Tarver's Treasure Read online

  For Cathy

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Preface

  Prelude

  Chapter One: The Wedding

  Chapter Two: Facing the French

  Chapter Three: Enter John Dover

  Chapter Four: A Task for Jack Tarver

  Chapter Five: The Road to Fiddien

  Chapter Six: John Dover Returns

  Chapter Seven: Search for the Key

  Chapter Eight: Missing

  Chapter Nine: Inside Manderaggio

  Chapter Ten: A Common Spy

  Chapter Eleven: The Plain of Maida

  Chapter Twelve: Facing the French

  Chapter Thirteen: Inside the Naked Square

  Chapter Fourteen: More Danger

  Chapter Fifteen: Clue to the Key

  Chapter Sixteen: Underground

  Chapter Seventeen: Disaster

  Chapter Eighteen: Dover Again

  Chapter Nineteen: Disappearing Treasure

  Chapter Twenty: Surprising Revelations

  Chapter Twenty-One: The Sword

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Preface

  Malta

  Phoenecians, Carthaginians, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans and Spanish in turn ruled the island of Malta. In 1530, Malta was handed to the Knights of the Order of St John of Jerusalem. These Knights were a military and religious order who, for more than two centuries, made the island their headquarters. By the end of the eighteenth century, Britain and France vied for world supremacy and the power of the Knights waned. In 1798, a French fleet under Napoleon Bonaparte arrived off Malta and demanded the right to water. The Grandmaster allowed only four ships at a time to enter the Grand Harbour; Bonaparte took this as a refusal and invaded.

  Although the Knights had once dominated the central Mediterranean, they put up little resistance. As Spain was allied to France, the Spanish knights refused to fight and the island fell. The French stole all the treasure they could, loaded it onto a battleship named L’Orient and sailed to Egypt, leaving a few thousand men as a garrison. The Maltese rose in rebellion and requested help from Great Britain. After a long siege, Captain Alexander Ball helped the Maltese dispose of the French and re-take the island; there was a request to take Malta under British protection and the Union Flag fluttered over the Valletta Ramparts for the next 170 years.

  Prelude

  Malta: July 1798

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s only a goat. Keep moving!’

  The men struggled under their heavy burdens, occasionally gasping or muttering in their native Maltese. As a foot brushed against a loose stone, it clinked as it rolled amongst others, causing the men to glance behind them, cursing the moon-cast shadows that deceived the eye so walls appeared insubstantial and herds of goats masqueraded as French cavalrymen. In the distance, dominated by the cathedral, the skyline of Mdina thrust boldly upwards.

  ‘Rest for a moment and I’ll see if our people are coming.’

  Despite his stocky build, the speaker scrambled easily up a rocky knoll. He extended a long brass spyglass, poised for a moment to scan the surrounding countryside and slid down, nodding.

  ‘Are they coming?’ The questioner was small and swarthy, with a brass ring through the lobe of his left ear.

  ‘They are,’ the stocky man said. ‘I don’t know how many, but we must hurry!’

  The swarthy man nodded, touched the butt of the pistol that was thrust into the waistband of his trousers and looked upwards to the sky. ‘Let’s hope there are no French patrols out tonight.’

  The first man strode forward, singing as he balanced a bag in his arms; a small group followed, leading two pack mules, and hundreds of others came behind, with a single bag or sweating with the weight of cumbersome packages that glinted revealingly under the shaded moon.

  ‘Keep quiet,’ the swarthy man hissed. ‘In case the French come!’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re too busy desecrating St Paul’s to patrol the countryside.’ The stocky man touched the cutlass that balanced on his hip. ‘It’s not yet the time to fight.’

  ‘They’re worse than Saint Alfonso,’ the swarthy man said.

  ‘Fine bedfellows,’ a sharp-nosed woman said bitterly. ‘They’re equally guilty of whoring with the devil.’

  The stocky man opened his mouth to demand silence, but closed it again. He knew his own people, and the Maltese were the most loquacious in the world. St Paul, it was said, had withdrawn the poison from the fangs of a Maltese viper and transferred it to the tongues of the people. Perhaps, he thought, the French invaders might yet suffer the venom, and not only verbally.

