Tarver's Treasure

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘And the consequences?’ Jack asked, staring at the pool of blood spreading around Baranov’s limp body. ‘What about the people of Malta?’

  Dover smiled. ‘We will tell them that Mr Egerton and Mr Kaskrin blew the place up, despite all our efforts. Put the blame on the Knights, then we will use some of the treasure to restore the place, to regain the confidence of the people.’

  ‘But we know that’s not true,’ Bethany protested. ‘I will not let you lie to these people. Nor will Jack, or Mr Borg.’

  Dover held the pistol steady at Borg’s head. ‘Mr Borg may not survive until nightfall, Mrs Tarver, while I am sure you have more sense than to say anything that might prejudice the life of your husband. Just as I am sure he would never jeopardise your life.’

  ‘Dear God in Heaven,’ Bethany stared at Dover. ‘You’re as base a blackguard as any Frenchman.’

  Jack slipped an arm around her. ‘By the living Christ, Mr Dover, I swear that I will kill you if you make one move to harm my wife.’

  For a long second, Jack stared directly into Dover’s eyes, meeting unwavering resolve with all the determination he had and drawing strength from the feel of Bethany’s shoulder under his hand.

  ‘It is the hilt of the daggers that matter,’ Borg uttered, his voice tense with pain. ‘And there are two slight holes into which they fit.’

  ‘Mr Borg! You should be resting,’ Bethany admonished him, but Borg shook his head.

  ‘It is obvious that Mr Dover will not be satisfied until he has the treasure. So be it. I’ll help you enter the chamber. That would be better than having innocent people die.’

  ‘No, Mr Borg,’ Bethany protested, but Borg shook his head.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Tarver. Come, Mr Dover, you and I understand each other, even if we can never be friends.’

  Dover turned from Jack, his voice as unemotional as if they had been discussing the weather. ‘Where do I fit the keys?’

  ‘There is a small slit just under the prow of the boat …’ Borg tried to point, but the movement caused him too much pain and he moaned. ‘Mrs Tarver will direct you!’

  Dover nodded. ‘I see it.’ Only by holding the lantern at an angle could the slit be seen.

  ‘Slide the handle in slowly and turn it to the right,’ Borg ordered.

  Dover did so, and there was an audible click.

  ‘Now you must leave it in place,’ Borg said, ‘and use the second key.’

  Dover held it up, so the pieces clicked together. ‘Can we use this?

  There was a long minute’s silence, as Borg examined the broken key. ‘No,’ he said at length, leaning back, but whether in despair or pain Jack did not know. ‘No, the key will not work like that.’

  ‘So we use the gunpowder,’ Dover uttered, stepping towards the nearest barrel.

  It was Bethany who spoke first. ‘There may be a solution,’ she said quietly, looking at Jack.

  Dover looked annoyed. ‘So what is your solution now, Mrs Tarver?’

  ‘Jack is an engineer.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘He can pick any lock in the world.’ Ignoring his protestations, she continued. ‘I have seen him working on locks and he is very good.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I am no pick-lock,’ he said.

  ‘We are referring to an ancient lock that was designed by the Knights to keep safe their most precious artefacts,’ Borg said, struggling to sit up. ‘It is said to be the most complex lock in Malta, perhaps in Christendom.’ He looked at Jack, eyes musing through the pain. ‘It is hardly a task for an amateur engineer.’

  ‘My husband is not an amateur engineer,’ Bethany reminded them, rising to her feet. ‘He is a time-served artisan, a professional!’ She looked at Borg, anger battling her natural sympathy. ‘I would thank you to remember that, Mr Borg.’

  Borg smiled slowly, then winced as a spasm of pain took him. ‘Then it is agreed. Mr Tarver, you will open the door, if you can.’ He nodded to the mural. ‘I will direct you to the correct place.’

  Saying nothing, Jack looked towards Bethany. He knew that there was no comparison between picking a simple lock in England and attempting this obviously convoluted medieval nightmare in Malta. For all that he loved her, he wished that Bethany could control her tongue sometimes. Now he might not only let her down, but also possibly condemn Great Britain to a war against most of southern Europe. He wanted fervently to be back in Ludlow, downing a pint of October in a snug inn with English voices talking about cricket and the harvest. Forcing a smile, he hoped he looked confident as he lifted the broken dagger.

