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  King versus Parliament.

  Cavaliers versus Roundheads.

  Dashing Prince Rupert versus dour Oliver Cromwell.

  Cavaliers—wrong, but romantic.

  Roundheads—right, but repulsive.

  And, of course, the Roundheads had won, and dear old Sir Jacob Astley, surrendering the last Royalist army, had summed up this and all other wars—You have now done your work and may go play; unless you fall out amongst yourselves. . . .

  Which the victorious Roundheads had promptly done.

  Because now, in place of the King and his cavaliers, they had Cromwell and the terrible New Model Army which had won the war—the unbeatable Ironsides who knew what they were fighting for (more or less), and loved what they knew.

  It was coming back, thought Audley. Some of it, anyway.

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  And then Cromwell had ruled England with his New Model sword, and a great many people had felt the edge of it—the Scots and the Irish and the new young King Charles II ... and the Dutch and the Spaniards, and even the Algerine pirates, by God!

  And the English themselves most of all, and they hadn't liked that very much—

  In the name of Lucifer, Amen; Noll Cromwell, Lord Chief Governor of Ireland, Grand Plotter and Contriver of all Mischiefs in England, Lord of Misrule, Knight of the Order of Regicides, Thieftenant-General of the Rebels, Duke of Devilishness, Ensign of Evil, being most wickedly disposed of mind— they hadn't liked it at all, having a man who made the trains run on time, and solved the parking problem, and evened the balance of payments by throwing a sword on to the scales.

  Yes, it was coming back, but he needed much more precise information than this before he could decide what to do.

  He assembled his small change in neat piles and dialled the London number of the ancient banking house of Fattorini.

  "David Audley for Matthew Fattorini, please."

  "Will you hold the line please, Mr. Audley." Polite voice, polite pause for checking Matthew's personal list. "I'm putting you through now, Dr Audley."

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  A shorter pause—"Hello, David! I thought you were in Washington."

  "You know too much, Matthew. I was, but now I'm not . . .

  And I need to pick your brains."

  "Pick away, dear man—brains, pockets, it's all the same—

  empty."

  Since Matthew Fattorini was certainly one of the shrewdest men in London, and would be one of the richest there before he retired, that was a mild departure from the truth, thought Audley.

  "Gold, Matthew."

  "Uh-huh. Buying or selling?"

  "Neither."

  "Pity. Lovely stuff, gold. Price is just about to go down, too."

  "I want information, Matthew."

  "Don't we all, dear man! But if you want to know whether the Portuguese are going to sell some more of their reserves —

  and they've got at least 800 tons still— or how much the Russians are going to sell for that US grain, you've come to the wrong man—sorry."

  "Not that sort of information. Historical information."

  Silence. Audley fed the coin box again.

  "What sort of history, David?"

  "Sixteenth, seventeenth century."

  Another moment of silence. "Wouldn't be Cromwell's gold by dummy5

  any chance, would it, David?"

  Audley grinned into the mouthpiece. "I told you, you know too much, Matthew."

  "Read the papers, that's all. Lots of interesting things in the papers—you should know, you spend most of your time keeping the best stories out of 'em. But still lots of interesting things. Some of 'em very nearly true, too."

  "Like a ton of gold? Can that be on the level, Matthew?"

  "Why not, David? Ton of gold weighs the same as a ton of wheat. It's just worth more—and easier to move, that's all."

  "Did they ship that sort of cargo from America?"

  "In the seventeenth century? Dear man, that was the main cargo from the Spanish American colonies for years—gold and silver, plus gems and spices. I know for a fact that California was producing up to eighty tons a year in the 1850s, and Australia even more. If you think of all the gold-producing areas in the Americas— well, Francis Drake picked up tons of the stuff, gold and silver, in that one raid of his in the 1570s. And that must have been all from the current year's ore, they wouldn't have left the previous year's production just lying around, would they now?"

  "But in one shipment, Matthew?"

  "You mean all their eggs in one basket? Yes, I see. ..."