  The crowd gathered round, tense in the humid night. Two women began to argue and a mule tramped its hooves on the stony track.

  Signalling for silence, the swarthy man gestured backwards with his thumb towards the walled city. ‘There’s a garrison in Mdina,’ he said. ‘And sentries at the gate.’

  ‘That’s all taken care of,’ the stocky man reassured him. ‘We have arranged a distraction that no Frenchman can resist.’

  ‘Women! The French always take care of their stomachs, their purses and their groins,’ said the sharp-nosed woman, making an obscene gesture.

  ‘Listen! Soldiers!’

  The regular tramp of military boots echoed through the night.

  ‘It’s the French!’ hissed the sharp-nosed woman, drawing a long knife from beneath her skirt.

  ‘No!’ The stocky man shook his head, indicating the bundles carried by the waiting people. ‘There’s too much at stake. We have to get this to safety.’

  ‘Where? We can’t get in!’

  The stocky man nodded. The French patrol was between them and their original destination. He had to make a quick decision. ‘We must get back! We’ll use the other place!’

  ‘Is that safe?’ The swarthy man’s hand trembled as he clutched his pistol.

  ‘There is nowhere safe just now, but it will have to do.’ The stocky man glanced upwards as a cloud obscured the moon, dimming the light. ‘St Paul is looking after us tonight.’

  They moved again, men and mules threading between the stone walls that separated the fields, stopping to listen for the French, ready to fight if necessary but hoping to avoid trouble. Twice a mule brayed and they held their breath, but the French obviously did not realise the significance of the sound and left them unmolested. The stocky man gave a sour grin as the heard a French sergeant giving orders. They were concentrating on the outskirts of the town, searching for an elusive quarry that knew every corner and every fold in the ground.

  ‘Down here,’ the stocky man eventually ordered. ‘But be careful.’

  They followed, one at a time, and then the darkness welcomed them, and the cool dim that was underground. They moved quickly, piling their burdens one on top of the other with no order and little regard for their value, until the stocky man ushered them out.

  ‘It’s as secure here as anywhere,’ he muttered. ‘Now back to Mdina.’

  In that hushed countryside, the sound of horses travelled far. The stocky man heard them first. ‘Here come the Knights, our beloved leaders!’

  The sharp-nosed woman grunted. ‘They’re as bad as the French.’

  Although they both came on horseback, only one of the Knights seemed at home in the saddle. Both Knights had the pale colouring of northern Europe, and while the man with intense blue eyes was of medium height, his companion was tall and jovial. It was the smaller of the two who spoke first.

  ‘Is it done?’

  ‘It is done,’ the stocky man replied. ‘But …’

  ‘No buts.’ The slight man dismissed him. ‘Give me the keys.’r />
  The stocky man glanced at his swarthy companion, who raised an expressive eyebrow.

  ‘Do as he says,’ the stocky man said, and each handed a key to a Knight.

  The Knights paused for a second, then said, ‘Nobody must know.’

  ‘Nobody will …’

  ‘Allez!’

  The French came with a rush, blue-coated infantrymen pouring from the nearest farmhouse. The Knights glanced once, kicked in their spurs and hurried away. There was a volley of musketry and the swarthy man turned around, fired a single shot and fell, writhing on the ground and clutching his thigh. The stocky man stopped, cursing, and knelt at his side, but the French ignored them in their pursuit of the Knights.

  A slight breeze shifted the cloud and moonlight glossed silver over the island.

  Chapter One

  The Wedding

  Merrington-on-Wye, Herefordshire: March 1806

  Bethany had never looked more beautiful.

  She hesitated for a second at the high-pointed doorway, but the rich music of the organ encouraged her forward. Her tread on the daffodil-strewn aisle filled the air with a perfume that Jack inhaled deeply as he watched her approaching, her dress rustling softly, head and shoulders held erect and a faint smile on her mouth. He exhaled slowly.

