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offer of sugar.
    Professor Cartwright sat back on the sofa and faced him, his expression — at least to Jack’s experienced eye — one of unconcealed disdain.
    “Mr Brennan, let me be clear. We are having this discussion for one reason and one reason only.”
    “That is?”
    “The theft of the Roman plate has been deeply embarrassing for me, in both a professional and personal capacity. And while the police regard the matter as just ’one more in a series’ of robberies across the county — and in my opinion are treating this whole affair in a dilatory fashion — I shall not be at ease until the culprits are found and the artefact recovered.”
    “So — any offer of help is welcome, huh?”
    “Precisely. Even yours.”
    Jack decided to ignore the barb and carry on in his chosen ’jovial Yank’ mode.
    “And people are blaming you for the robbery?” he offered.
    “There have been comments — among the faculty, I gather.”
    “That seems pretty unfair.”
    “Academics can be ruthless, Mr Brennan. As merciless as any hardened criminal when they sense weakness.”
    “And you are in a weak position?”
    “Apparently. It seems I … er … omitted one or two formalities in the customary process of registering treasure trove. But I acted as I did in good faith, in order to accelerate the procedure and more quickly bring an extraordinary artefact to the attention of the relevant authorities.”
    This guy swallowed more than a dictionary, thought Jack, working hard to translate.
    “Of course,” Jack said, with a small smile. “Just to be straight — you should have photographed the plate and then contacted the local authorities.”
    “Those are the recommendations for the layman, Mr Brennan.”
    “For Joe Public you mean?”
    “Exactly. But I am hardly ’Joe Public’. I was for twenty years Emeritus Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Oxford. I have a long-standing professional relationship with the British Museum who would have been called in immediately anyway. And I am one of the leading experts — if not the leading expert in this country in Romano-British history.”
    “Impressive.”
    “I think you would agree that in my case those minor regulations need hardly apply.”
    “Romano-British?”
    “Ah, I forget. You’re a colonial. I refer to the period between 43 and 409 when Britain was a province of the Roman Empire, until the latter’s tragic decline. I presume you are familiar with the Roman Empire, Mr Brennan?”
    “A little,” said Jack. “And you know what? I’m kinda with Gibbon on that one: ’The history of empires is the history of human misery’.”
    Professor Peregrine Cartwright blinked.
    “Ah. Yes,” he said. “ Decline and Fall . Well, well.”
    Jack quietly notched up a score for the Colonials.
    “Perhaps you could show me how you think the burglars made their entry?” he said, putting down his tea cup on a side table and giving Professor Cartwright his biggest smile.
    Jack crouched down by the open kitchen door and carefully inspected the broken pane of glass in the panel to the side of the frame.
    The local glass company had put a board in, but it was clear that the glass had been smashed so the intruder could reach in and turn the door handle.
    “The break-in happened some time during the night? And you were here?”
    “That would be the logical assumption, don’t you think? Since the plate was in the safe when I retired and it was gone when I looked in the morning.”
    If this guy was my teacher I’d have decked him before the end of the first term, thought Jack.
    “And you didn’t hear anything during the night?”
    “No. I went to bed early. And I use earplugs on a Saturday night. Even Cherringham is not immune from teenage revellers, Mr Brennan.”
    “And in the morning you didn’t notice the glass was smashed?”
    “I confess not. It was a mild day. I was only briefly in the kitchen before my guests arrived.”
    “No glass on the