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a century of being cocooned in silt.
     
    Chris opened the bag, causing dry debris to fall to the floor, some covering his hands and sleeve. There were objects inside: a bottle of vitamins, alongside one of bicarbonate of soda. What appeared to be a small map or perhaps a piece of paper with a diagram had become crunched into a dry ball, in danger of falling apart. There was a small broken pair of binoculars, a dented tin of tobacco – still half full – and a small box of what he guessed were once matches, the wooden sticks all smashed to pieces.
     
    The final object was far easier to distinguish. The casing was also leather, approximately a quarter of an inch thick and, unlike the bag itself, in as good condition now as it had been the day it was made. The casing had served its purpose, covering over one hundred pages of 19th century paper, the majority of which were blank. There was writing on the first page, the first entry dated, arranged in the form of a diary. The handwriting was elongated and messy. The words were written in English with black ink and, judging by the style, he guessed a hard and, probably, expensive nib. Yet it was readable, at least with effort. Skimming through it, he made out at least twenty pages that included writing, all within the date range 12 March 1905 to 8 April the same year.
     
    He closed the book and smiled at the surgeon.
     
    “Thank you.”
     

3
     
     
     
    The first day of my second trip to St Mary’s was in many ways no different to the first. The ferry voyage from Penzance had taken a gruelling twenty-four hours, the like of which I never again wish to undergo.
     
    Leaving the harbour on arrival on St Mary’s, I took a walk south along Garrison Hill and continued to a familiar haunt overlooking the sea. The Gibbous Moon inn had been a faithful friend to me on my first visit, and I was pleased also to renew my acquaintance with Mr Thomas Pryce, a well-respected gentleman of Eton education who had retired from the law to take a well-earned retirement in calmer waters. As before, our conversation was wide ranging and pleasant, flowing like water from a waterfall, never paused, not rushed, but fine and free…
     
     
     
    Valeria Maria Flores had been twenty-one years old when she first heard the legend of St Lide’s. She came to the island that year, determined to find answers for herself. She arrived in the middle of summer; had she not done so, exploration of the caves and crevices would have been impossible. She took a room at the Gibbous Moon in the heart of Hugh Town, St Mary’s , a traditional coaching inn with white walls and original beams, the oldest establishment on the island. When the money ran out, she took a job washing pots, and then as a waitress. Seven years later, she was still there .
     
    She never did find the treasure.
     
    In seven short years she had seen it all. Stories derived from the local legend were always popular topics. Some visitors displayed a casual interest, viewing them as entertaining after-dinner amusement, a perfect way to unwind with a beer or a glass of wine before retiring to their beds. Others were sceptical: to them, there was no treasure. It was just a modern marketing strategy to bring in the tourists.
     
    But the belief of others was greater. Some arrived fully equipped with the latest technology to aid their search. Others came without the technology, but with a plan. Either way, the result was the same. People from all walks of life, ranging from those inspired by the adventurous spirit of Livingstone and other great explorers to the just plain stupid, had been coming for centuries; each destined to meet with the same lack of success. The legend had caused more deaths than anything else on the isles, including the wrecks.
     
    Some said the treasure was cursed.
     
    Then there was the one who was different. Doctor Thomas Francis Maloney , FRSA , an esoteric archaeologist and scholar well known in Victorian high society.