DEAD MANS TREASURE

DEAD MAN’S TREASURE

A comic mystery story

(19559 words)

18+(Mature

1

The whereabouts of the treasure of the notorious pirate, Captain Charley Cod, was one of the great unsolved mysteries of piratical history.

On his last voyage, and after capturing a number of ships, including a Spanish galleon, laden with booty, the pirate captain buried the treasure he had plundered in some mysterious plot of earth, on a remote island, that was marked by special signs and indicators known only to himself and his loyal crew, all of whom were sworn to secrecy and intent on returning, then sharing out the treasure, at some unspecified future date. Alas that promising rendezvous never came about. A hundred miles due west of Conch Island, the most isolated isle of the Claw chain, Cod’s ship, the Crimson Cutlass, was sighted by a British man of war, the Vengeance, bristling with cannon. Both ships opened up with all their firepower but Cod’s drunken crew was no match for the navy tars, and the pirate ship was disabled, badly shot about, and then boarded. Nearly half of his crew were killed or wounded in the engagement. Cod and the other surviving shipmates were captured and clapped in irons. They were taken back to Britain, dragged before the assizes, found guilty on all counts, then hanged from yardarms in Portsmouth, in the year 1707, taking the secret of where their purloined treasure was hidden to their graves. And so ended the lurid career of pirate who was known in his own day as the scourge of the Spanish Main.

A few romanticized Hollywood movies had been made about the legendary Cod; though none of them had done full justice to the gruesome career of that former choir boy and merchant seaman; especially when a succession of handsome matinee idols were cast as that sinister buccaneer, who didn’t at all resemble the pockmarked, gap toothed and squint eyed original. Though a recent, exhaustive biography of that notorious pirate, by an American academic was the subject of glowing reviews.

Over the decades and generations all kinds of cranks, oddballs, weirdos, misfits and obsessives, in pursuance of various clues, intuitions and hunches, had gone on fruitless ventures in search of that elusive hoard. Extensive digs had been made on various outlying islands, or by coves and inlets of the mainland, where Cod’s ship was known to have laid anchor; but all to no avail. Princes and playboys, with little else to occupy their minds, had been drawn on that romantic quest, along with eccentric academics and sensation hungry journalists. Indeed fortunes had been sunk, and lost, to try to resurrect that stupendous bounty from the earth. And every so often, like those other fruitless quests for the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot, some zany party of enthusiasts would set out on their voyage of discovery, sure that they had found the key to its location, that had eluded so many others. They would embark, with their trusty maps, all fired up with enthusiasm, to some remote tropical isle or desolate stretch of coast, to finally and conclusively retrieve that hoard, and to claim for themselves the kudos and the riches that would ensue. The news of their expedition would reverberate through the media and excite the eager attention of tabloid journalists. The party would set off to a fanfare of acclaim and good wishes, the expedition would hog the headlines and feature in the news bulletins, and then disappear into inevitable oblivion. Until in due course the next band of intrepid and eccentric treasure hunters would proclaim their plans, to the delight of the fourth estate, before setting off on their uncertain odyssey. The treasure undoubtedly existed; on that all the historians and academics were in agreement. It nestled, silently, anonymously, somewhere beneath the earth; but as to where that tantalizing fortune was, no one seemed to know.

The latest figure to enter the fray, the latest, in such a lengthy, unpromising line, was sure that he had the key to the mystery, and would succeed where so many others had failed. It had been a long haul for the elderly academic, Professor Bernard Braithewaite, the now retired Professor of Colonial Caribbean History at Fotheringay University, but he was sure that he had hit upon the truth.

He had written worthy tomes, and essays in academic journals, on the subject of piracy; and the lurid, colorful, though brief career of Captain Cod. He had retired from the university ten years ago, and, a confirmed bachelor and solitaire, to help fill the blank hours, had taken a further interest in the subject of Cod; with the heady prospect of the yet unearthed treasure adding an extra incentive to his avid curiosity. Indeed this interest slowly, inexorably grew into an all-consuming obsession that took over his life. He devoured books on the subject and corresponded, by letter, phone, text message and email, with fellow academics, all around the world, and made frequent forays out to various Caribbean islands and the surrounding nations of Central and South America, where Cod was known to have landed on his various, intrepid, maritime adventures.

On a wall of his study Professor Braithewaite had a contemporary woodcut of the fearsome captain. With his tricorn hat, his bristling beard, his shabby uniform, with its worn and faded braid, his brace of pistols tucked into his belt, his trusty cutlass, his eye patch, and the hook where his left hand used to be, he looked the archetypal image of the marauding pirate.

His obsession with this remote, picturesque figure, and the heady riches he had buried somewhere, beneath the ground, eventually came to the attention of the media. With his idiosyncratic and rather crotchety manner, his strange, pre-War dress sense, his wild, gray locks and monocle, he seemed to many to be the very epitome of the lovable English eccentric, and was instantly taken into the affections of the great British public. Indeed for a time he became a minor media celebrity, appearing on Call my Bluff and Countdown; making guest appearances in various documentaries on piracy and the history of the Caribbean, and even appearing in a number of humorous TV ads for rum. He was interviewed several times, on TV, radio and in the press, about his overriding obsession with Cod; and it was through this that he came at length to the attention of that equally eccentric and colorful personality, the entrepreneur, Ray Bragston.

2

Ray Bragston himself was also a well-known media figure in his own right. A buccaneering entrepreneur, in his mid-fifties, who had successfully acquired a huge commercial empire, consisting of a large record company, an airline, a train network, and sundry other business operations, which all came under the quixotic title of the Excalibur Corporation, complete with its distinctive logo of a medieval knight heroically brandishing a sword.

Bragston, with his wild thatch of blonde hair, his scraggy beard, his toothy grin, his casual attire, and relaxed, unstuffy, informal manner, was known to the public, not merely for his business activities, but for his appearances on TV chat shows, discussion programs and parlor games. And some of his other extra-curricular activities, such as scuba diving, potholing, and perhaps above all his strange, singular obsession with hang gliding, in which aerial department he had indeed broken a number of UK and world records, as well as a few limbs, and netted some international recognized cups and trophies, had kept him regularly in the press and the news bulletins, and consequently to the fore of the public mind.

The two men met at a society bash at the Stork Hotel, in celebration of Lord Burkhead’s seventieth birthday. They struck up a conversation and established an immediate rapport. The quest for Cod’s crock of treasure, that was now Braithewaite’s overriding obsession, appealed at once to Bragston’s romantic and adventurous nature. Following the dictates of his own impulsive character he decided to give the backing of his company to Braithewaite’s project to retrieve the dead pirate’s treasure.

And for the tabloid press it was an alliance made in heaven, and columnists, commentators and cartoonists had a field day with that colorful double act.

They met several times, at the Professor’s domicile, in Hazel Court, and at Bragston’s resplendent Edwardian mansion in the Cotswolds.

Through extraordinary efforts Braithewaite had managed to get hold of the journal of Septimus Weatherington; the disgraced, alcoholic, former Anglican Vicar, who had become Cod’s amanuensis. The journal was a priceless record of the adventurous voyages and reckless exploits of that legendary and sinister pirate, as he terrorized the Spanish Main. Further than that he managed to acquire, by various cunning stratagems and underhand means, copies of three old maps, any one of which, he strongly suspected, could hold the secret to where the treasure was hidden.

It was indeed the considered opinion of Braithewaite, after much thought, study and speculation, that the treasure had been hidden on one of the uninhabited Claw islands off the coast of Coriander. Excited and enthused that the target area had been so effectively narrowed down, Bragston, with the willing support of the Professor, organized an expedition to the Isle of Sighs, the largest of the Claw islands, in order to dig for gold, doubloons and pieces of eight.

The party, headed by these two intrepid adventurers, set off on Bragston’s luxury yacht, the Silver Lady, with a team of surveyors and laborers, with earth diggers and metal detectors in the holds; and, on a lighter note, magnums of champagne, tins of caviar and Fortnum and Mason hampers, to make the voyage as lively and agreeable as possible.

They landed on the island, and set up camp. An extensive dig was made, in the general locality where one of the maps indicated that the treasure might have been deposited; but nothing was unearthed apart from a pair of discarded galoshes and an empty rum bottle. Yet one of those maps, according to Braithewaite’s belief, was in all probability genuine. Even if two of them were, in his opinion, mere decoys; which had been created with the deliberate intention of hoodwinking and confusing any would be treasure hunters. So, disappointed, though not entirely disheartened, they returned to Blighty to prepare for another mission.

A month later they set sail for the Isle of Lost Hopes, dug again, and found their hopes dashed and returned empty handed. By then Bragston was beginning to have his doubts about that whole quixotic venture, though he kept his thoughts and opinions to himself. Braithewaite, by contrast, was as ebullient and confident as ever, his faith in his mission as pristine and glowing as some devout religious faith. Another month followed and they set off, to Fairweather Island, and dug once more, under Braithewaite’s eager supervision. Though the weather was fair, on that idyllic tropical isle, their fortunes didn’t follow suit. It proved as barren of treasure as the other two had been and a feeling of deflation, even outright depression, began to assail the entire party, Braithewaite included. They returned back to Britain in a sullen, downcast mood, and to hoots of derision from the tabloid commentators, newspaper cartoonists and sundry TV comedians.

3

It was the failure of that third expedition, in which so much money and high hopes had been invested, that eventually turned Bragston against Braithewaite and persuaded him to withdraw his backing for the academic. One night, after downing a few too many whiskies at a cocktail party with some close friends, that included a few politicians, in Islington, he rung up Braithewaite, at his residence in Hazel Court, and informed the deflated academic that he was pulling out of the venture altogether.

‘You’ll have to find another mug to bail you out, Braithewaite. I’m not going to be your cash cow any longer.’

‘You can’t do that, Ray; I’m really getting somewhere now!’

‘Oh yeah,’ he guffawed. ‘After all those blind alleys we’ve been down.’

‘I’ve just unearthed a map from an archive of historical documents at Fairfax University, that I’m sure pinpoints exactly where Cod’s treasure is.’

‘But you told me that the last three times.’

‘This one is different. This one is the real McCoy.’

‘Oh yeah; then how come there were three phony maps floating about? Which you were fool enough to fall for? Tell me that?’

‘It was probably Cod’s way of confusing would be treasure hunters and putting people off the scent. Rather like those fake tunnels you get in pyramids to direct would be robbers away from where the Pharaoh’s treasure is actually hidden.’

‘I’m beginning to think that this whole thing is a fake.’

‘But this map is different.’

‘Yeah; just like all the others were. You’ve just been kidding me on with this Cod business. And I’ve wasted all that time and effort for nothing.’

‘I’d stake my reputation on this one.’

‘You must think I’ve just dropped off a Christmas tree, Braithewaite, if you expect me to fall for that one. I’d be just throwing good money after bad, and wasting my time all over again.’

‘But Ray,’ the academic pleaded, ‘we’re nearly there. Just one more heave, and we’ve cracked it. We’ll have the jackpot this time.’

‘I’d have more chances of winning the lottery. You really are a screwball, Braithewaite. And I was a real dope for trusting you in the first place.’

‘This is on the level. We could really clinch it this time.’

‘The only thing you’ve been clinching is my money. And you’re not getting any more of it. Not a penny.’

‘I’m deadly serious, Ray.’

‘Is there any end to your nonsense?’

‘Give it one more chance?’

‘How d’you know that this map is any more genuine than the others? All of which proved to be totally useless?’

‘Some instinct, some intuition, tells me that this is the genuine article. It just feels right.’

‘Feels right, eh? Well I feel a right Charlie after those three dud expeditions you’ve led me on.’

‘If we keep faith we’ll get there yet, Ray.’

‘The only thing I could be certain of with you, Braithewaite, is that I’d keep shelling out the dosh, and getting nothing back in return.’

‘We’ll be quids in at the end of the day.’

‘Oh aye!’

‘Just one more dig and we’ll do it. And if it doesn’t pan out, though I’m sure it will, then I’ll never bother you again.’

‘Come off it, Braithewaite. It’d make more sense digging for turnips than going on another fool’s errand with you on board.’

