Pirate (22 page)

H
ow could we have been so blind?” Remi asked.

“Easy,” Sam said, hitting the gas harder. The long stretch of country road before them was empty, which made the getting there that much faster. He checked his mirrors, even though he was fairly confident that they weren't being followed. Why would they be? Fisk had gotten what he came for. “It was hidden in plain sight, and we weren't looking in the right place.”

Or, rather, when they
were
looking, they didn't know what they were looking at. They did now, and he only hoped that they hadn't made a grave mistake by chasing after the false lead at the museum.

They made good time, and Sam relaxed slightly as he turned onto the dirt road that led to Grace Herbert-Miller's farm. As before, the chickens scattered as they pulled up in front, the geese
honked, and the few goats that had wandered up to the split-rail fence bleated their arrival.

Sam and Remi walked across the graveled drive to the cottage, their footsteps crunching beneath them. No one was approaching this farm without being noticed, Sam thought as he knocked on the front door.

There was no answer.

He stepped back, glanced up at the chimney. No smoke. “Maybe we should have a look around. Make sure everything's okay.”

Remi nodded but didn't comment. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was. Something had happened to the Herbert-Millers.

They walked around to the side, the brick path thick with moss, making it slippery in some areas. Diamond-paned windows reflected the sunlight as they passed, the white lace curtains inside preventing Sam from seeing in. Around back, a well-tended vegetable garden was fenced off, but a few chickens had found their way in, pecking for grubs between rows of carrots and celery.

Two steps led up to the back door, painted forest green, and Sam noticed fresh gouges in the wood near the lock as though someone had recently tried—or managed—to gain entry. “Not what I was hoping to see.”

“Definitely not,” Remi replied.

He was just reaching for the handle when he heard the loud chorus of chickens, geese, and goats out front, followed by the sound of a car's tires on the gravel drive.

“That,” Remi said, “is one heck of an alarm. Maybe we should look into getting one ourselves.”

“I'm not sure Zoltán could resist the temptation of fresh chicken for lunch.”

“Good point.”

They retraced their steps, Sam taking the lead. At the front of the house, he signaled for Remi to wait as he peaked around the corner. Grace Herbert-Miller was getting out of the front passenger seat of a late-model blue Fiat that had pulled up behind their rental car. Judging from her red and black flowered dress, black wool coat, and the small black hat with red buds decorating one side, she'd just returned from church.

What he didn't see was her husband.

Not wanting to alarm the woman, he waved Remi forward, and together they walked out to greet her as she said good-bye to the driver.

She saw them and smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo. I certainly wasn't expecting you today . . .”

“Mrs. Herbert-Miller,” Sam said, smiling in return. “Sorry to drop in unexpectedly. I was hoping to have a word with you and your husband. Is he home?”

“Unfortunately, no. He left early this morning to visit his brother, who's been quite under the weather. But do come in.”

She started for the front door. Sam reached out and touched her arm. “Actually,” he said, “I'm a little worried that someone might have broken into your house.”

Surprisingly, she laughed, then started forward again, pulling her keys from her purse. “I doubt that. We're so far out in the
country, who would waste their time? It's not like there's anything of value in there.”

“Even so, it looks like someone may have gone in through the back door.”

Together, the three walked around to the back, and Sam pointed out the gouges in the wood by the lock.

“Oh dear.”

He reached out, opened the door. “It was locked, I assume.”

She nodded but said nothing.

“I'm sure they're gone,” he said. “But, frankly, I'd rather not take any chances.”

“It will take forever before the police arrive. We're so far out.”

“I can check while you call from Remi's cell phone.”

“Please.”

He pushed the door open, listening a moment before entering. Behind him, he heard Remi saying, “Don't worry. He's very good at this.”

Then Grace replying, “Why would anyone break in?”

The back door led into a mud porch, rain boots neatly placed on the floor beneath slickers that hung above them on the wall. He passed through the small kitchen, drawing his gun from its holster. Undoubtedly, they'd come for one thing only, and, sure enough, that's exactly what he found was missing. Regardless, he checked the rest of the house, then holstered his gun before joining the two outside. “They're gone.”

Remi said, “The police are on their way.”

Grace, her face pale, asked, “Is anything missing?”

“I'm afraid so,” Sam said, leading them to the front of the house, then pointing to the wall near the front door.

She looked up at the empty space between the two paintings and below the family crest. “The shield? Why on earth would anyone steal that?”

“We believe,” Sam said, “that the symbols on the shield boss were used in creating an old code to decipher a map.”

“A shield boss? I'm not sure what that is.”

“It's the round brass seal at the center of the shield. It's a decorative piece used to connect the handle to the shield itself.”

She stared at the wall, then turned toward Sam. “You're certain it hides a code? It was just a pretty Celtic design.”

“It's what was around the border of that design on the edge of the circle. Not the Celtic interlacing in the center.”

“That's . . .” Grace put her hand on her chest, shaking her head. “I think I need to sit down.”

“Here,” Remi said, stepping forward and taking her by the arm, leading her into the parlor. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Thank you, no. I'm fine.”

Sam took a seat in the chair across from Grace. “You said something about two men who came by just before we did asking about the artifacts you'd inherited.”

She nodded.

“Would you be able to describe them?”

“I think so . . . Do you think they . . . ?”

“If it's the same men we've run into, then yes.”

“But why?”

“This code I mentioned. We're not sure, but it's possible the map it deciphers is to some treasure.”

Her brows went up. “
That
old legend?”

“You've heard of it?”

“Well, yes. But it was just one of those stories told at bedtime. No one actually
believed
.”

“This legend,” Sam said, wanting to keep her on point before the police arrived. “Can you tell us the story?”

“It's been so long . . .” She leaned back in her seat, her glance straying to the empty space on the wall. “I couldn't have been more than ten or eleven. It was at my cousins' . . . They teased me because I was a girl, therefore couldn't be part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“The protectorship. I remember my oldest cousin teasing me, saying, ‘Don't you know anything? You have to be a boy. Girls can't be protectors.'” She gave a slight shrug. “Or something like that.”

“Protector of what?”

“King John's Treasure, of course.”

R
emi was certain she'd misunderstood Mrs. Herbert. “King John, as in King Richard's brother?”

“The same,” Grace said.

“That's supposed to be quite the treasure,” Remi said. “Over seventy million pounds, if I recall correctly.”

“But the stories aren't real, are they? Why on earth would anyone believe them?”

“Hard to say,” Sam said. “What exactly do you recall from the story you heard?”

“Well . . .” She looked at Sam. “They were more like fairytales than anything else. King John asked William the Marshal to hide the crown jewels to save England. The treasure being lost in the fens was all a ruse so that the young crown prince wouldn't be attacked. Or something along those lines. As I said, I never paid much attention. Just stories I heard my uncle telling my cousins when we were children.”

“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.”