  ‘Let’s get going, then,’ he said.

  The second hole was about three feet from the first, a seemingly natural slit hidden beneath one of the rocks of the shore. Borg indicated it with a nod of his head. ‘The key must go in at a slight angle,’ he said, ‘and then you turn to the right.’

  ‘I see,’ Jack said. He held the broken parts in his hand, very aware that everybody was watching him. Borg still looked sceptical, curiosity battling the pain in his eyes, while Dover was reloading the empty barrel of his pistol, no doubt contemplating shooting him if he turned out to be a threat to the King. Bethany, of course, was confident that he would open the damned thing in seconds, while the two soldiers were holding the gunpowder with an air of wistful disappointment. Being typical redcoats, they had probably been looking forward to making a loud bang and destroying something just for the fun of it.

  Bringing the lantern closer, Jack peered into the slit, in case any of the mechanism was visible. He could see only the dark smear in the rock. Taking a deep breath, he inserted the broken knife handle into the hole and probed experimentally. There was something there – a catch of some sort – but it did not move in the slightest. He removed the pieces again.

  ‘Well?’ Dover said impatiently. ‘Is it open?’

  ‘Give him time,’ Bethany defended him at once.

  ‘I’m just investigating the mechanism,’ Jack told him. ‘Have patience, Mr Dover.’

  Putting the broken pieces together, he examined them, working out exactly how each worked, so he could ascertain what the lock would be like. Retracting the first key, he examined that as well.

  Both keys were identical, which suggested that they worked in the same way. That made things simpler. Inserting the first key into the second lock, Jack turned and heard a distinct double click.

  ‘Is that it?’ Dover began to push at the mural.

  ‘No,’ Jack smiled, picturing the mechanism as clearly as if it was drawn in a diagram. ‘This lock is really very simple. It is a long bar that slides into an aperture in the wall, but exactly where, I do not know. When we insert the key, it slots into a slight hole in the metal bar, and when we turn, the bar rises. It needs both keys to turn simultaneously for the bar to lift. That’s the security system they installed and hence the two keys.’

  ‘So the mechanism is quite simple, but it needs two people to turn the keys,’ Dover confirmed. ‘You are not so clever, after all, Mr Tarver.’

  ‘Did you think of that?’ Bethany leapt to her husband’s defence, as Jack smiled and looked away.

  There was another possibility, although he did not say it aloud. Perhaps one lock could be wedged open and the other turned. Removing the dagger, he examined it again. The hilt was simple – nothing more than a straightforward metal frame – but it was the topmost bar that fitted into the lock, so that was the important part.

  The answer was so simple he knew he must be wrong. All he had to do was fashion a bar across the two broken segments of the handle and fit it in. But where would he get a piece of metal to fit?

  ‘Of course!’ Putting the lantern down, he strode to the nearest barrel of gunpowder. ‘This will do!’

  ‘No!’ Borg struggled to sit up. ‘You cannot! It is sacrilege!’

  ‘Jack! What are you doing?’ Bethany reached out to stop him, as Dover smiled and the soldiers looked expectant.

  ‘It’s all right. There won’t be any bang and nothing will
get destroyed.’ Jack approached the nearest soldier and took his bayonet. ‘You’ll get it back,’ he promised.

  Now he was pursuing a definite objective, Jack was unconcerned that everybody was watching him as he prised one of the metal hoops from the barrel and broke it. He began to scrape it on the limestone, grinding away the metal to form a straight bar that would fit across the handle of the knife.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ Bethany asked.

  ‘Making a key,’ he explained. ‘You see, it is only the topmost bar that counts. The rest of the dagger is only the shaft that carries it.’

  Dover came closer, as Jack fitted his straightened piece of hoop to the dagger. ‘Is that it?’ He then raised his voice and passed an order to the two soldiers: ‘You two! Get outside and bring the cart closer!’

  ‘The cart?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Of course, Mr Tarver. A cubic foot of gold weighs half a ton, and half the treasures of centuries are concealed behind that door. Do you expect to carry them all in your hat?’

  ‘Half a ton?’ Bethany sounded stunned.