‘Just give it this one last shot, for both our sakes. You won’t regret it. You can rest assured of that.’

‘The only thing I regret is ever meeting you in the first place. You may have deluded yourself, Braithewaite, with these half-baked ideas of yours; but you’re not fooling me any longer. I’ve been on three wild goose chases after this so called treasure, and we haven’t seen so much as a farthing. I’m not going to embark on any more absurd escapades or cash any more cheques to subsidize your folly. I want nothing more to do with you and your crackpot schemes. I wish I’d never heard of you. You’d better try and find some other gullible sap out there, with more cash than sense. Because I’ll be dammed if I’ll have anything to do with you again.’ He fairly crashed down the phone arm onto its rest, leaving a confused, dazed and befuddled professor.

The next day, in more sober spirits, Bragston called a press conference at his company HQ and announced to the assembled members of the fourth estate that he was washing his hands of Professor Braithewaite and his endeavors to find Cod’s treasure.

‘I have to admit, ladies and gentlemen, that I was hoodwinked and gulled by Braithewaite into taking this nonsense seriously. Like a lot of con artists he has a very convincing line of spiel; even if, as I now regretfully know, it was all double talk and twaddle. I feel like a fool, and a chump, for being persuaded to join this madcap venture, by Braithewaite. I could almost kick myself, when I think of all the money, time and effort I’ve wasted on this futile, pointless and idiotic venture. I’ve spent a treasure, myself, looking for treasure that doesn’t exist. The man is either an out an out fantasist, or an unscrupulous charlatan and publicity seeker. But whichever of these he is, I, for my part, want nothing else to do with him. Let him waste his own time with those pipe dreams, he certainly won’t be wasting any more of mine.’

‘You’ve certainly sunk a lot of money and commitment into these expeditions for Cod’s treasure,’ piped up one onlooking scribe.

‘Indeed so.’

‘And you must be bitterly regretting all this now, Mr Bragston?’

‘I certainly do. Why, if I’d have channeled it into other, more positive directions, I’m sure I could have broken a number of hang gliding records by now.’

At that point some journalists glanced at each other and smiled slyly, as if thinking, privately, to themselves, that in comparison with those bizarre aerial escapades, looking for Captain Cod’s treasure might not be such risible endeavor after all.

Though afterwards, one journalist turned to another and said: ‘Did I actually hear that? Bragston, admitting that he got something wrong? Now that’s a rare disclosure.’

‘Rare!’ exclaimed the other journalist. ‘I’d say that it was almost unique.’

The next night while Braithewaite was visiting his sister and her husband in Welling Garden City, his house in Hazel Court was broken into by four men wearing skin gloves and balaclavas. The house was turned over with clinical efficiency, though nothing that any outsider would regard as being of any value was taken. But when Braithewaite returned home he found, with an almost physical shock of alarm, that the fourth map, the one which he considered to be genuine, had been stolen.

It was then, on desperate impulse, that he decided that he needed urgent, outside help, if he wished to pursue his dream of unearthing the treasure, with any degree of safety and security.

The next day he decided to call on the Sugden-Macnally Private Detective Agency, on Renton Street. An agency, whose singular investigative skills and expertise had been recommended to him by a fellow academic who had previously used their services, to positive effect.

4

The two detectives, Joe Sugden and Mervyn Macnally, were quite amazed and taken aback to see such a recognizable, high profile media figure turn up, unannounced, at their premises.

‘Gentlemen,’ the Professor bluntly announced, ‘I need your skill and assistance on a matter of great importance.’

‘Well in that case you’d better step into the office,’ suggested Sugden, as he pointed to a door whose paintwork was beginning to flake away. ‘We can discuss matters in there, in confidentiality.’

‘By all means.’

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ suggested Macnally.

‘Thank you. A nice cup of tea wouldn’t come amiss.’

‘And some biscuits?’ added Macnally.

‘Why not.’

Joe Sugden was short and stocky, with a jaunty, confident air about him. Mervyn Macnally was a tall, spindly character, with a long, angular face; he had a spiv mustache and wore a crumpled jacket with patches at the elbows. Both men were in their late thirties and had been partners in their own detective agency for the last fifteen years.

Braithewaite scoffed down the last piece of a digestive biscuit, shook his hands to send the crumbs flying, and took a sip of his tea. The two detectives looked at him with avid curiosity; as if he himself was some strange treasure or curio recently dug up out of the earth.

‘My house was broken into last night.’

‘Aye; we heard the news this morning,’ said Sugden. ‘It must have been quite upsetting?’

‘Indeed so. But this was no mere run of the mill robbery. The house was turned upside down. But the only thing that was taken, was a map.’

‘A map!’

‘Yes, and a map, which I believe, indeed, which I am convinced, discloses precisely where the treasure of Captain Cod lays buried.’

A sly smile came to Macnally’s lips. ‘We’ve heard all about your treasure hunting escapades, Professor Braithewaite.’ Indeed, you’d have had to have lived on the dark side of the Moon not to have done so.

‘I daresay.’

‘You’ve been on quite a few digs after Cod’s treasure.’

‘Three to be precise.’

‘And you drew a blank on all of them,’ added Sugden.

‘Unfortunately, that is the case. Though they were all sincere efforts on my part. I can assure you of that.’

‘I’ve no doubt about it,’ added Sugden.

‘This isn’t some dilettante exercise, or private amusement, on my part. I’m deadly serious about this business.’

‘Of course,’ mumbled Macnally.

Sugden nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Professor? What makes you think that this map, that was stolen, is the genuine article; when, with all respect, you’ve been up so many blind alleys before now?’

A look of strange intensity settled on Braithewaite’s face. ‘I can’t quite put it into words, gentlemen. But I have the profound feeling; you could even call it a sixth sense, I suppose, that this is the real deal. It ticks all the right boxes as far as I’m concerned. And after so many false starts and blind alleys, I believe that I have at last stumbled onto the truth. And that this map holds the key to untold wealth and riches. As well as solving one of the great mysteries of history.’

‘How did you get hold of the map?’ enquired Macnally.

‘The map isn’t actually the original thing. It is a copy of the actual map. The original is held, under lock and key, in a prestigious academic institute. On request they show it to scholars and academics they can trust. But it can never leave the premises.’ A wry smile came to his lips. ‘I wasn’t even authorized to take a copy of it. But I did precisely that, on the sly, using a nearby xerox machine when the attendant, trusting soul that he was, went off for a comfort break while leaving me in temporary custody of that invaluable item. I ran off a copy, folded it up and placed it in an inside pocket, before he arrived back.’

‘You were taking liberties there, Professor Braithewaite,’ said Macnally.

‘If I have to bend a few rules to get hold of that fabulous treasure trove, then so be it. As I said before, this isn’t some recreational fun on my part, to fill my retirement hours. I’m committed to this business; one hundred percent. I’m not going to allow some red tape or officialdom to get in my way.’

‘But if this institute had the map; why didn’t they track the treasure down?’ asked Sugden.

‘They had the map. But they didn’t know that it was connected with Cod’s treasure.’

‘How come?’

‘The author of the map; a certain disgraced vicar by the name of Septimus Weatherington, who had acted as Cod’s secretary, used a particular, cryptic, coded language, of his own devising, while writing the directions on his decoy maps, and on this, the genuine article; a copy of which the burglars got hold of last night. I alone have managed to crack the complex cryptic code that he used. That’s why they didn’t realize, indeed had no idea, that this map gives the precise directions that leads to Captain Cod’s treasure.’

‘Wow!’ exclaimed Macnally.

Sugden sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin. ‘So, whoever broke into your house last night knew precisely what they were looking for.’

‘Oh yes. This was no accidental discovery, on their part. They were after one thing, only. The map. There can be no question about that. Indeed, the fact that nothing else was taken, proves it conclusively.’ He shrugged his shoulders and sighed heavily. ‘And, unfortunately, they got it.’

‘Did you happen to tell anyone that you had this map? Either intentionally, or as a slip of the tongue?’

‘I’ve related the matter to only one person. My former patron and backer; Ray Bragston. But he dismissed it out of hand; indeed with some quite intemperate language as I recall. Then of course, he abruptly terminated our relationship; just when things seemed to be paying off. But then, he’s an impatient businessman who wants instant results. And I can tell you from personal experience that he’s not the easiest person to be in a partnership with.’

‘Then he could be behind the break in?’ suggested Macnally.

‘Oh no, not him,’ Braithewaite shook his head emphatically. ‘No. Not at all.’

‘Why not? What makes you so certain?’

‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Heard what?’ The two detectives looked at each other with some puzzlement.

‘He’s gone back to hang gliding.’

‘Ah yes, so he has,’ mumbled Sugden.

‘Oh aye,’ added Macnally; ‘he’s quite fanatical about it.’

‘A quite ridiculous pastime in my opinion.’ the Professor concluded. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘But each to his own. And with that now at the center of his attention, all thoughts of Cod’s treasure will have quite faded out of his mind.’

‘But if it wasn’t him, then who could be behind the robbery?’ insisted Sugden.

‘Aye, someone had to be in the know,’ echoed his partner.

‘It’s my guess that he told some acquaintance of his, who saw it in turn as an opportunity to make a quick buck.’

‘And he’s certainly clinched his chance,’ said Sugden. ‘And what d’you intend to do now, Professor; seeing that some person, or party, has filched your map? And are in all probability after the treasure as well?’

He leaned forward in his chair, nursing a teacup and saucer in his hands, and glowered intensely at the two private eyes. ‘I have no other option, gentlemen. I must get to the island where the treasure is hidden, before these desperadoes get there. And retrieve the treasure.’

‘Hang on a minute,’ demanded Macnally; ‘how on earth are you going to get there and locate the treasure when someone’s already stolen your map?’

A knowing smile momentarily eclipsed the tension lines on the Professor’s face. ‘As I said before, the map is itself a copy.’

‘Aye.’

‘I took some precautions against something like this happening. I always try to stay a step ahead of any would be competitors. I made a copy of the copy, and stashed it in a safety deposit box.’

‘A wise foresight, professor.’

‘Yes, it was, wasn’t it. I took the map out of the deposit box, before I came here today, gentlemen.’

This time it were the two sleuths who were on the edges of their seats as the professor took a carefully folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket, unfolded it and placed it reverentially on the desk before the two gumshoes. ‘There you are, gents. Where X marks the spot. And those to the side are the cryptic directions that tell you how to get there. That’s where the treasure lies. Where it was buried hundreds of years ago. A stupendous fortune, of gold and silver coins, gleaming jewels, precious stones and pearls, all lying, silently, beneath the earth, just waiting to be retrieved and brought to the light of day.’

‘Blimey!’ gushed Macnally, ‘it’d be like winning the lottery.’

‘The lottery!’ spat the professor, indignantly; ‘that’s peanuts compared with this lot.’ He looked earnestly from one to the other. ‘And if you help me to get it, I can promise you a generous share of the booty. gentlemen.’

‘Well, what are we waiting for, Joe?’ blurted Macnally, as he turned to his partner in sleuthery. ‘We can’t turn that down, can we now?’

Sugden nodded his head. ‘Yeah, let’s go for it.’

Braithewaite smiled and clapped his hands together. ‘Capital. Now we really are getting somewhere.’

5

Seeing the urgency of the matter and the stakes that were involved they made hasty plans to journey over to Klunk Island, in the Claw Chain, that was the island delineated on that map. All three packed up essential items; then flights were booked and accommodation acquired, and they departed the next morning on their frenetic odyssey of discovery.

All three met up, at a prearranged time, at the crack of dawn, at the entrance to a large metropolitan train station. They slurped down three coffees in a concourse café then boarded the ‘Lightning Express’; an Excalibur train, to take them to the airport for their flight over. Expectations were high. They felt excited, and nervous, and even fearful. Would Cod’s treasure, that had lain dormant for three centuries while the world attended to other business, give itself up so easily to three mercenary interlopers? Unfortunately the train conked out just after leaving the station and the passengers were transferred onto a fleet of buses in order to complete the journey.

