parrott's shoes.
"I took my final conclusion to a distinguished historian of the period, and he agreed with me.
But I shall tell the full story of that at the coroner's inquest to be held shortly."
And he added intriguingly: "I can say that once I had worked out what really happened I didn't have to search for the gold. I went straight to it."
The only shadow on Mr. Ratcliffe's good fortune is the recent death of his cousin, James Ratcliffe, in dummy5
circumstances peculiarly relevant to—and strangely connected with—the Standingham treasure.
For Mr. James Ratcliffe was killed earlier this year during the re-enactment by the Double R Society (of which he was also a member) of that same battle of Swine Brook Field which preceded the storming of Standingham Castle.
The suspicious circumstances of his death are still being investigated by the Mid-Wessex Police Force, following the adjournment of the inquest in June.
The police have stressed that Mr. Charles Ratcliffe, who was also present on the fatal mock-battlefield, is not involved in their inquiries.
Our legal correspondent writes: It will now be for an inquest jury convened by the local coroner to decide on the ownership of the Standingham gold.
Broadly speaking, buried treasure comes under two categories: that which was deliberately abandoned with no intention of recovery (i.e.
burial goods, like that found in the fabulous Sutton Hoo ship cenotaph), and that which was temporarily hidden by an owner intending to recover it (like the Romano-British coin and plate hoards) or otherwise lost accidentally. The latter category provides the classic examples of
"treasure trove" in which, in default of finding a rightful owner, the established principle of English law is that the Crown is entitled to the treasure but grants "full market value" to the finder. This custom, designed to encourage dummy5
finders to declare their discoveries, has aroused controversy in recent cases where there has been a marked discrepancy between what the Treasury and the British Museum consider "full market value" and what dealers on the open market are prepared to offer, since the finder has no redress in law.
In the case of the Standingham gold, therefore, the sum which Mr. Ratcliffe will receive depends not so much on the value of the gold, which is easily established, as on his ability to establish original ownership to the satisfaction of the coroner's jury.
Audley glanced from the newspaper cutting to his wristwatch. Although they had been cruising along for nearly ten minutes they had somehow contrived to stay quite close to the airport: somewhere just ahead of them a Jumbo was straining to get airborne, engines at full thrust. Like his own worst suspicions.
Naturally they would have known, because they knew him, that he would arrive back from Washington tired and dishevelled and desperate to get back to the loving quiet of his home and family. More, they would have known that he had confidently expected to do just that, because that had been the deaclass="underline" two weeks of tranquillity at home in deepest Sussex to complete his report (which could be done in less than one) in exchange for a barely endurable month of dummy5
American high summer among old friends who could no longer afford to trust him as they had once done.
And most of all, because of that, they would know that he would be mutinous to the limits of loyalty about taking any new assignment before the present one was discharged.
"Very interesting." He handed back the cutting to Stocker politely.
All of which meant they were very sure of themselves, that had to be the first conclusion.
"Did you read about it in the States?" Stocker inquired with equal politeness.
"There was a story in the Washington Post. I didn't read the British papers in the embassy, they'd only have depressed me."
Stocker delved into his brief-case. "There's another cutting here."
"I don't want to read another cutting. I want to go home."
Audley kept his hands obstinately in his lap. He noticed as he looked down at them to make sure they were obeying orders that his thumbs were tucked into his fists. According to Faith that was a sure sign that he was miserable, uncertain and vulnerable, and consequently in need of special care and protection. And although he mistrusted his wife's instant psychology as much as he enjoyed her interpretation of the duties it imposed on her it was an interesting fact that one couldn't punch anyone on the nose with thumbs in that dummy5
position.
"In due course," said Stocker.
Audley re-arranged his thumbs. Not that punching Stocker would do any good whatsoever; besides, Stocker was quite capable of punching back.
"I've a lot of work to do," he said.
"I know. Your report on the current state of the CIA." Stocker nodded. "Sir Frederick told me."
"Did he also tell you it was for the Joint Chiefs?"
Stocker smiled. "Yes, he told me that too, David."
The Christian name was an olive branch.
"Well, Brigadier—" Audley trampled the olives—"it isn't going to get done by remote control. I intend to write it now, while it's fresh in my mind. Could be it's not without importance."
"I'm sure it is. But this is more important." Stocker lifted the second cutting. "In fact if your time in Washington hadn't run out today we would have brought you back today anyway
—no matter what."
"We?"
"Sir Frederick and I." Stocker paused. "And others."
"Others?"
Any chance of a reply to that question was blotted out by the roar of another big jet. This time the noise was almost unbearable, with the brute force of the sound vibrating the dummy5
car as it slowed down at the entrance to a lay-by on its nearside. There was a police car—a large, vividly-striped Jaguar—parked in the entrance so that there was only just sufficient room for them to squeeze by. The uniformed man at the wheel raised his gloved hand to Stocker's driver, beckoning him on.
It wasn't a custom-built lay-by, Audley realised. Once upon a time, before the runways had swallowed the fields, this had been the line of the main road lurching in a drunken meander between the quiet hedgerows, Chesterton's rolling English road to the life. But when the new highway builders had amputated this unnecessary loop they hadn't bothered to grub up the tarmac, and now the unrestrained hedges had sprouted into trees which screened it from the passing traffic.
But for the jets, it would have been an admirable place for love in the back seat.
But there was no love in this back seat, nor would there be any waiting for him in the back seat of the car parked in the shade of a gnarled crab-apple tree, an anonymous new wedge-shaped Leyland 2200 of the sort he and Faith had contemplated buying in the autumn, in patriotic replacement for his rusting old 1800. In a more peaceful, more honourable world he would be returning to her now.