Free Wreckers Island (romantic suspense) by L K Harcourt Page B

warning not to blurt out their business to
this chap?
    The shopkeeper returned her smile, but advised,
‘you won’t find anything I’m afraid, these tunnels have been gone over with a
fine toothcomb long ago! Most if not all have been closed. There’s one I know
of running under the sea but that was shut off long ago. No folk can go down it
now.’
    They picked up some more bread and milk
while they were out and returned to the boat, bobbing by the jetty, and pushed
everything carefully into the luggage hold.
    ‘Right all,’ said Louise, glancing at her
watch. ‘It’s 5.30pm, why don’t we have a stroll around then find somewhere nice
for a few drinks and a meal? Unless you’ve got any better ideas, I thought it
would be fun to go to the old smugglers’ inn up the hill here, which was a
favourite haunt of smugglers and wreckers in the old days. It’s still a pub to
this day and when you go inside you feel yourself going back in time.’
    ‘Do they do ice-cold continental lager?’
asked John.
    ‘Yes and plenty more besides, and they serve
some pretty good food for a pub,’ said Louise. ‘It’s not cordon bleu or
anything, but decent pub grub, like fish and chips, pies, casseroles, scampi, that
sort of thing.’
    That sounded perfect and after a relaxing walk
around Porthlevnack, they headed towards the aptly-named Smugglers Tavern. It
was a good place to finish off such an interesting and exciting day, especially
having been cut off by the storm.
    As they walked through the heavy door into
the lounge, John, Dan and Emma looked around approvingly. This was how a pub
should be: dark beams, an oak-panelled bar, brass fittings and frosted glass
panes. Watercolour paintings of nearby coves and beaches hung on whitewashed
walls radiating a mystical, mysterious quality in the subdued light.
    Dan and Emma in particular loved pubs like
this – both glanced in delight at the eccentric nooks set into the walls; the
quaint shelves lined with antique books; the lanterns and rough-hewn lead pewter
tankards hanging off hooks. Emma could easily imagine a smuggler sitting here,
supping ale under a flickering candle.
    ‘What a mysterious place, full of distant
memories,’ she gasped, her eyes lighting up. She noticed Dan looking around
with the same wonder and for a moment their eyes met and they held that gaze,
as if its magic was transmitted between them.
    ‘I’ll get some drinks in,’ said John,
thirsting for his ice-cold continental lager. He wasn’t disappointed either, there
was some excellent Bavarian pilsner on tap. His fellow treasure hunters opted
for the same, save for Dan who was rarely prised from his old favourite –
Guinness.
    ‘Why don’t we grab that nice window seat
over there,’ suggested Dan.
    As they had got there early, there was
plenty of space. The others nodded and Dan sat at one of the matching oak
armchairs in the far corner. Emma slid into the ornately carved oak pew
opposite.
    John reappeared with a tray of four very
drinkable-looking pints and set them down on the table.
    ‘Cheers!’ he said, raising his glass,
‘here’s to an amazing day, and maybe an amazing future for us all!’
    ‘Do you think so?’ asked Louise. ‘Does that
treasure truly belong to us? I suppose it should if it is deemed to be Treasure
Trove. I had a friend who found a few trinkets once that were declared treasure
and she got paid thousands for them.’
    The prospect of having suddenly come into
fabulous wealth was still only beginning to sink in with the four students, who
were much more used to being poor and barely able to scrape by.
    ‘I would guess it may belong in part at
least to your parents if they are deemed to own that tunnel, and in part to us
four as finders,’ said John. ‘After all, the lighthouse and island belong to
your parents and that tunnel leads directly there. Also, the diary of the
Spanish captain has been kept in the cellar. Therefore, to my way of thinking, anything
found in an