‘Oh yes,’ George nodded. ‘We worked on an American ship.’ He grinned again, revealing a lack of teeth. Jack wondered if his injuries were a result of his seafaring life but decided not to ask. ‘That was before you were born, Mr Tarver.’
So Mr Borg had shipped with Cousin Jonathan? Jack stored away the information in case it could be useful later. That would explain Borg’s command of English and, now he thought about it, there was a faint transatlantic twang to Borg’s accent.
With a translator to ease Jack’s throat from constant bellowing, the work went well. The men were willing and, although they had no skill, they were fit and strong enough, and were obviously used to handling spades, if not pickaxes. Jack marked the first 300 yards of his proposed road with ropes and showed his men where the drainage ditches were to be dug.
George grunted. ‘Drainage ditches?’
‘For winter rain,’ Jack explained.
‘There is really no need,’ George told him, and Jack realised he should have sought local advice before embarking on such a project. He cursed his own lack of professionalism, then glanced backwards towards Ta Rena, hoping Bethany was all right in the house.
‘We’ll still have them,’ he decided, ‘for if it rains, the water will not sink into this hard ground, so we’ll need a channel.’ He watched them shrug in disgust and continued. ‘And then we’ll work on the foundations.’ Their obvious dismay made him relent slightly. ‘I doubt we’ll have to make them very deep either, not with ground as hard as this.’
‘How deep?’ George asked, and Jack wondered if the question was genuine or if he was being made a game of.
‘Let’s see …’ Hefting a pick, Jack chose a section of virgin ground and swung hard. The surface was iron hard, bouncing the axe head back at him and rattling his bones, but he persevered. It took just a few moments for the sweat to start from his body, and he swung again, lifting the limestone with some difficulty. After twenty minutes he had dug fairly deep and the ground became softer. It was still limestone, but away from the baking effect of the sun it was much more friable, easier to work.
‘You see?’ He stopped to rest, very aware of the streaks of sweat running down his face. ‘Go down to this depth …’ He showed them how far he wanted. ‘And dig it level between the ropes I have laid.’
George nodded and translated for the rest, who watched Jack as if he had just escaped from Bedlam. Clearly, such thorough road building was unknown on the island.
‘Once the foundations are dug,’ Jack explained, ‘we’ll lay a solid pavement of large stones, with the broadest end downward to create a firm foundation for an upper layer of small stones that will be the actual surface of the road.’
The blank faces of his labourers stared at him.
‘In time, the passage of people and carts will compress the stones together,’ Jack finished, ‘and create a smooth and lasting road.’
The stares did not waver.
‘You just dig the foundations,’ Jack said, ‘and let me worry about the whys and wherefores. George, I’ll leave you in charge while I find some suitable stones.’
Jack escaped with some relief, for while British labourers might curse and complain, they would accept that their social superiors knew best. These Maltese saw him as only a foreigner interfering with their culture and resented him as such. However, his absence was genuine, for he would need building stone and there was an old quarry marked on the map a bare quarter mile from where he stood. Jack blessed Malta’s architectural tradition, which had created a legacy of excellent stone quarries.
‘There is plenty rock in Malta,’ George had informed him, with that knowing grin. ‘But be careful where you go.’
Jack acknowledged him with a wave of his hand, but he wondered if that had been friendly advice or a warning. He had not forgotten the musket man on the cliff terrace.
This area of the island was broken up by a number of rocky ridges and he clambered up the nearest, easing between two stone walls as he searched for the quarry. If the stone was suitable, he could negotiate a decent purchase price with the owner and that would be another problem solved.
The map was accurate, for there was a depression cut into the side of the ridge where stone had been removed. Jack smiled; for the first time since he’d arrived in Malta, things seemed to be going in his favour. He had a willing, if small, workforce and now he had found a source of raw material. Whistling ‘Happy Tawny Moor’, he took a small hammer and chisel from his bag and prepared to cut out a chunk.
He was not aware of the man until he spoke. ‘Jack Tarver?’
Jack could not place the accent – not Maltese or Italian – then realised it was French. ‘That’s me,’ Jack replied. ‘Have you come to help make the road?’
