Later that afternoon we strolled back up the winding country lane towards Pebble Deeping. I enjoyed the clean smell of the air, untainted by the exhaust fumes or greasy fast food smells I was used to. I revelled in the faint twitter of birds in trees and hedgerows and the calming seas of green fields that lined the way.

Edge led the way, he stopped occasionally; pricking up his ears to hear the birdsong or pulling a leaf from a plant in the ditch running parallel to the road and rubbing it between his fingers. After a gentle fifteen-minute stroll, we entered the sleepy outskirts of Pebble Deeping proper. It looked as if the course of time and development had flowed around it, only lapping at the edges of village life like a sandcastle before the advancing tide.

I had the distinct impression that what I was seeing was Pebble Deeping exactly as it had been fifty, a hundred, maybe even two hundred years ago. Horses had become cars, a telephone box had appeared and, every once in a while, a new signpost would be erected on the road, but the people, the lifestyle and the landscape of the place had stayed essentially the same.

After passing an assortment of scattered cottages and farmhouses we came to the village pub. The swinging sign announcing the name as The Sickle was faded and flaking as if the need to advertise its presence was anachronistic. It had clearly been there far longer than even the most antiquated of the locals.

The Sickle was a low squat building that gave the impression of having been assembled by dropping many irregular pieces of dour grey stone from a great height in the hope that they would land in the approximate shape of a habitable establishment. Either side of the path from the road was a former flower bed, now choked with weeds, and significant patches of the walls were choked with ivy that grew like the unkempt hair of a bus depot derelict. The parts of the structure that were free of vines were instead patched with lichen which dribbled from the eaves of the thick thatched roof.

There was a broad step down to the oak-planked door that bore neither signs nor adverts for lager and I fell in love with the place as soon as I clapped eyes on it.

Edge and I both had to stoop low beneath the lintel as we entered the lounge which was cosy in proportions and decked out in an eclectic mix of ancient oak benches, dining furniture and several threadbare armchairs. A bar ran half the length of the far wall and bent out of sight under an arch into an adjoining room.

The pub was packed with customers; the entire adult population of the village seemed to be in there, all of whom wore formal dark clothing. There were broad shouldered men wearing patched suits and ruddy-cheeked women in 1950's cut skirts and black blouses. The villagers stood in clumps, some talking quietly among themselves whilst others laughed and slapped one another on the back. There was a drink in every hand and an animated gesture in every conversation. The whole lounge buzzed with the noise of large numbers of people who know each other and are happy in their company.

"Wake..." Ty whispered over his shoulder. The temptation to remind him who was the private detective flashed across my mind, but I let it go.

Contrary to my expectations the room did not go quiet when we entered.

I had imagined that our entrance would be similar to those portrayed in old films, when the lost townies stumble into the yokel pub only to be stared at from behind obscene mutton chop sideboards and tankards of warm brown ale.

I felt vaguely disappointed. Instead of the cold shoulder and the stares, feet shuffled to make a path for us to the bar, heads nodded, and one or two voices uttered a muffled hullo.

Not everyone was unambiguously welcoming. A few suspicious glances were cast furtively in our direction and I caught a few hushed words from behind glasses or raised hands.

"Michaels..." "Development..." "...Surveyors?"

Edge made his way to the bar and bought two pints of locally brewed ale while I found a miraculously unoccupied table in the far corner of the lounge.

I supped my pint and watched the villagers milling around, giving whomever the unfortunate soul was a good send-off. There was no sadness in the room, just sharing of stories, memories, and drink. I thought that I would like to be ushered to the afterlife like this and wondered if this many folk would see me away.

I became aware of a mumbling and commotion starting up over by the door. The crowd was parting like the bow wave beneath the prow of a fast-moving boat. Cutting through the clutter of bodies splintering before him, I caught a glimpse of a small wiry figure that was forging his way directly toward our table.

The man looked to be as old as dirt, if not a little more mature. Perhaps he was dirt's older and more unkempt brother; the one who had let himself go once he realized how well dirt was doing. The man's wizened face lurked beneath an enormous bushy beard so snowy white it made him look like an inverted dandelion. He wore denim dungarees over a loud chequered lumberjack shirt and had a filthy Dallas Cowboys baseball cap forced so low on his head that it made the tips of his ears stick out at a faintly ridiculous angle. Most bizarrely of all, he sported a pirate-style eye patch over his left eye while his uncovered right gleamed and rolled maniacally.

Upon arriving at our table, the man drew a deep theatrical breath, opened his mouth and was poised to speak then seeming to think better of it as his lips clamped shut like a sprung bear trap. His tongue crept between his beard-obscured lips and flicked about like a snake tasting the air.

