Dugal Joughin's Lost Treasure: The Island Connection, #14

By Graham Hamer

In 1765, The Crown bought the feudal rights to the Isle of Man for the princely sum of £70,000 (almost twelve million pounds today). Not that The Crown wanted a little island 36 miles long and 12 miles wide but, because it was the centre of smuggling for the whole of Western Europe, it was costing the British Exchequer millions a year in lost revenue. So, the day after the deal was done, they sent in their customs men to clean the place up.

 

One of the most effective smugglers was Captain Dugal Joughin who, as the customs men closed in on him, sank his treasures in the depths of Kilpheric Lake. Unfortunately he had no means of ever retrieving them. Today, Noah Callow does. And so he goes looking.

 

But he's not alone because ruthless businessman Albert Lynch is out for blood, and sees this as a way to settle a longstanding debt. Meanwhile, when the body of Dodgy Dave Finlay is found floating on the lake, the police become involved and Chief Inspector Mick Duckworth sees his chance to resolve old scores.

 

Throw into the mix a dead car driver and a couple of sexy business women, and you have all the ingredients for another humdinger of a plot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Mar 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201095703

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Noah Callow was kicking his heels this morning so decided to pay another visit to the second-hand bookseller overlooking the harbour. He could get lots of books on the internet and was a big user of Kindle, but sometimes, a visit to the dusty shop selling used books and old magazines could turn up a few surprises. As the ancient shop bell jangled above the door, the owner looked up, smiled, and said, Morning Noah. Coffee?

Noah nodded. He was happy to spend an hour listening to the old man’s yarns. For the moment, he had nothing better to do.

Tall and heavy, with permanent patches of sweat at his armpits, and a stomach which hung over his trouser belt, Sutcliffe White was a retired fisherman with a Captain Birdseye beard. Around the port, everybody just called him Cliff - after all, what sort of name was Sutcliffe for a weather-hardened fisherman with his own boat? Some years earlier, his wife’s father had died, leaving him the second-hand bookshop on the corner just a few doors down from one of the town’s many fish and chip shops. That not only provided him with a decent overflow clientele but a hearty lunch each day. Cliff liked hearty lunches.

The demands of running his own fishing boat had meant that, in his former life, Cliff had never been a big reader. But an accident with the winding mechanism of his main trawl net had forced an early retirement, and he soon discovered that limping among the stuffed shelves was quite to his liking. A dilapidated sofa in a back room with a view into the shop was as pleasant a place as anywhere to slump with a well-chosen book on a quiet afternoon. Cliff had told all this to Noah a few weeks before while waiting for the coffee to percolate.

Smells like a fresh brew, Noah said, shutting the door behind him.

Cliff nodded. Coffee, he claimed, only half-jokingly, is the best contraband that cash can buy. No excise duty on this stuff. Noah smiled and agreed, even though he’d heard it almost every time he’d stepped into the shop. In any case, it tasted like any other high street brand.

So is there a lot of contraband in Peel? Noah asked, half joking.

Cliff answered with care. Used to be. Centre of the known world for smuggling, the Isle of Man was. Particularly here in Peel. Hang on. He limped his way along the shelves, eyes searching for something. The shop was chaotic - full bookshelves adorned all three walls and further books were stacked on the floor and counter. A dry, musty smell prevailed, and tiny specks of dust floated in the shafts of sunlight. A moment later, Cliff reached up high for an old book with a torn cover. Not very good condition, he said, So you can have it for a pony if you want.

Noah read what remained of the cover. Dictionary of Trade and Commerce by Malachy Postlethwayt. He opened the book. 1755. Is that for real?

Not at twenty-five quid, it’s not. That’s a much later reprint. Malachy Postlethwayt was a British economic writer and author. Beginning in the 1730's Prime Minister Robert Walpole employed him as a government publicist. But this particular publication contains many practical articles on inventions and improvements, as well as on commercial practices such as banking, commercial bills, and customs house business. He was a well-respected chap was old Postlethwayt. Cliff made his way towards the coffee percolator that had finished gurgling and spitting. I know of a much older version in a private collection if you’re interested, but that would cost many hundreds.

Noah smiled. I’m not sure why you think that this particular book would interest me, Cliff.

Because you asked about smuggling on the Isle of Man, with particular reference to Peel, here on the west coast. If you have a read of that little book, you’ll find that the Isle of Man was, for many years, a common storehouse for all manner of goods and merchandise on which there were high duties in mainland Britain. Or even goods that were prohibited altogether. Back in the eighteenth century, the British Exchequer estimated that they were losing £700,000 a year thanks to the activities of Manx smugglers.