At the airport they boarded an Excalibur plane in order to fly out to the port city of Lugtown on the coast of Coriander. To their acute annoyance and frustration a front wing fell off the plane, to a mighty crash, just as the plane was taxing onto the runway in order to take off, and the entire passenger complement, along with their baggage, were transferred to another plane.

‘If this Bragston feller spent less time hang gliding and more on running his business, we might not have half of these cock-ups,’ groused Macnally as he took a heartburn tablet.

At length the replacement plane took off, all its main parts firmly intact, winged its way across the Atlantic and landed at Lugtown Airport. With their baggage they took a taxi through the fly blown streets of that dilapidated old colonial city to the ramshackle Excelsior Hotel where they had earlier booked rooms in, on the thirteenth floor.

They dined at the hotel restaurant, had some drinks at the bar, then departed to their rooms at an early hour in order to get a decent night’s kip before the adventures and exertions of the next day.

They breakfasted early next morning, had a caffeine charge of coffee; then all three made their way to a hardware store near the city center, and purchased picks, shovels, machetes, a compass, a tent, sleeping bags, and various other implements they thought they might need, on that singular quest. Aside from these, they also took with them bottles of spring water, cans of pop, packs of sandwiches, tins of sardines, high factor sun tan lotion, a can of insect repellent spray, and in keeping with the spirit of the venture, though by mutual agreement, not to be used prior to the unearthing of the treasure, a bottle of locally distilled rum. Then they made their way to the marina and hired a boat, as well as the services of a local pilot, to take them to Klunk Island. Knowing that the seas in that part of the world were subject to treacherous currents and strong tides - and that sharks and other predatory creatures skulked in the sea waters - it was felt to be wiser and more prudent to hire the services of a local pilot, well versed in local conditions, in order to take them to the island. Indeed on top of all the other dangers they faced they also realized that that part of the world was also subject to sudden squalls, tempests, tropical storms, typhoons, cyclones and even hurricanes. Indeed the terrible damage done to the coast, with wrecked holiday resorts, inundated fishing ports, upturned boats and drowned mariners, by the monster storm of the previous year, Hurricane Donald, was still vivid in people’s minds.

They clambered aboard the Lucky Star, with the tools, accouterments and supplies they had earlier purchased.

‘To Klunk Island, my man,’ instructed the Professor to the Pilot; ‘and full speed ahead.’

‘Whatever you say, sir.’

The boat was untethered from its mooring, the engine fired up, and with a sturdy hand on the wheel the cheerful West Indian pilot, Clinton Robinson, steered the boat out of the stony embrace of the harbor and across the heaving swells towards the distant, tiny spit of land known as Klunk Island.

‘Let’s hope we’re ahead of the others?’ muttered Sugden, with some apprehension.

‘Aye, and let’s hope that map isn’t a dud?’ mumbled Macnally.

‘And let’s hope I get a decent tip?’ muttered Robinson, under his breath.

An anxious Braithewaite, stood by the gunwale, took off his sunglasses to rub his eyes. Robinson was at once alerted.

‘Say, haven’t I seen you somewhere before, mister?’

‘Uh!’

A sudden smile settled on Robinson’s face, as the puzzle was suddenly solved. ‘Yes, you’re that eccentric English professor, ain’t yer? The one they keep talking about in the newspapers?’

The professor looked sheepishly at the two gumshoes. ‘An eccentric professor. Well, I’ve been called worse I suppose.’

‘We’ve heard all about your treasure hunting escapades, Professor. Yes, even down in old Lugtown.’

‘It’s a small world,’ mumbled the Professor.

‘You and that other British feller, with the big, toothy grin. What do they call his now?’ he searched his memory: ‘Ah yes; that business feller who likes to go hang gliding all over the place…’

‘Bragston.’

‘That’s him.’

‘Not anymore,’ said Braithwate, with an undercurrent of anger. ‘He unilaterally pulled out of our endeavor.’

‘You don’t say.’

Robinson looked slyly from the Professor to the two men who accompanied him, then to the stash of picks and shovels; then shot his glance back to the Professor again. ‘Then I take it that this is another of your little treasure hunts, Professor?’

‘You could say that I suppose.’ He looked rather nervous and unsure of himself; and it was clear that he didn’t like talking about the treasure hunt to outsiders.

‘On Klunk Island?’

‘Well that’s where we’re heading,’ chipped in Sugden. ‘And we’re not going there to make sand castles.’

‘So that’s where you think the old scoundrel, Captain Cod, buried his treasure all those years ago?’

‘Yes Clinton,’ said the Professor, with a sudden, calculated air of familiarity. ‘And if you help us, and if you keep mum about all this as well, we’ll cut you in on the profits.’

The beaming pilot stretched out an arm and eagerly shook hands with Braithewaite by way of assent. ‘It’s a deal, Professor. I always wanted the wherewithal to retire early, and see something of the world.’

‘Yes, you should be worth a bob or two after today,’ reflected Macnally.

‘I’ll be more than happy to help you with the dig, gentlemen.’

‘Aye; the more the merrier,’ said Macnally.

‘I hear this part of the coast got a fair old drubbing from Hurricane Donald last year, Clinton?’ said Sugden.

‘Yes, man, who could forget that in a hurry. It almost flattened the place. Towns were flooded, boats were blown away, roofs were torn off buildings, and people were swept away in the deluge. Including a close friend of mine. We were hit for six by that one.’ He shook his head mournfully. ‘In fact we’re still recovering from it.’

‘You have my every sympathy,’ said the professor.

‘But it’s something you got to get used to in this part of the world,’ said Robinson, philosophically. ‘It goes with the territory, as you might say.’

Sugden turned to his partner. ‘We could do without that, Merv.’

Macnally nodded his assent.

6

Two hours later, across the calm and placid ocean waters, Klunk Island hove into view. The Professor scrutinized its dark silhouette and waving palm fronds through the pilot’s telescope.

Klunk Island had been discovered in the mid Seventeenth Century by the famous maritime explorer, Captain Walter Wolfgang Amadeus Von Klunk; who, though he named the island after himself, dedicated its discovery to the honor and glory of his esteemed patron, the Margrave of Munchausen. Unfortunately for Klunk, during his subsequent voyage of discovery, his ship, the Triumphant, capsized and sank during a wild, tropical storm, with the loss off all hands, including the Klunk himself.

Braithewaite folded the telescope and turned to the others. ‘Klunk Island, chaps. Take a few deep breaths. Today, we’re going to strike gold.’

‘I’d say it was high time for a refreshment break,’ suggested Sugden.

‘Why not,’ echoed his partner.

Sugden took out some cans of fruit juice and packs of sandwiches which were shared around between the three passengers and the Pilot.

‘Let’s hope this expedition lives up to expectations, Professor?’

‘In a few hours’ time, Mr Macnally,’ reassured the grinning Professor, ‘your eyes will be popping out of your head.’

The Lucky Star, riding a tidal flow, hit the shore on the soft sandy crescent of Chance Cove. The four eager fortune hunters tossed their picks and shovels, and other accouterments, as well as their supplies, over the sides onto the sand, then clambered onto the shore. They picked up the some tools and supplies, then made their way up to the dunes where they deposited them on safer ground. They went back for the other accouterments and supplies. Then all four of them pushed the boat up the sands and out of reach of the lapping sea.

‘I thought you guys were something out of the ordinary,’ said Robinson, as he tied the boat up, using the trunk of a nearby palm tree as a bollard.

‘Aye.’

‘No one’s asked me to take them to Klunk Island in years.’

Dominating the island was a tall crag, its surface covered by trees, bushes and wild foliage, that must have been over three hundred meters high.

‘What’s that thing?’ asked Sugden , as he pointed a finger.

‘That’s Munchausen Crag,’ said the Professor. He lodged a spade against a dune, took out the creased map, unfolded it and scrutinized it carefully. He folded and pocketed the map again and picked up his spade. With his free hand he pointed towards a striking feature of the landscape before them. A slender, narrow cliff; rather like a tall obelisk - though one shaped over the millennia by the mercurial hand of nature. On its grainy, indented surfaces wild vegetation grew and birds nested.

The Professor, a generous grin on his face, turned to the others. ‘That’s our first map pointer, gentlemen. Spear Point.’

‘Aye.’

‘Let’s head over there, shall we?’

‘You lead on, Prof,’ said Sugden. ‘After all; you know the way.’

The Professor made his way, the others following, into the interior of the island. Though only a mile and a half across, it was yet a verdant, variegated land; and though devoid of humanity, apart from those fleeting interlopers, it had its generous share of plant and animal life. Indeed huge plants and wild flowers, many with vivid colors of an almost hallucinogenic quality, with equally pungent scents and aromas, surrounded them on all sides, climbing every hillock, bluff and rise of land. Exotic, tropical birds, with colorful plumages, wheeled and glided in the skies above, or nestled on tree branches; many of them producing a wild cacophony of cries that reverberated all around them. Especially to the three Europeans, it seemed a strange, eerie, surreal little world that they weren’t entirely at home with.

They reached Spear Point and took time out for a breather. As he sat down on a slab of stone, with his three compatriots, the Professor took out his compass, in order to find his bearings. He pointed a hand. ‘This way next, lads. Fifty yards due east and we come to Curtis Creek.’

‘That’s a regular little road-map you’ve got there,’ said Macnally.

‘Aye; old Weatherington may have been a deadbeat drunk, and a dud clergymen, but he could certainly stitch a map together.’

‘Well we’ll certainly see how good it is, one way or another,’ mumbled Sugden. He swallowed some carbonated spring water, then sprinkled some of the water onto his palms and rubbed that natural balm onto his face.

Braithewaite looked at his watch. ‘Let’s give it five minutes. Then we’ll start moving, shall we.’

Five minutes later they got to their feet, and, under the merciless heat of the midday equatorial sun they trudged on through the thick woven foliage, with each one, as if on an unofficial rota, taking turns to cut a path through any wild vegetation that was blocking their way with a machete.

‘It’s a good job we took those shady hats and some sun cream with us,’ growled Macnally as he trudged in the wake of the other three.

‘I could have done with a spare pair of legs as well,’ said a struggling Sugden.

Curtis Creek was a meandering little inlet that wound and slithered through a small valley.

‘Break time, lads,’ blurted Sugden as he slumped down onto the trunk of a toppled tree. He took out a handkerchief and wiped a sheen of sweat off his sodden brow. The others sat down to join him. Braithewaite delved into an inside pocket for that priceless piece of paper.

‘Time to look at the ordnance survey map again, eh,’ joshed Macnally.

‘Don’t knock it, Merv; that could lead us to a gold mine,’ insisted his partner.

Braithewaite, having consulted his ubiquitous map, pointed his hand. ‘Seventy yards, lads; North by North West, to our next stopping point. Skull Rock.’

‘I see you’re going by the pretty way,’ cracked Sugden, as he lay down, temporarily, on the gnarled trunk and slid his hat over his face.

After the five minute time out they wearily got to their feet and plodded on their way, Macnally chopping and hacking at some labyrinthine tangle of vegetation. ‘I’ll never complain about gardening again,’ he muttered to himself. After a few taxing minutes he handed the machete to Clinton, who in turn began to hack and chop at the foliage, with more expert dexterity.

They at length reached Skull Rock. A striking natural feature that loomed fifty feet above the earth; and which indeed, through its curiously worn, eroded surface, resembled a huge skull.

‘We’ll have another break,’ announced Braithewaite.

‘Aye, and make it ten minutes this time,’ said a careworn Sugden. ‘It’s like working in a furnace,’

‘How many stops before we get there, Prof?’ enquired Macnally. ’This is getting like the Brighton Line.

‘We’re nearly there, guys. And Cuthbert Cave is our next port of call.’

‘Well, that old Cod put it in a safe place if it’s nestled here for three hundred years,’ ruminated Robinson.

‘Aye, and he didn’t get to spend a penny of it,’ added Macnally.

‘Well, we’re going to make up for that,’ said Braithewaite, affirmatively.

Thirty minutes later they were at Cuthbert Cave. For ten minutes they enjoyed the merciful sanctuary of its shade, then set off on the last leg of their journey; by then excitement, laced with a core of fear and anxiety, had overcome their tiredness.

