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  The look on his face as he turned back towards the crowd was caught by the dying man.

  “What’s up, Henry?” he said, reviving himself miraculously.

  “Somebody’s playing silly buggers,” hissed Digby angrily.

  “Well, you can’t go now—the Preacher’s just getting to his blood-and-confusion bit. He’ll need you for that.”

  “This won’t wait.” Digby pushed into the crowd.

  The Preacher paused in mid-flow. Where—“ he caught himself just in time. Where goest thou, brother?” he called out.

  Digby raised his hand vaguely. “Upon the Lord’s business, brother, upon the Lord’s business.”

  He made his way through the crowd and out round the straggle of blackberry bushes and young hawthorns to the first gap in the thicket, where Jim Ratcliffe was stationed, carrying with him a gang of small boys who were concerned to discover what the Lord’s business entailed. But the gap was empty; without the distraction of the Preacher’s performance Jim had obviously spotted the tell-tale stain ahead of him.

  Somewhat reassured he continued upstream. The next opening in the undergrowth was nearly a hundred yards on, by a gated farm bridge. That was the most likely place for—

  “Mister! Mister!”

  The treble yell came from behind him. One of the small boys waved frantically at him, and then pointed at Jim’s empty gap.

  “’E’s in the water, mister!” yelled the boy.

  Digby pounded back the way he had come. Inside the gap, between the high tangles of thorn and bramble, there was a yard of ground beyond which the stream widened into a dark little pool.

  “ ‘E’s in the water,” the voice repeated, from behind him now.

  Two slightly larger boys stood on the bank of the stream looking down. One of them squatted down abruptly to get a better view of what lay out of sight.

  “Well, I still think ‘e’s shamming,” said the boy who had remained standing. “It’s what they do, like on the telly.”

  Digby noticed a bright splash of red dye on the crushed grass beside the boy’s left foot.

  “Get out of the way,” he commanded.

  As the boys parted he saw that the pool was bright red.

  He took two steps forward and looked down.

  One thing Jim Ratcliffe certainly wasn’t doing was shamming.

  PART I

  HOW TO BE A GOOD LOSER

  1

  CROMWELLIAN GOLD HOARD

  WORTH “MORE THAN £2m”

  By a Staff Reporter

  A SUBTLE skein of historical mystery, interwoven with the red threads of piracy, civil war and sudden death, surrounds the discovery yesterday of a great treasure of gold, thought to be worth more than £2 million, at Standingham Castle in Wiltshire.

  The discoverer—and the probable owner—of this vast fortune is Mr. Charles Ratcliffe, 26, who inherited the castle recently on the death of his uncle, Mr. Edgar Ratcliffe, 70, after a long illness.

  The gold, nearly a ton of it in crudely-cast ingots, is now under guard awaiting the coroner’s inquest which must by law decide its ownership.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Charles Ratcliffe, who is a Roundhead “officer” in the Double R Society, which re-enacts English Civil War battles and sieges in costume, has revealed how his special knowledge of the period helped him to discover what so many others, Oliver Cromwell among them, have sought down the centuries.

  Yet the story that he has finally unravelled begins, it now seems likely, not at Standingham Castle at all, but far out in the Atlantic Ocean in the year 1630, with the disappearance of the Spanish treasure ship Our Lady of the Immaculate Concepcion.

  Legend has it that this ship fell prey to one of the last of the Devon sea dogs in the Drake image, Captain Edward Parrott, of Hartland, whose own ship, the Elizabeth of Bideford, was lost that same summer on the North Devon rocks.

  It was widely believed in the West Country, however, that Captain Parrott had earlier landed the gold secretly (since England was nominally at peace with Spain at the time), and then had put to sea again.

  No confirmation of this rumour emerged until August, 1643, when during the Civil War a party of Parliamentary horsemen from North Devon led by Colonel Nathaniel Parrott, the Captain’s son, took refuge in Standingham Castle to escape capture by the Royalists.

  Colonel Parrott and his men reinforced the defenders of the castle, which had been re-fortified by its owner, Sir Edmund Steyning, himself a fanatical supporter of the Parliamentary cause.

  They brought it no luck, however. For after a Roundhead relief force had been defeated at the battle of Swine Brook Field, twelve miles away, the castle was stormed by the Royalists and the majority of its defenders massacred.

  Both Colonel Parrott and Sir Edmund were among the dead, but it is known that the Royalist commander, Lord Monson, instituted a thorough—but fruitless— search of the castle directly afterwards. The historical assumption (though one not widely maintained until now) is that both the search, and indeed Lord Monson’s energetic prosecution of the siege, had been inspired by some knowledge of a treasure brought to the castle by the Roundhead horsemen.