Bloody hell, that’s massive money in today’s terms.

Hundreds of millions, Cliff said, pouring coffee into two mugs. In one year alone, the customs men seized over 4,000 gallons of finest French brandy. They put it up for sale at the custom-house at Whitehaven, but it didn’t even fetch the duty owing. To the English government, that was a plain demonstration that the smugglers were supplying the stuff at much lower prices. And they reckoned that less than one percent of the smuggling boats were ever seized. The trade was massive. Cognac from France, rum from the Caribbean, genever from The Netherlands, tobacco from China, arrack from India, teas from Ceylon, silks from the Far East. Peel was a money-rich den of iniquity. Whore houses, gambling dens, taverns that never shut, counterfeit products, bribery and extortion - you name it, and it went on here in Peel. Bribery and corruption on an industrial scale.

So what happened? Noah asked, acknowledging the fresh coffee that Cliff passed him.

As any Manx historian will tell you, back in 1266, the island became part of Scotland under the Treaty of Perth, after being ruled by Norway. But the British Crown bought back the island in 1765. As we all know, the island did not become part of the United Kingdom. It has always retained its internal self-government.

You say the Crown ‘bought’ the island?

Just the feudal rights - not the land or property, of course. Smuggling was the main reason why, in 1765, the British Crown completed the purchase from the Dukes of Atholl for £70,000. That was a whole heap of money at the time. In fact, by my reckoning, it would be worth almost twelve million pounds today. And, as I said, that was just for the feudal rights. But you have to remember that the Exchequer was losing ten times that each year in taxes.

The two men sat on the sagging settee just behind the shop. As Cliff dropped into his usual place where he could see if anybody came in, Noah felt his cushion raise several inches. And the smuggling stopped? he asked, clutching his coffee against the effects of any further sudden movement.

Within a few years, yes, Cliff replied. The English sent their customs men over here in force, and they came down hard on anyone caught with illegal goods. The good people of Peel tried to bribe them, but they were English zealots who saw the Manx as parasites. The smuggling didn’t stop completely and nor will it. Even today, the guys out there with the fishing boats are making a few shillings by meeting with Irish boats, well away from the coast, and exchanging goods and cash. Brexit has been good for some, but the margins are far less now than they used to be.

Interesting story, Noah said. He tapped the book that now lay on the padded arm of the sofa. I reckon I’ll have twenty-five quid’s worth to read up on that."

Cliff chuckled. Like everything Manx, the arrival of the customs men left behind all sorts of myths and legends.

What? Like the Buggane - the ogre who lived on Greeba Mountain and who, in a fit of anger, ripped off its own head and threw it at a young tailor who’d upset him?

Nothing as crazy as that. But the story that has endured is the pot of gold in the lake at Ballakilpheric.

Noah sat up, then tried to pretend he was only casually interested. No-one knew of his connection to Kilpheric Lake. Er, what story was that then?

With difficulty, Cliff pushed his bulk off the settee. He waddled to a shelf near the door and came back with a paperback in pristine condition. Unused, and you can have it for a tenner.

Noah clutched his coffee again as Cliff settled onto the seat. He checked the title. The History of Scuba by Sutcliffe White. That’s you isn’t it?

Yes indeed. They reckon everybody has one book in them, and that was mine. It went into print about forty years ago, then fell out of print a while later. I resurrected it a few years back. I updated it, added a few new chapters on more recent advances in scuba, and self-published it. It’s £12.00 online, plus postage, so you’ll save yourself some money if you buy it from me.

But what makes you think I’m interested in the history of scuba diving?

Because you told me you had been in the Special Boat Service - the SBS - and I thought all you guys were into diving.

We are, Noah said, but not to the exclusion of other activities. We were all combat-trained, just specialising in water assaults.

Cliff winked. If smuggling on the Isle of Man and the legend of the pot of gold at Ballakilpheric interest you, this book will too. You see, one of the great legends of smuggling over here is that one ship’s captain, a guy by the name of Dugal Joughin, found a great way to hide his treasures from the customs. It’s said that, as the customs men closed in on him, he put all his non-perishable stuff into a big wooden chest and sank it in the lake at Ballakilpheric. He lowered the chest down on a rope with a small float attached. But either he miscalculated or something else went wrong.