  "And with pirates and bad weather—"

  "Ah—now you're being deceived by your own historical propaganda. The English—and the French and the Dutch too dummy5

  —always dreamed of Spanish treasure ships, but they very rarely captured one. They travelled in convoy, for a start. And there were very few men of Drake's calibre . . . which was of course why the Spaniards made such a fuss about him.

  Besides, this shipment of yours was much later—in the 1620s or 30s, if I remember right, wasn't it? That is the one we're talking about, I presume?"

  The mixture of disinterested interest and casual helpfulness was almost perfectly compounded, thought Audley.

  "You wouldn't have a personal interest in Charlie Ratcliffe's credit, would you, Matthew?"

  "Hah! Now who knows too much for his own good, eh?"

  Matthew chuckled briefly. "But as it happens—no. I'm not a crude money-lender. And if I was . . . there are some people I wouldn't lend money to."

  "But there are people who might?"

  "If they thought the profit and the risk matched up—I know of one such." There was an edge to Matthew's tone. "Though now you're showing such a laudable interest in Spanish-American economic history, am I entitled to hope that he's going to be in trouble?"

  "You're not entitled to hope for anything, Matthew."

  "Pity. But what you really need is an expert historian, my friend."

  "I know. I suppose you don't happen to have one in your counting-house, do you?"

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  "Not bloody likely. But I can give you a name." Matthew chuckled again. "You won't like it though, I tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "Why not? Hah—well you remember that long streak of wind-and-piss on our staircase at Cambridge—the one who got a First despite everything his tutor could do? The one who read The Times aloud at breakfast?"

  "Nayler?"

  "Professor Stephen Nayler to you, you hireling. He's transmogrified himself into a Fellow of St. Martin's, and he's also by way of being a television pundit on matters historical for the BBC. But I expect you've seen him on the box, haven't you? Or do you just watch the rugger and Tom and Jerry?"

  "What's Nayler got to do with Charlie Ratcliffe's gold, Matthew?"

  "Why—everything, dear man. The blighter's going to do a programme of some sort on it. A sort of on-the-spot re-enactment, complete with young Charlie dressed up as his revolting ancestor. ... So if you go crawling cap in hand to the great man himself he'll surely help you."

  "I should very much doubt it. We never got on with each other."

  "Got on? Dear man, he hated your guts —you were the ghastly rugger-playing hearty who nearly pipped him for the senior scholarship. And that's precisely why he'll help you, if you abase yourself suitably. Where's your psychology?"

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  Matthew Fattorini clucked to himself. "No, he won't be your problem. . . . It's young Charlie you want to watch out for."

  "Indeed?" If Matthew was fishing, this was one time he'd find nothing on the hook.

  "Indeed and indeed." Fattorini gave a grunt. "Oh, yes—I know what you're thinking: you play with the big rough boys, and he's just a juvenile revolutionary. But I mean it all the same, David."

  "You know him?"

  "Never met him in my life. But I know he's a man with a lot of gold."

  "Gold—meaning power?"

  "Not just power.
Gold changes people, believe me."

  "You should know, Matthew."

  "I do." Fattorini's voice was serious. "But my gold is all on paper. Ratcliffe's is the real thing, and it's all his. And what's even more to the point is he's handled it —a lot of it. They say you're never the same after that, it turns little pussycats into tigers. Remember Bogart in 'Sierra Madre'? Don't you forget that, David...."

  Audley picked up the remains of his money and walked back to collect the beer and the pie, his reward for being right about Matthew Fattorini's usefulness.

  He sat on the grass, swigged the beer, munched the pie and dummy5

  thought about how much Matthew must dislike the anonymous source of Charlie's present credit. That in itself was interesting.

  But Nayler was something different. All he could remember was a spotty face, uncombed hair and a long, lanky body.

  Plus, of course, the voice which had driven Matthew and himself from the breakfast table all those years ago. But if he'd got that senior scholarship he could hardly be stupid, anyway.

