Stolen (7 page)
“I hope so. It's going to be a long night if he doesn't.” Percy's excited barking on the beach reminds us of the other two men. “How long will it take them to get out to the yacht and back?” I ask.
“Quite awhile. I saw the yacht's lights from the dune. It's a long way out. Let's go and see how they're doing.”
I glance down at the tied man. He seems remarkably calm.
“He's not going anywhere,” Annabel says.
The scene we see from the top of the dune could be something from a comedy sketch, and we'd laugh if the
Loch Ard
peacock weren't at risk. The two men are struggling to launch their Zodiac in the surf. Their task is made almost impossible by Percy, who is leaping around them, thinking it's all a wonderful game.
The men are cursing and waving wildly, which only excites Percy more. After one particularly wild swing, one of the men falls on the edge of the Zodiac just as a wave breaks. The Zodiac tips, and the bundle rolls out into the surf.
“The peacock!” Annabel shouts. We rush down the beach as fast as our injuries permit. I reach the peacock first. I grab one end of the bundle and hold on.
By this time the men have righted the Zodiac, and Percy is standing in the surf, trying to decide whether to continue his old game or come and see what I'm doing.
“Drop that and back away,” one of the men shouts as they advance on me.
I'm about to obey when three shots ring out, almost deafening me. I spin around and see Annabel. In the last glimmer of twilight, she looks like some mythological goddess. Waves crash around her feet, her hair flies wildly, and her is arm raised to the heavens. She fires another shot into the sky.
The men hesitate for a moment, then turn and pile into the Zodiac. We watch as they force the boat through the surf and head out to sea.
“I've always wanted to do that,” Annabel says.
“Okay, Annie Oakley,” I say. “But now do you want to help me get the peacock out of the surf?”
Together we drag the treasure up above the tide line and then flop down on the sand. Annabel leans against me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder. I'm soaked, hurting and still trying to wrap my head around everything that's happened in the last two days, but I'm happy.
“Do you think it's okay?” Annabel asks.
“I think so. It's wrapped in a heavy blanket, and it's survived worse.”
“I suppose. Now Bill can advertise it as the museum piece that's survived two shipwrecks.”
“What made you recite Pi outside the shack?” I ask.
“I needed to get him to turn around but not be on his guard, so I could throw the sand in his eyes. I find that reciting Pi tends to confuse people.”
“No kidding,” I say with a laugh. We look up as the sound of a helicopter rises above the crash of the surf. Its powerful light is sweeping the beach.
“I guess Bill got your text,” I say.
“Told you he would,” Annabel says and then leans over and kisses me.
“I don't think I'll be able to adjust to life in Adelaide without these fries,” I say. We are sitting in the diner in Warrnamboolâmy new favorite place in my new favorite town.
“I'll mail you some every week,” Annabel says.
“Thanks,” I say, with as much sarcasm in my voice as I can muster. It's been four days since the peacock theft, and Annabel and I have barely been out of each other's company for more than a few hours in all that time. Our injuries are healing. Annabel can almost walk without a limp, and although it'll be awhile before my fingernail grows back, both my finger and the cut on my palm are much better. “I'll miss you,” I blurt out.
“And I'll miss you.” Annabel reaches over and squeezes my good hand. “But I've been working on Bill to take me with him next time he goes on a trip to Adelaide, and he says there's always a job for you at the museum in the school holidays.”
“Not the night shift.”
“No.” Annabel laughs.
“Do you think all the fancy lawyers will get the millionaire collector off the hook?” I ask.
“Billionaire, more like,” Annabel says. “Bill says the police told him the man's name is Humphrey Battleford. Apparently, he comes from an old English family that can trace its ancestry, and money, back to Henry the Eighth. Battleford owns estates outside London, a mansion in California and houses all over the world, even one in Vancouver. Every room of every house is filled with valuable art. He travels the world buying antiques.”
“And stealing them,” I add.
“The police suspect so, but Battleford's clever. He never does the dirty work himself, and, as he said, he can afford the best lawyers. So, yeah, he'll walk free.”
Battleford had been arrested at the shack the night we found him, but he got out on bail the next day. There was very little hard evidence against him. His yacht was in international waters, so they couldn't arrest the two guys who tried to take the peacock. Battleford was keeping silent while his lawyers claimed that he was simply caught in the middle when persons unknown decided to use the shack he was in to store the stolen goods. He even had all the correct paperwork for his pistol. “Money seems to have its advantages,” I remark.
