'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.
After what I'd been through I deserved at least sixty per cent, I told myself as I hurtled through the undergrowth along the steep hillside. If not seventy. In fact, I was reasoning as I ran breathlessly by the ruined terminus and started down the steep stepped path towards the waterlogged forest floor and the clumps of palm trees, I really deserved it all.
There must have been torrential rain somewhere on the uplands. The river was in hectic spate. Even the lagoon water was swirling. I noticed that several of the small overgrown weed islands were partly submerged. The run was taking it out of me, probably the after effects of the climb and Edward Rink. I was astonished to realize blood was running down my face. My own blood. Then I remembered, just before fainting with fright, that he'd taken a shot at me. A rock chip had caught my face. It really had been a hard day.