  He swallowed the last fragment of pie, washing it down with the last draught of beer, and sighed deeply. It had been a bonus that Matthew had known as much as he did, confirming the Brigadier's information about the fund-raising. And Matthew had even produced the right reaction at his interest in the subject. But in the meantime, here and now and in the sacred name of duty, he was going to have to undertake some cap-in-hand crawling.

  He retraced his steps unwillingly to the phone box, piled up his coins again, and obtained Nayler's college number from directory inquiries.

  There was always hope that the man was out. Or even that he wasn't up at all, since term had nowhere near started, and every self-respecting don would be away from college until it did. Or even that he was happily and fruitfully married, and was taking his wife and his seven ugly and precocious daughters to Bournemouth for a prolonged summer holiday.

  Then he could honourably get someone else to do this job.

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  But he knew even before the Porter's Lodge answered that it wouldn't be so. All the laws of chance decreed that anything anyone didn't want to happen as much as that had to happen, no matter what the mathematical odds against.

  "What name shall I give, sir?" inquired the Porter politely.

  "Audley. David Audley." Audley closed his eyes. "We were ...

  up ... together many years ago, you might remind him."

  And there wasn't the slightest possibility that Nayler wouldn't help him. Plus not the smallest fraction of that slightest possibility that he wouldn't settle a few old scores in doing so.

  "Hullo?" The voice set Audley's teeth on edge. "Hullo there?"

  "Professor Nayler?" Audley opened his eyes to glare at the dying elms. "This is David Audley. Do you remember me?"

  "But of course! How are you, my dear fellow? Flourishing, I hope."

  The machine asked for more money.

  "Well enough." Audley swallowed.

  "Jolly good." The words were qualified with an audible sniff.

  "What is it that you're doing now—teaching is it?" Nayler managed to make teaching sound like sewing mailbags.

  "No." That was all he could manage. But he had to do better than that, for the Minister's sake if not for his own.

  "No? But you did publish a little book not so long ago, didn't you? I seem to recall seeing it mentioned somewhere."

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  The scale of the insult had a steadying effect. It was on a par with reading The Times aloud at breakfast.

  "Yes. But I work for the Treasury now." That was safe. But more to the point, it was also sufficiently impressive.

  "The Treasury?" Nayler sounded disappointed. "Jolly good. ... So what can I do for you, then?"

  "We're working on the Standingham Castle gold hoard—you may have read about it in the press?"

  "The Standingham Castle hoard?" Nayler was elaborately casual. If Matthew was right he must have all the facts to hand by now, but he wasn't going to admit prior knowledge of the question.

  Audley felt better now, even a little ashamed that he had ever let his temper rise; in such circumstances as these flattery did not belittle the flatterer, only the flattered.

  "We're looking for an expert to confirm some of the historical facts. Naturally, your name was the first one to come up, Professor."

  Nayler bowed to him over the phone. "What is it you want to know?"

  "Just the broad details. Did the Spaniards really lose a major shipment of gold at that time?"

  "Yes, they did. There's a newsletter from the Fuggers'

  Antwerp agent reporting it overdue."

  "All that gold in one ship?"

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  "Yes . . . well, that was due to a series of unfortunate accidents. The treasure fleet put into Havana en route from the mainland ports—Nombre de Dios and Porto Bello and so on. But two of them had been damaged in a storm, and they transhipped their gold into the Concepcion and the San Salvador. And then, during the second storm in the Atlantic, when the fleet was scattered, the San Salvador sprang a bad leak and they transhipped again when the weather moderated. So the Concepcion was carrying a quite exceptional cargo when the third storm broke."

  "And then they were scattered again?"

  "That's correct. But the San Salvador made port and the Concepcion didn't— that was how the first news of the loss reached Europe."

  "I see. Whereas in fact old man Parrott scooped it up for himself?"

  "That was the legend in North Devon, certainly. It was never substantiated, of course."

  "You mean, they took a treasure ship with a ton of gold—and nobody blabbed?"

