widened his eyes even further. He weighed it carefully in his hands before turning it over and running his finger up the back until it found a tiny mark.
‘Good grief.’
‘Mister Lyle?’
‘It’s gold all the way through. Not fool’s gold - actual gold . With the mark of one of the Roman goldsmiths. It must be worth a fortune. This is the kind of thing a vain cardinal owns, not a hard-up cargo captain.’ And a whisper almost below hearing, ‘ What a waste .’
He sat down on the single bunk in a corner, head bent under the low roof. Frowning, he looked round at the sparse cabin. Thomas stood uncomfortably by the desk, waiting for an order. Finally Lyle said, ‘Thomas, tell me this. What kind of seaman sails a ship quite as old and dilapidated as this, probably one of the slowest, weakest vessels on the seas, and yet has a possession that would make King Solomon himself blush from kneecaps to earholes?’
‘A . . . very religious man?’
Lyle sighed. ‘Captain Fabrio wasn’t wearing a crucifix.’
‘Not a very religious man, sir?’
‘Try to see through the fact that you’re standing next to an object that could . . . oh, I don’t know . . . buy a substantial part of Warwickshire.’
‘Actually, sir, I don’t think that Warwickshire is for sale, not after the affair with Lord and Lady Randl—’ He saw Lyle’s expression. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Perhaps it is merely the equivalent of a portable financial supply?’
‘Then why hasn’t it been spent?’
‘You said it was new, sir.’
‘That I did,’ said Lyle, a grim little smile starting in the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps the cross was payment? For a service rendered. Which probably means shipping.’ He pointed with his chin at the desk just behind Thomas. ‘Have a look.’ Thomas looked uncomfortable. ‘Go on. There aren’t likely to be any traps or deadly spiders inside.’
Thomas slid the top desk drawer open, and pulled out a map. Lyle stood up and walked across, peering over Thomas’s shoulder at the map spread out across the desk. The course last taken by the ship had been meticulously plotted as a thin black line across the feathery paper. Thomas traced it backwards from London, watching it shuffle round the Goodwin Sands, zigzag through the English Channel, then slip into Santander and out again. He saw it skirt the coast of Portugal and pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, blown briefly off course south of Malaga, before finally arriving at Venice.
He leant closer. There was a stop between Gibraltar and Venice, marked meticulously on the map, but almost too small to see with the naked eye. Thomas felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced round to see Lyle holding out a magnifying glass.
‘Oh, thank you, sir.’
Lyle just smiled faintly, as Thomas took the glass and peered closer. A tiny island, marked with a faint cross to one side of its wobbly shape, and labelled Isalia.
Thomas stood back, frowning. The name seemed familiar. He tried to remember what little he knew about Italy and its islands. Though they were an increasingly popular tourist destination for the wealthy, for some there came a certain cap of wealth where anywhere overseas just wasn’t interesting enough, and Thomas’s family had passed that cap shortly after 1660. Uncivilized foreigners held no interest for members of the Elwick blood. Isalia, however, was a name that seemed to stick in his memory, though he had no idea why.
Lyle was watching him, reading Thomas’s face as though his thoughts were written all over it. Finally, with a little smile and shake of his head, Lyle pushed the map to one side and opened the next drawer. A few loose coins, a handkerchief and a loaded revolver. He looked at the gun with an expression of dislike, and closed the drawer. The last drawer was locked. Thomas almost heard his excited intake of breath - locked drawers seemed to call to Lyle’s sense of a challenge - and he stepped quickly out of the way as Lyle
‘Good grief.’
‘Mister Lyle?’
‘It’s gold all the way through. Not fool’s gold - actual gold . With the mark of one of the Roman goldsmiths. It must be worth a fortune. This is the kind of thing a vain cardinal owns, not a hard-up cargo captain.’ And a whisper almost below hearing, ‘ What a waste .’
He sat down on the single bunk in a corner, head bent under the low roof. Frowning, he looked round at the sparse cabin. Thomas stood uncomfortably by the desk, waiting for an order. Finally Lyle said, ‘Thomas, tell me this. What kind of seaman sails a ship quite as old and dilapidated as this, probably one of the slowest, weakest vessels on the seas, and yet has a possession that would make King Solomon himself blush from kneecaps to earholes?’
‘A . . . very religious man?’
Lyle sighed. ‘Captain Fabrio wasn’t wearing a crucifix.’
‘Not a very religious man, sir?’
‘Try to see through the fact that you’re standing next to an object that could . . . oh, I don’t know . . . buy a substantial part of Warwickshire.’
‘Actually, sir, I don’t think that Warwickshire is for sale, not after the affair with Lord and Lady Randl—’ He saw Lyle’s expression. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Perhaps it is merely the equivalent of a portable financial supply?’
‘Then why hasn’t it been spent?’
‘You said it was new, sir.’
‘That I did,’ said Lyle, a grim little smile starting in the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps the cross was payment? For a service rendered. Which probably means shipping.’ He pointed with his chin at the desk just behind Thomas. ‘Have a look.’ Thomas looked uncomfortable. ‘Go on. There aren’t likely to be any traps or deadly spiders inside.’
Thomas slid the top desk drawer open, and pulled out a map. Lyle stood up and walked across, peering over Thomas’s shoulder at the map spread out across the desk. The course last taken by the ship had been meticulously plotted as a thin black line across the feathery paper. Thomas traced it backwards from London, watching it shuffle round the Goodwin Sands, zigzag through the English Channel, then slip into Santander and out again. He saw it skirt the coast of Portugal and pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, blown briefly off course south of Malaga, before finally arriving at Venice.
He leant closer. There was a stop between Gibraltar and Venice, marked meticulously on the map, but almost too small to see with the naked eye. Thomas felt a tug on his sleeve and glanced round to see Lyle holding out a magnifying glass.
‘Oh, thank you, sir.’
Lyle just smiled faintly, as Thomas took the glass and peered closer. A tiny island, marked with a faint cross to one side of its wobbly shape, and labelled Isalia.
Thomas stood back, frowning. The name seemed familiar. He tried to remember what little he knew about Italy and its islands. Though they were an increasingly popular tourist destination for the wealthy, for some there came a certain cap of wealth where anywhere overseas just wasn’t interesting enough, and Thomas’s family had passed that cap shortly after 1660. Uncivilized foreigners held no interest for members of the Elwick blood. Isalia, however, was a name that seemed to stick in his memory, though he had no idea why.
Lyle was watching him, reading Thomas’s face as though his thoughts were written all over it. Finally, with a little smile and shake of his head, Lyle pushed the map to one side and opened the next drawer. A few loose coins, a handkerchief and a loaded revolver. He looked at the gun with an expression of dislike, and closed the drawer. The last drawer was locked. Thomas almost heard his excited intake of breath - locked drawers seemed to call to Lyle’s sense of a challenge - and he stepped quickly out of the way as Lyle
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