‘Any other caves on this island, Prof?’ asked Sugden.

‘According to the maps and geological surveys I’ve studied, the island is riddled with them.’

‘It’s a wonder they didn’t hide the treasure in one of them.’

‘Ah, but caves can be subject to cave-ins, or flooding.’

‘Yeah. You probably have something there.’

7

They stood in a clearing before a rocky crag, surrounded by thick, almost impenetrable jungle. In the center of the clearing was a tall, weather beaten boulder.

‘Well, here we are, lads,’ said the Professor. ‘We’ll have a bit of a breather before we get stuck in. And remember, the quicker we get the goods and get the hell out of here, the better for all of us.’

Robinson, his eyes glinting at the prospect of the fantastic treasure that lay somewhere beneath his feet, picked up a pick from amidst the pile of tools that were heaped on the ground.

‘You guys rest for a while. Professor; you show me where the treasure is buried, and I’ll make a start. I used to dig the roads in Lugtown.’

‘Good lad.’ Braithewaite consulted his map again, and then pointed at a spot ten yards before the boulder. ‘You can start there, Clinton.’

‘We’ll catch up with you as soon as we get our breath back,’ said Sugden as he pulled the ring on a can of pop.

Clinton spat on the palms of his large, powerful hands, lifted the pick and began, with mighty, rhythmical blows, to break and sunder the hard, compacted soil.

Taking it in turn, the party set to coordinated work beneath the unrelenting sun. After an hour of hard effort they had managed to dig a trench four feet long, three feet wide and two and a half feet deep. Though by then they had only managed to unearth a motley collection of shells and pebbles.

‘Blimey! We could do with some dynamite to shift this lot,’ said Sugden, as he shoveled another pile of earth onto the growing mound by the side of the trench. Then Macnally, oozing sweat from every pore, swung his pick once again. There was a dull crash and a distinct recoil was felt. Macnally knew at once that he had hit on something out of the ordinary. He threw aside the pick and crawled on his hands and knees on the floor of the trench, frenetically pushing, scraping and fingering aside the soil where his last pick swing had hit. The others, alerted by this, gathered about the trench and glowered down at their compatriot.

‘What’s up, Merv?’ demanded his partner.

‘There’s something here.’

‘What is it?’ asked Robinson.

‘Aye, what have you got down there?’ asked Braithwaite.

‘Give us a chance and I might find out.’ He took out a penknife in order to dig and scrape some soil away. He carefully ran his finger over a distinct, solid object. He looked up at the others. ‘Yes there’s something here all right. And it’s not a cockleshell. It feels like the lid of a chest.’ They all took turns to dig, scrape and prize out that mysterious object; their eagerness to get at it making them almost forget the heat, and their lethargy and tiredness. At length after much pains and effort they managed to prize it loose from its ancient confinement and then dragged the weighty object, with the aid of some ropes, to the surface.

They dusted it off. It was a venerable old chest that might have graced a TV antiques show. Though sufficiently scuffed and bashed about by general use, and a recent blow, so as not to meet its optimum price. It was fastened by a weighty lock, and had a dent in the top where the pick blow had hit it. The lock was forced off with a jemmy. The lid was opened and beneath the blazing Sun the four stupefied adventurers looked down on a chest, chock-full of jewels, pearls and ancient coins, glistening and gleaming in the light, after three hundred years of confinement.

‘We’ve hit the jackpot!’ blurted a stupefied Macnally, not fully knowing whether he was awake or dreaming, as he scooped a handful of the booty and let it slip through his fingers.

‘We’ve made it! Captain Cod’s treasure; just as I promised!’ shouted an exultant Braithewaite as he slapped his compatriots on the back. ‘I knew we’d do it.’

‘Hell’s bells, this isn’t bad for a day’s work!’ exclaimed Sugden, lost in wonderment. The men stooped down and handled priceless items of treasures; doubloons, pieces of eight, pearl necklaces, diamond rings, broaches, bracelets, earrings, intaglios, cameos, and even the odd tiara, that hadn’t seen the light of day in centuries. They laughed with almost hysterical merriment. They shook hands and bear hugged each other. Robinson then danced around the clearing, gleaming treasures in each hand, as the other guffawed and clapped their hands in appreciation. Then, exhausted by their labor and their rejoicing, they all slumped down around the treasure and opened some cans of pop. The booze could wait for a while; they were buoyed up enough on high natural spirits as it was.

Then as if from nowhere clouds gathered in the sky overhead. The Sun, after it’s near permanent hegemony of the heavens, was temporarily eclipsed and the whole island seemed to be subsumed in a grey, half shadow. To add to the gloom of the atmosphere there were the first stirrings of a breeze to ruffle palm fronds, tree branches and wild grass. Even the birds seemed agitated and took wing, their cries and shrieks reverberating overhead.

‘I don’t know if I like this,’ mumbled Sugden.

‘Don’t tell me you’re superstitious?’ enquired Braithewaite.

‘I don’t know what to believe, after finding this lot.’

Even the perennially cheerful Robinson seemed nervous and restive, as if the external elements were trying to warn the foursome of imminent pitfalls and travails. And that indeed things were too good to be true.

‘At least it should cool things down a bit,’ said Macnally, trying to put a brave spin on things.

It had certainly cooled down high spirits; dragging them down from the stratosphere, and revealing the gaping voids of fear and trepidation that lurked beneath that hysterical euphoria, at the opening of the chest.

‘Aye, let’s get moving, Prof,’ Insisted Sugden. ‘Let’s get out of here with the goods. This place gives me the creeps.’

They got to their feet in preparation for lugging the treasure all the way back to the boat.

‘Yes, gentlemen,’ announced Braithewaite, in more sober spirits, ‘finding the treasure was only half the job. We’ve got to get it back to safe keeping next.’

‘All the way to Lugford,’ said Robinson, dolefully.

‘Well you lead off, Professor,’ said Macnally; ‘you know the way back.’

They discarded their picks and shovels, and the jemmy; all having done their work, as well as leaving an untidy heap of empty cans and bottles, they roughly divided the treasure between four large rucksacks, then prepared themselves for the lengthy trek to the Lucky Star, on Chance Cove.

Then a notion entered Sugden’s head that even further darkened the atmosphere of the island, and indeed the prospects of that entire venture. He looked up at the dark, uncertain sky.

‘What if we’re in for a storm?’ said the tremulous gumshoe.

‘That’s it, Joe, always look on the bright side,’ commented his partner.

‘I’m not scaremongering. I’m just trying to face facts, that’s all. It is still the hurricane season out there. And you just look up at that sky. It gets darker by the minute.’

‘We’re not going to stay on this island any longer than we need to,’ insisted the Professor.

‘We might have to if a storm lets rip. Remember Hurricane Donald when it bashed up the coast of Coriander and struck outlying islands last year?’

‘I can’t forget it,’ chipped in Robinson. ‘I was flooded out for three weeks.’

‘Well there you are then. If we ran into something like that out at sea, the Lucky Star could be reduced to matchwood, and we could end up in Davy Jones’s locker, along with Cod’s treasure.’

‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Mr Sugden,’ insisted Braithewaite. ‘This is just probably a passing breeze.’

‘Aye, but it could be a monster in the waiting as well; ready to bushwhack us when we’re on the high seas.’

‘What d’you think, Clinton?’ asked the Professor. ‘You’re a local guy. You must have more of an idea about this than the rest of us? Is this a hurricane in the making, or just a sea breeze?’

He pondered the question awhile. ‘Fraid my radio packed in this morning. It might need some new batteries. So I didn’t catch the forecast today. But you’ve got to be prepared for anything, in this part of the world. A storm can blow up out of nowhere. But the Lucky Star is a solid little craft, gentlemen.’

‘Good’, said Braithewaite, with a note of self-satisfaction.

‘I still don’t like it,’ said Sugden.

‘But, it isn’t built to withstand a hurricane,’ added Robinson.

‘You said it,’ said Sugden, feeling entirely vindicated. ‘If a tempest does blow up, we might have to hunker down, and stay, here, on this island, overnight. Maybe in the shelter of a cave.’

‘I don’t think it’ll come to anything like that, Mr Sugden,’ said Braithewaite. ‘It’s probably just a squall.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ reflected Macnally.

8

That sudden controversy, raised by Sugden, as to whether or not to stay on the island, was soon to be resolved; though not through their own making.

There came a sudden flurry of noise and activity to one side of the clearing.

‘What’s going on round here?’ growled Sugden.

Then through a wild tangle of foliage a number of individuals were seen to emerge. A man, familiar to all of them (though only one of them had seen him in the flesh), made his way towards them, flanked by two muscular bruisers, each with a gun in his hand, and pointed at the four tremulous fortune hunters. The two bruisers were Mickey Finn, a ginger haired Irishman, with a freckled face, who was a former pugilist, navvy and fairground worker; and Hugh Rinal, a Cockney muscleman who had worked as an enforcer for some dodgy underworld crime syndicates in the East End. And behind this sinister trio stood another four heavies. Local bruisers that had been hired, on a nearby island.

The man in the center, who was clearly in command of the situation, was of medium height and rather scrawny build. He was dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He had a wild shock of undisciplined hair, a scraggy beard, and gleaming, protruding teeth that gave him the look of a garden gnome. There was a marked, gloating grin on his face as he scrutinized the quartet.

‘It’s you, Bragston!’ shouted Braithewaite as he raised an accusatory hand. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Just checking on my investments, Braithewaite, old boy.’ Bragston turned and briefly pointed to Rinal, then turned to the other side to point to Finn, before turning back to the Professor and his three associates. ‘These are two close business colleagues of mine. Hugh Rinal and Mickey Finn.’

‘I can’t say that it’s a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,’ said the Professor.

‘And we happily return the compliment,’ responded Finn.

‘Drop those rucksacks to the ground,’ demanded Bragston.

They reluctantly did as requested.

Bragston then turned to the four local bruisers. ‘Take those rucksacks and empty their contents back into the chest.’

They got hold of the rucksacks and emptied the treasures they contained back into the chest.

As they made their way back Finn walked over and looked down in wide eyed wonderment at the treasure that sparkled and glistened in the chest. ‘In the names of all the saints, what a sight that is for sore eyes,’ he exclaimed. ‘Such a wondrous thing I’ve never seen before, in all my born days,’ he mused, as he made his way back to the rest of the party.

‘It seems you had more confidence in my fourth expedition than you let on in our last conversation, over the phone, Bragston?’

‘Yes. I had a change of heart, Professor; and decided to give you one last chance.’

‘Though without telling me about it.’

‘Let’s say that I decided on a change of tactics.’

‘So that you can net all the profit and fame for yourself this time?’

‘You catch on quick, Mr Sugden.’

‘Oh, so you know our names as well?’

‘Oh yes. I’ve also done a little detective work of my own, gentlemen. But then, whenever I set myself a task, I do a thorough and rigorous job.’

‘Your company, Excalibur, is represented by a knight in shining armor, brandishing a sword,’ said Sugden.

‘It is indeed. I chose the logo myself. What about it?’

‘How come you have a knight as a logo, and yet you act like a pirate in practice?’

‘Call it the buccaneering spirit of free enterprise, Mr Sugden. Big business is a rough, tough world, where no quarter is given, and prisoners aren’t taken. It’s a Darwinian jungle out there, where the risks are high, competition is ruthless, and only the fittest survive. There is no place for false sentiment, or being a so called good sport, in the market place. It’s for big beasts, not little minnows.’

‘With all due respect, Mr Bragston,’ said Finn, who was getting rather cheesed off by what he felt to be irrelevant verbiage, ‘is it a business seminar we’re attending here, or the smash and grab job you hired us for?’

‘I’m just spelling out the facts to these guys.’

Finn raised his eyebrows with exasperation, his thoughts on treasure not verbal fencing, and looked at Rinal, who just shrugged his shoulders.

‘This just aint cricket, man,’ exclaimed Robinson.

‘But I thought you’d gone hang gliding,’ said Macnally. ‘It was in all the papers.’

