The Curse of the Corvos

After several months of writers’ block, not to mention having just too much else to do, I have started writing again, so here are the opening chapters of Book 3 in the Rooks Ridge series …

THE CURSE OF THE CORVOS

PROLOGUE

Excerpt from the Berchester Gazette, 3rd April 2008:

ENGAGEMENTS

Hob-Rookwood  The engagement is announced between Mr Ned Hob of Jackdaw's Roost, Berchester Road, Crowborough, only son of the late Sir Oriole Ravenscroft-Corbie-Hob and the late Ms Jackie Jackson, and Vera Ellen Rookwood, only daughter of the late Corporal Stuart Rookwood and Mrs Darrell Grindley.

The wedding will take place on 22nd June at St Peter's Church, Crowborough.


Excerpt from the Berchester Gazette, 10th April 2008:

ANCIENT CURSE IN RURAL BERSETSHIRE? 

A hoard of Romano-British gold and silver unearthed in 1998 just outside the small Cotswold town of Crowborough may carry an ancient curse, writes our on-the-spot reporter Flavia Drake. 

Since the excavation of the so-called Corvo Hoard, at least fifteen members of the original archaeological team have died or suffered serious injury or illness, and many people living nearby have also experienced similar misfortune.  One Crowborough resident, who did not wish to be identified, said: 

'Ever since that gold was dug up, it's been nothing but trouble for us folks here in Crowborough. Everything that can go wrong does go wrong.  People are dropping like flies. Something needs to be done.'

The many unexplained deaths in Crowborough in the last ten years have been attributed by some to an ancient curse which may have been laid upon the treasure when it was buried in the early part of the fifth century CE.   Amongst the mysterious deaths is that of wealthy landowner Sir Oriole Ravenscroft-Corbie-Hob, who gave permission for the excavation by IBBC Television's popular archaeology programme "Ready, Steady, Dig!" during which the Corvo Hoard was unearthed in August 1998.   Hob, as he was known to one and all, was a much-loved local philanthropist, and died shortly afterwards in circumstances which have never been satisfactorily explained.

When interviewed by our reporter, Dr Ronald Horton (41), Director of the Rooks Ridge Roman Villa Museum and Visitors Centre, where the Corvo Hoard is now housed, said:
'Oh my goodness me, don't ask me about all that stuff, I'm sure I don't know. Yes, I suppose a lot of bad things have happened here in Crowborough, I had to take my little dog to the vet only the other day, and you wouldn't believe what they charged just for getting a thorn out of his paw. Oh, and I think a few people have died as well.'

CHAPTER I
12 April 2008

'Really great sound-bite, Ronnie,' says Jim Southerton, Editor of the Crowborough Herald, folding up his copy of the Berchester Gazette and tossing it in the vague direction of the paper recycling bin.  In spite of the imminent approach of his forty-second birthday, Jim still has far more in the way of dark, romantic good looks than any one person can possibly need, and certainly far more than can really be good for him.  'First the dog, everyone likes stories about dogs, and then the human interest.  We'll make a media star of you yet.'

His partner, Dr Ronald Horton M.A. (Lond), looks at him over the top of his little gold-rimmed half-glasses.  Dr Horton has known Jim Southerton for ten years, and is pretty good by now at guessing when his words are not to be taken at face value.

'Well, it wasn't my fault,' he says, pushing his chair back from the breakfast table.  In striking contrast to his partner, Ronald Horton is a small, fair, slightly built man for whom the word nondescript might have been specially minted.   'It was that horrible reporter woman, she ambushed me.  Caught me unawares.  Didn't give me any time to think.  And anyway, what was I suppose to say?   It's perfectly true that an awful lot of people have died in Crowborough since 1998.'

'Ronnie, it is 2008 now, if you hadn't noticed.'  Jim starts to clear the breakfast table by his usual method of shoving just about everything except the furniture into the dishwasher.  'Crowborough's population is around the three thousand mark. There are two nursing homes in the town.  Of course a lot of people have died here in the last ten years.'

'I know, and that's what I told her, but she doesn't seem to have reported that bit.'

'Surprise.'

'And if you think you could have done any better -'

'Ronnie, anyone could have done better. Big Mac could have done better.'