In reply, the man pulled a long pistol from beneath his cloak and thrust it savagely under his chin.
‘What?’ Jack stared, momentarily unable to comprehend what was happening. ‘I’m an engineer,’ he said, foolishly. ‘I don’t carry any valuables.’
‘So where did you put it?’ The man was slight, with intense blue eyes above a small but immaculate moustache. He ground the pistol deeper into Jack’s throat.
‘Put what? The money? I’ve hardly a penny to scratch myself with.’ Jack tried to step back, but the man shoved him against the wall of the quarry.
‘Don’t be coy with me, Mr Tarver.’ The muzzle of the pistol retracted a fraction of an inch and the man thumbed back the hammer. The easy click showed that the mechanism was well oiled. ‘I can kill you now and ask your wife.’ The man’s grin revealed perfect teeth. ‘I’d enjoy that, Mr Tarver. I’d enjoy that very much.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ Jack said, but the pistol rammed back into his throat.
‘I find that hard to believe. So tell me now and it will end here, Mr Jack Tarver. Where did you put it?’
‘Put what, sir? If you are after my money, I have already said you will be very disappointed, but I will give you what I have if you please remove your pistol from my throat!’
Strangely, Jack felt no fear for himself, but the threat to Bethany had evoked a combination of anger and terror. For a moment, he wondered if he could overpower this man, but the pistol muzzle thrusting under his chin convinced him to cooperate.
‘So be it,’ the man said, ‘I shall speak with Mrs Tarver.’ The pressure on the trigger was increased so the hammer eased forward just a fraction, preparing to slam downwards and send a half-ounce lead ball through Jack’s throat.
‘No!’ Jack twisted aside and tried to wrestle the pistol out of the man’s grip. ‘Leave Bethany out of this!’
‘Stop!’ The word cracked out and a second figure swung over the lip of the quarry. Jack had a momentary vision of a rippling cloak, the flicker of a sword, and then the newcomer leapt on top of his attacker. There was a flurry of blows, the sound of somebody gasping in pain, and then his attacker was gone, disappearing among the confusion of walls and small fields.
Picking himself up, the newcomer replaced a wide hat on his head and grinned to Jack. ‘Well, Mr Tarver, you seem to have got yourself in trouble!’
Jack stared into the sun-browned face of John Dover.
Chapter Seven
Search for the Key
‘Sweet Lord in heaven!’ Jack felt himself shaking now that the danger was over. ‘Mr Dover! Thank God you showed up when you did!’
‘You’re welcome, Mr Tarver,’ Dover swept into a low bow, flourished his sword and replaced it in its scabbard.
‘You have my eternal gratitude,’ Jack gave a small bow in response. ‘But what in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Saving your life, by the look of it.’ Dover gestured over his shoulder. ‘Do you know who that was?’
‘No, some blackguard of a footpad, but why are you here?’
Dover’s smile did not fade. ‘I am following you, Mr Tarver, just following and protecting you.’ He gestured to the entrance of the quarry. ‘I th
ink we have quite a lot to discuss.’
The sudden memory of Dover’s behaviour at the Captain’s table returned and Jack took a single step backward. ‘I don’t think we have anything to discuss. I am grateful for your help, Mr Dover, but I will thank you to leave me alone.’
‘Would you thank me to leave you to get killed, Mr Tarver?’ Dover shook his head. ‘The lovely Bethany would not like that, I fear.’
‘My wife would agree with me.’ Jack said. ‘If you will excuse me, I have a road to build.’
‘Have you indeed, Mr Tarver,’ Dover nodded. ‘I see. And as a matter of interest, Jack, where did you put it?’
‘Put what?’
‘The key, Mr Tarver.’
‘The key? What key? The key to what? I do wish you would explain yourself, sir!’
‘You know damned well what I mean, sir! I mean the key, the object that Mr Kaskrin wants. That’s your attacker’s name, but he’s no footpad.’ Dover’s smile widened, but did not reach his eyes. ‘I see that you are confused. I’ll come round tonight to speak to you.’