‘That was a deliberate ruse, on my part, in order to mislead the press. No, I’ve just been hanging around here instead.’

‘More porkies.’

‘Indeed so, Mr Macnally. But it served its purpose. It’s thrown everyone off the scent; while I ventured out here to this desolate, far flung island.’

‘The next time you go hang gliding, Bragston,’ shouted Sugden.

‘Yeah?’

‘I hope you fall off and break your neck.’

‘The next time I’m out hang gliding, you’ll be just a memory. And a fading one at that.’ He turned to Braithewaite. ‘You didn’t think I’d allow you to steal a march on me, Braithewaite; after I’ve spent a fortune on the search for Cod’s treasure. I’m here for the same reason you are.’ He took a crumpled piece of paper out of an inside pocket and unfolded it so that they could see it. It was a map. ‘I’m after Cod’s treasure as well. The difference between us, is that I’m going to leave this island. You’re here to stay.’

‘So it was you who stole my map?’

‘Not quite. But I did hire some people to do it for me. Though there’s no reason for you to get on your high horse, Braithewaite. After all, you pilfered it from a certain academic institute, in the first place.’

‘You’re nothing but a sneaky, low down, duplicitous, dishonest, underhand, double-dealer, Bragston!’

‘Hark at him!’ growled Finn; ‘the ruddy eejit.’

‘Yeah, you don’t talk to the boss like that,’ ejaculated Rinal. ‘You got to show some respect.’

‘Respect!’ He fairly spat out the word. ‘How can you respect someone like that? At least Cod robbed people out in the open.’

‘And what did it get him,’ came back the swift rejoinder from the entrepreneur; ‘a rope round his neck on Portsmouth dock.’

‘So we do all the donkey work,’ exclaimed Sugden; ‘and Bragston here gets the dosh.’

‘And we couldn’t have had a finer set of jack asses to do it,’ said Finn, with evident jocularity.

‘What d’you need all this treasure for anyway?’ demanded Macnally; ‘a stinking rich fat cat like you, who’s rolling in money?’

‘Yes, but think of all the fame and glory that goes with a stupendous find like this. I’ll be in all the newspapers.’

‘But you’re never out of them.’

‘Well I won’t be now.’

‘I wish I’d never got involved in all this,’ blurted a deflated, almost tearful Robinson. ‘You can keep your damn treasure. I just want me boat back, so that I can get off this cursed island and voyage back to Lugtown.’

‘How are you going to get away with this?’ insisted Sugden. ‘There’ll be suspicions in the press about what’s happened to us. And you were well known to the media as a supporter and backer of the Professor here.’

‘You mean he purported to be,’ Braithewaite corrected him.

‘Suspicion! About a couple of seedy, third-rate gumshoes like you. Do me a favour. You’ll be lucky if your local rag takes an interest in you.’

‘But if not us; what about Braithewaite here? Everyone knows about him?’

‘I wish I’d never heard of him,’ droned Robinson.

‘I’ve already announced to the press that I’ve washed my hands of Braithewaite. Indeed I publicly accused him of being a conman and a charlatan. Besides, the public will simply assume that he’s disappeared on one of his madcap expeditions to the back of beyond. Then no doubt some other eccentric buffoon, with a bee in his bonnet, will emerge onto the scene to captivate the great British public.’

‘What; while you’re still there!’ exclaimed Sugden.

Bragston stood on his heels and inflated his chest. ‘Ah, but there’s no one to replace me. I’m indispensable.’

‘Listen to that,’ blurted Sugden. ‘Mr Megalomania; with an ego the size of a barrage balloon.’

‘Anyway; who’s going to find you,’ said Bragston; ‘in a desolate, out of the way place like this. No one’s landed on Klunk Island in years.’

‘What are you going to do with us?’ insisted Macnally.

‘We’re going to fasten all four of you to wooden stakes on Chance Cove; just in time for the incoming tide. You’ll drown beneath the incoming waves; then some ebb tide will eventually wash you away, in a few days. You’ll disappear into Davy Jones’s Locker; or, if you’re ever found, bobbing on the ocean surface, it’ll be assumed that you drowned in a boating accident.’

‘I see,’ growled an incandescent Sugden; ‘murder in cold blood, and robbery on top of it. And this from a guy who can’t even run his trains on time.’

Bragston was taken aback at that scathing criticism. To accuse him of murder and robbery was one thing, but to even suggest that he was an inadequate businessmen he found to be particularly hurtful and wounding to his pride.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my train company, I’d have you know; or my airline for that matter,’ the businessmen blustered.

‘Oh aye. Well how come our train conked out just after leaving the station? And that our first plane to take us out here wouldn’t fly?’

A self-satisfied grin came to Bragston’s lips. ‘But those weren’t accidents. I arranged for those particular events to occur; to delay your passage, and so that I could get out here and lie in wait before you arrived.’

‘Hells’ bells, we walked into this one alright,’ Macnally moaned.

‘I want to get back to Lugtown,’ cried Robinson,

‘What are we waiting for, boss,’ insisted Finn. ’Sure these eejits here could talk the hind legs off a donkey. Let’s stake ‘em up in the cove and then get back to the treasure. After all, that’s what we’re here for.’

‘Aye, Finn is right, Mr Bragston,’ insisted Rinal. ‘The tide will be coming in soon. Let’s get on with the job.’

Bragston looked up at the unsettled sky and felt the wind as it splayed his hair and ruffled his shirt. ‘Yes chaps, we’d better get a move on. The weather doesn’t look too promising at the moment.’

Finn and Rinal lumbered over to the denuded foursome, waving their guns menacingly, while the other heavies followed ominously behind them.

‘You heard what he said,’ growled Finn. ’Let’s see a bit of life round here. Let’s be seeing yer making tracks to Chance Cove, be japers; the lot of you. And put your hands in the air where we can be seeing ‘em.’

‘Come on there; shake a leg,’ echoed Rinal. ‘We haven’t got all day to waste on the likes of you.’

‘By hell we’ve drawn the short straw today,’ groused Macnally.

‘I knew it was too good to be true,’ cried a crestfallen Robinson.

‘What a life,’ growled a disconsolate Sugden.

‘You mean what’s left of it,’ reflected Braithewaite, with bitter humor.

‘Let’s have less of the lip and more action,’ shouted Finn, anxious to get those four out of the way and his hands on the treasure; or at least that portion of it that Bragston had allocated to him.

They made their weary, almost funereal way towards the Cove, and the grim prospects of a watery end, made all the more vile and bitter a fate, after the heady prospects of riches and media fame the fabulous treasure had fleetingly opened up to them. Then a fearful Finn, alerted by something he had seen, ran over to the boss.

‘Mr Bragston.’

‘What is it, Finn?’

‘Begorra boss, I just saw something that scared the living daylights outa me; so I have indeed.’

‘Aye.’

‘If you’ll come over here.’

He took the boss over to a certain spot. Rinal followed them. And during their temporary absence the four local Bruisers took out guns from their inside pockets and pointed them at the four captives.

Between two banks of dense vegetation a small clearing, composed of sandy soil, led up to a rocky ridge. Finn pointed a shaky hand before him. ‘Be jasus; d’you see those footprints, Mr Bragston?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I could swear before the Virgin Mary herself, the Holy Ghost, St Patrick, and all the saints and seraphs in heaven itself...’

‘Oh get on with it, man,’ snapped Bragston, not wishing to run through the entire Irish-Catholic pantheon before getting to the nub of the issue. By that time all the rest of the party, including the quartet of captives, looked on with curiosity at that strange conversation.

‘Begging yer pardon, to be sure; it was just to say that we passed by that little clearing on our way to the treasure spot. And I could swear I never saw a single footprint there, when we passed it by, before; let alone a whole line o’ them that leads up to that ridge,’

‘You haven’t been on the Liffey water again, have you, Finn? Didn’t I warn you that any boozing was out of the question until we got this treasure trove back to the yacht?’

‘Not a drop of it has passed my lips the whole day.’ Quite a feat on his part.

‘I can vouch for that, boss,’ echoed Rinal. ‘We’ve both been on the wagon today.’

‘Are you sure it’s the same place you came across before?’

‘Unless I be seeing things in my mature years, it’s the very spot I saw before. Indeed it is, and no mistake.’

Bragston shrugged his shoulders, and there was a bemused smile on his face. ‘This is an uninhabited island, Mick. No one has ever lived here. There can’t be anyone else in this place. It’s impossible. Not on a desolate spit of land like this, at the back of beyond.’

‘Well who made the tracks then? A ghost, a banshee?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It must have been one of those four.’ He turned and pointed at the four captives. ‘Yeah, one of those guys must have made the tracks.’

‘But why would one of them set out, up there, on his own?’

‘Perhaps he went up there for a comfort break, and then rejoined the party shortly afterwards.’

‘Well,’ he shook his head, ‘I daresay that could be a kind of an explanation, now you mention it.’

‘Well it’s better than ghosts, banshees or leprechauns.’

‘I’ll drink to that. You’re too superstitious, Finn; that’s your trouble,’ said Rinal.

‘Yeah, we’re just wasting time here,’ said the entrepreneur, brusquely, ‘and the tide’s about to roll in. Let’s get those guys staked out on the cove, and then head back for the treasure. And you can forget about footprints in the sand, Finn. There’s no man Friday on this island.’

‘Right, you heard what Mr Bragston said. Let’s get moving,’ barked Finn, as he brandished his gun at the foursome again.

The four began again their weary trudge.

‘That’s funny,’ mumbled Sugden, to his partner, ‘I can’t remember one of our party striking loose like that.’

‘Neither can I. But someone had to make those prints. If it wasn’t one of us, Joe, then we have indeed someone else on this island, whatever Bragston says.’

’Come on, get moving there, the lot ‘o yer,’ shouted Rinal; ‘and don’t take your time about it, either.’

9

At length they arrived, with a sickening of the heart, at Chance Cove. It was the very place where they had first landed on the island, with so many wild hopes and ecstatic expectations. Now they looked at it with joyless, leaden eyes. Even the elements conspired to mirror and reflect their downcast mood. When they had first arrived the sea was calm, there was hardly a stir of a breeze in the air, and the Sun, sovereign in a cloudless sky, poured its heat and light unremittingly. Now the sky was dark and troubled. The Sun had been censored from the firmament; a wild, mercurial wind tore at their clothing and beyond the shore the sea was restless and unsettled.

‘There are no return tickets for you lads,’ gloated Bragston. ‘This is where you hit the buffers.’

Four large wooden stakes along with two ominous looking sledge hammers were left on the beach, ready to hand.

‘I see you’ve left your tackle here,’ said Sugden, with gallows humor.

‘Sure, we all have a stake in this business,’ gushed Finn, to his own amusement, if not to the general merriment.

‘Right, you know what to do, guys,’ said Bragston, as he sat down on a sand dune and tore the cover off a bounty bar.

The four stakes were hammered deep into the sands. Then each of the four captives was taken to a stake; and was then forced, under the threats of waving gun muzzles to sit down in front of a stake, facing the sea. And then, with a thick hemp cord, he had his hands securely tied behind the stake.

Bragston, having devoured the bar of confectionery, got to his feet and looked at his watch. ‘I reckon you’ll have an hour and a half before the tide comes in. We’ll have taken the treasure and be on our way to Coriander by then.’

‘Well don’t expect us to wish you bon voyage,’ growled Sugden.

‘And I thought we could go our separate ways on a reasonably harmonious note,’ said Bragston, with heavy mock concern.

‘Bollocks,’ retorted Braithewaite.

‘But just in case you slip your moorings, gentlemen, I’m going to make doubly sure you never leave this island. Not alive that is.’

‘Aye.’

Bragston turned to his assemblage of heavies, then pointed to the Lucky Star, where it had been dragged up the cove, well out of reach of any incoming tide. ‘Untie that boat and drag it down in front of those jagged rocks there.’

‘You can’t do that! That’s private property, man!’ insisted Robinson.

‘No one tells me what to do,’ boomed Bragston.