'Only because his accent's so thick she wouldn't have understood a word he said,' says Dr Horton.  'And don't put the napkins in the dishwasher.  They go in the washing machine if they're dirty, which they shouldn't be, not yet, they were clean yesterday.  Anyway, as I was saying, if you think you could have done any better, well, now's your chance.'

'What?'

'I knew just what you'd say, Jim, so when she asked if she could interview you, I told her she could come round this morning.'

'What! When? When's she coming?'  Jim Southerton slams the dishwasher door and stands poised for flight.

'She was due about five minutes ago.  I asked Maureen to bring her along as soon as she got here.  And don't slam the dishwasher like that, one of these days you'll break something.'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever.'  Jim is already making for the front door of their apartment, which is in the staff accommodation wing of the Rooks Ridge Roman Villa Museum and Visitors Centre, but before he reaches it the door bell rings.  Through the security fish-eye he can see Maureen, receptionist at the Centre, and standing just behind her is a small, lizard-like woman with dead-white skin and far too much flaming red hair.  Enormous spectacles magnify her bright green eyes in an alarming way, an effect which is hideously enhanced when she leans in towards the spy-hole.  Reluctantly, Jim opens the door.

'Jim, good morning, so good of you to see me!' the unwelcome visitor exclaims, deftly easing Maureen aside and tanking over the threshold in a way that forces Jim to allow her to enter.  He has used a similar technique himself countless times in his reporting days, and he recognises the inevitable.  Flavia Drake is going to interview him, whether he likes it or not.  There is nothing whatsoever he can do about it, unless he wishes to read in next week's Berchester Gazette that a source very close to the Director of the Centre, and to the deceased Hob, has refused to make any comment.

'What a nice little apartment, Jim, so *cosy.*  Staff accommodation, isn't it?  Perk of Ronnie's job, I suppose?'

'Come into the living room, Flavia, and sit down,' Jim says, resigned.  This at least will leave the corridor clear for Dr Horton to escape without being spotted and subjected to further questioning.  'Now, what is all this nonsense about an ancient curse?  I thought that was only mummies.' 

He leads the way into the living room, a big, sunny room with a whole wall of windows facing due south over the glories of the Cotswold escarpment.

'You know perfectly well what it is, Jim,' Flavia says frankly.  'It's a rattling good story, is what it is.  And it's mine.'

'And you're going to milk it for all it's worth?'

'Got it in one.'

'Even though you know perfectly well it's a complete load of tosh?  Have a seat.'

Flavia perches herself on the edge of the enormous pale leather sofa that faces the windows.

'Now, now, Jim,' she says.  'That would suggest you think I don't have any evidence.'

'You mean you really think you do?'

'But of course.  All the mysterious deaths, for a start,' Flavia says, flipping open a small notebook and uncapping a rather pretty silver propelling pencil, with which she indicates what looks like a very long list of names.  'Nice view, by the way.  That's Rooks Ridge up there, isn't it?  Where the Corvo Hoard was dug up?'

'That's right.'

'Ronnie was involved in the excavation, wasn't he?'

'Yes.  He was County Archaeologist for Bersetshire in those days,' Jim replies.  'He was employed as a professional consultant by the TV people.'

'So bearing in mind that there may well be a powerful ancient curse in operation here, how is dear Ronnie these days?'

'Absolutely fine, as you know perfectly well, since you interviewed him about all this nonsense only yesterday.'

'Oh, so you've seen my latest piece, have you?'  Flavia asks unnecessarily.  'Good, isn’t it?

'It's a load of rubbish, and it was a rotten thing to do to Ronnie.  He hasn't a clue how to deal with media predators.  It must have been like shooting fish in a barrel.'

Flavia bares her teeth in what might be a smile, but probably isn't.

'Speaking as one media predator to another, Jim dear,' she says, 'would you like to tell the Gazette's readers just exactly how pig-sick you are feeling that I got hold of this scoop before you did?'  She licks the tip of her pencil, and holds it poised over her notebook.

'Come off it, Flavia.  The whole thing is rubbish, and you know it.'

'But what about all the mysterious deaths?'

