Thriller.
The Wash. Miles of flat, dark green saltings, adjoining the mud-fiats which lie further out than the eye can see. Some has been reclaimed from the sea by man. Much is just the same as it has always been. Peaceful, friendly, and treacherous! Its moods change along with the shifting whispering quicksands. Safety here. Death there. No warning.
It was late October when the party set up camp along by Shep White's, a mile or so east of Sutton village. The old farmhouse on the other side of the big dyke was long gone, and just a crumbling ruin remained. Shep White wasn't around any more either. Desolation, utter and complete. The only company was the warbling curlews and the clamouring geese which flighted over the sea-wall night and morning.
The blockhouse was the obvious choice for a camp-site. It had weathered a quarter of a century of winters; built for a war in which it had played no part; solid to the last square of concrete. It needed little preparation. Sacking on the floor. Boards over the windows to keep the draught out It smelled of stale urine and excretion.
There were just the three of them. Professor Lowson was small and wiry, and it was hard to tell his age, for a bushy black beard flecked with grey hid the wrinkles in his face. In a month's time he would be 55, but he felt ten years younger.
Gavin Royle was in his mid-twenties. Handsome, smiling, well-built and with long dark hair of which the Professor was constantly disapproving. Royle's recent appointment as an assistant curator at the British Museum put him on an equal footing with the leader of this small expedition, but the Professor could not recognize equality.
Liz Beck, who completed the party, was the Professor's twenty-year-old niece. Ever since her parents had been killed in a road accident almost ten years ago she had had to rely upon this crusty old archaeologist for her needs. In his own way he was kindly enough even if he was lost in the past. She had graduated to university, under his guidance, and had consequently developed a strong interest in archaeology.
It was a shame she couldn't spend the vacation how she would have preferred: just lying on some beach allowing the sun to tan her beautifully proportioned body to a rich brown. Still, Uncle did need somebody to keep an eye on him when he set off on these expeditions. King John's treasure, indeed! Men had been searching for it ever since it had sunk into the briny! The most up-to-date equipment in the world had been employed and still it refused to yield its secret resting-place. And now one more search party...