‘Good,’ Borg said quietly. ‘So now we can begin.’
Jack heard the familiar finger-clicking first and turned round, but Mr Egerton held the pistol very steadily, with the muzzle pointing directly at Bethany. Beside him stood Adam Kaskrin, with Elizabeth Baranov, dark, beautiful and sinister, slightly behind.
It was Mr Egerton who spoke. ‘So we can, Mr Borg. The treasure is ours, I believe?’ He shook his head. ‘Imagine leaving a semi-cripple as guard. How stupid of you!’
Kaskrin jerked a thumb and Baranov slid past, lifting both daggers.
She held them high and laughed.
Chapter Seventeen
Disaster
Jack did not see Borg move, but suddenly he had flattened himself on the ground and rolled over to Mr Egerton, kicking upwards with his right foot. Mr Egerton gasped and dropped the pistol as Borg’s boot cracked against his wrist. Swooping, Jack scooped it up and backed against the mural. He thumbed back the hammer, just as Elizabeth Baranov grabbed hold of Bethany and pressed a dagger to her throat.
‘Oh, Mr Tarver, I have your wife!’ She was smiling, enjoying the power.
‘Shoot him, Jack!’ Bethany yelled, scraping her heel down Baranov’s shin and onto her instep.
Baranov swore and instinctively reached down, so Bethany broke free, but Jack had been distracted long enough for Mr Egerton to pull a second pistol from his waistband and fire it at Jack. The shot missed, crashed against the wall and ricocheted around the walls. Powder smoke choked the crypt.
‘Jack!’ Bethany yelled.
‘Bethany!’ Jack lunged forward, banging against Baranov and sending her tumbling. Baranov’s feet crashed against the lantern, which toppled and rolled, its guttering flame creating bizarre shadows on the walls, then a careless foot crushed out the light.
The sudden darkness brought an instant of utter silence, then the struggle began again, with people pawing at their neighbour in the hope of identifying friend or foe. Jack reached out and found something soft and yielding.
‘Bethany?’
The response was a curse and a heavy thump on his thigh. Jack gasped, twisted and retaliated with a sharp downward punch that rattled his knuckles. Somebody squealed high-pitched and collapsed at his side.
‘Bethany? Where are you?’
‘I’m here!’ Bethany’s voice sounded far away.
There was a moment of utter confusion, as the chamber seemed to be filled with struggling bodies.
‘Sweet Lord,’ Bethany yelled. ‘Jack!’
There was another shot, and the muzzle flash momentarily revealed Mr Egerton levelling a pistol at Bethany, and Kaskrin crouching low in a corner. Then the darkness returned, stygian black and choking with powder smoke.
‘Egerton!’ Acting on instinct, Jack hefted his pistol and pressed the trigger. It was a basic everyday weapon, lacking the balance of his preferred Joseph Manton, and the kick jarred his wrist. He did not see where the ball went, but he knew it was nowhere near Mr Egerton. Backing into a corner, he scraped a spark from his tinderbox and had an instant, fractional view of the fighting.
With his face contorted in hatred, Borg had his hands clasped around Kaskrin’s throat: the two rolled on the dark ground. Bethany was beside them, her eye wide in the brief light. Mr Egerton had managed to reload his first pistol and was poised in the act of firing. As the tinderbox spark died, the flare of Mr Egerton’s pistol blinded Jack, forcing him to close his eyes and look away.
‘Jack! Do something!’ Bethany’s voice was shrill, but Jack had no time to turn, as Mr Egerton leapt at him, swinging with the pistol butt. Jack pulled back his head, shouted as he made solid contact with the wall of the crypt and punched out, as he had learned at Wolvington College. Unable to see more than vague shapes in the dark, he sensed Mr Egerton duck and felt the wind as he swung again with the pistol. Jack grunted and flinched backwards as the butt caught him a punishing blow above his heart. He knew that Mr Egerton had raised the pistol high, aiming to crush his skull, but he was temporarily paralysed. He could only watch the shadows, as Mr Egerton tensed for the killing stroke.
‘Jack!’ Throwing herself across the space, Bethany slammed into Mr Egerton, unbalancing his stroke so that the pistol only hissed past Jack’s face. Snarling, Mr Egerton stepped back, grabbing hold of Bethany by the throat and lifting the pistol again, the whites of his eyes gleaming through the gloom.