'Such as?  And don't, don't say my Uncle Hob.  He didn’t die shortly after the excavation like you said in your piece, he lived for another four and a half years.  He was nearly ninety when he died, he’d been in failing health for months, and he passed away very peacefully at home.  He saw his GP every day during that week, and he'd been in hospital for all sorts of tests only the week before.  What they all told him was that basically he was knackered.  It was not a mysterious and unexplained death.  He was very, very old, and he died of old age.'

'You're making rather heavy weather of all that, Jim,' Flavia says, narrowing her eyes at him.  'Anyone would think -'

'No.  Only you would think.  Now leave my uncle's death alone, or I won't be answerable.'

'Can I quote you?'

'Final warning.  Leave Uncle Hob out of this.  Now, who else have you got your claws into?  I mean, who else are you claiming has been struck down by this non-existent curse?'

'Well, you remember Mr Black, Mr Grey and Mr White?  You know, the ones who stole part of the Corvo Hoard when it was first unearthed?'

'Of course I remember them.'

'Well, Mr Black and Mr White are both in prison!' Flavia manages to say this with a triumphant flourish.

'They were professional criminals, for heaven's sake!' says Jim, with some exasperation. 'That's not the effect of a mysterious curse, that's an occupational hazard.'

'And Mr Grey is dead.'

'They were quite old professional criminals.'

'He was in his late fifties.'

'Well, there you are, then.'

'But that's no age at all these days!' Flavia insists.  'And he died exactly five years, five months and fifteen days after the Hoard was unearthed.'

'Wow, that's really amazing. NOT,' says Jim. 'And if I find you've quoted that without the NOT, there will be trouble.'

'And then there's all the other people who handled the treasure, too,' Flavia continues, ignoring him.

'Such as?'

'Professor Smith is dead.'

'For heaven's sake, the excavation was ten years ago, and the old boy was seventy then if he was a day!'

Flavia consults her notebook. 'Actually he was sixty-nine.'

'Well, there you are.'

'And then there's Bee Safe Security Services of Berchester-'

'They never even touched the stuff!'

'They were hired to guard it, and they failed to stop it being stolen.'

'That's true, I suppose.  So what happened to them?' Jim asks, just a tad uneasily.

'They went bust.'

'Oh for heaven's sake!  The Corvo Hoard was just about the most high-profile, valuable hoard of Treasure Trove in a century or more, and it got stolen from right under their noses.  Of course they went bust.  Would you employ them?'

'And that student who found the treasure again after it was stolen -'

'You mean Simon Jackson? What's happened to him?'

'Dead.'

'Dead!  But he was only about 19,' Jim says, for the first time experiencing real concern.

'Exactly.'

'So how did he -?'

'White-water rafting.'

'Well, that's very sad, of course,' Jim says.  'He was a nice lad.  But I ask you - white-water rafting …!' 

'And two other students who were on the dig have also had serious accidents,' Flavia continues.

'What sort of accidents?' Jim asks suspiciously.

'They were both nearly drowned.'

'White-water rafting with Simon Jackson?'

'Yes, so?'

'Flavia, they were a bunch of mates on a typical student holiday, and there was an accident.  One accident.  I don't see any evidence there of a serial mysterious curse at work.'

'And then there’s Bony Jay Trueman.'

'Who is alive and well and living just down the road,' Jim says, mystified.  'At least, he certainly was when I last saw him, which was yesterday afternoon.'

'He lost his job on the very day the treasure was snatched from the ground!' Flavia declares dramatically.

'It wasn't snatched, it was excavated,’ says Jim.  ‘And Bony didn't lose his job.  He resigned.  I know he did, I was there when he did it.  And about three minutes later he walked straight into another job, and he's been so happy that he's still doing it ten years later.'

'I bet it doesn't pay anything like as well,' says Flavia, who is certainly a tryer.

'Oh for heaven's sake! He's the General Manager of this place, and he loves it.'

'And then there's Dr Naylor.'

'What? Who did you say? Never heard of him.'

'He was one of the senior archaeologists on the dig.  His marriage broke up.'

'Now you really are scraping the bottom of the barrel,' Jim says.  'Just consider how many people were involved in making that TV programme, and on the excavation itself - and you can only come up with a single divorce in ten years!'

