He collected himself and pressed on. “By this time, our eyes had begun to work better, and Abel had found and lit an oil lamp. They’d left their tools of torment lying about. Two knives, a knuckleduster, ropes, cigarette ends . . . we scooped them up and stuffed them into a greasy pillowcase. The bloodstained Bible went in for good measure. It was printed in Afrikaans, and for strong reason the object drew my scorn and hatred. Next we took stock of the table and realised that amongst the clutter of dirty enamel mugs, plates full of chicken bones and a tray laid with coffee things, there were one or two very interesting items.

“Have you ever seen the glow of gold ingots by the light of an oil lamp?” he asked abruptly.

“Never even clapped eyes on a gold ingot, chum!” Redfyre said, surprised.

“You wouldn’t forget. Gold needs a subtle light to bring out its nature. In sunshine it flares and flashes and dings the brain. That’s why a woman or a man of taste will never wear gold until after twilight. There were six bars, less than the normal size. Heavy stuff, gold. These had been specially moulded, I’d say, to fit inside the saddle. No foundry marks or other official markings. Lined up like dominoes. Abel raised his eyebrows and gestured with his thumb at the door. I read his thoughts and nodded.

“He went over and gave a crisp message to Corporal Merriman. ‘All’s well. Danger over, Ratty. Get the Corporal down from that kopje. Then all of you—go and get buckets of water from the river, some brooms . . . whatever you can find. There’s cleaning up to be done before we can bed down. Messy buggers, the Boers! Wait here until we tell you to come in.’

“He came back inside looking less dazed, back on track.

“‘Did you make out: ‘boot’? If he was speaking in English, I’m sure the poor bloke said: ‘boot.’ Abel, we’d better investigate. There may be a paper, a vital signal for the army tucked away in there. It’s a favourite if obvious spot. We’ll take a foot each. I’ll handle the right one. Ready?’

“The riding boots were, you’d have said, almost new. And they were not produced in some backstreet saddlery in Cape Town! They were superbly crafted of the best leather and bearing the stamp of a London bootmaker. This would have been their first—and last—outing. It was Abel’s strong, quick fingers that found it. The foppishly high heel of the left unscrewed, revealing a sizeable cavity. I thought wheezes like that had died out with Francis Walsingham and the Elizabethan spy rings! But in the Transvaal it was easy to slip back a century or two.

“Abel poked out a thin silk bag tied up tightly at the neck.