Pirate

  “What happened to your cousins?” Remi asked.

  “My older cousin died about ten years ago in a car accident, and his younger brother this last year of a heart attack.”

  “No other relatives?” Sam asked. “Anyone else who might have heard the stories?”

  “Unfortunately, neither had children of their own, and my other cousin who inherited the estate up in Nottingham knows what I know.” She furrowed her brows a moment, then brightened. “Actually, there is someone else. Madge Crowley, my cousin’s ex-wife. I’d quite forgotten about her, mostly because I haven’t spoken with her in years. Not since the divorce. She still sends round the occasional Christmas card. Lives in Norfolk somewhere. I could try to find her address if that will help.”

  “That would be great,” Sam said.

  She’d found the name and address, Madge Crowley in King’s Lynn. The officer arrived and Sam gave a statement and the name of the investigator from Scotland Yard who was handling the case.

  The officer looked up from his notebook. “You’re sure this theft is related?” he asked Sam. “After all, you mentioned this Fisk found what he was looking for at the museum. Why come here?”

  “To keep us from finding it.”

  The officer turned a dubious glance at the wall where the shield once hung. “So what’s the value?” he asked Grace.

  Remi piped in with, “Old relics. More museum pieces than anything else.”

  “History,” the officer said. “Don’t know why everyone gets so worked up about this stuff.” He finished his notes, then stood. “I’ll be in contact.”

  “Thank you,” Grace replied, walking him to the door. She returned a moment later.

  Remi said, “I hope you can forgive us for not being more upfront to begin with. We weren’t exactly sure what we were dealing with.”

  “If I’d known any of this would happen,” Grace said, “I’d have made sure the shield went to the museum with the rest of the items.” She smiled, placing her hands on her hips. “I trust there’s nothing more you need? I’d quite like to get back to my simple country life.”

  Sam and Remi stood at the obvious though polite dismissal, Sam telling Remi, “I can’t think of anything. You?”

  “Nothing,” Remi said.

  Grace saw them out. “If you do find anything, please send it to the museum. I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime.”

  In the car, Sam handed Remi the address of Grace’s cousin. “King’s Lynn. That’s a three-and-a-half-, four-hour drive. Makes for a long day.”

  “Don’t know about you, but my schedule’s wide open.”

  “Turns out, so is mine.” He looked at his watch, then started the car. “Selma should be up by now. Give her a call. I’m hoping those photos we took of the shield boss can be enhanced.”

  Remi set the GPS directions, then called Selma, putting it on speakerphone. “We’ve had a few developments. First off, we’re heading to King’s Lynn, so we’ll need a place to stay.”

  “I’ll see to it. What about your suite at the Savoy?”

  “We’ll stay checked in. We shouldn’t be gone that long.” She related the information told to them by Grace about the family history and King John’s Treasure.

  “Right now,” Sam said, “I’m more interested in the leather shield that Grace inherited. Particularly that metal circle in the middle. Any chance those photos we sent from our first visit are usable?”

  “Let me pull them up.”

  While Selma was checking, Remi looked at the images they’d taken. One was washed out from the flash, the other too dark. But as before on that day she’d first seen the shield, her focus was drawn to the intricate Celtic knot engraved in the center of the shield boss. The small, rune-like symbols around the border had, on first glance, looked more like an extension of the Celtic design. Then again, maybe that was the reason for the interlacing in the center—to deflect attention from the ciphers decorating the border. Hide the cipher wheel in plain sight. After all, who would look for it on an old, battered leather shield?

  “I have the photos here,” Selma said.

  “Check into it,” Sam said. “We believe it’s the cipher wheel.”

  There was a long pause. Then, “That certainly changes things.”

  “Unfortunately,” Sam said, “it’s now missing. And why we’re calling. Can you enhance the photos enough to read the symbols around the border?”

  “I’ll have Pete and Wendy take a look. They’re far more proficient with photo enhancement.”

  “Appreciate it,” Sam said. “Let us know, ASAP.”

  It was well after four by the time they drove through the South Gates of King’s Lynn to the city center. The low sun cast shadows across cobbled streets and centuries-old buildings, making it easy to imagine what it must have been like back when King’s Lynn was still the most important seaport in Britain.

  The Old World charm extended to Madge Crowley’s neighborhood. Her address was one of several town houses that, according to the plaque on the building’s brick front, had originally been a Benedictine priory built around 1100. Smoke swirled up from one of the chimney pots on the roof, and Remi hoped that meant she was home.

  They walked through an archway into a cobbled courtyard. Sam knocked on the door. A stout, brown-haired woman about the same age as Grace opened it, her expression one of curiosity.

  Sam smiled at her. “We’re looking for Madge Crowley.”

  “I’m she.”

  “We were given your address by Grace Herbert-Miller. She said you might know something about an old family legend. Something to do with protecting King John’s Treasure.”

  She was silent a moment as she searched Sam’s face. And just when Remi thought she was going to send them off as the crackpots they surely must be, she stepped aside, waving them in. “I was wondering when someone might come around about that.”