'I didn't say there was only one divorce,' Flavia says defensively.  'I daresay there will probably turn out to have been an unusually high number of them, I just haven't got round to checking yet.  Come to think of it, Bony Jay Trueman's divorced, isn't he?'

'He certainly is,' Jim agrees.  'Extensively. In fact I cannot deny that Bony Jay Trueman has been divorced almost as many times as he's been married.  And before you say 'So there!' let me tell you that most of them were long before the Corvo Hoard was unearthed, so they're completely irrelevant.  Or is this an ancient curse that affects people before they've even done whatever it is that sets it off?  A sort of pre-cursor, maybe?'

Flavia looks at him over the top of her spectacles.

'You know, Jim, I could almost suspect that you are not taking my big scoop seriously.'

'Perish the thought.'

'Actually, whether or not you accept all the mysterious curse stuff,' Flavia continues, 'there really is something very strange about that treasure.  In fact it's rather creepy.  It gave me quite a shock when I first noticed it.'

'Noticed what?' asks Jim.

'Well, it's something I spotted a couple of weeks ago, and I've been back a few times to check, and it's happened again, every single time.'

Jim was once a reporter himself. ‘Exactly how many is “every single time”?’ he asks.

Flavia has the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

‘Well, twice, since you ask.’

'Surprise.  Anyway, what is it that you are claiming has now happened three times?'

'I'll show you, if you can get us into the Museum.'

'It's not open yet.'

'I know.  I've been coming in the mornings the moment it opens at ten o’ clock, so that I can be the first in, just to check up.'

Jim looks a question.

'Here.'  Flavia pulls a manila envelope from her capacious handbag, and extracts from it a photograph of one of the glass cabinets in which the Corvo Hoard is displayed.  Standing to one side is a member of the Museum staff, looking faintly bewildered and holding up a newspaper.  'That's yesterday's Times, Jim, just to prove when this photograph was taken.'

'Fine, fine,’ says Jim. ‘I accept that this photograph was taken yesterday.’  He examines it closely. ‘So what am I supposed to be looking at?'

'Come with me to the Museum, and I'll show you,' Flavia says, and her little green lizard eyes glint with anticipated triumph.  'I'll bet you any money it will have happened again. You can sneer at my mysterious curse story, but you won't be able to explain this away!'  She takes a deep breath.  'The fact is, Jim … sometimes … in the night … the treasure moves!

