thing.'
'People always like stories about lost treasure,' Angela mused.
'What do the legends actually say?' the Doctor asked. His eyes were innocently wide, but Martha knew him well enough to know that he was probing. She wondered what was on his mind. He hadn't looked very happy at the well.
Angela shrugged. 'Usual stuff. Some say it's stolen jewels, others say it's a fortune in gold, all allegedly taken by a highwayman in the eighteenth century. On the run from the authorities, he passed through Creighton Mere and dumped the treasure down the well. When the militia caught up with him he was empty-handed.'
'And they were so cross they threw the highwayman down the well too,' added Sadie.
Martha smiled, but she noticed that the Doctor said nothing. He was staring into the middle distance again, slowly sucking up his fizzy pop through the straw.
'I think the treasure was dug up long ago,' Angela said. 'That's how the Gaskins got so rich.'
'The owners of the big manor?' Martha recalled Angela blasting the Land-Rover's horn outside the Georgian house on the way into the village.
'That's right. Jumped up nouveaux riches. The Gaskins have probably been living off it for two hundred years. They'd deny it, of course. Especially the current incumbent – Henry Gaskin.' She said the name as if it tasted sour in her mouth.
Nigel Carson led the way to the pub. Ben Seddon and Duncan Goode had showered and changed, thankfully, and were probably looking forward to a well-earned pint. Away from the dirt and claustrophobia of the tunnel, the excitement of the project was beginning to come back: they were laughing and joking again, still treating the whole business as some kind of lark, which Nigel found very irritating.
The early evening air was cool, and the sun was just about to go into hiding behind the church steeple as they walked across the village green towards the Drinking Hole. A long finger of light pointed across the grass towards the old well.
Nigel looked at the well as the sunlight made it glow. For a moment, he thought he saw someone standing in the shadows on the far side, watching him from behind one of the heavy wooden pillars. It was an old man with long, tangled grey hair and a beard. He watched the three of them with dark, hateful eyes and Nigel stopped. 'It's Old Barney, isn't it?'
'Get out of here, yer rotten lot,' said the old man.
'Charming!'
Old Barney took an uncertain step towards them. 'You're not wanted here, you lot. Clear off, go on!'
'You're shaking, Barney' said Nigel. 'Been drinking?
'Never you mind!' Barney raised a trembling fist and shook it. 'Just clear off, you greedy swines.'
'Ah.' Nigel smirked. 'You think we're after the treasure, do you?' When he said the word 'treasure', he raised his hands and made little apostrophe gestures in the air.
Barney's eyes narrowed. 'I don't know what yer want here, but yer not welcome!'
Nigel glanced around him to check that he was alone with the old man and could not be overheard. Then, very quietly, he said, 'Let me tell you a secret, you stinking old fool: there is treasure here, all right. But it's not what you think it is. So don't bother yourself about it, because there's nothing here that's going to be any use to a gin-soaked old fool like you. Got that?'
'You lot don't belong here,' Barney croaked fearfully.
Nigel feigned a hurt expression. 'Don't belong here? But, Barney, neither do you. You're homeless, aren't you? A traveller! As for myself... well, I have a room here at the local hostelry.' He pointed at the Drinking Hole. 'Which is where I'm going now. So – fancy another drink? Just a quick one? First round's on you!'
Nigel laughed at his own joke and then walked away, shaking his head. Ben and Duncan were already waiting for him by the pub.
Old Barney was staring after Nigel with a look of disgust mixed with deep concern.
'What did he want?' asked Ben.
'Nothing.'
Duncan said, 'Poor bloke. Looks like he could do with finding