War Game

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.'