‘I knew your father, Captain Martin Tarver. He was a good man,’ continued Borg. A smile spread slowly over his face.
‘You knew him?’ Jack felt weak. The proximity of so much wealth was suddenly of no importance compared to even a fragment of information about his father.
‘I sailed with Martin Tarver. I knew him well.’ Borg was smiling, his eyes warm. ‘I also knew your mother, Sarah. She was a bit like your Bethany, Mrs Tarver.’
‘Please,’ unconscious of the dignity of a gentleman, Jack took hold of Borg’s sleeve, ‘please tell me about them.’
‘Not here. Come to the cave entrance, where there is a view of the sea.’ Borg looked at Bethany. ‘If that’s all right with you, Mrs Tarver, but it is more fitting.’
They sat on the terrace above the tremendous drop, with the sea surging below them, blue and restless and endlessly fascinating. ‘That was your father’s home,’ Borg explained. ‘He was a seaman through and through.’ His smile broadened with memory. ‘When I was a young man, I sailed on the colonial whalers, American whalers now, and what was it we said about a true seaman? His mother was a mermaid, his natural father was Neptune. He was born on the crest of a wave, and rocked in the cradle of the deep. Seaweed and barnacles were his clothes, and his blood was Stockholm Tar.’ He shook his head. ‘That was Martin Tarver, sure enough.’
‘Was he a colonial? I was always informed he was a Shropshire man, although I did wonder at the maritime connection,’ Jack said.
‘Now, I could not say in which part of the world he was born, Mr Tarver. He was a seaman and your mother was the businesswoman. She accompanied him to sea and kept the ship’s books.’
‘What was she like?’ Bethany had been silent for a long five minutes.
‘She was fair and quiet and very determined.’ Borg raised his eyebrows. ‘You share a lot of these attributes, Mrs Tarver.’
Bethany coloured slightly but said nothing.
‘And you, Jack,’ Borg touched his shoulder, ‘have inherited her goodness.’
‘But not her business acumen!’ Jack heard the bitterness in his voice.
‘You share his good taste in choosing a wife,’ Borg continued, as though Jack had not spoken. ‘Here,’ he said, taking the pendant from around his neck. ‘I think you should have this.’
‘What is it?’ Jack asked.
‘It is a carving from a sperm whale’s tooth. Your father killed that one himself a few score miles south of the Azores.’ Borg’s eyes altered slightly. ‘Aye, I remember him now, standing in the bows of a whaleboat with the harpoon held double-handed …’ Borg stopped when he saw Jack examining the tooth.
‘It’s the only thing I have ever seen that connects me to him,’ Jack said, closing his fist on the tooth. It was warm from contact with Borg’s body. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Mr Borg.’
Borg nodded. ‘You gave us countless thousands of pounds worth of treasure and I gave you the tooth of a dead fish. It is hardly a fair bargain.’ He glanced at Bethany. ‘And Mrs Tarver has nothing, which is even less fair.’ Moving quickly, he slid back inside the cave and returned with a gold ring, set with a single red ruby.
‘Try that on, Mrs Tarver.’
It slid onto Bethany’s middle finger and sat there as though it belonged. She looked at it for a moment, smiled and handed it back. ‘I cannot accept something that is not yours to give, Mr Borg. That ring belongs to the Church.’
‘And now it belongs to you. The Church looks after her own.’
Jack saw Bethany hesitate again, and then return the ring to the pile. ‘Thank you for the thought, Mr Borg, but I cannot take what rightfully belongs to the people of Malta.’
Jack hid his approval. ‘So now you have a dilemma, Mr Borg. If the treasure is not secure here, where will you store it?’
‘In St Paul’s catacombs, of course,’ Borg said at once. ‘Can you think of a better place? If you want to hide something, Mr Tarver, put it where everybody looks but nobody sees. There is always somebody in the catacombs, so who in their senses would hide a treasure there? Mr Dover will report the chamber is empty, so nobody will ever look there again. It could not be better.’