  "Ah—no, Audley. It wasn't quite like that. The story was that Edward Parrott landed the gold secretly at Shipload Bay, because England was at peace with Spain and what he'd done was the blackest piracy and couldn't possibly be publicly admitted. And then he stood out to sea again and made for Bideford—the Elizabeth of Bideford was his ship. But then dummy5

  the storm caught him—"

  "Another storm?"

  "They called that year 'the Year of Storms', Audley. The fourth one that summer took six ships between Padstow and Hartland Point—including the Elizabeth of Bideford on the rocks of Morwenstow. Only three of her crew made the shore and lived."

  "Including Edward Parrott, I take it?"

  "Including Edward Parrott. And none of them talked."

  "Then how did the legend start?"

  "I said three got ashore and lived. There was a fourth who came ashore farther down the coast, a very young boy. The local story was that he babbled of a great treasure of Spanish gold before he died."

  "Hmm. . . . Not only the local story but the old, old story. No wonder no one believed it later on—'the dying survivor babbling of treasure' would have been the kiss of death to it."

  "But in this instance it was the truth, Audley."

  It looked as though Professor Nayler belonged to the wise-after-the-event brigade.

  "It certainly looks that way, I agree."

  "I should think so. The idea that this young man—what's his name . . . Ratcliffe—could rob Fort Knox does seem a somewhat quaint conceit, if I may say so. But then I suppose you Treasury people have to leave no stone unturned, eh?"

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  Audley wondered idly for a moment how his opposite number in the KGB would have conducted this inquiry, then thrust the thought out of his mind. That way lay sinful and very dangerous heresies.

  "We're rather more interested in establishing why the—ah—

  young man was so sure the gold existed. After all, the experts said it didn't."

  "Oh no, not all the experts, Audley. No indeed!" Modest pause for the shaking of distinguished head. "I've long had my suspicions about that little episode. “

  "You thought the gold did exist?

  "I thought there was a strong possibility." Nayler was hedging slightly now. "Of course there was no direct ev
idence, of course. As things stood it was—ah—a mere footnote. Or not even that, really."

  Message received: if Nayler had really believed as much, which was bloody doubtful, he hadn't been willing to commit himself in print as saying so. But no matter—

  "No direct evidence? Meaning there was indirect evidence?"

  "Circumstantial evidence Or shall we say inferential evidence?"

  We could say what we liked as long as we said something useful, thought Audley tightly. "Apart from the timing of the disappearance of the Conception and the wreck of the Elizabeth?"

  "Oh yes, indeed. I shall be saying as much on the television dummy5

  shortly, on their 'Testimony of the Spade' programme— BBC

  2, of course."

  Of course. No vulgar commercials there —except for Professor Nayler.

  "Indeed? Well, you wouldn't care to give me a brief preview? I

  —and the Treasury—would be in your debt then, Professor.

  For our ears only, as it were?" Uriah Keep couldn't do better than that, by God!

  "I don't see why not. It's really quite simple when you know how to interpret the facts. . . . You see, Audley, the gold went to ground in North Devon after it was landed. Edward Parrott was a prudent man, he knew exactly what would happen if word of it reached the Government. He ... he knew the score, you might say—if you will forgive the colloquialism."

  Pompous bastard!

  "You mean—he didn't want to hang in chains with the other pirates in execution dock?"

  "Hang in chains?"

  "You said it was the blackest piracy."

  "And so it was, Audley, and so it was. But I mean the political score. You mustn't think of the Parrotts as mere nobodies; they were squires and gentlemen. Edward Parrott sat for Hartland in the first three of Charles I's parliaments—he owned the seat. And his son Nathaniel sat in the other two, the Short Parliament and the Long Parliament. So they were dummy5

  very well aware of the political situation."

  Audley cudgelled his memory viciously. He knew now exactly the game Nayler was playing—and winning, petty though it was: the price of information was that he must crawl for it, admitting his ignorance.