A week passed, during which little happened beyond a spate of interviews with DI Hardy and his colleague, interspersed with the tedious but necessary process of making statements. During the first of these, Brian showed Hardy his grandfather’s memoir and we explained the connection between Bartlett and Harold Matthews. It was then that Hardy insisted this particular item be omitted from any statements. ‘If word got out about the possible existence of treasure and the media got hold of it, there might be the biggest gold rush since the Klondike. The forest would be overflowing with prospectors.’
In a later interview, Hardy revealed that they had sent the revolver to a ballistics expert for checking. ‘It was manufactured by Webley and Scott and is quite old. Judging by the date, I’d say it could have been issued to Bartlett’s grandfather when he received his commission.’ He grinned and added, ‘The ironic part is that Bartlett couldn’t have harmed you with that weapon unless he’d clubbed you over the head with it. The firing mechanism had been disabled.’
Hardy also provided the answer to a question that had been puzzling me ever since the dramatic events in the forest. ‘Why were Bartlett and Moore prepared to reveal their identity?’ I asked. ‘I can understand that they intended to kill us, but supposing we’d left a message for someone giving details of where we had gone, and who with? They only had three of us under their control. How did they intend to silence the other one?’
‘The answer is that they had no intention of hanging around for anything such as that to become a problem. Bartlett has been talking freely, and from what he’s told us it seems that they started out with the intention of their identity remaining secret. That was why they went to so much trouble to set Trevor Matthews up as the scapegoat. However, events over which they had no control overtook them. I’m not speaking of Latimer’s dramatic reappearance after everyone believed him to be dead, although that certainly didn’t help.’
Hardy sipped the tea that Eve had made, and after setting the mug down carefully, leaned forward in his chair. ‘Bartlett’s company was already in serious financial trouble before they started this. The firm had been hit very badly by the property slump in the mid-seventies and had been teetering on the brink of collapse ever since. In order to dig himself out of the mess and stave off the threatened insolvency, Bartlett took on a contract that should have been extremely lucrative. If that had worked out, perhaps none of the rest of this would have happened. We’ll never know. Unfortunately, the contract that should have saved Bartlett’s bacon had quite the opposite effect. There were severe penalty clauses written into it, and when he failed to meet the completion deadline these were invoked. My colleagues in Leeds went to Bartlett’s business address at my request, only to be greeted by the receivers who had been put in by the company’s creditors.’
‘That explains why he was so desperate to get hold of the gold,’ Eve remarked, ‘he wasn’t interested in the estate at all. But it doesn’t explain the motive for Charles Lewis’s murder.’
‘Eve’s right,’ I added. ‘Nor does it explain why Ursula Moore was so keen to go along with Bartlett’s scheme.’
‘Lewis’s murder resulted from his own greed more than anything. He wanted money, and Ursula Moore was his preferred source of income. In other words he was blackmailing her. Not only over her affair with Bartlett, but because she’d represented a series of clients who she got acquitted of all sorts of crimes There were assault cases, robberies, and biggest of all, a property swindle which involved grants, amongst other things. There were forged planning consents and a lot of other financial irregularities, and she managed to secure the acquittals by bribing or threatening witnesses and jurors alike. The person she chose as her intermediary to pass the money to the people she’d suborned was Lewis. To be fair, I don’t think she could have made a more disastrous choice. That flash car Lewis drove was supposed to be part of his reward for services rendered, but from what Bartlett told us, Lewis only considered it to be a down payment. Eventually, his demands got too exorbitant for them to pay.’
Hardy took another swig of his tea. ‘According to Bartlett, they met with Lewis on the day of the murder to try and reason with him, but the argument got heated and when Lewis threatened to go to the Law Society, Moore stabbed him. Unfortunately for her, Armstrong and Veronica Matthews witnessed the murder whilst they were having a little afternoon delight in his cottage across the beck. Instead of silencing a witness to the bribery allegations, Moore laid herself open to blackmail because of the murder. When Armstrong approached her for money; he and Veronica Matthews had to die as well. We found the murder weapon, hidden at Brent Cottage. It had blood that matched all three victims on it, and the only prints were those of Ursula Moore.’
Hardy drained his mug before concluding. ‘With Bartlett’s company about to go bust, and Moore likely to be disbarred, or worse, there was nothing to keep them in this country. We discovered documents in Moore’s flat that showed they intended to disappear and set up home in South America. That’s what’s known in police circles as “doing a Ronnie Biggs”. What they didn’t bargain for was coming up against you two and Brian Latimer. As a result of what Bartlett told us in his confession, our colleagues in Leeds have already made several arrests. I think the detectives want to adopt you.’
He looked at me, then at Brian, before asking, ‘What can you tell me about this other matter Bartlett has been on about? He keeps asking if we’ve found the children. The ones covered in blood.’
Over a month had passed since the death of Ursula Moore and the arrest of Derek Bartlett. I was working on a new manuscript, whilst Eve was wrapping Christmas presents. My thought processes were disturbed when the phone rang. Eve answered it, and then told me, ‘It’s Brian on the line. He wants to know if we’re busy tomorrow. I said I didn’t think so. They’re going to excavate for the gold, and he’d like us to go along.’