Maybe he hadn’t studied Archimedes. Noah chuckled

He was acting in haste, it seems, and the buoyancy of the float was nowhere near enough to hold up the big old chest of goodies. Either that or the rope broke, or he hadn’t secured it to the chest well enough. That particular detail has been lost in ancient history. But for sure, the depth of the lake was much greater than he had estimated, and the so-called ‘pot of gold’ was lost forever under the dark waters. Legend has it that it was over £50,000 of treasure - about eight million in today’s terms.

Noah waved the book. And it’s all in here?

Cliff nodded and told Noah the rest of the story. Noah left half an hour later with two books in his hands, thirty-five pounds less in his pocket, and a bloody good idea what he might do while he waited for another business venture to develop out in the Caribbean.

CHAPTER ONE

THREE WEEKS LATER

Albert Lynch thumped his fist on his hand-made sycamore desk. Maximum buggerment is what I want, until she hands back what she stole from me. She’s been avoiding the issue for almost ten years now, and I’ve had enough. He stared hard at the big, surly man who stood before him. Then his voiced dropped to a lower pitch, as if he didn’t want to be overheard. If you can’t get my money back in the next few weeks, then I shall have to terminate her - but I shall let her know why I’m doing it first. Maybe the threat alone will bring her to her senses. I’ve lost all patience now.

Dave Finlay nodded. He’d done work for Lynch before and knew that the man behind the desk just wanted results. Lynch didn’t care how people achieved them. Dave’s only surprise was that he’d let this issue go on as long as he had. The woman must have something on him to get away with robbing him for over ten years.

Albert Lynch was a silver-haired seventy-five-year-old native of North Wales but, years earlier, had settled on the Isle of Man to reduce his punitive taxes in mainland Britain. He’d cheated and bullied his way to billionaire status and it was easy to see the results as Dave Finlay, afraid of nobody, stood almost to attention in Lynch’s luxurious office. Below his white, woolly hair, Lynch’s narrow eyes, his large red nose, and the straight line of his narrow lips convinced Dave Finlay that the man had probably never smiled in his whole, miserable life. The archetypal Ebenezer Scrooge, probably employing a powerful swarm of sycophantic Uriah Heep characters to ‘umbly fiddle the books for him.

Finlay didn’t care about the woman or how long she lived. He was well aware that Lynch had two of his own heavies whom he employed as protection. But he also knew that Lynch liked to keep this sort of stuff at arm’s length wherever possible. Dave Finlay wasn’t the most intelligent man on the planet, but he had a sharp mind when it came to opportunism. The other fishermen knew him for his unctuousness, obsequiousness, and insincerity, while he sharpened the knife with which he planned to stab you in the back. He’d earned his nickname of Dodgy Dave.

Dave Finlay’s mind seized upon the possibility of a different outcome that could benefit him even more. There may be another way without harming the woman, he said. That’s if you’re interested, Mister Lynch.

Lynch nodded. Go on.

There’s a rumour that’s been floating round the island for years, involving the lake at Ballakilpheric. That’s on the land that the people at The Foundation have recently acquired. If the rumours are right, it could well recoup all your money and more. And, a big chunk would be her money, wouldn’t it, since she’s part-owner of the lake? So you can think of it as recovering the debt. But I’d need some funds up front to find out whether it’s true or not.

Lynch’s mean eyes stared at him until he looked away. What rumours?

They date back many years, Mister Lynch, so I don’t know how reliable they are.

Just tell me what they are, he snapped, and I’ll be the judge.

Of course. Finlay said, his laugh a little too loud. Many years ago - about 1947 or ‘48 - some adventurers decided to test out their new self-contained underwater breathing apparatus. It was the early days of what we nowadays call scuba, and the equipment was new, untested, and seldom reliable. So they dived the big lake at Ballakilpheric.

Why would they go there? Why not dive in the sea?

Dave Finlay felt like a minnow about to get swallowed by a shark. He had no idea why this ageing man made him feel that way, but it was said that he had the same effect on everybody. Sometimes, power and wealth could do that. Dave stuttered as he spoke. There are no currents or waves in the lake and they were new to scuba diving. In fact, everybody was new to scuba diving since it was only a few years earlier that the French bloke, Jacques Cousteau, and some other guy, had invented what they then called the ‘aqualung’.

Right, so these people dived at Kilpheric lake. Then what?