Despite Robinson’s voluble protests and laments, the boat, that had taken them safely to the island, was pushed down in front of some fearsome looking rocks, just before the lapping tide line. Within minutes the hull was crushed, and remorselessly the strong tidal waves and jagged rocks reduced that vessel to a tangled mess of broken and pulpy wood.

‘Look what the bastards have done to me boat,’ cried Robinson. ‘It took me years to save up enough money to buy it, and now it’s been broken into matchwood.’

‘Sure, and it’s a crying shame,’ said Finn, with bogus concern.

‘There’s only one boat on the island now,’ said Bragston. ‘And that’s the yacht that’s going to take us, and the treasure, back to the mainland.’

‘I wouldn’t start gloating too soon, Bragston,’ warned Sugden, remembering his earlier warnings to the others. ‘Look at the storm brewing up out there. D’you think you’re going to have an easy ride back to Coriander? You might have got your mitts on Cod’s treasure, on top of all the dosh you already have in the bank; but you can’t buy off the weather, Mr Businessman.’

Bragston looked across at the agitated, frothing waves and seemed momentarily less smug and self-satisfied than before.

‘Remember what Hurricane Donald did last year; around this neck of the woods.’

‘Come off it, Sugden; that was just a fluke. A one-off.’

‘Haven’t you heard of Global Warming? They’ve coming in thick and fast these days.’

‘Global Warming! Don’t believe in it.’

Indeed the waves were rolling and breaking against the shore with greater ferocity, the wind was stronger than before, the sky darker and even more ominous looking. And the usually ebullient and extrovert billionaire felt the first stabs of doubt and apprehension penetrating the carapace of his confidence. ‘Anyway, I haven’t got time to waste with the likes of you. You guys are all washed up. And sooner than you think,’ he laughed, heartlessly. ‘I’m going.’

‘Well get lost then,’ exclaimed Sugden.

Bragston rubbed his hands. ‘Right, lads, let’s leg it back to the clearing and grab the goods. If we look sharp we can get off this place before the storm blows up.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Finn.

Bragston’s eager hirelings made their way towards the interior of the island, with Bragston himself following.

‘They can’t do this to me,’ cried Robinson. ‘It ain’t fair. I’m a married man, with a wife and kids to support.’

‘So you didn’t think it was Bragston who was behind it all?’ reflected Sugden, bitterly. ‘Too busy hang gliding, eh?’

‘I was clearly wrong. I thought he had at least shred of honor about him.’

‘They take me boat, then they take me life,’ reflected Robinson, gloomily.

The wind howled like a banshee; and the air, which only an hour ago, was of suffocating warmth, was now as cold as some dank autumn or winter back in England. And all the time the tide was creeping ominously up the arc of sand.

‘This Bragston guy really is all heart,’ pondered Sugden. ‘It’d have been kinder to give us a bullet apiece.’

‘At least old Canute volunteered for this kind of caper,’ ventured Macnally.

‘If only we could prize these ropes loose.’

‘Fat chance of that, Mr Sugden,’ said Braithewaite. ‘Houdini would have his work cut out getting out of this.’

‘That Irish guy said that there might be someone else on this island. Remember that?’

‘That’s just wishful thinking, Merv?’

‘But none of us could account for those footprints. Any more than Finn could.’

‘Well if there is anyone else on this island he’d better show himself in the next hour, or we’re all done for.’

By that time they could feel the spray from the crashing rollers on their faces, and the bitter taste of salt water on their tongues.

‘It’s coming closer!’ shouted Robinson. ‘It’s creeping up the sands.’

‘Yeah, we have noticed,’ growled Macnally.

‘We’d better start saying our prayers,’ said Robinson, ‘and make our peace with the Lord.’

Macnally turned to Braithewaite. ‘Prof, I’m beginning to think that there’s a real jinx on this treasure.’

‘You think so?’

‘What good did it do for Cod and his crew? They all ended up dead. And now it’s got us staked out on a beach, with the tide rolling in. When we thought we’d won the jackpot.’

‘Well let’s hope the jinx works for Bragston as well,’ chipped in Sugden, ‘and his yacht gets capsized on its way to Coriander.’

‘Yeah, that at least would be some recompense,’ said his partner.

‘The vanity of earthly wishes,’ ruminated Robinson, dolefully. ‘We chase after distant treasures, instead of being content with what we already have.’

‘And to think,’ said Sugden, ‘we could be doing some bread and butter detective work back in Blighty, now.’

‘I was due to have a darts match tonight, at the Green Man,’ said his partner.

‘I’d be meeting Jim Ferret in the Dog and Duck,’ said Sugden, ruefully. ‘Now I’ll have to put that one on hold, indefinitely.’

‘And I’d be taking the Lucky Star back to dear old Lugtown,’ said Robinson. ‘And I’ll never see it again.’

‘And to think they called Bragston, Britain’s favorite businessman,’ said Sugden.

‘Well I’ll never be a member of his fan club,’ said Macnally.

‘It sure looks mean out there,’ reflected Sugden, as he glowered at the cheerless scene before him. He turned to the pilot. ‘Is this storm as bad as that Hurricane Donald that ran amok round here last year, Clinton?’

Robinson pondered the question awhile, then shook his head. ‘It’s a bad one alright. But it aint near as bad as Hurricane Donald was. No, you couldn’t trump a storm like that, gentlemen.’

‘But it’s still going to drown us nevertheless,’ said Braithwaite, bitterly.

The only mitigating factor about their circumstances was that a group of large, jagged rocks, out at sea, though directly before them, had the effect of breaking, and taking the edge off the tempest, before it reached them. Though of course they couldn’t stop the tide.

10

In the face of a wild, mounting storm, the Silver Lady, along with Bragston and his heavies and the treasure of Captain Cod, left its mooring on Klunk Island, and set sail towards the distant mainland.

Braithewaite watched as Bragston’s luxury yacht was buffeted by the elements, and braved the swells and breakers of the ocean, as it made its uncertain, halting, tentative way towards the distant coast of Coriander. Against the immensity of sea and sky it looked as flimsy and fragile as something you might float in a bath tub. The Silver Lady was the last word in luxury accommodation. It was purchased from a wealthy oil sheikh of Bragston’s acquaintance, a year before. It boasted luxury suites, a solarium, a sun deck, lounges, a cocktail bar, a swimming pool, toilets with gold plated taps, and even a library. It was a floating palace, that had entertained, in its times, presidents and plutocrats, oligarchs and New Labour high fliers, pop stars and opera divas. But it was built for the more placid waters of the Mediterranean, and its various luxury watering holes, and not to withstand mighty tempests and hurricanes.

Mr Robinson shook his head, at the sight of that resplendent yacht.

’Treasure or no treasure, it’s damn foolish of ‘em to risk taking a craft out in weather like this. There’s no telling what might happen to it.’

‘Well if it doesn’t sink let’s hope they get seasick,’ said Sugden.

‘If that’s all they get, Mr Sugden, then they can count themselves damn lucky.’

‘And we could do with a bit of luck ourselves,’ reflected Sugden, as he stared down at the rising tide.

The entrepreneur, and Finn and Rinal were all sat in Bragston’s commodious study, on board the Silver Lady. On the walls were large framed photographs of Bragston, meeting the Pope, the U.S. President, the U.K. Prime Minister, the President of the E.U, leaders of various nations, fellow business magnates, movie stars, sporting heroes and TV celebrities, as well as that ubiquitous New Labour high flier, Percy Mangleston.

The three men were sat looking, with rapt expressions on their faces, at the opened treasure chest that was lodged on the table before them. But though Bragston and Rinal seemed quite ecstatic at what they saw, there was a look of some disquiet and concern on Finn’s face.

‘What’s up with you, Finn?’ asked Bragston, when he noted that strangely sour countenance. ‘Why the long face?’

‘Yeah, what’s eating yer?’ added Rinal.

‘Sure, it’s certain I am, that some of them pieces that I saw, when first I clapped eyes on that treasure trove, on the island, have gone missing.’

‘What are you talking about? Gone missing! Are you going nuts or something?’

’It’s the very divil of a mystery, sir. So it is, to be sure. There was a big gold necklace, with a ruby pendant, a sapphire as large as a duck’s egg, a tiara studded with diamonds, a pearl bracelet, and a broach, with a gleaming emerald, that I swear to heaven, I saw on top of that pile. But now we’ve got it on board ship I can’t see a damn trace of them. It’s as if someone had taken ’em, and spirited ‘em away, while we were staking out those four eejits on Chance Cove.’

’Maybe one of your leprechauns took ‘em? The same one that made those footprints in the sand.’

‘There’s no need to be taking the piss, Rinal.’

Bragston shook his head. ‘You must be seeing things, Finn.’

’Yeah, added Rinal. ‘Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.’

‘And even if some of it was spirited away, and I don’t think for a second it was, this stuff is still worth a king’s ransom, in anyone’s money.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Rinal.

Finn shook his head and there was a look of dark foreboding in his eyes.

‘Sure, I can’t help feeling, sir, that that island be jinxed, and that there be dark and unholy spirits that haunt that godforsaken place, whose power to do ill and mischief we may well have awakened. I felt it from first setting foot setting there, I did. And I fear that there be evil forces at work, beyond the scope of our mortal senses. The saints have mercy on us.’

‘I’ve never heard such utter bunk and claptrap,’ snapped Bragston, impatiently. ‘You want to chill out, Finn, or you’ll be going doolally.’

‘Yeah, why don’t you knock it off?’ echoed Rinal. ‘Giving us all the creeps, like that, for no good reason.’

At that moment a mighty wave broke against a side of the yacht, and broke in a cloud of spray across its deck, as the vessel swayed ominously before its impact.

‘I don’t like the feel of that, begorra,’ said Finn, as he held firmly onto the table. He looked through a porthole at the darkening sky, and heard the ominous whine of the wind, without; and the treasure, or what was left of it, began to lose its luster.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

The door swung open and a uniformed crewman entered. ‘The Captain would like to see you on the bridge, sir.’

‘Okay. Tell him I’ll be along in a minute.’

‘Sir.’ He shut the door and left.

Bragston got up from his chair. ‘Well, let’s see what he has to say for himself. You guys can come along as well.’

The Captain, stood by the wheel, looked at the choppy waters and the darkening sky and shook his head, as Bragston and his two accomplices entered.

‘Well then, Captain, I’ve been told that you wanted a word with me.’

‘I certainly do. I warned you, earlier, Mr Bragston, that it was too dangerous to sail this yacht in weather like this. This thing isn’t built for these conditions.’

‘I give the orders round here. You just do your job and get us back to dry land. After all, I’m paying you enough aren’t I?’

‘Yeah. But you can’t cash cheques at the bottom of the sea.’

‘A few more hours and we’ll be back on the mainland; and wondering what all the fuss was about.’

‘We can always head back to the island; tie this craft up in some sheltered cove, and then sit out the storm, and take to sea again when the conditions have calmed down. It’s better to delay our journey, than risk being capsized and drowned.’

‘No way. I don’t back off from anything, Captain,’ blustered Bragston. ‘And I’m not going to allow a bit of inclement weather to stall my plans. You just concentrate on your job.’

‘I still say you’re making a big mistake.’

‘Zip it up will yer. I’ve heard enough. Just set your mind on getting us back to the mainland.’

The Captain was clearly put out by the plutocrat’s pig headed stubbornness, in the face of the facts. ‘I can control this vessel, Mr Bragston. But not the elements.’

‘Sure, and maybe the Captain’s right, sir. It looks the very divil of a day out there. And that sky’s becoming as black as pitch.’

‘Don’t you start up as well, Finn. It’s full steam ahead. With no ifs or buts about it.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir.’

‘And so do I,’ added Rinal, morosely.

‘Of course I am. I didn’t make my fortune, and get where I am today, by chickening out when the going got tough.’

Bragston hadn’t bothered about such inconvenient matters as weather forecasts, (they were tedious enough things for him to consider when it came to hang gliding), in his haste to grab the treasure. Besides, as a thrusting, dynamic, entrepreneurial, go getter, he was of the opinion that he was one of those people who could literally make the weather.

Finn made a sign of the cross. ‘Heaven help us.’

