THIRTY-FIVE

There was a single slash of watercolour blue low on the eastern horizon as Elias started his survey of the salt marsh, but it quickly vanished. The afternoon grew blustery and weighty with rain. He could see grey sweeps of it far out at sea, but drawing ever closer. He didn’t let this rush him, however, but rather made his way methodically along the seawall, stopping every twenty paces or so to scan another strip, until he’d drawn level with the King John Hotel, and then had passed beyond it.

At high tide, these marshes were an archipelago of disconnected islands. But at low tide, like now, they were more like badly waterlogged fields. They were thronged with birdlife too, what with the autumn migration underway. A pair of little egrets pecked the mud in search of lunch. A lapwing flew in joyous whorls and swoops. A bad-tempered oyster catcher kept shooing some mischievous sand warblers from its patch, only for others to sneak up from behind. There were avocets too, and plovers, and a harrier. But not what he was after.

The tide turned and began coming in. He was beginning to lose heart when at last he caught a glint of silver, though he lost it again almost immediately, and before he could fix its position. He waited patiently and it reappeared briefly from the backwash before vanishing once more. The waves were coming faster now, lapping ever higher. It would soon be gone until the next ebb, if it wasn’t dragged out to sea to be lost forever. He marked the spot in his mind and, without taking his eyes off it, removed his jacket and sat down on the bank to take off his shoes, socks and trousers. He opened a pack of latex gloves, lightly powdered to make them easier to pull on, then made his way down the seawall to the water’s edge, stepping sideways on the slippery steep wet grass to avoid an undignified tumble.

He tested the temperature with a toe. It was so cold it made him shiver. He reached a foot out anyway, set it down on the marshy ground, resting more and more weight upon it, plugging up to his shin in the soft mud, unnerving him enough that he threw his weight backwards in order to pull it out again. He stood up and stared back out. The tide was coming in quickly, in shallow, foamy waves. He’d lost his fix on the silvery glint. There’d been no sign of it in at least a minute. It was now or never.

He stepped boldly out onto the marsh, sinking up to his calves until the firmer ground beneath enabled him to pull himself free before he stuck. It was a weird sensation, like walking on a particularly yielding mattress, only with his ankles being tugged at by slimy ropes of samphire and sea grass. But once he’d gone a certain distance, the vegetation grew lusher and the ground somehow firmer, allowing him to make brisker progress, scattering birds as he went, until he reached the approximate spot he’d marked in his mind. But there was nothing there.

The waves were growing larger, crashing against his shins, tugging him with their backwash. He had to flail his arms to keep his balance. Hoots of laughter reached him from behind. A new crowd had gathered on the seawall, including two teenagers on mountain bikes. He felt ridiculous, a grown man in his shirt and boxer shorts, flapping his arms like he was trying to—

There!

A glint of brushed steel beneath the surface, covered a moment later by the foamy, turbid water. But he had it now. A spade, all right, its ash shaft part buried in the marshy ground. If any traces had survived all this time, they’d most likely be on its handle or its blade, so he grabbed it by the midpoint of its shaft. Water spilled from it as he lifted it from its muddy sheath, splashing cold against his legs. He held it up and turned it to check its branding, even though he already knew.

And, yes. It was a Dewit.