  After so many years of uncertainty and hope, he was finally going to marry her. The knowledge both excited and shocked him. He, Jack Tarver, engineer, was marrying Bethany Gethin of Ludlow and their lives would be irretrievably and forever linked.

  Jack quelled his panic as he thought of their lack of money and the tremendous responsibility that he was accepting. Bethany’s health and upkeep, her maintenance and her happiness would all be dependent on him. But how could he manage without work? Unless he was offered an engineering commission soon, he would be on his uppers, and he was too proud to exist on the charity of Bethany’s father.

  I can’t do it! He heard the words form in his head as the magnitude of the decision crushed his fragile confidence. I can’t marry her! Too afraid to even voice his fears, Jack was about to turn from the ancient stone altar and flee, chancing the contempt of the congregation, when he realised that Bethany was nearly level with him, and her father’s heavy steps were echoing around the vaulted stone chamber. He closed his eyes, feeling cold sweat trickle down his face and dampen his best shirt; he was too late to run, for he could not bear her dismay if he forsook her at the altar.

  Now he must go through with it. Opening his eyes again, Jack saw the flicker of candles casting distorted shadows across the whitewashed walls. Even in spring the interior of St Paul’s in Merrington-on-Wye was cool and dim, and its history of more than a thousand years of Christian worship seemed to oppress him. How many men had stood at this altar, harbouring similar doubts, wondering if they were doing the right thing, wondering what sort of husband they would be, worrying about money and the future? How many knew that they loved the woman at their side far too deeply to condemn her to marriage? Probably hundreds, Jack thought, perhaps even thousands, and he was only the last in a long and fragile line. That realisation did not help in the slightest.

  But how many of them looked into the future and had no clue as to what it might hold? Jack closed his eyes. He must find employment soon. He had just enough money to set them up in lodgings in Hereford, and they could live there for maybe six months, but after that … He wondered anew if he was leading Bethany into a life of poverty and uncertainty.

  Oh God, what am I doing?

  The footsteps halted and Jack breathed deeply, drowning his senses with Bethany’s perfume. She kept one bottle of perfume smuggled from France for the most special occasions. Jack inhaled again, looked surreptitiously sideways and saw her standing as erect as a guardsman, dressed in the light green that suited her so well.

  She was beautiful, with her auburn hair strictly controlled by a ringlet of flowers and those hazel eyes that could be so serious and intelligent one moment, yet bright and mischievous the next. How could he keep her when there were so many better men out there?

  Her hands were working busily on the stem of the posy that she carried, the white kid leather gloves bought especially for the occasion still too tight, for Jack could see a split already forming on one finger. He smiled at this minor imperfection, which made Bethany more human, and winked at her. Her eyes widened in reply, and then faced the altar, where the parson stood in his black gown and white cloth surcoat.

  Harry Gethin stood beside his daughter, his face red with pride but looking strangely raw, freshly shaved of its habitual stubble for the occasion. Behind them, acting as maids of honour, were Betsy and Jessica, Bethany’s sisters. In this dim light, Betsy looked nearly demure, but Jack guessed she was examining every man in the church. Perhaps they were not quite the most conventional of attendants, but Bethany had never been the most conventional of women. If she had been, Jack mused, she would have rejected him out of hand.

  The music stopped, and only subdued rustlings and soft whispering disturbed the silence. Jack felt his legs begin to tremble and he looked again at Bethany. She was facing the parson, with her eyes wide open and her fingers wrapped so tightly around her posy that she was crushing the stems beyond redemption. He had never seen her so nervous; here, in her own church in her own village, she was shaking so much that she was in danger of losing the floral circlet around her head. In that moment, Jack’s nerves disappeared. This was his Bethany and she needed his help. For her sake, he had to pretend he was strong.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered to her, his words barely audible, though they seemed to echo around the ancient interior. The parson swivelled his eyes in Jack’s direction, as if it was sacrilege to offer such support, but Bethany took a deep breath and controlled her trembling. She glanced towards him, her eyes huge and scared and intensely hazel.

