‘Mr Vice-Chancellor, sir!’ Gedge, having located the University’s fountain-head of authority, was propelled, as by a natural affinity, straight towards it. ‘All that there digging, Mr Vice-Chancellor, sir, turns out to be unauthorized and pretentious. I’ve just had it on the telephone from the Company.’
‘Unauthorized, Gedge? I don’t know what you can mean. Can’t you see that I have been present myself? That it may have been pretentious is another matter.’ The Vice-Chancellor glanced balefully at Gingrass. ‘There I am disposed to agree with you.’
‘No authority was given, Mr Vice-Chancellor, sir. And no gas pipes is, in fact, to be put down there. Pretenders they are, Mr Vice-Chancellor, sir, engaged upon unknown felonious purposes.’ Gedge paused on this – clearly because he had struck out a turn of phrase that gratified him. In this pause he became aware – seemingly for the first time – of the extraordinary scene around him. His jaw dropped. ‘What’s this here? It ain’t going on here too?’
The Vice-Chancellor stared at Gedge in perplexity. Then he remembered that there was one other person of appreciable intelligence present besides himself. ‘Miss Sackett,’ he asked, ‘can you make anything of what the man is talking about?’
‘I think I can, sir.’ Sadie turned to Gedge. ‘Do you mean that people have turned up, pretending to be from the Gas Company, and have been digging pits and trenches like this in the old sunk lane?’
‘Just that, Miss Sackett, miss.’ Gedge’s brow cleared a little. ‘And entirely pretentious, it turns out to be. Noticed it was, chance-like on account of my thinking to ring up the Company and ask if there would be a night-watchman, or if we was to be responsible. Never heard of this pipe, they hadn’t. I’ve sent down my assistant, Spokes, to warn them off now.’
Suddenly Gingrass produced one of his odd, multi-purpose noises. This one compendiously indicated states of enlightenment, despair, and fury. ‘That’s it!’ he yelled. ‘It’s by the foundations of the Temple of Diana. They must have taken the treasure there, and buried it at the same time as–’ He stopped suddenly. ‘And that wretched impostor, Milder, has found out. And while he’s kept us all digging and sweating here–’ Again he broke off. But this time it was because sheer inspiration had visited him. Clout, who had always admitted a covert vein of admiration for his unspeakable professor, was conscious of it now. Gingrass’ eye had fallen upon the young ladies and gentlemen of the Riding Club, mounted and wondering at the back of the crowd. It was a crisis in which they could be of far more use than the Junior Archaeological Society. ‘Ride!’ he bawled at them. ‘Ride to the lane! Canter! Gallop! Stop the villains! Intercept them! Apprehend them!’ He waved his arms frantically above his head.
Not unnaturally, this exhortation was immediately effective. The young equestrians, delighted at thus unexpectedly coming to dominate the scene, departed as spectacularly as possible, followed by shouts and cheers that were partly encouraging and partly facetious or ironical. The Vice-Chancellor, after a moment’s hesitation, moved off after them. Gedge, as the person of next greatest consequence present, strode beside him. The Staff, whether out of curiosity or habit, formed themselves into a characteristically shambling academic procession and followed. The body of the students, rapidly spreading out on either side, completed a large sickle-like movement which was presently sweeping across the park towards the site of Sir Arthur Jory’s long-vanished temple.
Sadie somehow disappeared. The discomfiture of Clout was enhanced by an obscure feeling that she had been ill at ease. But at least he could now join Olivia, whom he distinguished hurrying forward with the crowd. Olivia – perhaps because she was actually running – hardly glanced at him as he came up to her. It wasn’t easy, he found, to hit on the right remark to make. ‘I say,’ he tried, ‘this is a pretty queer situation, isn’t it?’
‘It certainly isn’t one that you seem much in command of.’ Olivia snapped this out rather breathlessly. ‘Although you’ve contrived a bit of an achievement, one must admit.’
‘An achievement?’
‘Getting the sack before your whole assembled University. Rather like the bad boy being expelled in some ghastly Victorian school-story.’
‘Oh, that!’ Clout felt genuinely untroubled. ‘I doubt if the V-C would back Gingrass up. Not that it matters. I shan’t stop for the absurd Shufflebotham thing in any case.’
‘Because you’re going to America to be creative?’ As soon as she had uttered this gibe, Olivia appeared to have the grace to be sorry for it. ‘Probably you shouldn’t have come back here, Colin. I don’t believe you should have left Cambridge.’
‘Oxford.’
‘It’s the same thing. I’m sure you’ll get something better. Are we nearly there?’
‘Just across the east drive and round a clump of trees.’
Olivia dropped to a walking pace. ‘It’s sure to be too late, anyway. And, even if the treasure’s still there, it will be in all the headlines tomorrow morning. And what good will that be?’
‘What indeed?’ Clout realized that he was tired of the beastly treasure. He wished that Olivia’s mind didn’t so constantly brood on it.
‘I can’t understand how Milder found out.’
Clout nodded gloomily. ‘Nor can I. And I don’t understand what he’s found out. How did Joscelyn and Edward join up again that night? And why ever should they lug the treasure all the way to the temple for the arbitrary and ghastly purpose of burying it beside the unfortunate girl?’