When we arrived at the waterfall the following day, it seemed that Brian wanted more than merely our presence. I glanced around the bell pit after helping Eve down the steep side. If it had seemed crowded the last time I was there, it was even more so now. Brian introduced a string of officials from various government departments who all had a vested interest in the treasure, plus several archaeologists. ‘They want me to begin removing the stones to start the dig,’ Brian told me, ‘but I’ve decided that the task should go to you.’
‘Me? Why me?’
‘Because you deciphered the rhyme. If you hadn’t worked out where the gold was buried, we’d not be here today.’
‘There’s no proof the gold really is here,’ I pointed out. ‘It’s only guesswork. Everett could have been playing an elaborate prank.’
Brian grinned. ‘That’s the other reason I want you to do it. I’ve told everyone you were the clever clogs who worked out the clues, so if it proves to be a hoax you’ll be the one with egg on your face.’
‘Oh, thanks, Brian. Thanks a bunch.’
I began work, conscious of my audience which included several cameramen. I removed a few stones, passing them to willing assistants who stacked them at the far side of the bell pit. As I worked, I became aware of the musty, slightly unpleasant odour from within the recess that lay behind the wall of rock.
After I’d taken about a dozen small boulders from the pile, one of the archaeologists suggested we should take a look inside before continuing with what might prove to be a fruitless task. He held out a torch, and I scrambled up the cairn and shone the light inside.
There, as I’d hoped, were the stout wooden boxes I knew would contain the treasure. The torch beam moved as I straightened up to inform the others of my discovery and I stared in horror at what it now revealed. Beyond the crates, in a neat line, there were three sets of skeletal remains, their skulls propped against the rear of what was a small cave, as if they had lain there to go to sleep. The small stature of the skeletons told me all I needed to know.
Expert analysis would later confirm that the remains were those of three children who had been between the ages of eight and twelve years old at the time of their death. The tests also established that the remains dated from somewhere in the region of a thousand years ago, which would have placed them at around the time of the Viking incursions, or possibly the Norman conquest of Britain. Although all flesh and tissue had long since gone, post-mortem examinations revealed that all three had been murdered, their throats cut with such violence that the marks of the blade were visible via notches on their bones.
St Mary’s Church in Elmfield was packed to overflowing long before the service was scheduled to start. After Eve and I took our places in the front pew alongside Brian and Barbara, I took the opportunity to look around the building, which I’d never been inside before. I’d seen it when driving past of course, and had frequently marvelled at such a large church being built to service so small a community. It was typical of many constructed by the Normans following the invasion of 1066, although St Mary’s was on a grander scale than most. Equally unusual for a country church was the fact that St Mary’s boasted a lady chapel.
It was to this building that Barbara and Brian had been brought when they were christened, and here that they worshipped as children. It seemed appropriate that the adventure in which they had been so closely involved should end here.
Many of those attending that day were locals, but they would not have filled the church, let alone caused some to stand, or to remain outside. Their numbers had been swelled by the hordes of media representatives and those merely curious to observe proceedings.
The events within our little community had gone from local headlines to national and then to international, and the focus of the media’s attention was centred on the most bizarre aspects of the case which had swept us all along with it.
I’m not sure which of the reporters it was who had latched onto the story. I suppose any of those prepared to stand in the bar of the Admiral Nelson and buy a few rounds of drinks might have been rewarded by it. However, once the strange tale was backed up by the discoveries close to the Silent Lady, there was no holding the media back.
The story of the Kaiser’s Gold, as the press dubbed it, was fascinating enough in itself. The return of Brian Latimer and his subsequent decision to donate his share of any wealth found on his land to charities working in Africa made for more sensational headlines. However, even these paled into insignificance once the greatest mystery became known.
My thoughts as I looked around the church centred on the insoluble puzzle of the children whose remains were now shielded by three simple coffins that had been placed at the front of the church. The vicar, a young and enthusiastic parson, walked slowly forward to commence the ceremony. He had approached Brian beforehand to request his input regarding the content of the funeral. The resulting service was simple but immensely moving. When it was over, Brian and I assumed our positions along with the funeral directors to act as pallbearers for those poor unfortunate souls as we carried them to their final resting place.
After the coffins had been lowered into position alongside the flowing waters of Thorsgill Beck, and the vicar gave the Benediction, we moved away. After leaving the churchyard, I looked back. Beyond the throng of mourners, media, and onlookers, I could see the three graves, illuminated by the pale winter sunshine. I shuddered, still affected by my encounter with things I could not explain.
Less than a week after the service at St Mary’s, Eve and I returned to Dene Cottage from our morning stroll, a habit we had begun to enjoy. A car was parked in the lane by our house. Not just any car, but a huge, gleaming Rolls-Royce. I was still wondering if this was someone who was lost, or if not, why they might be at our house, when the driver’s door opened. As the driver stepped carefully out of the vehicle, Eve recognized him. She introduced me, before asking the visitor what had brought him to Laithbrigg.
‘I came to see you,’ he told us, glancing from Eve to me. ‘I needed to see you both; to ask you a favour. I know it might be a bit presumptuous, especially after what you’ve just gone through, but I wanted to ask you to find someone for me. I want you to find a dead man.’
But that’s another story…
END