CHAPTER TWO 

12 April 2008 

Vera Rookwood, Administrator of the Rooks Ridge Museum and Visitors' Centre, has only been living with her fiancé Ned Hob for two weeks, but already she is finding that life at Jackdaw's Roost can be less than idyllic.
The cottage itself is not to blame.   Thatched and almost unbearably picturesque, it is set in a delightful garden that brims over with pretty, multi-coloured, sweet-scented flowers. There are roses around the door, both pink and white, and there is a wishing well (thatched) and a rustic porch (also thatched, and heavily encrusted with seashells). In short, the place is an estate agent's wet dream, and even Vera, a thoroughly practical and unsentimental person, has a considerable fondness for it.
So there is nothing wrong with Jackdaw's Roost; nor is Vera's new fiancé in any way the cause of her discontent. Ned Hob is twenty-nine, of medium height and sturdily built, with curly black hair, eyes as deep and dark as peat pools, and a smile that could melt a glacier.   In short, Ned is as thoroughly handsome as his Vera is delectably pretty. She too has big brown eyes and masses of dark curly hair, although hers, unlike Ned's, is generally scraped tightly back into a plain and sensible bun, at least during office hours.
Yet there are times when Vera Rookwood finds life at Jackdaw's Roost far from perfect. It's not Ned's fault. He doesn’t like it either when Blizzard the pedigree Persian drags specimens of the local wildlife in through the cat-flap. He particularly dislikes it when the wildlife is still alive, and very wild.
'Ned! Ned! That blasted cat has got another bird!'
Ned knows what is expected of him as the man of the house, and he gets up from the breakfast table to deal with the situation.
'Oh Lord, this one's not dead,' he says, making a lunge for the cat, whose jaws are clamped around one wing of a large black and grey bird. The bird is clinging with both feet to the sides of the cat-flap, hanging on for dear life. It isn't wasting any energy squawking, and there is a look in its eye that says it's not giving up without a fight, it's got a pretty powerful beak, and any minute now it's going to get a clear shot at something soft and vulnerable.
'Drop it, Blizzard! Drop it!' Ned grabs the cat by the scruff of her neck, and squeezes. At the same time his other hand clamps onto the victim.
Ned screams, and leaps back. Blood oozes from three long scratches on one hand, and a single puncture wound on the other. The cat shrieks as the jackdaw strikes again, this time catching her on the nose. A streak of white, and she is gone, leaving the cat-flap swinging madly.
The jackdaw crouches on the kitchen floor, looking from Ned to Vera and back again.
'I think it's injured,' Vera says.
'I know I am.'
'Look, look at its poor wing, trailing like that.'
Somewhat to their surprise, the jackdaw turns its head and looks closely at its right wing. Then it smoothes down a few ruffled feathers, begins warily to stretch; and stops.
'It's definitely injured,' Vera says. 'Ned, we have to do something. Maybe if you could coax it into a box, I can take it to the vet's on my way to work.'
'I suppose it could go in the cat basket.'   Ned gestures at a small wicker cage in the corner of the kitchen. Vera fetches the basket, unlatches the door, and sets it down on the floor in front of the jackdaw. Ned looks sceptical.
'I'm damned if I'm going to touch it again,' he says, winding a handkerchief around his bleeding hand. 'So how are we going to get it into the -'
The jackdaw stands up, walks into the basket, turns around to face them and settles down, fluffing out its feathers like a broody hen.
Vera and Ned exchange startled glances.
'It's almost as if it understood what I said,' says Ned uneasily.
The jackdaw looks at him, and Ned could swear that it rolls its eyes.

Vera reaches the Rooks Ridge Museum and Visitors' Centre some twenty minutes later, having deposited cat basket and jackdaw at the vet's en route. She pushes open the big glass doors to the foyer, and flinches at the sight of Jim Southerton and Flavia Drake looming over Maureen at the reception desk. Maureen's face lights up with relief.
'Morning, Vera, here's Mr Southerton and that reporter again and they're wanting to get into the Museum before it opens, and I said they had to wait and ask you or they could ask Mr Trueman if he got here first, only he never does get here first, he's always late, int he?'
'Thank you, Maureen,' say Vera, silently cursing Jim for giving his countenance to the reporter. Vera has seen Flavia Drake off the premises on several occasions in the past couple of weeks, with increasingly pressing invitations not to return, but she always re-appears, generally with the sanction of some other, more easily intimidated member of staff. 'Yes, Ms Drake? What is it this time? Another curse? Don't tell me - not more bodies?'
'Now, now, Vera, dear,' says Flavia. 'Just you remember who is going to be doing the official write-up of your wedding in a couple of months' time. And choosing which photos to print in the Gazette.' She pauses, and the pair exchange looks in which eyes are seriously narrowed. 'Now, dear, all we want is the keys to your little Museum before anyone else goes in there this morning, so we can check something against a photo I took last night.'
A look of intense wariness crosses Vera's normally imperturbable features.
'What exactly are you expecting to see?' she asks. For some reason she glances nervously in the direction of the Lararium from the Roman villa on Rooks Ridge. This is small stone shrine which sits on a shelf behind the reception counter, where it houses the Lares and Penates, the household gods of the villa. There are six of them: little statues of sandstone, each about six inches high.
'Well, dear, if you give me the keys, I'll be able to show you,' Flavia says tartly. 'Is that a problem?'
'Of course it's a problem,' Vera replies. 'I can't just hand over the keys to anyone who chooses to ask for them.' Having thus asserted her authority, she adds, 'but if you'll just hang on a moment, I'll open up for you. In fact, I'll come in with you and see whatever nonsense - I mean, come in with you and see whatever it is that's bothering you.' She looks at Jim. 'Just take Ms Drake and go and wait outside the Museum doors, will you? I need a word with Maureen first.'

Vera turns to Maureen the receptionist;  Jim and Flavia move away from the desk and into the corridor that leads to the Museum. 

