Pirate (23 page)

M
ight 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 librarian. 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.”

C
olin 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.

This could actually work . . .