‘The devil you will!’ Jack said. ‘You’ll keep well away from us. We want nothing to do with you, your spying or your manipulations’
Ignoring Jack’s outburst, Dover continued. ‘Shall we say seven o’clock? It will be dark by then, and even you won’t force your men to work in the dark, however important you believe your road is.’ He gave a mocking bow. ‘Good day, Mr Tarver, I shall see you at Ta Rena at seven.’
Only when Dover had walked away did Jack give in to the trembling in his legs and sit down. From the moment they had arrived at Ta Rena, there had been trouble. First Bethany had seen the intruder, then there had been the threat on the cliff path. Following that the break-in, and now this. Jack shook his head. He could only imagine that people were against him because he represented the British interest in the island, but what the devil was this key that Dover had mentioned?
‘Mr Dover,’ Bethany said shortly, giving the briefest of curtseys as she ushered him into her house. ‘So, what is this all about?’
‘It is good to see you again, too, Mrs Tarver.’ Dover gave a low bow. ‘May I again offer my congratulations on your wedding? I think you are well matched, a perfect combination of practicality and insight.’
‘We married because we love each other,’ Bethany said tartly, ‘not for any combination.’
‘Of course,’ Dover bowed again.
Since her attendance at the church, Bethany had become friendly with Maria Borg and had followed her recommendations on what food to buy. Following local recipes, she served up aljotta, a boiled fish soup that Jack thought too hot for the climate, and fenek, which she assured them was rabbit simmered in wine.
‘This is surprisingly good, for native fare,’ Dover approved, but Bethany refused to be drawn. She ended the meal with a selection of cakes that had been baked for her, then produced a couple of bottles of wine.
‘Well, Mr Dover,’ she said, ‘I will be more frank with you than politeness allows, but you may put that down to my practicality.’ Bethany’s smile was as insincere as anything Dover could produce. ‘I do not like you, I do not trust you and I wish to have as little as possible to do with you.’
‘I appreciate your candour,’ Dover replied. He did not appear upset by Bethany’s words, as he lifted the glass of wine she had poured.
‘Good, then I shall continue in the same vein. I believe that you drag trouble at your coat tails, Mr Dover, and I do not wish to be involved.’ Folding her arms, Bethany sat back in her seat. ‘I thank you for rescuing my husband, although I suspect that you were the cause of his misfortune in some way. Now I have brought you into my house and fed you. That was my duty as a hostess.’ She looked across to Jack, who said nothing, content to allow her to take control. ‘However, Mr Dover, I would like you to tell us what all this is about and then leave my home.’
Dover gave a small, ironic smile. He tasted the wine, momentarily screwed up his face and replaced his glass on the table. ‘Of course, Mrs Tarver. Or may I call you Bethany? After all, we do know each other …’
‘Mrs Tarver would be better,’ Bethany cut him off.
‘As you wish.’ Dover gave a bow that contained only mockery. ‘To business, then.’
With a window open to allow in a draught of air, for the evening was as oppressively hot as the day, Dover stretched out on one of the wickerwork chairs. ‘You seem to have become embroiled in a situation beyond your understanding, Jack.’
‘So educate us,’ Jack told him. ‘I’m sure you know exactly what is happening.’
Dover waited until Bethany had refilled his wine glass. ‘I dare say you both know that Great Britain is subsidising all these tin-pot European powers. I mean the King of the Two Sicilies and all the other nations of the Third Coalition.’
‘We are aware of that.’ Jack found it hard to concentrate through his blinding headache.
‘And Bethany … Mrs Tarver … will no doubt have read up on the recent history of Malta?’
‘She has,’ Jack replied, looking at Bethany, who was frowning.
‘Very well. Then forgive me if I repeat what you already know. For centuries, the Maltese islands were ruled by the Knights of St John, a military organisation dedicated to fighting the Turks and the Barbary pirates of North Africa.’
Jack glanced at Bethany, who nodded agreement. ‘We know that,’ he said.
