“‘I’d guess the rider gave away the gold as a sweetener, hoping they’d let him get away with the really important item he was smuggling in his haute couture boot. We’re going to have to search his things for an identity. And then, at some time in the near future, we’ll have to declare this lot and hand it in to the authorities. We wouldn’t want to be hauled in for looting. A charge which any reasonably sharp-nosed army disciplinarian could make to stick, no bother.’

“We fell silent at this awful thought. And it was, believe me, a prospect to make the blood run cold. It was a new offence. Or rather a very old offence, restated by the army. Looting. Some young idiots had nicked a few bales of fabric and a couple of ducks for their supper—nothing special—when moving through a recently taken Boer town. Jacobsdal? The top brass had come down on them like a ton of bricks. The British army simply does not tolerate such conduct, we were all lined up and told. New regulations were published. Any individual arrested and found guilty of ‘looting’ was to be hanged immediately. Yes—hanged! And his battalion found guilty by association. While the looter swung from the nearest telegraph pole, his mates would be marched off south to base and spend the rest of the war in an army jail on punishment detail, their names forever sullied.

“Overstated and viciously cruel but effective. We didn’t want to risk that.

“‘What about the lads?’ Abel wanted to know.

“‘We prepare them for the worst. We give them the whole score,’ I decided. ‘I’m not wandering about the veldt until relieved with the weight of this round my neck. We come clean with them. We tell them that as soon as we get back to civilisation we declare these items. And to make sure no blame sticks to any man in this patrol, I’ll write a letter to that effect and put it in my pack along with the stuff. Now we’ll leave them laid out on the table so everyone can take note that nothing underhand’s been done or is likely to be done. As far as they’re concerned, the goods are in transit to Lord Methuen’s Ninth Brigade and temporarily under the joint care and custody of this tactical sub-unit. We’ll tidy up this poor young chap as best we may.’ We cleaned up his face and put his shirt back on.

“Abel nodded agreement. Finally, ‘Shall I get them in now?’ he asked.

“Alarmed, intrigued and concerned, they filed in and we pulled up stools and chairs and sat down, all seven of us, including the dead gentleman, around the table.

“‘Crikey! ’e’s been in the wars! What the ’ell ’appened to ’im?’ was Syd’s sensitive comment.