'Maureen, would you mind just nipping up to Dr Horton's office for me?’ says Vera.  ‘Tell him I might be a few minutes late for our meeting.'
Maureen looks at the internal telephone with a mildly puzzled expression, but she is used to doing as she is asked, and without more ado gets up from her desk and makes for the lift to the second floor. The lift doors close behind her, and Vera takes a swift and furtive survey of the foyer.
'Right, you lot,' she says, turning to peer into the Lararium. 'Just you tell me exactly what's going on, and don't even think of pretending you don't know.'
There is a small silence. The air within the shrine seems to shimmer briefly.
The tallest of the six stone figures gives a low, sweeping bow.   'Salve, Domina Vera,' he says. 'I deeply regret to tell you that Mopsus may have been a little careless. Again.'

The youngest of the Lares, a gangling youth with long, straggly hair, tries unsuccessfully to hide behind the others.

'Mopsus,' says Vera sternly. In fact, since Vera has a top grade GCSE in Latin, what she actually says is Mopse, but we really needn't go there.  As it says on her favourite tee-shirt, SI HOC LEGERE SCIS NIMIUM ERUDITIONES HABES (which of course you already know means "If you can understand this, you're a smartarse").  'Mopsus, you've been polishing the treasure again, haven't you?'

The wretched youth hangs his head.

'What have I told you about polishing the treasure?'

'Please, Domina, you told me that I am allowed to polish the treasure as much as I want, so long as I make sure I finish all my other work first,' says Mopsus, in a very small voice.

'And?' 

'And so long as I put everything back exactly where I found it, Domina,' he adds in an even smaller voice.

Vera allows a heavily accusatory silence to develop, before turning to another of the Lares, a young man with a shock of curly black hair and a conciliatory smile.

'Petro.'

'Yes, Domina?'

'What did I say to you about Mopsus polishing the treasure?'

'You said I was to keep an eye on the daft little grummit, Domina, and make sure he put everything back exactly where he found it.'

'I don't really need to ask, do I?'

'Um, was that a rhetorical question, Domina?'

'Don't push it,' Vera says, tight-lipped. 'I'll talk to you all tonight, when everyone else has gone home and the coast is clear.'

'What, like it isn't now, you mean?'

A new voice makes Vera start, and she spins around to see that the foyer doors have opened silently, and her very own particular bete noir has just arrived: Matilda Trueman, teenage daughter of the General Manager, here to continue her Work Experience as Vera's assistant.  And a pretty horrible experience it is so far proving to be, and very hard work, for Vera at least.

Today Matilda appears to be a Goth: she is dressed in black from head to toe, her normally wavy dark brown hair has been dyed black and ruthlessly straightened, her rosy complexion is covered in what looks like flour and water paste, and her lips and nails are deep purple.  Just a hint of fangs suggests itself to Vera, and she shudders delicately.

'You really shouldn't talk to the Lares in broad daylight,' Matilda remarks. 'People might think you were mad.'

'I am,' Vera responds. 'Hopping mad. And you're late.'

'That is true,' Matilda agrees. 'I wonder what we ought to do about it?'

'I'll think of something. Meanwhile now that you are here you can actually make yourself useful, and look after the desk until Maureen gets back. She's just gone up to Dr Horton's office for me. I have to go and talk to Jim and that damned reporter woman from the Gazette.'

'Oh joy,' Matilda says. 'You mean to say that Lizard Woman is back again?  My very favourite  reptile. Has she dug up any more bodies, or whatever?' 

'I think she's just about to - well, metaphorically. I hope. She and Jim want to look at something mysterious in the Museum.'

'I'm glad you haven't forgotten that,' says Jim Southerton, sticking his head back into the foyer. 'Good morning, Matilda. Love the outfit. Traffic warden, is it?'  Jim and Matilda have never really hit it off.  'Now, come on, Vera, get a move on,' he continues. 'We don't have all day, you know. I've got a busy schedule.'

'I'm coming, I'm coming,' Vera says, sounding increasingly harassed. 'Desk, Matilda, and call up to the Crow Bar and ask Sharl to send down my coffee early this morning. I have an idea I'm going to need it.'

