expect his rich daddy bought him another one straight away.’ He sniffed, and said, ‘I’ll get it in the oil-bath, afore they bring down any more. I hope you’ve got plenty of insurance cover.’
I found it impossible to concentrate on selling antiques. Every time I heard a noise in the yard, I just had to go through. I even abandoned a man who was contemplating buying a Viennese wall-clock for five and a half. After five minutes he followed me into the shed and grumpily began thrusting notes into my hand. But the moment he saw the excitement round the Belfast sink, he could not resist joining in as well.
This time it was a small bundle of cloth. With shaking fingers, Hermione undid the knots . . .
An old blue linen shirt, wrapped round . . .
The revolver glistened eerily; blue highlights on black steel. I took it off her.
‘An Enfield .45,’ I said. I broke it, to expose the revolving cylinder, with its cartridges. ‘Two shots fired.’
Hermione and I looked at each other. I think the same thought came to us simultaneously. I said, ‘I think you’d better take this down to the police station,’ and she said, ‘Yes,’ her face suddenly grave.
She came back to the workshop half an hour later, with a thin man in plain clothes who she introduced as Sergeant Crittenden.
‘A fine can of worms you’ve opened here, Mr Morgan!’ I don’t know why he blamed me for opening it; but antique dealers get blamed for most things. ‘We’ve sent on the gun to Forensic, and if it tallies with anything criminal, the shirt might give us a lead – there’s a laundry mark on it. You were, of course, quite right to fetch it in. But the problem doesn’t end there. The question is, what else might you turn up?’
‘God knows,’ I said. ‘Anything.’
‘The secrets of all hearts shall be revealed,’ said James sententiously. He’s given to quoting scripture. Sergeant Crittenden gave him a pained look, and went on.
‘And I’ve just chased four youngsters out of your drive. Not that they’ve run far – they’re hanging around the gate now. It seems that these students’ excitement is infectious – there are wild rumours of things buried in the Pond worth thousands.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got five-lever mortise locks, all my windows are nailed up, and I’ve got floodlights, alarms, closed-circuit TV . . .’
‘It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s that Pond. A child has almost drowned there already. And if rumours of buried treasure get around . . .’
‘Oh shit,’ I said helplessly. ‘Why couldn’t the bloody students have kept their mouths shut . . .’
‘You can’t help human nature, Mr Morgan.’ He said it rather helplessly too.
‘We can pull out the ladders,’ said Hermione tentatively, ‘when we stop every evening. And chain them all together for the night.’
‘They’ll probably just bring their own.’
‘If we had a couple of caravans,’ Hermione added, ‘some of the students could sleep on site and patrol. If we had permission . . .’
‘I think that might be arranged,’ said Sergeant Crittenden thoughtfully. ‘And I know a man who runs second-hand caravan sales. He might help out. And you could do with some floodlights and a generator. And I could ask the beat-constables to give you regular back-up . . .’
They went wandering off together, Hermione planning and Sergeant Crittenden being helpful and protective . . . amazing girl, Hermione.
Another slime-covered object was carried in. A student washed it. A simple tin tugboat, about a foot long. No engine or anything. Little more than a pressed metal dish with a pointed bow, and a half-deck, and a hinged single funnel that folded down when not in use. Sixpence at Woolworth before the War. But the enamel paint on it was as bright as ever; painted-on doorways and handrails, and portholes with smiling childish faces peering out. Fetch well over a hundred quid, in that condition. Tin plate collectors are among the maddest collectors of all . . . a crying child loses it in 1936, and the next thing is, it’s in the hands of some wealthy gloating adult. The world’s a pretty mad place really.
Hell, here was something else, something big this time, that took two students to carry it. Even under the coating of slime I could tell what it was. That fat porpoise shape and the keel sticking out underneath. A professionally-built three-foot model sailing yacht. The kind grown-up blokes sailed in