“Indeed,” Annabel agrees. “Bill also told me this morning that Battleford is offering to make a substantial donation to the museum if the charges go away. It might be best. It would mean Bill could afford to keep the security firm on.”
“That would be good,” I say. “Strangely, it's Pete I feel most sorry for. Kelly seems to be free and clear.”
“I think he is. And Pete will be okay too. One of Battleford's lawyers is advising him. He's claiming to have lost the key and gone out the back when the electricians went.”
“That's nonsense. It doesn't fit with what we know.”
“Yes, but without hard evidence, it's not worth the effort of bringing serious charges against him. He'll likely be charged with negligence and get probation. After all, he's a minor player in the whole thing.”
“True. So the world goes on as before.”
“No, it doesn't.” We look up to see Rose MacAuley striding through the diner toward us. She's a small, energetic woman with a mop of gray hair that never seems to be under control. “I thought I'd find you here,” she says, sitting down in our booth. “I wanted to tell you something as soon as I could.”
“What?” we both ask.
“The pot you found,” Rose says. “I haven't finished working on it yet, but I have found something.” She opens a huge purse, rummages for a moment and then brings out a small Ziploc bag, which she hands to us.
Annabel and I put our heads close together and peer at it. There's a coin in the bag, about the size of a quarter, but brown. It's badly corroded, and there's a hole in the center.
“Do you know what it is?” Rose asks enthusiastically.
“A coin?” I suggest.
“Exactly,” Rose enthuses. “To be precise, a Chinese coin.”
“So the pot was dropped by a Chinese laborer,” Annabel says. “At least we'll get something to add to our exhibit.”
“I think you'll have a whole new exhibit.”
“What do you mean, Rose?”
“I mean,” Rose says with a grin, “that when you examine the coin under a lens, you see writing. Chinese writing that places the coin in the Ming Dynastyâspecifically, the reign of the Xuande Emperor.”
Rose looks at us triumphantly. We stare back blankly.
“The Xuande Emperor,” Rose repeats to no greater effect. “I don't know what they teach you kids in school today,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “The Xuande Emperor of the Ming Dynasty ruled China between 1426 and 1435. He sent Admiral Zheng He and his treasure fleet out on their final voyage.”
Rose sits back and folds her arms. It takes a moment for what she has said to register. Then it hits us both like a ton of bricks. The Mahogany Ship is older than even the conspiracy theorists thought. The Chinese got to Australia almost two hundred years before the Dutchman Janszoon and more than three hundred years before Captain Cook.
“This'll change everything,” Annabel says.
“Not everything,” Rose says, “but a lot. I don't think there will be much difficulty getting funding to excavate the Mahogany Ship now. But I have to get back to the lab. The more coins I can clean up, the more persuasive the argument will be.” She takes the Ziploc bag and stands. “This is such an exciting time to be an archaeologist.”
“Wow,” is all I can think to say.
“So, I guess our school holidays will be spent digging in the sand,” Annabel says.
“I don't think anyone will be able to stop us.” We laugh. Coming to Australia and Warrnambool were the best decisions my dad ever made.
There is considerable evidence that an unidentified shipwreck is buried in the sand dunes somewhere along the beach from Warrnambool. Theories as to its identity range from its being one of Zheng He's treasure ships to a lost Portuguese caravel to simply a lost fishing boat. Until a storm uncovers it, we'll never know.
The
Princess Sophia
disaster actually happened, as did the wreck of the
Loch
Ard
. It is possible to climb down and visit the cave where Tom and Eva sheltered and drank brandy. Miraculously, the porcelain peacock did survive the wreck and does now sit in pride of place in the Flagstaff Hill Maritime Museum. However, it is probably much harder to steal than I suggest. I am also certain that the staff of the museum are much more professional and scrupulous than the fictional characters I placed there, and I apologize to them for not making them so. In the interest of the story, I have also taken liberties with the layout of the museum and placed the pond at the foot of the heritage village much closer to the water.
Other than that, the background is fairly close to reality, and I recommend a visit to the Shipwreck Coast and Warrnambool to anyone in the area.
John Wilson is the author of numerous novels for young people, all of them with historical themes. He lives in Lantzville, British Columbia.