James and Sarah jumped up in unison.

​

“Not again,” they laughed.
They repacked their bags and headed back down to the riverside; through the lush, botanical gardens.

​

“Low tide! No wonder we were told to hurry,” declared Sarah as she gingerly bounded over the stone wall and strode decisively along the drying sandbar.  Shaldon’s harbour lighthouse blinked nervously, its foundations temporarily exposed by the retreating waves. There, wedged tightly into a crevice and held still by wire, their quarry lay. The vessel looked almost antique. Resembling a medicine bottle, complete with stopper; Sarah wondered how the glass bottle had survived. She carefully untied it and held it up to the light, spying paper curled within.

​

​“Ahh – ‘…a missive that has been dropped’. Of course,” said James, as the clues fell into place. “In WW2 when communications may have been intercepted, agents often used ‘Dead Letter Drops’ to pass messages on. They would leave a note somewhere secretly – drop it – so that an accomplice could pick it up later unnoticed. It looks like someone is still doing that here! But this looks like it's only a leaflet. Well, let’s take it to the FBI anyway,” said James, pointing back down Marine Parade to the Strand.

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