  ‘Yes, and gold is currently valued at five guineas an ounce. Think of that, Mrs Tarver. Think of what use the country could put such treasure!’ Dover closed his eyes, no doubt contemplating a capacious cache of coins for the Crown.

  ‘You are a strange man, Mr Dover, for a murderer,’ Bethany told him severely.

  ‘Can you do it, Mr Tarver?’

  ‘I think so,’ Jack said.

  He saw Bethany bend closer to Borg and whisper a question, to which Borg replied loudly, ‘Oh yes, Mrs Tarver. I do wish Mr Dover is here when the door opens. I wish him to see exactly what he is stealing from the people of Malta.’

  Dover bowed in acknowledgement. ‘The treasure will be given to the King to maintain the natural order of Europe and the freedom of Great Britain.’

  It was not easy to attach the bar to the handle, but Jack used the bayonet to file a small notch into which the metal fitted, pushed it down as firmly as he could and looked at Bethany.

  ‘Here we go, then,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Wish me luck.’

  ‘Mr Borg will be very happy when you succeed,’ Dover said. He cocked his pistol. ‘You will prolong his life.’

  In his professional interest in working out how the lock worked, Jack had almost forgotten the threats involved. Now he remembered that there was more at stake than mere gold.

  ‘Good luck, Jacko,’ Bethany said, touching his arm.

  Jack stepped to the first keyhole and inserted the key. ‘Bethany, could you hold this, please? Turn it only when I say.’

  Looking suddenly nervous, Bethany nodded.

  ‘I’ll do the same here,’ he said, taking a deep breath. Jack very carefully inserted his makeshift key into the second slot. He could feel the pressure as the end touched the bar of the lock. If he was wrong, or if his fastenings were not secure enough, the new bar would fall off and block the lock forever.

  ‘Give the word, Jack.’ There was a catch in Bethany’s voice.

  ‘Yes, give the word, Jack.’ Dover leaned against the wall with the long pistol resting against his left forearm and the muzzle a foot from Borg’s head. In the lantern light, his smile to Borg was as sinister as anything Jack had ever seen.

  ‘Three, two, one, and turn to the right. Now!’

  Jack lifted and turned the key, feeling a slight grind and nothing else. He saw Bethany do the same.

  Nothing happened. There was no sudden movement of the door, no rush of air as the treasure was revealed. He could feel the disappointment and realised he had failed.

  ‘Oh sweet Lord,’ Jack said. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Borg.’ He knew that Dover would shoot Borg as casually as he had Baranov.

  ‘Mr Tarver,’ said Borg. He was the calmest man there. ‘Have you ever known any door, locked or unlocked, to open by itself? It’s quite normal to push it. Try there.’ He pointed to a patch of stone at the side of the mural. ‘Mr Dover, would you do the honours?’ His smile fought the pain. ‘You will not need the pistol.’

  ‘I’ll keep it handy anyway,’ Dover replied. He nodded to the remaining soldier. ‘Keep your musket ready, Smith. And watch all three of them, but especially the Maltese.’

  Smith nodded. He had retrieved his bayonet from Jack and examined it for damage before slotting it onto the muzzle of his musket.

  Stepping forward, Dover pushed at the segment of wall. There was a slight creak and a fall of dust, but nothing else.

  ‘Push harder,’ Borg advised, twisting with a spasm of pain. ‘Come on, Mr Dover, I have waited years for this. At least let me see the treasure before you steal it all.’

  Dover did not smile. ‘It will be used for the best of causes,’ he said. Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. ‘Mrs Tarver, would you accompany me? I know that as a lady you will be eager to see the riches of Malta laid out before you.’

  Bethany shook her head. ‘I will not, Mr Dover. These riches should remain in Malta and by removing them you are behaving no better than Bonaparte.’

  ‘Mrs Tarver,’ Borg’s voice was hoarse. ‘Please do as he asks. For my sake.’

  ‘Mr Borg may not last unless you get him to a surgeon,’ Dover reminded her, ‘and that will not happen until every last coin has been removed from this place.’

  ‘You are the worst of blackguards, sir!’ Bethany hissed, stepping forward and adding her weight to that of Dover.

  The door was not large, about five feet by three, and worked on hinges cunningly concealed within a natural crack in the wall.