Rinal picked up a bottle of Jamaican Rum, screwed off its top and took a generous swig. ‘You can keep your holy water. These are the only spirits I believe in, Finn.’

The wind became more ferocious, the waves higher, faster, more powerful and more menacing, the sky darker; as thunder rumbled overhead and forks of lighting briefly illuminated the firmament.

‘Begorra, I could do with some of that stuff as well.’ Rinal handed Finn the bottle and he took a sizable swig.

‘Go easy on the booze, lads,’ said Bragston. ‘We might need some sober heads on our shoulders.’

The boat made precious little progress against the violent storm that assailed it, and bobbed up and down, in an increasingly perilous manner, on the wild, capricious sea. At one point Bragston was thrown to the floor and had to be dragged back to his feet by the two heavies.

‘Blimey! I could do with a drop of that myself.’ He took the bottle from Finn and took a swig.

The Captain, who was hardly able to control the wheel, turned back to the owner. ‘We’ve got to go back, Mr Bragston. I can’t control this craft in weather like this. And just look at that sky up there. It’s going to pack quite a punch.’

‘Uh!’

‘And we aint seen nothing yet.’

Even Bragston’s overweening self-belief and confidence was no match for the super storm that now assaulted them. ‘Maybe you’re right after all, Captain. Let’s head back to the island and sit this one out. What’s a day or two anyway?’

‘The heavens be praised!’ blurted Finn, as he struggled to keep upright on the seesawing vessel.

Yet the decision to swallow his pride and to reverse his previous course of action, always a difficult thing for such a self-absorbed egotist as Mr Bragston to do, was made too late. The elements were so wild, the storm so intense, the sea so unsettled, that it was almost impossible for the Captain to steer, indeed even to begin to control, the vessel. Indeed it was the mounting hurricane that was now in charge of the ship, and was using it as its plaything.

‘Well?’ demanded the ever impatient Bragston; ‘can’t you hurry it up, Captain?’ At that second a powerful wave, breaking against the side of the boat, smashed open a port hole and all four of them were showered by a freezing cold spray of water.

‘Turn this craft around, will yer; and let’s get back to terra firma before we’re all soaked to the skin.’

‘I can’t turn the pilot’s wheel. It’s jammed solid.’

‘You’ve got to do. You can’t leave us stuck here.’

‘’Fraid we’re done for, Mr Bragston.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Then a huge, reverberating crash was heard, as if some mighty timbers had been sundered in two.

‘What in the name of Saint Patrick was that infernal racket?’ shouted Finn, while hanging onto a cabinet in order to prevent himself being tossed about the ship. Which unfortunately happened to his compatriot, Rinal, who slid by the rest of them, on the wet floor. He collided with a wall and was knocked out cold. In the contest between the storm and the yacht there was only going to be one winner. The violence of the elements had resulted in the ripping of a huge crack in the hull that was letting in water and making the craft even more hazardous and insecure than before.

‘Say your prayers and prepare yourselves for a watery grave, fellers,’ the Captain bawled, above the din of the storm. ‘This ship is going down. And nothing can stop that now.’

‘It can’t be!’ shouted Bragston. ‘I paid a fortune for this thing.’

‘Well you won’t get your money back, Bragston,’ thundered the Captain. ‘Not where you’re going.’

‘Is it going to sink?’ cried a desperate Finn. ‘And take us all with it to the bottom of the sea, bejasus.’

‘We’re just hanging on by a wish and a prayer.’

‘Let’s abandon ship then?’ barked Bragston. ‘We can use some life belts.’

‘You wouldn’t last five minutes out there,’ growled the Captain. A door crashed open, and a mighty wave washed through the bridge, carrying Finn away with it.

‘The saints preserve us,’ were the last words he gave utterance to.

‘Why didn’t you tell me it was as bad as this!’ shrieked Bragston, who clearly didn’t like taking responsibility for his own decision.

‘I told you till I was blue in the face, but you just wouldn’t listen, Bragston.’

‘But I’ll lose Cod’s treasure.’

’Then it must be jinxed, ‘cause it’s going to the bottom with us.’

‘We got to get out of this,’ shouted the entrepreneur. ‘We aren’t done for yet.’

‘You won’t buy your way out of this one, Bragston. This tempest is bigger than you are. And all the money you have stashed in the bank isn’t going to make a sods worth of difference.’ And as if to prove his words a monster wave smashed through the windows before the pilot’s wheel and swept the Captain away like a piece of chaff.

A distraught and agitated Bragston rushed forward and grabbed the wheel. He clasped hold of it, though the wind that blew through the smashed windows almost blew him away as well. He hung onto it like grim death, as the vessel was tossed up and down and sideways, with even greater force, on the wild, tempestuous sea. He could neither move the wheel to left or right. ‘Oh what tragic injustice!’ Bragston wailed, in the face of that black, unwavering hurricane. ‘Is this the end of Ray Bragston. What a mighty plutocrat England loses at this hour!’ Those were his last, unrecorded words. The battered, broken, punctured vessel, at the total mercy of the elements, its crew dead, washed away or incapacitated, was hit by another mighty wave. It keeled over entirely and within minutes, was sunk beneath the restless ocean waves.

‘I say,’ said Macnally, ‘the yacht seems to have disappeared from sight altogether.’

‘I can hardly see anything in this infernal storm,’ groaned the Professor.

Ten minutes later, lengths of rigging, broken spars, deck chairs, the Captain’s hat, an empty rum bottle, some plastic rosemary beads with a cross, and various other items began to wash ashore near the foursome. And then a lifebelt, emblazoned with the proud words, SILVER LADY, was beached, nearby.

‘Hells bells, folks!’ exclaimed Macnally, ‘it looks like old Bragston’s flagship has sunk in the briny.’

‘Looks as if it’s been pummeled to pieces,’ shouted Sugden, ‘if that’s all that’s left of it.’

‘I thought they wouldn’t have an easy time of it?’ mused Robinson. ‘It was folly itself for them to put to sea with such a storm raging.’

‘So there is some justice in the world, after all,’ reflected the Professor.

11

Another fifteen minutes elapsed and the sea waters were lapping about their waists and inexorably rising higher.

‘Well, it looks like we’re done for, lads,’ reflected Macnally. ‘I can’t see us getting out of this one.’

But then, behind them, from within the island, they heard a voice shouting; though the words expressed were hard to clarify against the blast of the wind. Then to the utter shock and incomprehension of the foursome a distinctly human figure appeared. He was a man in his fifties; his eyes wild and staring, his hair long and disheveled, and he had a bushy beard and thick mustache. He had a rather grim, melancholy expression; his clothes were tattered, patched and worn; and two pieces of tree bark, on the soles of his feet, and tethered to his feet by coils of twine, served as his shoes. He looked like some woebegone tramp; but to the four captives he may as well have been a guardian angel. With a knife he cut, in turn, the ropes that tethered each man to his stake. Then he pointed back to the interior of the island.

‘Follow me,’ he told them, urgently, ‘and I’ll take you to some shelter, where we can sit out the storm.’

All four, like men in a trance, followed their strange liberator, as he made his way up the cove and away from the rising tide. It was an immense struggle for all of them to make their way through the howling wind, which had already toppled and uprooted some trees. Though the interior of the island, with its variegated terrain, did give them a little more shelter than the open shore. At length, in a part of the island that they hadn’t come across in their previous excursions, he pointed to the mouth of a cave. He entered, and they followed him within. A curving passage took them to a large, cavern-like, natural chamber, which the man had obviously set up as his home on the island. There were animal skins on the floor. There were crude, wooden tables and chairs. There was some elementary cutlery, including a few sharp knives, some pots, bowls, tins and bottles. There was a fire, in the middle of the chamber, fed by a number of logs and dried vegetation. Above this a basic wooden spit had been fashioned on which some strange meat, no doubt from some wild animal that had lived on the island, was slowly cooking. At one side of the chamber, there was a sizable hole, high above them, which not only let in the light, but served as a natural chimney through which the smoke of the fire could escape. Below this was a large, open topped barrel, to catch the rainwater (seeing that there were some, periodic torrential downpours on that tropical island) and to prevent the cave from being flooded.

‘So that Irish feller was right all along,’ said Sudgen. ‘There was someone else on this island.’

‘Yes, gentlemen,’ said the stranger, with a rather faded voice, though with a distinctly posh accent, ‘I saw you arrive on the island. It was quite a shock at first. In fact you were the first human beings I’d seen, in all the time I’ve been here.’

‘Aye.’

‘I climbed to the top of that tall crag at the center of the island, to get a better overview of what was happening.’

‘Oh, you mean Munchausen Crag,’ said Macnally.

‘You people obviously did your research work before coming here. I, alas, didn’t have that luxury.’

‘Carry on, sir,’ said the Professor.

‘I took some binoculars that I generally carry with me.’ He smiled, briefly. ‘I’ve always been a keen bird watcher. Well, I saw you dig in a clearing, and then retrieve what looked like an old chest from the earth. You prized it open, and I could see that it contained coins and treasure of some sort.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Sugden, gloomily. ‘And now it’s at the bottom of the sea.’

‘I was about to come down, when I saw another party appear on the island; which I didn’t like the look of at all. Especially when they approached you and started brandishing weapons.’

‘That was Bragston and his bunch of roughs,’ said Robinson.

‘At that point I thought that discretion was the better part of valor. At least,’ he smiled, ‘for the time being. So I stayed put, but still kept watching. I saw them stake you up on a cove, just as the tide was about to come in. But I also noticed that they’d left the treasure behind.’

‘Not for long,’ sighed Sugden.

‘So while they were engaged elsewhere, I clambered down the crag and out of curiosity, went over to the chest, and examined the treasure myself.’

‘Yes,’ said the Professor, ‘that treasure was buried in the earth three hundred years ago by Captain Cod and his band of pirates.’

‘Captain Cod’s treasure indeed! That was a real find, gentlemen.’

‘Yeah,’ said Macnally. ‘Though it’s a pity we lost it so soon.’

‘I could see at once that these were exquisite and valuable items; and so I decided to pilfer a few of those pieces while the others were away.’

The other four opened their mouths and looked at each other in wonderment.

‘I didn’t go overboard of course. I just took a few pieces I took a shine to. Though not enough to alert the others that someone had been pilfering some of that booty. I stuffed them in a bag and went back up the crag again.’ And to show that there was real substance to that claim he took a worn and patched bag from under a crude table, opened it and displayed to the others, a gold necklace, with a ruby pendant, a large sapphire, a bracelet of pearls, a diamond studded tiara, a broach, with an emerald, and some doubloons and pieces of eight.

‘So we have something to show for our efforts after all,’ said Macnally.

‘You have shown remarkable resourcefulness and initiative, sir,’ said the Professor. ‘I heartily commend your actions.’

‘Thank you.’

‘These items are not only extremely valuable, in themselves, but they will prove to a skeptical world that we have indeed located Cod’s treasure. And that this was no wild goose chase, as some journalists and commentators had labeled it.’

They all eagerly handled and examined the pieces and felt a distinct renewal of their spirits.

‘Then, I saw Bragston. Yes; I did recognize him. And I saw his crew go back for the treasure, take it on their yacht, and then put out to sea. Though for the life of me I couldn’t see why they would take out that vessel, with the sea being so wild and a storm brewing up in the heavens.’

‘Well, some people think they can walk on water,’ was Macnally’s jaundiced reply.

‘When they were on the high seas, I decided to get down from the crag and onto the cove, before the tides had risen and inundated the lot of you.’

‘And we’re most grateful for that.’ said the Professor. ‘We all owe you our lives.’

The others expressed similar, heartfelt and appreciative sentiments.

‘Amen, and praise the Lord,’ said Robinson.

‘We don’t know your name, sir,’ said Braithewaite.

‘My names Goone. Ben Goone. I’m a stockbroker from Tunbridge Wells. Or rather, I was one, before being stranded here.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Goone,’ said Macnally as he outstretched his hand. The two men eagerly shook hands with each other. Then the other three happily shook hands with Goone.

‘And now you must tell me your names, gentlemen.’ Each man introduced himself; though Mr Goone had a strong inkling that he knew at least one of them already. ‘Ah, yes, Professor Braithewaite. I’ve seen you a time or two on the television.’