‘Economy of labour. One pit.’
‘I suppose so.’ But Clout seemed unconvinced. ‘It’s queer psychology, if you ask me… Look out!’
They had drawn rather to the side of the hurrying crowd, and were about to cross a narrow, subsidiary drive that ran from Old Hall to the north gate of the park. Round a bend, and coming from the direction of the Hall, an estate-car had just appeared, so that they had to pull up to let it pass. It was going on its way without haste; and there was plenty of time to notice that the driver was Jerry Jory, and that beside him sat George Lumb. Neither appeared to be in the least interested in the extraordinary procession across the park. Jerry, who was wearing what Clout considered to be a highly affected deerstalker hat, took this object off gravely, and bowed with what seemed a merely distant courtesy to Olivia. Lumb stared at her with his usual asinine devotion. He also gave Clout a wave – rather a queer wave. And then they were gone.
Olivia laughed. ‘What would that solemn Terry be doing here?’
‘Not Terry. Jerry.’
‘Yes, of course… Oh, look!’
They had rounded the trees, and the lane above which the Temple of Diana had once stood was now before them. It exhibited a remarkable spectacle. For almost half its length it was ploughed and furrowed in a far more drastically effective fashion than the Junior Archaeological Society had achieved in the stable-yard. And the explanation of this was apparent. On the farther side of the excavations – which had held up for the moment their pursuers whether on horseback or on foot – several heavy vehicles, laden with uncouth mechanical contrivances, were making off down the lane. Gingrass screamed, Gedge bellowed, the Vice-Chancellor himself emitted calm but powerful noises. But nothing of this had any effect. The heavy vehicles vanished round a bend, and nothing was left except a single, powerful-looking car. It was empty. Even as they looked, however, a figure sprang up apparently out of the ground. It was Milder, and he was covered in dust and mud. He ran to the car – he must have been essaying a last desperate delve into the unrewarding earth – jumped into it, and started the engine. As it sprang into life he turned round for a second and shook his fist. Those at the front of the crowd declared afterwards that his features were contorted with fury. Having achieved this very sufficient melodramatic effect, Milder let in the clutch and drove rapidly and efficiently out of the picture. Nobody ever saw him again.
Gingrass now produced what was perhaps his most surprising effect of the afternoon. This time, no conflicting emotions were mingled in it. It was a howl of triumph – and of such a volume that the Vice-Chancellor jumped. ‘He’s been baffled – thwarted!’ he yelled. ‘We’re in time! Where’s the Society? Call up the Society! Picks! Spades!’
There was a disconcerted silence. The Vice-Chancellor and Miss Harlock – who had appeared again, presumably fortified by tea – could be seen hastily conferring, as if some horrid doubt as to their colleague’s sanity had sprung up simultaneously in the mind of each. But such was the effectiveness of Gingrass’ frenzy that several of the young people turned and hurried off to retrieve their implements. It looked as if the digging might really begin all over again. This time, certainly, it would be without the countenance of the Vice-Chancellor, who had turned and was walking firmly away, followed by Gedge. Clout, watching in sombre fascination, became aware of Olivia speaking urgently beside him. ‘Surely this awful Gingrass is right really? Milder didn’t look like a man who is getting away with anything. His people must actually have been interrupted before they had any success. Don’t you think?’
Clout hesitated. He was at least clear-headed enough to be extremely puzzled. ‘It’s difficult to know what to think,’ he said. ‘I agree that Milder hasn’t got the treasure – if it was the treasure he was really looking for. But I doubt whether Gingrass will get it either.’
‘He won’t.’
The words had been murmured in Clout’s ear, and he swung round towards the speaker. It was Sadie. And she was looking at him strangely. ‘He won’t?’ Clout repeated. ‘And how do you know?’
‘He won’t – and you won’t.’ Sadie glanced swiftly at Olivia as she said this. But she spoke only to Clout. ‘If you want to know why – go to your room.’
‘My room?’ He stared at Sadie stupidly.
‘I’ve left a note there – explaining.’ Suddenly, and very unexpectedly, Sadie put out her hand and touched his. It was the sort of thing Olivia sometimes did – and yet, somehow, it was quite different. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘So long.’ And she turned and walked quickly away.
Olivia watched her go. ‘Was she serious?’ she presently asked. ‘Did she mean anything?’
Clout nodded. ‘She meant something. I’d better go.’
‘I’ll come too.’
He nodded, and they walked away together. Even with things all going extremely badly, there was comfort in walking side by side with Olivia. But they didn’t talk. And after only a few paces, something made Clout halt for a moment and turn. One or two people, who must have carried their spades as they ran, were already digging again, and others were hurrying up. The folly that the notion of buried treasure could let loose – he realized – was something appalling to contemplate!
And then Clout saw something else. It was George Lumb. He couldn’t have accompanied Jerry Jory further than to the park gates. Now he was standing, high above the diggers, on the very spot where the Temple of Diana must have been reared. He was standing quite still. And – more powerfully than ever before – Clout had his nasty feeling about the formidableness of Lumb. And there was no doubt about Lumb’s state now. He was sunk in profound thought.
Clout turned away. Together, he and Olivia walked quickly to Old Hall.