Gold By Gemini

I’ll do a deal,' I called. He said nothing. 'Rink?'

'You're in no position to do any dealing, Lovejoy.'

'All right,' I said at last. 'I know where the stuff is.'

'Tell me.'

'No. I want… a guarantee.' That's a laugh, I thought, an antique dealer asking for a guarantee. A record. It'd make a good headline. Antique Dealer Demands Guarantee As Typhoon Grips Ocean…

'You're inventing, Lovejoy.' He was looking intently at me.

'I'm not. I do know. It's true.'

And all of a sudden it was.

I yelped aloud as if I'd been kicked, actually screamed and brought Rink to his feet. I knew exactly where Bexon had put the gold. I could take anybody there. Now. A place I'd never seen, but the precise spot there and I knew it almost down to the bloody inch.

I could see it in my mind's eye. The wheel. The water. The Roman coffin. Splashing water and the pompous lady of the sketch in her daft one-wheeled carriage. I was smiling, even, then chuckling, then laughing. What a lovely mind the old man must have had. How sad I'd never met him.

'I know!' I was laughing and applauding, actually clapping like a lunatic as if a great orchestra played. I laughed and cheered and jigged, banging my palms and taking bows. I bounced and shook my bars. 'The old bastard!' I bawled out ecstatically, laughing and letting the tears run down my face. I practically floated on air with joy. If I'd tried I could have flown up and landed running. 'The beautiful old bastard!' I roared louder still with delighted laughter. 'The old bugger's had us on all along!' And I was on the selfsame island, the very ground where the Roman Suetonius had landed, pouring his Gemini Legion on the Douglas strand. History was wrong. Bexon was right. The clever old sod.

'Where is it? Where?' Rink was on his feet, puce with rage.

'Get stuffed, Rink!' I screamed merrily, capering. 'It deserves me, not a frigging cold lizard like you, you -'

I’ll - ' He was raising the gun in a rage when he seemed to jerk his legs backwards.

Perhaps he slipped. He gave a rather surprised but muted call, not even a shout, and tumbled forwards. The shotgun clattered on the platform. I watched frozen as he moved out into the free air above the yawning seal pen and started to turn downwards.

It was a kind of formal progression. I can see him yet, gravely progressing in a curve, arms out and legs splayed as if to catch a wind. Only the scream told it wasn't as casual as all that. It began an instant before the body dropped tidily on to the iron stakes on the crumbling stone barrier. Rink seemed to move silently once or twice as if wanting to settle the iron more comfortably through his impaled trunk. An incoming wave began its whooshing rush at the inlet's horrible mouth. His limbs jerked once before the sea rushed over him. An arm moved slowly as if reaching into the trapped lagoon of the seal pen. The wave sighed back, stained dark. Oddly, it only became a deeper green from his blood. There was no red. I was staring at him some time. He must have been dead on impact, I guessed. What a terrible, horrendous word that is. Impact. There's nothing left once you've said a word like that is there? Impact. I was shivering from head to foot. Impact. I was violently sick inside the cage.

The worst of it was the sea kept moving him. It seemed as if he was alive still, trying to rearrange matters so as to make a slight improvement in the circumstances in which his corpse now unfortunately found itself. The start of a demented housekeeping in his new resting-place. I turned away and retched and retched. Lighter now, I thought wryly, maybe an easier climb.

'Lovejoy,' a pale shaky voice called. I could see nobody.

'Who is it?'

'It's Nichole. Are you safe?'

'Is there a rope up there?' A pause. Please don't let her have fainted or anything.

'Nichole?'

'Yes.' Her voice carried distantly down the cliff. I strained to see her. 'It's fastened to the wood.'

'Don't pull it off!' I howled in panic. 'Don't touch the fastening. Just chuck the free end over. And keep back from the edge.' I repeated the instructions time after time in a demented yell until I saw the rope come. I tugged it, swinging on it as a test. 'Does it look firm to you?' I shouted.