'So will that be coffee for four?'

'No, it will not. I want to see you doing at least five minutes work before your first coffee break today, and if Jim wants to entertain the Lizard Woman he can do it in his own apartment.' Vera glares at Jim. 'Did you see her piece in this week's Gazette? Poor Ronnie!'

'Poor Ronnie my foot,' says Jim robustly. 'It was his own silly fault. I've told him a hundred times not to talk to the media, he just doesn't have the knack. Now come on, get the Museum doors open for us, will you?'

Vera reaches over the desk for a bunch of keys, and leads Jim out of the foyer.

Ten years have passed since a twelve year old Vera Rookwood first encountered Petro the Lar at the site of the ruined Roman villa on Rooks Ridge. Vera's astonishment at being addressed by a tiny young man who was clearly made of stone had been matched only by Petro's astonishment at finding that he was talking to a direct descendent of the villa's original owner.

As the Lar explained to the bemused small girl, Caius Verus Pugnax Corvo and his family had abandoned the Villa Corvo in the early fifth century, when rumours of barbarian invaders prompted anyone with any sense to seek the safety of the nearest garrison town, in this case Berium Castra, now known as Berchester.  The idea that the barbarians might not, in the end, be routed by the power of the Roman Legions simply did not occur to Caius.  Believing he would soon be back, he left the bulk of his family treasure carefully hidden at the villa, and he also left six of his Lares, his little household gods, with strict instructions to guard it in perpetuity, or, of course, until his return.

Caius never returned, so perpetuity has continued unabated, and for sixteen hundred years Petro and the other five Lares have conscientiously guarded the treasure on behalf of Caius and, in due course, his heirs and successors.  In the past ten years, six of these have surfaced in Crowborough: Vera herself, her fiancé Ned and his late father, Hob, and Bony Jay Trueman, the General Manager of the Rooks Ridge Roman Villa Museum and Visitors' Centre, and his two mildly obnoxious offspring, Matilda and her younger brother, Bayley.  It has been apparent from the outset that only direct descendents of Caius Verus Pugnax Corvo can actually see that the Lares are anything other than six little stone statues.  In fact, it can by now be considered a sure-fire method of recognising any more of them that might happen to show up.  Anyone who looks into the Lararium and goes goggle-eyed, screams, or in extreme cases passes out, may be confidently added to the Corvo family tree.

Matilda Trueman puts down the internal telephone, through which she has just ordered Vera's coffee from the Crow Bar, the Centre's coffee shop, and leans casually against the shelf on which the Lararium rests.  From this position she can keep an eye on all entrances to the foyer, and at the same time converse with the Lares on matters too urgent to wait until the Centre is empty at the end of the day (Matilda is just fourteen, so getting up early to arrive before anyone comes in is not a realistic alternative).

'So, Adro, fill me in,' she says, using a surreptitious mode of delivery that would win her top marks on any course in practical ventriloquism. It is a technique perfected by Matilda at the three exclusive educational institutions from which she has been serially expelled over the past four years since leaving Crowborough Junior and Infants. Word having preceded her around the private educational establishments of the UK, her father has now been obliged to send her to Crowborough High School, which, being funded by the wretched taxpayer, is not in a position to pick and choose whom it will admit. Matilda is not unhappy with this outcome. There are many advantages to living at home in Crowborough with her father, not the least being ready access to the paternal credit cards. Consequently she is currently behaving just not quite badly enough to be excluded from school on a permanent basis.

Adrogantio gives a low bow. 'Salve, Domina Matilda,' he says.  'Magister Australis and the Renuntiaria are in the Museum, looking at the cases in which the Corvo Hoard is displayed. The Renuntiaria believes she can prove that the treasure regularly moves by itself.'

'Whereas in fact it regularly moves by Mopsus,' says Matilda. Mopsus hangs his head. 'Don't worry about it. It'll just add to the confusion, which is no bad thing. But what on earth does Flavia think it has to do with this ancient curse thing?'

'Who can understand the ways of the Renuntiaria?' asks Adro, with a shrug. 'In Rome the news was provided by the government and posted regularly in the forum, not invented by scribes and sold to all and sundry.'