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"So what do they reveal?" asked Audley. "Get to the point, man."
"Yes . . . well, the point is that the Earldom of Dawlish was created in 1690 by William III for services rendered by a certain George Dangerfield, who'd helped to raise the West Country against James II in 1688—"
Frances took a deep breath. "But—"
"Who in turn happened to be the grandson of a certain John Dangerfield— wait for it, Frances—who was the boon companion and crony of Captain Sir Edward Parrott, our Nathaniel's piratical father. How's that for size, then?"
Mitchell smiled at them both. "And what is even more to the point is that John Dangerfield corresponded regularly with John Pym in Westminster. There are copies of letters he wrote to Pym in 1642 and 1643 in the archives, which means that he had a courier of some kind who was prepared to run the gauntlet through Royalist country."
For a moment no one spoke, then Frances said: "But he didn't write about the gold."
Mitchell's face creased with sudden irritation. "Aw—come on, Frances! What d'you want, a miracle? Look at the way it fits in—" he raised a hand with the little finger extended "— one—
Charlie Ratcliffe, who isn't interested in Civil Wars or family history, gets a job sorting seventeenth-century documents; two—" a second finger came up "—the documents he sorts belong to a neighbour of his gold-robbing ancestors, the Parrotts; three—Charlie is suddenly in love with history and dummy5
ancestor worship; four—Cousin James dies; five— Charlie starts looking for gold, and finds it; six—" the second thumb came up "—Charlie quietly suppresses all reference to one."
He seized his little finger again. "Which means if there was evidence of the gold's existence, then Charlie's got it."
Audley rubbed his chin. "It would only be just that—evidence of its existence."
"Oh, sure. Nathaniel couldn't have known he'd have to hide it en route. But you wanted to know why Charlie was so sure there was gold to be found, and I reckon I've given you a pretty damn convincing sequence of possibilities. Everybody who ever looked for that gold could only hope that it wasn't a legend. But Charlie—he knew it was there somewhere. And I'd guess that Nayler knew it too."
Audley looked quickly at Mitchell. Not only a warm young man, but a hot one was Paul Mitchell. Because that was probably the key to Charlie Ratcliffe's achievement: the faith which moved this mountain was no relative of pious conviction, it was a positive certainty based on inside information. And that, at the moment, was also what made Paul Mitchell formidable too: he still believed with that same positive certainty that he had the inside information about himself.
And doubly hot, because the final conclusion of that sequence of possibilities of his—the seventh finger conclusion
— had to be the correct one. Indeed, it was the logical extension of that midnight brainwave which had disturbed dummy5
Faith: only something of quite extraordinary importance could have caused the Royalist and Roundhead generals to detach men from their field armies at the start of a desperate campaign, the campaign which had ended with the relief of Gloucester and the battle of Newbury, to intervene in an unimportant castle siege which was little better than a private feud.
It was just possible, in fairness, that the Royalists were reacting to a Roundhead intrusion into their territory: a quick cavalry dash was the sort of risk Prince Rupert would have relished. But the solid Parliamentary commanders of 1643 would never have countenanced such a move for precisely that reason. For them there had to be a certainty, and for certainty there had to be—again—inside information.
Which meant that there must have been communication between Colonel Nathaniel Parrott in North Devon and John Pym in Westminster. And what better for that than John Dangerfield's own private courier?
"David—" Frances interrupted his train of thought.
And the irony was that almost all the details of this tapestry of events had been known long before Charlie Ratcliffe had chanced on the proof of it. It had all been there fossilised in history, like the bones of the dinosaurs, waiting for somebody to treat it not as a curious and amusing footnote, but as a rock-hard fact.
"There's someone outside, David," said Frances.
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Audley's train of thought halted abruptly. He had half-noticed a mouse-like scuffling on the landing, but had dismissed it as the ordinary sound of the house; now, as he roused himself, the scuffling nerved itself into a sharp little knuckle-tap on the door.
"Come in," said Audley.
The door-knob shivered, then turned slowly. Mitchell came up out of his chair with uncharacteristic clumsiness, catching Champion's galloping leg on his sleeve and setting the horse rearing and plunging wildly on his stand. As the door began to open—and to open with the same terrifying slowness with which the doorknob had turned—he reached across for the hilt of his sword, for all the world like the young D'Artagnan surprised by the Cardinal's guard with the Queen's emeralds in his pocket. Incredibly, he even started to draw the blade; Audley's hold on reality went spinning as his attention was held by the mad grin of the rocking-horse and the madder sight of cold steel.
Then the sword-hand froze—and relaxed.
In the open doorway were two exquisite children, the seventeenth-century owners of the playroom, the boy an exact miniature of Paul in red taffeta and the girl a tiny blonde mite enveloped in apple-green watered silk.
The sword rasped back into its scabbard. It was an insane world, thought Audley—an insane, wicked, self-destructive world. And he had just witnessed (and, from the pounding of his heart, taken part in) one of its more horror-comic dummy5
moments.
"Ahah!" The forced jollity of Mitchell's voice betrayed the same insanity. "Mistress Henrietta Rushworth and Master Nigel Rushworth—well met, once again."
The little boy's eyes shifted from Mitchell to Audley, and Audley's own eyes dropped to the plain buff-coloured envelope the child held to his chest.
"Mistress Henrietta and Master Nigel are going to watch the battle this afternoon," explained Mitchell. "Isn't that right?"
"Everyone's dressed up," said Mistress Henrietta breathlessly. "Even Grandpa's going to dress up."
"Is that so?" said Audley. "Do you like dressing up?"
Mistress Henrietta nodded solemnly. "Why aren't you dressed up?"
"I didn't have time—and I haven't a costume." But I am dressed up really. It's the four of you who are in your real clothes. "I shall dress up next time."
"Next time." Mistress Henrietta gave him a comforting nod.
"Next time." Audley nodded back.
"Nigel's got something for you," said Henrietta, reaching out for the envelope as she spoke. "The man gave it to Grandpa."
Nigel quickly lifted the envelope above her reach, though without attempting to offer it to Audley.
"What man?"
"The man with red hair and a red face," said Mistress dummy5
Henrietta graphically. "He's waiting for you downstairs—
Nigel!"
Nigel solved his problem by taking a step forward and handing over the envelope.
"Thank you, Nigel. Will you tell the man I shall be down in a moment?"
Nigel nodded, took a step back and dug Mistress Henrietta in the ribs with his elbow.
"Lay off!" said Mistress Henrietta angrily.
Blushing to the roots of his hair, Master Nigel bent over and whispered in her ear urgently.
"Oh!" Mistress Henrietta's gaze shifted from Audley to Mitchell. Then, as her brother straightened up, she searched in the leather bag which hung from her wrist and triumphantly produced a handful of rather crushed parsley.