  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 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 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 treas
ure but grants “full market value” to the finder. This custom, designed to encourage 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 deal: 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 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 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 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.

  He waited until the jet thunder had become a distant rumble.

  “Others?”

  The Joint Chiefs … among others. “Uh-huh? You mean Sir Frederick and you and the joint Chiefs … and others … all cried my name with one voice in their hour of need?”

  “Something like that. Something very like that.” Stocker was so sure of himself that he was prepared to be magnanimous. Audley recognised the tone. Magnanimity was the civilised victor’s final body-blow to the defeated.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You should be flattered, David. This is an awkward one, but you have the right equipment for it.”

  Audley strained to make out the features of the man in the back of the 2200. “I have the right equipment for rape, but I’ve no intention of letting anyone make a rapist of me, Brigadier.”

  “That wasn’t quite what we had in mind for you.” Stocker was almost genial now. “It’s your brain we need, not any other part of you. You won’t even have to do much leg-work—I’ve detached Paul Mitchell and Frances Fitzgibbon to do all that, directly under your orders. And you can have anything else you want within reason, short of the Brigade of Guards.” He paused. “If you like you can choose your field co-ordinator too.”

  Now that was flattering, thought Audley. To be given two bright field operatives who had worked with him before was commonsense. But to be allowed to choose a co-ordinator was patronage on a grand scale.

  Unfortunately it was also rather frightening.

  “We’ll give you Colonel Butler, if you like.” Stocker actually smiled as he baited the hook with the best co-ordinator in the department. “He’s free at the moment.”

  Audley was saved from not knowing how to react to that by the opening of the 2200’s rear door. The mountain was coming to Mahomet.

  “It’s entirely up to you, anyway,” said Stocker mildly, offering the second cutting a second time. “And naturally we’re not going to insist on anything. But … well, you read this first, David, before you make up your mind.”

  They weren’t going to insist. Audley watched the 2200 as though hypnotised. Of course they weren’t going to insist; with his own money and what he could earn—Tom Gracey had as good as promised a fellowship for the asking—he could flounce off in a huff any day of the week.

  The pressures were much more subtle than that, though.

  The occupant of the 2200 stepped out of the shadow on to the sunlit tarmac.

  Of course they weren’t going to insist. They didn’t have to.

  He took the cutting—

  A TON OF GOLD FOR RED CHARLIE

  Half a lifetime’s professional interest in newspapers identified the typography instantly: this was the popular version of the dignified story he had read earlier.

  Dressed in a flowered shirt and with his long hair curling trendily round his collar, a 26-year-old revolutionary told last night of his amazing discovery of Cromwell’s Gold—a whole ton of it.

  But Ch
arlie Ratcliffe, who inherited near-derelict Standingham Castle in Wiltshire only six weeks ago, is not yet willing to reveal how he found the treasure which is likely to make him one of the richest men in Britain.

  Audley looked up as Stocker opened the car door for the man from the 2200.

  “Thank you, Brigadier. No—it’s all right. I’ll sit here.”

  The Minister drew open the extra seat from its fastening on the partition which separated them from the driver. “There’s plenty of room, I shall be perfectly comfortable … Did everything go satisfactorily?”

  “Yes, sir. We were in and out in five minutes.”

  “Good.” The Minister turned to Audley. “I must apologise for the unorthodox approach, Dr. Audley. At least you were spared the usual inconveniences. And it was necessary, you understand.”

  “Of course, Minister.” At least the man didn’t try to sugar the pill with a diplomatic smile, thought Audley, which saved him from the pettiness of not smiling back. But then this one was the best of the bunch, and more than that a good one by any standards; he wouldn’t smile in this sort of situation unless he encountered something worth smiling about. “Or let’s say I’m beginning to understand.”

  The Minister stared at him for a moment, as though he had expected a different reply. Then he nodded. “But you were reading one of the cuttings. I think you’d better finish it before we go any further.”

  Audley stared back into the cool, appraising eyes behind the thick spectacles before lowering his own to the fragment of newsprint. There were times when it wasn’t disgraceful to be out-stared, even diminished. In that better—and nonexistent—world which he had been mourning a minute or two back this man might have been the leader of his party, rather than a senior member of an embattled flank of it. Half his mind struggled with the printed words and the meanings beneath them—

  … treasure trove inquest shortly to be held.

  And in the meantime an inquest of another kind—of suspected murder— stands adjourned. Its subject is James Ratcliffe, Charlie’s cousin …