They planned taking it easy and finding out what they could do underwater, and how the equipment worked. But there was no instruction manual in those days and what they hadn’t reckoned on was the depth of the lake. At the time, people knew very little about the effects of deep diving on the human body so far as it related to scuba. Also, the equipment was somewhat primitive. So, almost predictably, there was an accident when they surfaced too quickly. It left one man dead and the other one scared of ever diving again. He burned his newly-acquired equipment and campaigned against what he called ‘this deadly sport’. But on the quiet, he also reckoned that, underwater, they had come across a huge mound of earth where they had seen what he claimed to be ‘good evidence’ of hidden treasures.

As he spoke, Dave Finlay noticed black lines on Lynch’s finger nails, like long striations the length of the nail. Lynch prodded his little finger into one nostril and wiggled it about. When he removed it, he glanced at the wet end, wiped it clean in the other palm, and placed his hands on the desk, expression blank, as though the personal hygiene check hadn’t happened. Sounds like a load of nonsense.

Yes, it does, doesn’t it? And, in fact, over the years a few people have dived the lake, but it is very deep in places and it’s about five hundred metres long and two hundred metres wide. That’s a big area to cover when the visibility down at the bottom is most likely almost nil. So nobody has ever found any evidence to back up the man’s claim.

And what makes you think you will be any more successful?

Because I think I can find out the location of this mound of earth.

How would you do that?

Well, back on 1948, while the surviving diver refused to say any more in public, he had a family who he supposedly passed the secret down to. You can define a diving location on the surface by using simple triangulation. Like you can line up landmarks when you’re out on a boat.

And?

And I know two of his grandsons. One was a fisherman at Peel like me, and the other went and joined the army and hasn’t been seen for some years. But they are both on the island at the moment and, from what I understand, they are investing in high quality specialist underwater diving equipment. More to the point, one of them is a major shareholder in The Foundation, who now own the lake. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

That must be that man, Callow.

Dave Finlay nodded.

How sure are you that they really are investing in underwater equipment?

I’m certain. The other evening, I took a look in their storage workshops and spotted a load of new stuff that fitted exactly the type of equipment they would need.

You mean they just left the door of their workshop open?

Finlay laughed. That’s the last thing they would do. But I know what I’m doing. If I keep an eye on those two, I’ll maybe spot them on a dive, and that will give me the approximate location of the mound.

And what are the chances of a successful outcome?

I would guess about 50/50. Others have searched over the years but found nothing. Last one was about ten years ago and some guy got the bends. Nearly cost him his life. Deep, cold, and dark down there.

Lynch’s mouth wrinkled as though chewing over ideas that refused to organise themselves into speech. What sort of value would this ‘hidden wealth’ have? Are we talking a few hundreds or a few thousands?

Could be millions, Dave said, nonchalantly adding a few noughts on the end, just to be sure of hooking the fish. Word is that it’s a huge cache from when smuggling was rife on the island. And don’t forget that, what was worth one hundred thousand pounds then, would be worth over fifteen million today. If the stories are true and it exists, the treasure was sunk in the middle of the eighteenth century.

Lynch looked at the ceiling as he thought. How much do you need? he asked.

About one thousand quid to keep an eye on them, then, if my hunch is right, about twenty thousand to get down there with a good team of well-equipped men. We can dive at night after they shut the place.

Lynch half closed his eyes, and pulled at his bottom lip as he thought about it. He turned his head a little to look out of the window. In profile Dave Finlay could see his lip was trembling. There are those who will try to rob me of a pound, Lynch said with quiet menace. I deal with them just as harshly as if it was a thousand pounds, or a hundred thousand pounds. Because once word gets out that you have allowed somebody to get away with something, no matter how small, others will follow and do the same thing. They would lose their fear of retribution. He turned back to face his visitor. I employ two men as protection against threats, whether physical or against my property. Do you understand what I’m saying?

Of course I do, Dave Finlay said. I have no plans to rip you off, he lied.

It would be very silly of you to even think about it, Lynch said. He thought a while longer. Did you know that I was invested as Knight Commander with Star of the Order of St. Gregory the Great by the Archbishop of Westminster? This Papal knighthood was for my conspicuous service to the Church and society.

Finlay nodded. Everybody on the Isle of Man had heard about Lynch’s Papal knighthood. He made no secret of it. Everybody also knew how much he’d paid for it and how corrupt the church was. But Dave Finlay, like many others, had also heard the rumours that Albert Lynch swung both ways. There was a teenage fling with a local boy whose parents were bought off. The boy was old enough to be legal, but young enough for it to be creepy, so Lynch had slammed the rumour door shut before it became a confirmed fact. Whether true or not, the mental vision made Finlay shudder. Whatever was true or untrue, Lynch was a man who Dave Finlay didn’t particularly like doing business with. But money was money.