  Thirty-seven

  Might I inquire why you are asking about Grace and . . . ?” She smiled politely, waiting for them to fill in the blanks.

  Remi deferred to Sam, who said, “Grace mentioned that you were familiar with the family legend. Regarding King John.”

  “I was. The bigger question is, why are you?”

  “Someone broke into Grace’s house and stole an heirloom she’d recently inherited. We believe it’s connected to this legend.”

  “To the treasure, you mean?”

  “Yes,” Sam said.

  Her expression remained neutral as she studied them both. “Perhaps if you explained why it is that you’re interested, I might be more inclined to help.”

  “We’re treasure hunters,” Sam said.

  “Treasure hunters?” she repeated in a disapproving voice.

  “Not for profit,” Remi said. “We either donate the proceeds to charity or return what we find to the rightful owner. There’s plenty of information about us on the Internet. What we do and the charities we support.”

  “Anyone can create a web page, Mrs. Fargo. How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Because—” Remi realized right then she had nothing. “Just our word. I’m sorry, but that’s all we have.”

  The woman was quiet a moment as she studied the two of them. “I like to think I’m a good judge of character. I hope you don’t prove me wrong. What is it you need to know?”

  Sam answered. “Anything at all you can remember that has to do with the Herbert legacy that might lead to the treasure. Or, at the very least, information on it.”

  “It might take me a moment to find it if you don’t mind waiting.” She excused herself, went up the stairs, and returned a few minutes later with a manila envelope that she handed to Sam.

  “A syllabus?” Sam said as she sat across from them.

  “And a detailed outline to a book I planned to write on it. I’m a libr
arian. We have a monthly history group that meets at the library where I work. Several years ago, I’d presented my research to the group, thinking it might be fun to look into. Unfortunately, one of the members, Nigel Ridgewell, a former history and linguist professor at the local college, refused to entertain what he condescendingly called my attempt at revisionist history. He quit in a huff.”

  “Too bad,” Remi said. “When you think about it, it’s no more revisionist than any of the other legends about the king’s treasure.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Madge replied. “So imagine my surprise when I later discovered that Nigel had used my work and self-published a book on it, claiming it for his own. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he presented my syllabus to one of his classes as the course outline. Unfortunately, as soon as it got out, he lost his job at the college. I feel bad about that, but I wasn’t about to let him steal my work.”

  “Understandable,” Sam said.

  “After he lost his teaching position, he took a job as a tour guide. I heard from one of the other members of our group that he was using my information in his dialogue during his walking tours, citing it as one of the many legends of what happened to the treasure.”

  “People do like legends,” Remi said.

  “That they do. I thought about asking him to stop, but how many times can you kick a man when he’s down? He was young and impetuous.”

  Sam looked up from the papers. “Can you give us the abbreviated version of what’s in here?”

  “Quite simply, the Herberts are descended from William the Marshal, First Earl of Pembroke. Pembroke was entrusted to hide the Royal Treasure of King John in order to protect the crown prince from invaders looking to enrich their coffers. The story about the treasure being lost in the fens during the king’s travels was a concoction to keep others from finding out what really happened to it.”

  Sam handed the papers to Remi, then asked, “And what do you think happened to it?”

  “It’s all right there. Hidden by William Pembroke, with each of his chosen descendants protecting the secret. Pembroke’s sons died without issue and so the secret passed on through his daughter, Maud de Braose, who passed it on to her son, Edmund Mortimer, who apparently made a copy of this key and gave one to his legitimate son, Roger de Mortimer, and one to his illegitimate son, Sir Edmund Herbert—which turned out to be a wise move. Mortimer’s legitimate son ended up having an affair with Queen Isabella and was executed as a result.” She gave a half smile as she leaned back in her chair. “Perhaps Mortimer knew his children and realized his illegitimate child was far more loyal. What it doesn’t tell you is where the treasure is. Only the history of it after it left Pembroke’s hands.”

  Remi closed the envelope. “If you don’t mind, could we borrow this? We would copy and return it.”

  “No need. As much as I wanted to follow up, it wasn’t my story to tell. It belongs to my ex-husband, Henry McGregor, and his cousin, Grace, neither of who have any interest in the subject. There it has sat for years and years. It’s yours. And clearly Grace has given you her blessing or she wouldn’t have sent you here to begin with. The only thing I ask is that you let me know what you find.”

  They thanked her and left. In the car, Remi slid the papers from the envelope. “There’s a lot of information here.”

  Sam glanced over. “I didn’t see anything that stood out.”

  “Would have been nice if there was an actual copy of the cipher wheel.” She flipped through the pages. “We need to get this to Selma. The more eyes on this, the better.”

  Once at the hotel Selma had found for them, they scanned and emailed the pages to her, after which they each took a stack and started looking over what they had.

  Remi was reading over the time line that Madge had prepared. “If Edmund Mortimer divided the secret between his sons, that would seem to be a logical point where one of the cipher wheels was stolen.”

  Sam looked up from his pages. “Do you recall your notes from the display at the museum on Mortimer’s illegitimate son?”

  “I do.”