A sudden light flowed into the crypt and the crack of another shot echoed against the walls. Mr Egerton stiffened. He stared at Bethany, his eyes wide open, the thin trickle of blood from his mouth quickly becoming a flood on which he began to choke.
‘Enough, now!’ The voice was almost casual. Jack glanced round to see Dover standing a few yards away. He held a double-barrelled pistol in his left hand and a lantern in his right, and he was watching with a slight smile on his face. A private soldier of the 20th Foot stood on either side.
‘Mr Dover!’ Bethany gasped.
Kaskrin said something that Jack did not understand, but he made no move to help Mr Egerton, who had collapsed on the ground and was gargling horribly. Bethany moved towards him, saying, ‘We must help him!’
‘He’s past help,’ Dover said indifferently. ‘You’d be better looking to your friend, Mr Borg there.’
Borg was crouched against the mural, the front of his shirt soaked in blood and his face strained.
‘Mr Borg!’ Bethany looked at Dover. ‘Did you shoot him?’
Dover frowned. ‘I only fired one shot,’ he reminded them, ‘and that was to save your life. My second barrel’ – he lifted his pistol – ‘is intended for Adam Kaskrin.’
‘Then how?’
‘Mr Egerton’s last shot, perhaps, or a ricochet?’ Jack explained, as he knelt beside Borg. ‘With all these pistols going off in this confined space, and the balls bouncing all over the place, it was just bad luck Mr Borg was hit.’ It was only then that he noticed Baranov lying supine on the ground. A quick look revealed a spreading bruise on her jaw and he realised that it was her he had punched.
‘How did you get here, Mr Dover?’ Jack had torn off Borg’s shirt to find the wound. There was some form of tattoo under the blood that covered his chest and was dripping onto the ground at his side.
Dover jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Your man George has been reporting to me for weeks. He’s been keeping me informed about everything you do.’
‘George did us brown?’ Jack tried to control his astonishment. ‘I thought he was a friend of Mr Borg.’
‘He is. He’s also a friend of King George.’ Dover showed the King’s head on a golden sovereign. ‘Even friends will do a lot for a handful of yellow boys.’ He looked dispassionately at Borg. ‘Will he live?’
‘He won’t unless we help him.’ Bethany had compressed Borg’s shirt and was trying to stop the flow of blood.
Ordering the soldiers to guard Kaskrin, Dover re-lit Borg’s lantern and crouched at his side. ‘He’s no friend to King George,’ he said softly. ‘So perhaps we should let nature and the pistol ball take their course.’
‘He’s a friend of ours!’ Bethany said savagely. ‘And that’s more important.’
Dover smiled softly. ‘That friendship is not important in the slightest,’ he said, ‘when the future of the nation is at stake.’
‘Try this, then,’ Bethany spoke without looking up from Borg. ‘He’s the only man who knows how the keys work.’
‘So?’ Dover shrugged. ‘Now we know where the treasure is, we can blow the damned wall down.’
‘In so doing, you will destroy a religious icon and have a rebellion on your hands.’ Jack looked round. ‘That’s not in the best interests of Great Britain, Mr Dover. You know how devout the Maltese people are!’
Dover grunted and placed the lantern beside Borg. ‘Let me see.’ Easing Bethany aside, he lifted the padding with surprising gentleness and probed at the wound.
Borg stiffened and gave a long moan of pain.
‘Care
ful!’ Bethany said.
Ignoring her, Dover continued to examine the wound, pushing at the flesh on either side, as Borg writhed and sweat broke on his forehead.
‘Pistol balls are strange things,’ Dover said at last, ‘for unless they hit a vital spot, they are seldom immediately fatal. You see, with only a small barrel, the powder charge has to be limited, so the ball does not travel with enough force to penetrate right through the body. It normally sits inside and festers.’ He looked up dispassionately. ‘I’ve seen plenty.’
‘And in this case?’ Bethany asked anxiously. ‘How is Mr Borg?’
‘This ball must have ricocheted from the wall here, so it had even less force.’ Ignoring Borg’s obvious pain, Dover exposed the wound again. ‘See this swelling? The ball must be there, just beneath the surface, maybe trapped in the layer of muscle. If we leave it, the wound will become poisoned and he will die.’
‘And if we get it out?’ Bethany asked.