‘How on earth did you get here, Mr Goone?’ asked Sugden.

‘It was quite some time ago, gentlemen. Indeed, it seems like an age. I was enjoying a holiday, I’d long looked forward to, on the luxury cruise liner, the Reliable. Unfortunately, somewhere off the coast of Coriander, a terrible storm blew up, rather like the one we’re witnessing today. The ship was driven against some rocks, with a great gash torn in its hull, below the waterline, and within minutes it began to sink.’

‘Yes, I heard about that on the news,’ said Macnally. ‘Terrible tragedy.’

‘Isn’t that the ship that Bragston owned?’ enquired Sugden.

‘Indeed so,’ said Goone. ‘It was frightful. There was panic, fear and desperation. Some people managed to get themselves into lifeboats; though it’s my guess that most of the passengers and crew drowned. Indeed, such was the ferocity of the storm that even some of the lifeboats capsized. I tried to get into one of those boats, but was swept away by a huge wave, before I could reach it. Fortunately I was wearing a lifebelt at the time; otherwise I too would have gone down like so many of the rest. I was at sea for a whole day, without sight of land or the appearance of any other ship. I was hungry and parched with thirst, and had almost given up hope, when suddenly this little island came into view, and the tide landed me on the shore, on that very stretch of beach that you were staked out on just now. And I’ve been here ever since. All alone, without any companionship; until that is, you came along.’

‘And you’ve seen no one else, in all that time?’ said Sugden.

‘Not a single soul.’

‘Then we could be here for yonks, as well?’

‘Let’s try and look on the bright side, Joe,’ said his partner. ‘We’re still alive, aren’t we?’

‘We’re marooned on a spit of land, at the back of beyond, cut off from civilization, and you tell us to look on the bright side?’

‘No point in depressing ourselves.’

‘I’ve no need to do that. I’m depressed already.’ He turned to Goone. ‘And how long have you been here, Ben?’

‘Two years. I carved a notch on a tree trunk for every day I’ve been on this island.’

‘Two years, in this place. Ye Gods, it must have seemed like twenty.’

‘You get used to it in the end.’

‘How did you manage to survive here, all that time, Ben?’

‘As you’ve no doubt seen for yourselves, gentlemen, this is a verdant, tropical island; woven thick with vegetation and teaming with wild life. There are fruits and berries on the trees. Sparkling, crystal clear water from the springs. There’s plenty of game to hunt. And there are abundant supplies of fish in the streams, and the seas beyond.’

‘But how on earth did you manage to catch, then kill, skin and cut up animals?’ said Macnally, with some awe, at his achievement. ‘And then cook them on top of that? How did you do it?’

‘Fortunately I had my old Swiss army knife. And in time some boxes of provisions floated ashore from the foundered vessel that I was able to utilize. Including pots, pans, plates, cutlery, cans of food and even a carving knife. I made nets from some of the hanging vines, from which I made traps to capture wild creatures. I had a magnifying glass; which I could use to focus the powerful tropical Sunlight onto dried grass and kindling, to make my fires. And with an improvised spit I could use those fires to cook the animal meat. In time I even fashioned a crude bow, with a stretch of twine as its string, and with a quiver of arrows, in order to kill local birds and animals. A folded up fishing rod, I found in one of the containers that washed ashore, allowed me to catch fish in the streams and by the sea shore, in order to cook and eat them. A limited diet, perhaps, up to what I’d been used to before. But it kept me alive nevertheless.’

‘You were very resourceful,’ said the Professor. ‘A real Robinson Crusoe.’

‘It’s amazing, gentlemen, the inner resources and inventiveness, one didn’t know one even possessed, that one can tap, when driven by dire need and necessity. Hunger, want and isolation, do tend to focus the mind. Indeed only by keeping busy and active, in these ways, does one also manage to ward off, at least for a time, melancholy and despair.’

‘Well, let’s hope some ship or boat passes this way and sees us.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on that, Mr Sugden. I’ve been waiting for that for two years, and the only people to turn up are you guys, and Bragston and his crew. Then he goes and scuttles your boat and sinks his own yacht, and I’m back to square one again.’

‘At least you have some company this time,’ said Robinson.

‘Aye,’ chipped in Sugden, ‘you don’t have to talk to yourself any longer.’

A strange, eerie smile, of some private amusement, came to Goone’s lips. ‘But perhaps I haven’t been here, on my own, on this island, gentlemen.’

Macnally felt a chill run down the back of his neck at those unexpected words. ‘You mean, there could be someone else here?’

‘Not in the normal meaning of the word, Mr Macnally. Not like you and I.’

‘Then what the hell are you on about?’

Sugden turned to Braithewaite and pointed a finger to the side of his head. He whispered to the professor in hushed tones that couldn’t be heard by Goone: ‘Two years, on your tod, in a place like this? Wouldn’t surprise me if it’s turned him a bit loopy.’

Braithewaite pursed his lips and nodded his sage agreement.

‘But there are more things in heaven and earth, gentlemen, than we might ever imagine.’

‘Oh aye.’

‘I believe that there are spirits and presences, of an unearthly nature, that are on this island. At night I hear them murmuring and mumbling to each other. I’ve heard their laughter and banter. Their drunken gibes. I see their shadows in the woods; I hear their footsteps on the beaches, and through the winding tracks of the island.’

‘Man, are you saying there are ghosts and spirits here?’ exclaimed Robinson.

‘Yes, indeed, Mr Robinson.’

‘We have spooks, round here?’ blurted Macnally, as he sprang to his feet.

Braithewaite, clearly a convinced unbeliever when it came to such matters, shook his head complacently.

‘I’ve no doubt about it.’

‘Ghosts of what?’ demanded Sugden.

‘It’s my belief that they’re ghosts and spirits of old pirates and buccaneers, who landed on this island, centuries ago. Indeed that would also account for some of the quaint, old fashioned turns of phrase I often hear from them, that no one uses anymore.’

‘Humbug!’ exclaimed Braithewaite, unable to contain his outraged skepticism any longer. ‘It’s all in the imagination. The rustle of leaves, the lapping of the tide against the shore, the sigh of the wind, the shrieking of wild animals, the trill of birds. All of these things can suggest to the alerted mind, and in particular the mind of a solitaire, stranded, against his will, and all alone on an uninhabited island, that there are presences and entities, other than himself, that are also there. But these aren’t independent and verifiable entities; they are the mere projections of the unsettled and apprehensive consciousness. You were haunted by your own fears and forebodings, Mr Goone, not by any ghosts or specters; or such outlandish things.’

‘And that’s what I thought, too, in my earlier months on the island, Professor Braithewaite. When I was still frightened of my own shadow, and coming to terms with this strange, unfamiliar environment. Until one still, clear, moonlit night, when I saw, as plain as I see you people now, a pirate, stood on the sands of a cove to the West of the Island. He had a patch over one eye, a hook where his left hand used to be, and a cutlass held in his right hand. He wore a tricorn hat, and a faded uniform, with buttons missing, and had such a look of menace and malevolence about him, that I turned and ran back to my cave as fast as I’ve ever ran before. And I never went back to that cove again.’

‘That sounds like Captain Cod, Professor?’ said Sugden.

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Braithewaite. ‘Don’t believe it for a second.’

‘You can say what you like, Professor; but you have to live on this island to know it.’

’That’s all we need! exclaimed Macnally. ‘Phantoms and ghosts. On top of everything else. I won’t get a wink of sleep now.’

‘Fairytales,’ scoffed Braithewaite.

‘I don’t like the idea of some haunted island,’ mumbled Robinson. ‘Ghosts and spooks I can well do without.’

‘Yes, something happened on this island, years past, gentlemen,’ said Goone. ‘If the ghosts of the dead can still haunt this place. And if what you unearthed today is the treasure of Captain Cod, as you claimed, Professor, then it might indeed be old Cod and his crew of cutthroat renegades who are still haunting this island.’

‘This is worse than voodoo,’ protested Robinson.

12

The next day, after they all had a good night’s sleep, and had a breakfast of some strange tasting meat broth, the special ingredients of which none of the foursome were too keen on further inquiring about, Mr Goone, in a rather proprietorial fashion, took his new, unexpected guests on a tour around an island that he almost knew like the back of his hand. The hurricane had blown itself out by then, and an eerie calm had descended over the island, and the surroundings seas; though the damage that it had wreaked was also evident.

‘There you are, gentlemen,’ he said, after they had finished up at the spot where they had started from, ‘this could be your new home for some time to come. So I’d better get used to it if I were you.’

Yet, exactly one week later, circumstances were to happen that would change the whole scenario, in a most unexpected fashion, yet again.

All five were having a stroll across the island when a figure suddenly emerged from around the side of a boulder and caused the party to stop in their tracks and stare at that presence in awe and trepidation. Though the figure they stared at seemed as equally awestruck by them.

The figure wore a tricorn hat and a faded uniform with some buttons missing. He had a shaggy beard, a patch over one eye, a hook at the end of his left arm, and he brandished a sword in his right hand.

‘Crikey!’ exclaimed Macnally. ‘It’s the ghost of old Cod! Just as Goone said.’

They were all going to do a runner, when Sugden shouted: ‘Hang on a minute. That’s not Cod. That’s the famous movie actor, Hughie Grunt.’

‘Uh!’

‘Yes, well spotted, old man,’ came back Grunt’s familiar, snooty voice. ‘Sorry to have caused any upset there. But I wasn’t expecting to see any of you chappies either. One was led to believe that this was an uninhabited island.’

‘What are you doing here, Grunt?’ demanded the Professor.

‘Shooting a movie about that jolly old pirate, Captain Cod, y’know. Got me in the starring role. Complete with this phony hook and eye patch.’

‘I wonder if he’ll give us his autograph?’ Macnally said to Sugden.

‘Only too happy to oblige, old bean.’

‘Thanks.’

‘But what the dickens are you fellers doing here?’

‘We’ve all been marooned here,’ said Robinson; ‘through no fault of our own.’

‘I say there, that is a ruddy shame.’

Then the film director, Rex Meredith, the producer, Harry Lemon, and a number of the crew appeared on the scene, and were shocked to see those five strangers.

‘What the hell’s going on round here?’ demanded Meredith.

‘Seems that these chappies have been marooned here, Rex, old dear.’

‘Yeah.’

The five went onto to explain the bizarre circumstances of their presence on the island. They were in turn told that Klunk Island had been chosen as one of the settings to shoot some key location scenes for a two hour TV drama documentary on the life of Cod.

Though unfortunately, like every other previous attempt to dramatize or film Cod’s tumultuous life story, it was a badly cast effort. In this case the miscasting was of epic proportions; with that screen light comedian, Hughie Grunt, who was noted for being typecast as a shambolic middle class bumbler, playing the role of that notorious pirate captain. Though playing menacing villains wasn’t at all his forte, and in due course the whole drama would be panned by the critics as a ludicrous exercise, with more hysteria than history about it.

The five were taken to Grunt’s luxury trailer that was set up on a beach to the east of the island, where they enjoyed a slap up meal, cooked by his personal chef, washed down with champagne.

The next day all five left the island, having shared out the treasure that Goone had earlier pilfered, between them, on one of film company’s supply boats, that headed for Lugtown.

‘Now I can buy meself a new boat and be back in business again,’ said Robinson, with cheery good humor.

‘Y’know,’ said Braithewaite, to the two detectives, as old Lugtown hove into view, ‘most of the treasure will be sunk somewhere off the coast of Klunk Island, near where the Silver Lady went down.’

‘Well that’s obvious,’ said Macnally.

‘Y’know, chaps, if we were to hire ourselves some of that deep sea diving tackle that frogmen use, I reckon we could have a crack at finding that treasure, and bringing it to the surface.’ He looked eagerly from one to the other. ‘Well, what d’you say to that? Are you game for it?’

‘I don’t think so, Professor Braithewaite,’ said Sugden, dismissively. ‘That sounds way out of our depth to me.’

‘Yeah, and I second the motion,’ echoed Macnally.