"And just what is the significance of that, Professor?"
"Time and place, man—time and place."
"The Steynings were related to the Parrotts, I gather."
"More than that. Nathaniel Parrott's heir was his daughter, his only child. And she was married to Steyning's only surviving son. The other two Steyning sons had already been killed in the war. So Edmund Steyning and Nathaniel Parrott had the same granddaughter— their joint heiress."
"Steyning was a strong Parliament man, obviously."
"Fanatical. Parrott and Steyning were two of a kind, even though Steyning was past his soldiering days. Both fanatical Parliament men—and fanatical Puritans too. Blood, politics and religion, Audley: you can't bind two men more closely than with those three."
Despite his dislike of Nayler, Audley found himself nodding agreement to that. Family and politics and religion . . . dead dummy5
children and a live grandchild . . . those were the solid bricks of the Steyning-Parrott alliance. The Civil War had only bound them tighter together, becoming a make-or-break cause for both families.
And the gold . . . normally the possession of gold divided men more than it united them, but in these peculiar circumstances it would have been the best cement of all—a loan on behalf of their joint grandchild's future, an investment in the service of everything that they believed in.
"So, when you think about it intelligently, Audley, Standingham Castle was the one place Parrott could really feel safe in between North Devon and London."
Audley frowned. "You mean—he went there deliberately? The newspaper report said he was chased there by the Royalists."
Nayler gave a derisive snort. "My dear Audley—you don't really believe what the newspapers say, do you? Besides, he may simply have been chased where he intended to go."
"Even though it was being besieged?"
"The siege was a rather intermittent affair, or it had been up to then, certainly. And Standingham was a great stronghold too; Monson was considerably reinforced that last time, of course."
And maybe the incentive was greater, thought Audley grimly.
With a ton of gold as the prize Black Thomas would probably have chanced his arm on the gates of Hell.
"Hmm . . . You said 'time' as well as place, Professor."
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"I did indeed—don't be dense, my dear fellow. Time and place are what makes the thing certain in my mind. There was absolutely no other reason why Parrott should ride out of his way to Standingham—it wasn't as though the news of his father's death was of the least importance to anyone. He should have gone straight back to his regiment, where he was urgently needed. That's Point One.
"And Point Two is that he took far too long to get there in any case. That is, if he'd still been travelling the way he'd come.
Which of course he wasn't, because now he had a ton of gold to transport. And that would mean wagons or pack horses, probably pack horses—or pack ponies, seeing that he was coming from the West Country. But for much of the route he'd be passing through Royalist-held territory, so that would mean using back-roads and circling the main towns and villages. Quite a deal of night-marching too, I shouldn't wonder ... all of which would play the very devil with the men and the animals."
True enough, Audley conceded grudgingly. The man might be a bastard, and for sure he was being wise after the event, but he'd done his work properly all the same.
"I see. He had to have somewhere to rest up en route."
"At last you're beginning to see the light! Somewhere safe, with someone he could trust. Preferably about halfway to London. Standingham Castle and Sir Edmund Steyning."
Nayler paused. "All inference, of course—all hypothesis. But when you throw a ton of gold into the scales you'll see that dummy5
I'm right. . . . And if you're looking for more detail, I suggest you switch on your little television the Sunday after next and it'll all be there."
Indeed it would. And Charlie Ratcliffe's claim to fortune would be established to the satisfaction of tens of millions, too; established so that even those who loathed everything which he stood for would concede his right to his loot.
So the gold was real.
And the emergency was real.
The phone pipped for more money and he automatically fed the last of his change into it.
"Are you phoning from a call box?" Nayler managed to make the simple question sound contemptuous.
"Uh-huh. . . . One more thing. Professor: where do the Ratcliffes come into the story?"
"The Ratcliffes? Oh, they simply had the good fortune to marry the granddaughter—the Steyning-Parrott heiress. She was the only survivor of the whole affair, you know . . . and later on she became Cromwell's ward. It's interesting that he never married her off to anyone—interesting and possibly significant, because he was one of the first to look for the gold. . . . But then after the restoration of the Monarchy in 1660 she prudently secured her estates by marrying the first impoverished Royalist who came her way. A sharp fellow by the name of Charles Ratcliffe, oddly enough."
The original Charlie Ratcliffe.
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"Even without the gold it was a good match for him,"
continued Nayler. "His family had lost everything in the war, confiscated or sold—I don't know which, and she brought him about five thousand acres in exchange for his name. It was a good English compromise, even if he was a bit of a bounder."
Pirates, religious and political fanatics— and now bounders.
If Charlie was a throwback to the seventeenth century he had everything going for him, no doubt about that, from the Parrott-Steyning-Ratcliffe connection.
But time was running out—
"You don't happen to know how the gold was found, do you, Professor?"
Nayler chuckled malevolently. "Yes I do—as it happens. But that's classified, I'm afraid, Audley. You'll have to wait your turn for that like the rest. It's a little surprise we've got up our sleeves, don't you know."
Bastard, bastard, bastard.
"But I'll tell you this, Audley: they were clever, Parrott and Steyning were. Both devious and ruthless men, no question about that. Just you wait for my little television programme, eh? Clever and devious and ruthless—and Parrott was the more ruthless of the two."
The pips sounded, and an obscene insult formed on Audley's tongue.
But then Dr. Highsmith shook his head: revenge was a dish dummy5
which should always be served cold.
"Thank you, Professor. You've been extremely—"
The phone cut him off. Extremely, unpleasantly, humiliatingly helpful. Nothing was going to shake the historical existence of that gold. The first cutting had been accurate enough. It remained to be seen whether he could improve on the second one.
3
THE signpost was just where the Brigadier had said it would be, exactly at the crest of the ridge. But then the Brigadier was always exact.
Audley parked his new 2200 carefully on the verge and studied the sign without enthusiasm. After his initial resistance he had felt the old inevitable curiosity stirring, not for the job itself, but for the ultimate why hidden somewhere at the heart of it. But now the reaction to the curiosity was setting in: such curiosity was well enough for Rikki-tikki the young mongoose, but for a respectable middle-aged husband and father it was a poor substitute for the soft breasts and soft cheeks of home after a long journey from foreign parts.
The sign was small and newly painted, or even brand new, and it bore the legend To the Monument in capital letters, and Swine Brook Field 1643 in lower case beneath them.
He climbed stiffly out of the car and surveyed the landscape.
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The crest of the ridge was quite sharp, almost a miniature hog's back compared with the undulations to the east and west of it.