‘But how will you get it there? You cannot carry it across half the island. Somebody might just notice.’
Borg’s grin was positively smug. ‘I want everybody to notice, Mr Tarver. I will use the same technique. People will watch but not see. You will understand tomorrow, I promise.’
The procession started before dawn the next day. Held high, a score of torches illuminated the long column of gaudily dressed men and women who walked down to the cave. They returned openly parading priceless religious icons, most of which they solemnly loaded onto carts that were bright with ribbons.
‘Malta is famous for its carnivals and saints days,’ Borg shouted, as the long column wound past Fiddien to the accompaniment of singing and loud yells. ‘Every village has its own, and ours includes a march to Rabat.’ He winked. ‘Or it does this time, anyway!’
‘But all these people?’ Bethany waved her hand. ‘They’ll know about the treasure!’
‘They’ve known for years,’ Borg told her. ‘It’s only a secret to strangers.’ For the first time since they had met, he grinned widely. ‘Come on, Mrs Tarver, join in the fun!’
As they emerged on the lip of the path and headed for Rabat, the leading group of the procession released fireworks into the sky, while the rest cheered and sang, waving to spectators and making no effort to disguise what they were doing.
‘This is bedlam,’ Jack said, as Bethany joined in wholeheartedly, clapping and singing beside Maria Borg.
‘Yes. Absolute madness,’ Bethany agreed. ‘And see who is watching?’
Two British officers had ridden out of the Mdina Gate, smiling as they watched the procession march past. One raised his bicorn hat in salute, while the other waved to an excited group of children.
‘They haven’t any idea what’s happening,’ Bethany said happily.
Jack killed his guilt, as the Maltese marched in open procession to St Paul’s Catacombs while the British officers watched, smiling paternally. He was party to this; he had failed to deliver the treasure to Sir Alexander and he would fail to build his road in time. Seeking consolation, he fingered the scrimshaw tooth that now hung around his neck on a leather thong. His father had been a whaling shipmaster; he had lived in Nantucket. That meant there would be records, somewhere, and he might be able to find out exactly who he was. He might even have relatives. He could hold his head high and know there was somewhere where he belonged. But then the knowledge that he would be branded a failure twisted inside him: if he could not finish this road, there would be no more engineering commissions.
All this and I am still a failure.
He watched a group of riders coming from the north, their advance heralded by a cloud of dust.
‘This procession will end at noon.’ Borg was smiling, waving to a man who was struggling under the weight of a large painting that had once adorned the wall of the church at Fiddien. ‘And after that all these men will be free.’
Jack nodded, not really listening. The riders were closer now; their blue uniforms an obvious indication that they were seamen, probably British officers on a ride across country.
‘You seem distracted, Mr Tarver,’ Borg said gently. ‘Did you not want labour to build your road?’
‘The road?’ Jack jerked himself back to what Borg was saying. ‘Yes, but it will never be completed. There is no time now, and nobody will work on the area near the religious site.’ He stopped as he realised what he was saying. ‘After this morning, there is no religious site, is there?’
‘Of course not,’ Borg said. ‘These people are indebted to you, Mr Tarver, and in Malta, we pay our debts. You will have as many men as you need, and they will work willingly. Your road will be completed in time, that I promise.’
Jack stared for a long moment as the words sunk in, and then he gave a low bow. If the road was completed, at least his reputation as an engineer would be saved, and he could face the future again. The relief was so great that he could not find words, but now the horsemen were approaching him, reining up in a tremendous cloud of dust and a display of flailing hooves.
‘Mr Tarver!’
Jack blinked as he stared into the face of Midshipman, now Lieutenant, Wetherall. The men at his back carried swords and pistols. Tanned by the sun and filmed with dust, Wetherall waited for him to reply.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir Alexander Ball requests your presence. Instantly, sir.’
Wetherall looked at the procession that was carrying the King’s treasure to its place of concealment. ‘We have brought two spare horses, for Sir Alexander also desires the presence of Mrs Tarver.’