Great I thought. The village idiot has taken a shine to me... Satchmo Turner; Pin-Up for the Irredeemably Unhinged...

"You're Edge's nephew?" he spoke in my direction, the disappointment as palpable as the malodorous mix of sour cheese and brandy on his breath.

"I am," Edge said, seemingly unfazed by the sudden appearance of the Dallas Cowboys' most incongruous fan.

"Course you are, Old Jonah could see that all right!" the man said, despite still ostensibly looking at me as his sole visible eye rolled in his head like a shaken child's doll.

"Jonah Elias Saddlebury," he thrust a grimy paw into the space between Ty and me, bisecting us perfectly.

I looked at Edge. Edge looked at me.

I took Jonah's hand and shook it with a distinct lack of enthusiasm; I half expected it to drop off.

"Satchmo Turner," I introduced myself. "This is Tyrone Edge." I tried to free my hand, the better to point at Ty, but Jonah still pumped it up and down vigorously.

"That's grand. Arr, just grand that is!" the man enthused, little flecks of spittle flying from his mouth and being caught, thankfully, in his voluminous beard.

I decided that feigning paralysis was my best bet and let my whole arm go limp. Jonah paid no heed and merely waved my lifeless arm up and down with renewed vigour.

"Mind if Old Jonah joins you boys?" he cocked his head towards Edge, bent sharply at the waist and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "There's things that needs be said."

That message delivered; Jonah cast furtive glances over both shoulders to see who might have been listening in on him.

"Of course," Edge replied. Jonah finally released my arm and it promptly dropped to the table with a thump.

The strange man drew a stool up and tucked himself tightly under the small table that bore our drinks. He leaned his forearms onto the surface of the table, causing it to wobble and spill a foamy little puddle of beer, so that he could draw even closer to us. There was an odd earthy smell to him that clashed violently with the brandy he seemed to have employed as deodorant.

"You boys have gots to help Old Jonah," he whispered theatrically in a stage aside so audible that he might as well have used a loudhailer. "Jonah's the only one left!"

Edge raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"What do you mean 'the only one left'?" I asked, not unreasonably.

"Dead. The other two are dead!" Jonah whispered loudly, fingering his eye patch nervously.

"Dead?" I replied, more than a little sceptical.

"Jesus, boy! If Jonah needs repeat everything then this will be twice as long in the telling..." he shook his head with exasperation. You couldn't fault his logic.

"Go on," Edge prompted. He was in particularly garrulous form, I wondered how I could shut him up.

"Now that Wimple's gone, it just be Jonah. See, Jonah was involved in a little bit of business with Wimple and your uncle. Only now, Jonah wishes he never heard of no bloody treasure!" Jonah moaned, looking reflexively over both shoulders.

I couldn't help myself. "Treasure!?" I blurted out. Jonah cast a caustic glance at me.

"Shh! Old Wimple found out about it, see? He knew some old stuff was hereabouts, only them at the museum wouldn't believe him, said he was a... a fantasist." Jonah's dialogue sped up until he tripped over the words

"So old Wimple knows this treasure, and he knows it's here in Pebble Deeping. So, he buys Holly Corner to get as near as he can, but where the stuff is lying is on old Morgan's land!" Jonah tapped the tabletop with a filth-encrusted finger as if punctuating his rambling tale.

For my part, I hoped this loon was not Edge's new neighbour; he could materially impact the property values in case Edge wanted to sell.

"Wimple now thinks to himself; he thinks he can't go digging on Morgan's land without him noticing. So, he has to cut Morgan in, see?" Jonah glanced at Ty and me in turn, feverishly seeking some sign of understanding

"Where do you come in?" Ty asked, as if he gave this tale any credence.

"Ah, clever one you is! Just like old Morgan," Jonah replied, giving another caustic glance of the madly roving eye in my direction.

"Jonah was out collecting, ah, mushrooms down in the copse when he comes across Wimple and Morgan searching and digging. So old Jonah says to himself ahoo, what's this then?"

"... You mean you were out poaching, and they caught you," Edge interrupted.

"Heh," the ancient man shrugged. "Old Jonah approaches and gets himself cut in on the secret and a promise; a share of the treasure!"

"Who is this Wimple person?" I asked, going along with the story.

"This here is his wake. Professor Wimple was killed when Holly Corner was burgled. Treasure thieves! After his maps and such. Old Wimple must have tried to stop them and got himself done in. Of course, they already got Morgan," he said looking at Ty. "Now there's just Old Jonah left, and then them thieves get a free run at the goodies!"

"How did you put your eye out?" I asked, my customary and famous tact momentarily in abeyance.

