Dominic's Discovery
Page 14
‘Of course, I'm all right,’ she replied. ‘I'm as right as rain.’
But she was far more than all right, for Miss Pruitt had discovered something about herself – that in a real crisis she could keep her head, organize her pupils and take charge of the situation. She, too, would never be quite the same again.
After lights out, Dominic stood at his bedroom window. As he surveyed the vast expanse of water, he thought of the smugglers of old, crouching over their muffled oars, rowing ashore, riding the waves with the sea spray in their faces, wading ashore carrying their heavy cargo. He heard the scrape of the boat as they heaved it across the pebble-strewn beach. He heard the boots crunching, saw the lanterns glowing in the darkness, smelt the salty tang in his nostrils. And he thought of the secret tunnel, the steep slippery steps, the empty chamber, the flickering torches casting ghostly shadows on the roof.
Dominic had been disappointed to learn that night that he had not been the first to have discovered the tunnel. The police had known of it, so had Miss Brewster and the vicar. It had, in fact, been common knowledge to the residents of Thundercliff Bay for many, many years. But it had been a well-kept secret because, as Miss Brewster had explained to him, they did not want inquisitive children getting lost underground or trapped or breaking their necks on the slippery steps. Many had looked for treasure, she had gone on to tell him, people from the museum and from the university, archaeologists and potholers, all manner of folk, and they had found not so much as a brass farthing. ‘There's no treasure down there, Dominic,’ she had said. ‘It will have disappeared long ago.’
‘There is treasure down there, I just know there is,’ he said under his breath now. ‘And one day I'll return and find it.’
As he spoke the words, he looked down at the small golden disc in the palm of his hand. It glinted in the moonlight. He had found the coin, picked out in the light of his torch, as he had led the way up through the tunnel from the beach. On one side it had the date, 1797, written above a shield, shaped like a spade on a playing card. On the other was the profile of a king with a tangle of curly hair and the words: GEORGIUS III DEI GRATIA. It was a golden guinea. And Dominic knew just the person to give it to.
He looked at the sea shimmering silver in the moonlight. ‘Not so much as a brass farthing,’ he said smiling. ‘Well, I know better.’