  “And the notes on the onetime-lover-turned-pirate of the king? Hugh Despenser.”

  Remi smiled. “And his illegitimate son, Bridgeman.”

  “Who could forget Avery’s ancestor?” Sam eyed the paper in front of him. “Wasn’t there something about the king being angry with the Mortimers due to something being stolen by Despenser?”

  “That’s got to be it,” Remi said. “Despenser stole one copy of the cipher wheel, which somehow ended up in the bottom of the ocean several hundred years later.”

  “Which explains Avery’s obsession with trying to get it back.”

  “Part of his obsession, you mean. I’m sure the other part has to do with finding the treasure for himself.”

  “Good point.” He straightened the stack of papers, then returned them to the envelope. “Let’s hope we locate it before he does.”

  Selma skyped them early the next morning. She was seated at her office desk. “Wendy and Pete were able to make some headway on enhancing the photos, and Lazlo’s working on deciphering the map as we speak.” She held up the improved copy of the photo, pointing to the side of it that was still too dark to make out clearly. “Not the best lighting, even with the enhancement. And there are a few symbols worn too smooth to read. We’re not quite sure what they are.”

  “Bottom line . . . ?” Remi asked.

  “Lazlo has enough to work with, but something could be lost in the translation.”

  Lazlo leaned into view. “Quite right. But I’m hopeful it’s nothing too drastic. Like sending you to South America when you need to go to North America.”

  Sam and Remi looked at each other, then the tablet screen. Sam said, “We’re headed to South America?”

  “No,” Lazlo said. “I was merely giving you an example of what could go wrong with a few letters missing. South versus North. That sort of thing.”

  “So where are we going?” Remi asked.

  “Good question,” he said. “If Miss Crowley’s information is accurate—much is dependent on her research, and it seems that was done as a result of childhood tales, never a—”

  “We get it,” Sam said.

  “Right-o. Anyway, it looks as though the person you need to contact next is Nigel Ridgewell.”

  “Ridgewell?” Sam said. “You’re sure?”

  “Quite. He’s the resident expert in Old English. Former professor. We’ll need his help to translate what I’ve deciphered on the map—unless, of course, you want to wait until we find another expert.”

  “This should be interesting,” Sam said. “He happens to be the person who stole Madge Crowley’s research.”

  Thirty-eight

  Colin Fisk hid his shock when he saw Alexandra Avery standing in the middle of his hotel lobby. He gave her a bland smile as he approached. “Mrs. Avery,” he said. “I had no idea you were in London.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” she replied, her expression as neutral as his. “I like surprises, though. Don’t you?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I expect the same thing you are. Searching for this mysterious treasure that my husband’s so obsessed with. Any luck so far?”

  “We’re making progress.”

  “Hmm. And the Fargos? They’re not getting in your way?”

  “Not in the least.” The fact she knew about the Fargos bothered him, although he told himself he shouldn’t be surprised. During the time he’d been employed by Charles Avery, he’d come to realize that the man’s wife wasn’t quite the inept socialite that Charles had made her out to be. “Does Mr. Avery know you’re here?”

  She laughed. “Hardly. The last thing I need is to have him looking over my shoulder. Actually, I’ve come to head you off. Include me in the hunt or expect that the funds my husband is using
to finance your venture will suddenly disappear.” She smiled sweetly. “I’m sure he mentioned that all his assets are frozen?”

  “He did.”

  “He may have neglected to inform you that my forensic accountant has a very good lead on this income that Charles seems to be tapping into to pay your salary. Especially since it’s coming from my hidden account. And technically, since I’m funding this venture, I’m willing to overlook it for now. That is, if you’re willing to overlook my being here.” Again, that sweet smile.

  Fisk held out his hand. “Welcome to the party.”

  She shook hands with him. “So glad you could see it my way. So . . . what’s next on your agenda?”

  “Why don’t we discuss this over a drink,” he said. The interruption would give him time to gather his thoughts, because the last thing he needed or wanted was a socialite like Alexandra Avery underfoot.

  “Lead the way.”

  “Exactly where are you staying?” he asked once they were seated at a table.

  “Well, here, of course. But only for one night. Tomorrow we’re off to King’s Lynn.”

  Fisk stared in shock.

  “That is where you’re headed next?”

  “How did you know?”

  This time, her smile wasn’t so innocent. “I pay good money to stay informed, Mr. Fisk. Something I learned from my husband.” She reached out, gave his hand a pat. “No need to trouble yourself with such trivial details about where I get my information. I vote we compare plans. Maybe we’ll find that we can actually be of use to each other.”

  An interesting thought. Maybe there was a way to capitalize on her presence. Ivan and Jak weren’t exactly the sharpest pair. Another set of eyes on them might be what he needed to finally get ahead of the Fargos.

  The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Alexandra Avery was far more intelligent than Charles had ever given her credit for. Clearly, she was tapping into her husband’s computer or phone. Or maybe she had his office bugged. How else would she have known about their plans? And while that worried him, there were ways to keep her in line. Besides, it wasn’t like he had to keep Charles in the loop about her actions. At least not now.