  Bethany tried to smile, but failed. Her father put a work-calloused hand on her shoulder, and she nodded and exhaled slowly, though her fingers were still busy on the wedding posy.

  ‘Are we ready?’ The parson was small and stout, with worn-out eyes, having witnessing a lifetime of broken promises and disappointed hopes. He lowered his voice kindly, then said, ‘Concentrate, Bethany, and you’ll be all right. We’ve been through this before and you know what to do.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, nodding her permission for the parson to continue. She glanced at Jack and smiled, and when she spoke her voice was clear, with hardly a hint of a quiver.

  Jack missed the beginning of the ceremony, for he was too engrossed in looking at this woman who was to be his wife. Though a head shorter than him, she stood tall, the thrust of her chin only hinting at her determination. He had known her as a friend for so long that it had taken some time to view her as a woman, but now his eyes slid admiringly down her body until she glanced sideways at him and he looked away, embarrassed.

  As the parson spoke to Bethany, Jack’s mind drifted into his own world. His mind wandered to the structure of the church and who built it and what difficulties they had encountered, then the parson was staring directly at him. Jack realised that he was expected to say something and took a deep breath.

  ‘I, Jack’ — he was surprised how strong his voice sounded, given he only wanted to collapse on the floor — ‘take thee, Bethany Maria …’

  He had only recently learned that Bethany had been baptised as Bethany Maria. He had only ever known her as Bethany, and the increased knowledge seemed to give an extra dimension to his girl – his woman rather. She was nodding to him encouragingly, as his thoughts drifted again.

  ‘To have and to hold, in sickness and in health …’

  He could not imagine Bethany ever being sick; she was so vibrant, so alive, while he was the weak one, the man who doubted his ability in everything save engineering. Dear God, he hoped that he did not let her down. He hoped that he could find employment so Bethany, or rather Bethany Maria, did not have to endure a lifetime of poverty as penance for marrying him. The doubts
returned again, nearly overwhelming him, before Robert Cadwallader, the Merrington-on-Wye blacksmith and his best man, tapped his shoulder with a finger like one of his own hammers.

  ‘Therefore I plight thee my troth.’

  Robert passed over the ring that Jack had travelled to Hereford to buy. He had promised himself that he would purchase a more expensive ring as soon as he had the funds, but he knew that Bethany would treasure the simple band of gold far more than anything he bought later. For all her common sense and nearly thirty years of life, Bethany Maria could be as romantic as any young girl giggling in a back pew.

  She exchanged surreptitious winks with her sweetheart.

  ‘I now pronounce that you are man and wife.’

  But I can’t have a wife. I don’t know if I will be working tomorrow!

  The words were so simple and yet so significant. There was a slight silence until a woman in the church began to softly cry, which seemed to be the catalyst for others.

  Bethany bent the ring finger of her left hand and Jack saw that the split he had noted earlier was intentional; Bethany had made it to allow access for the ring. Trust Bethany to be practical even in matters deeply emotional. He felt the gold cool in his hand, then leaned towards her and slipped it over her knuckles. He looked at it for a long second, knowing that his life was changed forever. He had given his word and there could be no going back: then he realised that he was married to his Bethany and he did not want to go back. Suddenly, it felt right. He was not afraid. He had no doubts over his choice of wife.

  But would she?

  He did have doubts over Bethany’s choice of husband.

  The parson leaned closer and smiled. ‘It’s done now, Bethany, and you too, Jack. It’s customary to kiss each other at this stage.’

  ‘Go on, then!’ Robert’s deep voice rose in encouragement, and many of the congregation laughed, as Jack leaned forward.

  ‘He can’t escape now, Bethy, my dear!’ Betsy added her own words, shocking a few of the more strait-laced in the church, but Bethany stretched to meet him and they kissed gently, to a rising cheer. Jack glanced over the congregation. He had no relations there, and no friends, except those he knew through Bethany. He saw William Gethin there, cousin to his father-in-law and a tenant of a small apple orchard. He looked old now, but his eyes were as sharp as ever as he shouted to Jack to continue: ‘On you go, young Jack! You’ve not finished yet.’