"Jonah is disguising himself," he replied, lifting the patch with the ball of a grimy thumb revealing a bloodshot, but otherwise intact eyeball.

Was this for real? This paranoid loon seriously thought that a highly organized gang of thieves was after him. What's more, he thought pantomime eyewear would fool them. I sighed and sank a little further into my seat.

"Better get yourself out of sight eh, Jonah? Lie low for a while," Ty said sounding serious.

"You'll help Old Jonah then?" the excitement that played beneath his whiskers seemed almost boyish.

"Of course!" Edge replied.

"What?" I spluttered. Jonah nodded to Ty then scurried away across the pub, the other villagers parting for him as before.

"Remember who pays you, Satchmo," Edge said calmly, obviously noticing my general disbelief that bordered on disgust.

"Well, yes, but he's evidently as mad as a box of weasels. Anyone who constantly refers to them self in the third person can't be all there," I tried in vain to rationalize with him.

"I thought it was quite endearing," he replied, returning his empty glass to the table.

I stood and made for the bar, thinking that I would need at least another before partaking in a wild goose chase for buried treasure.

"Do you want another Tyrone?" I asked.

"Sure, why not?" he said as I turned toward the taps. "Satchmo! I've told you before. Please call me Ty," he shouted over my shoulder as I made my way through the villagers.

*

That afternoon I took my leave of Ty for a while and wandered to the bottom of the meadow with my mobile phone. I took with me a notepad and pen and sat on a rickety wooden bridge that lay astride a deep and swiftly moving river. I dangled my legs over the edge of the walkway and set about jotting the main areas of concern and enquiry that Tyrone Edge was paying me to investigate. I wrote three broad headings in a triangular formation;

MORGAN, GOLD, WIMPLE.

I connected each with a line and doodled a large question mark in the centre.

Ty was primarily concerned that I look into the circumstances of the death of his uncle, Morgan. I underlined his name three times. However, if Jonah's story was to be believed, and Ty seemed to have swallowed it, then I also needed to look into what had happened to Professor Wimple.

Ultimately, and least credibly, I would need to see if there was any link between the two that suggested the existence of some form of buried treasure. I laughed and underlined the word WIMPLE several times.

My major concern was Morgan, and so I wrote a few names next to his on the pad. These were contacts of mine in the police. Though I suspected that out here was the territory of the Shropshire force, rather than that of the West Midlands. Still, the friends of my father always helped me out, so they ought to be able to have a word with a colleague in Shropshire.

I searched the numbers on my phone and dialled one in particular.

"Gerart..." a rough voice answered after several rings.

"Sam! It's Satchmo here," I said cheerily.

Sam Gerart had been with my father since his first days on the force and was now a mid-ranking detective approaching enforced retirement. Dad had wanted him to join the business with himself and Yeoman, but Sam was driven by a deep-rooted belief in public service founded on his deeper-rooted Christianity and could not bring himself to leave the force.

"Satchmo, it's good to hear from you son. How's work?"

Sam had always treated me like his own child, more so after the death of my father. I liked and respected him immensely.

"The business is fine Sam. Actually, I'm working a private case at the moment, and I wonder if you can help me out?"

"Of course, Satchmo. What can I do for you?" Gerart replied.

"Can you get hold of the details of the death of one Morgan Edge?" I gave him the information as I had it, and as Reeman had related to Ty; Morgan's date of birth, the date on the death certificate and that he had been involved in some form of car accident.

"One more thing Sam, it happened out in Shropshire will you be able to get anything?"

"No problem Satchmo, I have a couple of friends over with Shrops. I'll take Ernie out for a few beers and see what they have. Just don't be expecting the info too quick son, we are kind of busy recently with all of this gang business," Sam replied, weariness creasing his voice.

Two rival drugs gangs had been at war in the Black Country for some months, there had been some shootings and there was a general flap on as huge pressure was put on the police to stamp the problem out.

"I understand Sam, any help you can give would be great," I replied, grateful. "I'll give you a ring in a couple of days."

"You do that son," Gerart growled, then hung up.

I drew a thick circle around the word MORGAN on my pad. That lead was in train; my next job would be to enquire around the village as to what had happened to Professor Wimple.

I didn't worry too much about the possibility of there being any mileage in the suggestions of gold or treasure. Not only did I not believe it, but if by some miracle Jonah was telling the truth, and not inhabiting the realms of alcohol-soaked fantasy, then any link between Morgan and Wimple ought to become apparent with a little digging.

No pun intended.

There was little else I could do that afternoon, so I wandered back up to the farmhouse feeling pleased with myself. This was going well. Easy money, I thought.

Like so many times in the past my smugness was premature.