  There was another creak, slightly louder this time, and a segment of the wall moved slightly inwards. They pushed again, but it was only when Jack lent his strength that the door ground slowly open, with a gasp of stale air and a smother of descending dust.

  ‘My God!’ Dover’s voice echoed into a Cimmerian chamber. ‘Smith! Bring the lantern!’

  Jack glanced sympathetically at Borg, who shook his head in sorrow.

  ‘At least,’ he said, painfully slowly, ‘I will see the treasure before I die.’

  ‘I’ll go first, Mrs Tarver,’ Dover said, hefting the pistol. ‘Just in case there are any nasty surprises.’ He raised his voice: ‘Watch Mr Borg, Smith!’ Then lifting the lantern in his left hand, Dover ducked inside the small doorway.

  Bethany hesitated for a moment. ‘Do you want to see, Mr Borg?’

  ‘If you would be so kind,’ Borg agreed. He looked up, as Dover began to swear. ‘I fear Mr Dover is upset.’

  Bethany shook her head. ‘Such commonplace language,’ she said, her jocularity fooling nobody.

  ‘Go on,’ Borg pushed her ahead. ‘See what has happened. You better go as well, Mr Tarver. You can tell me later.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ Bethany said, glancing at the doorway, now dappled with light and shadow, then back at Borg.

  ‘Go,’ he ordered softly.

  Touching a gentle hand on Borg’s shoulder, Bethany followed Jack through the doorway. The lantern only pushed back a portion of the dark, but it was obvious that at one time the long, high chamber had been part of the main catacombs, with the same smoothed limestone and the small apertures hacked into the walls. The only additional feature was a table carved out of the rock at one end. The achingly hollow room echoed to their footsteps and Dover’s sardonic laughter.

  ‘Treasure!’ Dover stood at the table, looking around the room with the lantern held high, waving the pistol in the air. ‘There’s no blasted treasure in here! It’s a fudge!’ He jerked his thumb backwards. ‘The place is completely empty!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Disappearing Treasure

  Jack stared around him, seeing pale walls and dusty ground. Dover was correct, there was no treasure. Thinking of all the effort and suffering, he felt nausea rise within him. ‘Perhaps it’s hidden somewhere inside?’

  ‘Bring him in!’ Slamming down the lantern, Dover pointed his pistol at Jack. ‘Bring in that Maltese bastard and we’ll ask him exactly
where it is!’

  It took a few moments for Jack and Smith to help Borg into the chamber and, leaning against the wall, gasping in pain and obvious bewilderment, he muttered something in Maltese, shaking his head.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself, sir? Where is the King’s treasure?’ Stalking towards Borg, Dover thrust the twin barrels of the pistol against his wound and twisted. ‘Speak, damn you! Tell me, you Republican whoreson’s …’

  ‘Enough, sir!’ Jack beat Bethany to Dover by a fraction of a second. ‘You will not treat the gentleman so!’

  ‘I’ll treat him any way I damned well please!’ Dover said, but Bethany pushed aside the pistol.

  ‘No, Mr Dover. You are an English gentleman and must act like one, or you will sully the good name of the country for which you work so hard.’

  Supporting himself against the wall, Borg shook his head. ‘It’s all gone,’ he muttered. ‘Centuries of accumulation, centuries of hoarding against Muslims and pirates, and now it’s gone in a few years. First Bonaparte, and now the British.’

  ‘We don’t have your damned gold,’ Dover rounded on him. ‘Where is it, man? You’ve hidden it somewhere!’

  ‘Where?’ Borg swept his left hand around the chamber. ‘Where, Mr Dover? Where could I hide it in an empty room?’

  Bethany looked hopelessly around the chamber. ‘Perhaps there is another secret doorway? Perhaps there is a second hidden room?’ She looked appealingly to Jack. ‘Have a look, Jacko.’

  As Borg lay against the wall with his head buried in his hands, they inspected the walls, tapping for hollow places, using the lantern to look for concealed doors, but after an hour and with mounting frustration, they found nothing.

  ‘It’s gone,’ Bethany said at last.

  ‘It has,’ Borg agreed. ‘It seems that the treasure has been lifted. If it was not the British, then it must have been Bonaparte.’

  ‘Or the Knights themselves,’ Jack suggested, but Borg shook his head.