Clive Cussler - Pirate

“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.”

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 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.”