'Yes.' She didn't sound so sure. I swarmed up, holding the free rope between my feet like I'd seen circus climbers do to lessen the strain on my hands. It seemed an age but, knowing me, couldn't have been longer than a couple of millisecs.

I sprawled gasping on the rock at Nichole's feet. Why hadn't I noticed it had started raining? The poor lass was weeping but quite honestly my sympathy for others was a bit used up. I crawled away from the edge and rose shakily. We embraced, Nichole trembling and heartbroken and me quivering from relief and eagerness. It wasn't far to Bexon's hoard.

'I was so afraid,' Nichole said. 'You were so calm and brave. Edward was like a mad thing. He kept making me help.'

'Thanks for the rescue, love,' I said. I moved us further inland. Neither of us wanted to see the inlet and its seal pen ever again.

'Is… is Edward…?'

'Let's go straight home.' I comforted her as we walked towards the sheep. A group was watching. They looked so absolutely bloody calm. What right had they to be so unconcerned while I'd nearly snuffed it? I was furious and made them scatter with a sudden shout to teach them a lesson, the smug bastards. It was all right for them. They were safe in a field of their own.

'Don't we have to tell the authorities?' Nichole asked. 'Poor Edward.'

'In a minute,' I said. I’ll show you my bungalow first. It's in Groundle Glen. Not far. You can rest there. I've got something to do. I'll only be a few minutes.'

Janie and Algernon would be gone, Rink had said.

We got through the wire into the fold. The sheep had assembled on the landward side.

I avoided their accusing eyes as we made our way over the humped field and clambered down to the overgrown railway. Well, I thought defensively, they could at least have looked just a little bit anxious on my behalf. People are far too bloody complacent these days. Just let a sheep get into trouble and it expects shepherds, collie dogs, a wholesale search, the lot. Sheep have even got a parable to themselves, selfish swine.

'Look, love,' I said. 'About poor Edward.'

'He was obsessed with these fanciful stories,' she sniffed. 'He made me -'

'Yes, darling.' I explained how we'd better just go. People would assume it was some ghastly hunting accident. Nothing could be done for him now anyway. She took it really well. I said she was a brave lass.

Neither Nichole nor I looked back at the inlet, nor down into the water. We left the platform with Rink's gun and its open hamper. The seagulls would handle what was left.

I was still smouldering when we came within sight of the ruined terminus. I pointed out the bungalows across the valley from among the trees.

'See that one with the smoking chimney?' I said.

'Near the blue Lagonda?'

'Eh? Oh, er, yes.' Well, well. Janie was supposed to have gone chasing to the ferry.

'Anyhow, three roofs to your right. That's it.' I gave her the key. 'Wait there for me. I'll be back smartish.'

'Edward's car's there too,' she sniffed. 'We had the bungalow next to the shop place.'

Cunning old Edward.

'I'll not be long.' I saw her off where the footpath wound down from the railway. She kissed me. Twice she turned to wave. I watched her go. I didn't move until I saw her slight figure appear on the valley floor below. She walked out upon the wooden bridge and turned to wave again, shading her eyes at me. I waved and stayed put. She stepped on to the metalled road, heading up to the cluster of bungalows.

I ducked behind foliage and raced along the railway track.

You can't blame me, really. The law of treasure trove says firmly that the person finding precious archaeological stuff is entitled to the treasure's value. No messing about. So if you find another priceless miraculous dump of 'old pewter', as it was called, like that pop singer did at Water Newton - incidentally now the brilliant centrepiece of early Christian silver exhibitions the world over - you claim its market value. The coroner fixes the money for you with independent assessors. Naturally, you can't keep the actual trove itself. That usually gets stuck in the British Museum or somewhere. But you get the market value. Fair's fair. The trouble is that two equal finders are made to share equally by the nasty old coroner, who cruelly wouldn't trust Lovejoy to be reasonable.