Because of my deeply-held personal beliefs, Lynch said, the thought that I might have to terminate this woman haunts me. He again stared out of the window and mumbled something under his breath.

I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Finlay said. The look in Albert Lynch’s eyes made him shiver. It made him want to look over his shoulder.

I suppose it’s worth a chance, Lynch said, shrugging off his thoughts. If I can recoup the debt without disposing of the woman, it could be worth the risk. Ask Pearl for some money on your way out. What else do you need?

Just one thousand for the moment. The big sum would be for professional equipment and some upfront payments for the men I need. Do you want to know the details of what I’m planning?

You know my rules, Finlay. I never want to know what you’re planning. You operate at arm’s length, so nothing can ever come back to me. I just want to hear you’ve succeeded.

It may just be a rumour. But there’s only one way to find out.

The most I’m risking is twenty thousand. So what? I’ve risked a hell of a lot more than that in my life. It’s the reason I’ve been so successful.

Dave Finlay smiled to himself. Lynch had made his fortune by founding the Fast Save retail chain which he later sold out for hundreds of millions. His fortune expanded when he invested much of that money into property development in mainland Britain. Twenty thousand was chicken feed to Lynch, but if he, Dave Finlay, played his cards right, he wouldn’t need any outside help. He could do this on his own by eliminating the competition and using their equipment. Dirty tactics, just like Albert Lynch had used all his life, only more permanent.

As for any supposed treasure being worth millions, Finlay had no idea what it might be worth, but he knew that he had to exaggerate to get the man’s attention. All he needed was a bit of financing to buy himself some good quality diving gear. He hadn’t used his own for years, and it was looking distinctly unreliable. Whatever he found, he would keep for himself, and just report back to Finlay that it had been a fruitless exercise. There would be no reason for Lynch to seek retribution.

CHAPTER TWO

TWO WEEKS LATER

To swim alongside another person, out in the deep open water at night, was like taking a long walk without the pressure of having to carry on a long conversation with your fellow walkers. Here, Penny Chakya’s thoughts formed and reformed, allowing her to examine them at length in the comfort of her own head, while her body powered her forwards through the cold water of the lake. Water was thicker than air and you couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. Nor could you stop moving. Instead, you were, together, stretching every muscle and sinew, only glimpsing each other’s silhouetted arm or head for a moment, when you turned your face to breathe. In the light of the full moon that glowed with dazzling intensity, it was the only reassurance Penny had that she was not completely alone.

Penny glimpsed the straight black line of Sarah’s clavicle, as she formed smooth, strong strokes through the still water. Sarah Flemons was, like Penny, a detective inspector in the Isle of Man Constabulary. Outside of their work, they had shared many leisure activities together during the seven years they’d known each other. Apart from open water swimming, both were scuba diving instructors - a pastime they shared with their partners, Sparky and Hjalmar. But, unlike swimming, which required the expenditure of large amounts of energy, scuba diving was a leisurely sport, and the men were less enamoured with the idea of forcing their muscles in the dark. Too much like hard work when there was a chilled beer waiting for them in the fridge. So swimming was a sport which Penny and Sarah undertook without their menfolk.

As her arms made their smooth curves, left followed by right, followed by left, followed by right, in a regular stroke Penny’s mind drifted to what was below them. When she and Sarah went scuba diving in the open sea, she would often think of the low whisper of the mysterious deep. Stories of shipwrecks, the seabed like the forest floor, bones and timbers collapsing, scattered by the currents. Beneath the surface of the Irish Sea they had experienced and witnessed so much together - crosscutting currents, sudden vertical drop-offs, depths of absolute darkness, the skeletal remains of rusting shipwrecks. So many hidden places. But here, in the stillness of Kilpheric Lake, Penny could only imagine mud and silt. Reduced visibility too. Little to interest a diver, but perfect on the sheltered surface for a free swimmer.

Penny caught sight of Sarah’s arms - one, then the other - bent above the surface of the water, her face flashing in the moonlight. They swam through the darkness, parallel, creating their own small swell in their wakes. They had, much earlier, found their rhythm, the chill of the water receding with the effort and with help from their thin neoprene wet