‘He might live,’ Dover said. ‘Unless the pain and shock of the operation kills him. It’s possible that there’s a competent sawbones on this island, but I doubt he’ll survive the journey with that ball in his chest. It will probably move deeper inside and kill him.’ He glanced at Jack: ‘So gunpowder it is, and we can use the army to quell any civilian unrest.’
Bethany’s chin thrust out stubbornly. ‘We can’t leave him to die,’ she said. ‘We must take out the ball.’
‘Oh?’ Dover raised an amused eyebrow. ‘And who will do that? Not I. Certainly not these private soldiers. And I doubt Mr Tarver, for all his undoubted talents, has the skill for the task.’
‘So it must be me,’ Bethany told him.
‘You?’ Dover’s laugh was not pleasant. ‘You’re a woman! You can sew and embroider and, I admit, you do have the capacity for nosing into things that are not your concern, but no woman has the stomach for …’
‘For giving birth?’ Bethany reminded sweetly.
Dover grunted. He gave Bethany a long, hard look as he made his decision. ‘Are you sure that only Mr Borg has the required knowledge?’
‘Absolutely certain.’ Bethany glanced at Jack and neither of them mentioned George. News of his betrayal had come as a shock.
‘So be it, then, Surgeon Tarver. You two,’ Dover snapped, motioning towards the soldiers. ‘Secure Kaskrin and the woman, and help here. Bring the lanterns and then hold this man down.’
With the lanterns pooling yellow light on the supine Borg, Bethany knelt at his side to inspect the wound.
‘As you suggested, Mr Dover, the ball is not in deep.’ Jack was surprised how calmly Bethany spoke. ‘Indeed, I can feel it just under his skin.’
After testing the edges of the soldier’s bayonets, Bethany selected one of the Knight’s daggers as being the sharpest tool available.
‘This will hurt, Mr Borg,’ she warned.
Borg nodded. ‘Be quick,’ he said, and forced a smile. ‘I have never heard of a woman surgeon before.’
‘I will try my best,’ Bethany told him. She took a deep breath. ‘I can see exactly where the ball lies, Mr Borg, so this should not take long.’ She looked up. ‘Hold that lantern closer, Jack, if you please, and try to ensure that I am not working in shadow.’
Taking a deep breath, Bethany poised the dagger and made a cut slightly above the ugly bruise. Borg stiffened and moaned, writhing against the soldiers who held him.
‘That’s one,’ Bethany told him. Jack could hear the strain in her voice as she examined her work. ‘This next one will be more painful. Please be brave.’ She looked up. ‘You men hold him tight.’ She bent down again. But there was a roar of noise behind them as Kaskrin charged forward.
‘Stop!’ Dover yelled, as the Russian dived for the remaining dagger. One of the soldiers swore as Kaskrin barged into him, there was the scuffing clatter of metal on stone, and then Dover dropped the lantern, drew his pistol and fired. ‘Stop that man!’
Ducking under the arms of a soldier, Kaskrin scooped up the dagger, but the second soldier jumped on him, punching furiously. Both men fell together, rolling on the ground until Dover stepped in and stamped hard on Kaskrin’s hand. The Russian swore but retained the dagger until Dover stamped again. The dagger fell. Kaskrin roared loudly but wriggled free of both men and ran for the entrance.
As the second soldier followed, Dover called them back. ‘Let him go! He can’t get far, I have men all round this place and we have far more important work here!’ He rounded on them. ‘I ordered you to secure him! By God, I’ll have you both at the triangle before this day is done!’
‘Mr Dover, no harm is done,’ said Jack. ‘We should concentrate on Mr Borg, I believe.’
The whole affair had taken less than a minute, but already Borg looked weaker, with a greenish tinge to his face and fresh blood seeping over his chest.
‘I believe so,’ Bethany confirmed. ‘If you could all get back to your places, gentlemen, we will continue.’ She raised her eyebrows to Dover. ‘And I think the threat of the triangle should be lifted, Mr Dover. We need the attention of these men here, not worrying about the whip.’
Jack could only watch with admiration as Bethany bent to her task. It was unknown for a woman to attempt such a thing, but Bethany was anything but conventional. According to every contemporary rule, she should avoid anything stern in case she swooned or damaged her constitution, but she was, as so often, correct. Nearly every woman accepted childbirth and the attendant complications as part of life, and Bethany possessed a far more delicate touch than most men.