‘Some of the best families of Europe joined these Knights and over the course of time they amassed a great fortune. Gold, silver, religious icons, statuettes.’ Dover’s face grew sombre at the thought of the wealth he was describing. ‘Nobody knows how much Malta was worth. It might be millions of pounds, or even tens of millions.’
Bethany nodded. ‘And who owned all these millions, Mr Dover?’
‘The Knights owned it,’ Dover said. ‘The Order of St John owned everything.’
‘I see.’ Bethany pursed her lips. ‘Well, that must have been nice for them.’
‘So it would appear,’ Dover agreed, smiling. ‘This situation continued for centuries, and then along came Napoleon Bonaparte.’
‘Our good friend,’ Bethany said. ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity and robbery.’
‘The very same,’ Dover nodded. ‘At least we agree on one point.’
‘And only one,’ Bethany told him quickly.
‘Bonaparte was on his way to Egypt, as you know, but he stopped off long enough to take Malta from the Knights. It was true that the Knights had sworn an oath not to fight against another Christian, but Bonaparte had landed his agents in advance and the French Knights collaborated. Malta fell, with the loss of only three Frenchmen, and Bonaparte added this very strategic island to his empire.’ Dover looked up. ‘So far, all this is well known.’
Jack nodded.
‘You will also know that Bonaparte abolished the Order of St John. Most of the Knights left, save for a few who joined the French in their expedition to Egypt. Bonaparte’s soldiery scoured the island and removed all the valuables they could find. They loaded seven million francs worth of treasure onto their ships.’ Dover repeated the figure. ‘Seven million francs – imagine it! Five centuries of accumulation lost in five days.’
Jack looked to Bethany. He imagined what they could do with that sum of money. There would be no more worries.
Bethany was concentrating on Dover. ‘So Napoleon Bonaparte removed all the treasure, Mr Dover. But how is this of interest to us?’
‘Because he did not get all the treasure,’ Dover said, quietly. ‘If we think of it rationally, we can see why. The Knights had amassed the wealth over 500 years. Do you think that they would part with it so easily? Do you think that, knowing Boney’s reputation for looting everything within touching distance, they would allow their treasure to sit around when the French armies were coming?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Bethany agreed, frowning slightly.
‘Exactly. So as soon as the French ships arrived, some of the Kni
ghts began to remove whatever they could.’
‘That would make sense,’ Bethany agreed again.
Jack nodded. ‘Mr Borg mentioned that the Knights had hidden some of the treasure.’
‘We believe that it was the intention of these men to load the treasure on board a ship and sail off to the kingdom of the Two Sicilies, or even Russia, but it seems that the French disturbed them and they had to hide the treasure instead.’
‘So, where is it now?’ Bethany looked around the room, as if expecting to see a treasure chest hidden under the table or a sack of gold peeping from behind the curtains.
‘That, we do not know,’ Dover admitted. ‘But His Majesty’s Government would dearly like to find out.’ He leaned conspiratorially closer. ‘This war is costing the treasury millions. We are subsidising Russia, Austria and the Two Sicilies, and unless we get a measure of success, we cannot continue. This treasure would be a godsend for the country.’
‘I see, Mr Dover,’ Jack said. ‘But what has this to do with us? We do not know where it is.’
Dover’s smile would have scared a shark. ‘Perhaps not, Mr Tarver, but you are in a uniquely useful position to help. Sir Alexander did not tell you too much – after all, you are only an engineer – but when you walk the countryside, speaking to people, surveying and mapping, you might stir things up that I could exploit.’
Jack swallowed his pride. That phrase ‘only an engineer’ had hurt, as had been the intention, he suspected.
‘And me, Mr Dover?’ Bethany asked. ‘After all, if Jack is only an engineer, how can I possibly help? I am only a poor innocent woman.’ Her wide-eyed expression was as innocent as Genghis Khan.
‘Indeed,’ Dover agreed solemnly. ‘But we both know that you are the most thoroughly enquiring of women.’ He refilled their glasses, the red wine gurgling happily. ‘As such I cannot see you spending your days embroidering fine covers and painting with watercolours. We were sure you could be useful.’
‘Why, thank you, Mr Dover.’ Bethany’s look could have cut glass.
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