She was cutting now, ignoring Borg’s stifled pain with that inherent practicality with which she approached most things. Jack watched as she pulled back the flap of skin, ignoring the increased flow of blood, and probed her fingers into the wound. He heard Borg’s intake of breath and saw the soldiers strain to hold him down as he writhed against them.
‘Bring the light closer, please,’ Bethany commanded, and both he and Dover did so, until Bethany plucked out the small black ball. ‘Got it!’
‘Well done!’ Dover sounded calm. ‘But you haven’t finished yet, Mrs Tarver.’
Bethany looked taut as she looked up, her face a query.
‘The bullet will have carried a portion of Mr Borg’s shirt with it.’ Dover explained. ‘It will rot where it is and the wound will mortify unless it is removed.’
Bethany nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said, and bent down once more. There were a few further minutes of probing, more blood and louder groans from Borg, then Bethany emerged once more with a tiny pellet of cloth. ‘Will this be all?’
Dover examined it closely. ‘Yes, Mrs Tarver.’ His voice was still level. ‘Close the wound now.’
With nothing with which to stitch, Bethany could only press the ends of the cut together and, using Borg’s own shirt as a bandage, apply as much pressure as possible to stop the flow of blood.
‘That will do for now.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘But we will have to get him to a doctor as soon as possible.’ Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the ground, leaned against the mural and began to shake. ‘Dear Lord, Jack, I think that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.’
‘You have more bottom than any woman I’ve ever met,’ Dover told her, as Jack put his arms around her. ‘But I’m afraid it might all have been in vain.’
‘What?’ Bethany looked at Borg, who lay still on the ground, suppressing his pain, his face strained. ‘He is a strong man. Unless the wound mortifies …’
‘Not he,’ Dover interrupted, dismissing the wounded Borg with a gesture so casual it was callous. ‘This!’ He held up the dagger that Kaskrin had tried to steal. It had been broken in the struggle, so that the hilt was separated into two component parts. ‘The key is smashed. It’s useless now.’
Chapter Eighteen
Dover Again
Bethany began to laugh, the noise rising until it verged on the hysterical. Jack held her close, soothing her back to sanity. ‘You know, Mr Dover, you must b
e the most cold-blooded man in the world. We are trying to save Mr Borg’s life here. Does a little bit of money really matter compared to that?’
‘I have my duty to perform,’ Dover reminded her. ‘My duty is to King and country, and I am quite prepared to sacrifice my life, or the life of anybody else, to that end. Mr Borg is not exactly a friend of King George.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Bethany agreed, ‘but, as we have said, he is a friend of ours.’ When she looked up, there was still residual wildness in her eyes. ‘And I am not prepared to sacrifice him for a pile of metal, or for King George, or a thousand other kings and princes who I have never met.’ Her voice was rising with anger. ‘So I do not care about a broken key, Mr Dover. We must leave this place now and take Mr Borg to a surgeon who will treat him properly.’
Dover shook his head and, as Jack watched, he slowly loaded both barrels of his pistol, taking his time to ensure each ball fitted perfectly and tapping them down hard. ‘I only allowed you to spend time with Mr Borg because he was useful. Without the keys, that is no longer the case, so his life is irrelevant.’ Dover glanced up and nodded to the nearest of the soldiers. ‘Fetch the powder barrels!’
‘Sir!’ The man withdrew, returning a moment later with two kegs. Jack recognised them at once, for he and Bethany had once spent a long night sheltering in a powder store. The memory of the destructive power within these barrels was vivid.
‘You can’t do that,’ Jack said. ‘This is an important place to the Maltese. It’s sacred to them! You cannot destroy it.’
Dover cocked his pistol, levelled it at Baranov and fired. The ball hit her square in the forehead and travelled through to exit in an explosion of blood, brains and splinters of bone.
Bethany screamed in horror and Jack put his arm around her. ‘That was cold murder, Mr Dover.’
‘That was an example, Mr Tarver,’ Dover said coldly. He levelled the pistol at Borg. ‘I have the authority to do anything I damn well please in the name of King George. If that means executing a potential enemy, nobody will turn a hair. If that also means blowing up every church in Malta, then that is what I shall do.’ The quiet tone with which Dover spoke only enhanced the sense of menace.
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