Pirate

Thirty

The digital copy of the manifest was exactly what Selma had been hoping for and she got to work researching the fleet of ships that had set sail from Jamaica right after Sam and Remi emailed the pages they’d found in Port Royal. She called them back the next morning with what she’d learned.

“Good news, I hope,” Sam said.

“Mostly,” Selma replied. “I was able to link the vessel that sank off Snake Island to the theft of cargo from Captain Bridgeman during his time in Jamaica. More important, connecting that name to the sunken ship fills in a lot of the blanks. Especially now that we know the cipher wheel sank with it.”

“How so?” Sam asked.

“Bridgeman was an alias for the pirate Henry Every.”

“Every?” Remi asked. “Is it coincidental that Every and Avery sound similar?”

“No,” Selma said. “It may have started off as a misspelling, but they’re used interchangeably throughout most of the documentation I’ve located about Every’s history. Henry Every, or Avery, is none other than Captain Henry Bridgeman. Started off as a slaver, then apparently turned pirate. Not much difference between the two, in my opinion.”

“So what happened to him?” Sam asked.

“Disappeared. Last seen in the Bahamas, supposedly set sail for England, to live and die in obscurity. He was very much a wanted man at that point. The interesting thing is that until you found those missing pages, there were no official records showing that Bridgeman or the Fancy had ever sailed into Jamaica. Clearly, that’s part of what Avery was trying to hide from you.”

“What else was he trying to hide?”

“Two things. One, this wasn’t the first time Every attacked the Mirabel. Two, the identity of the English investors who had an interest in the Mirabel.”

“Investors. As in, more than one owner?”

“There could still be one owner. But multiple investors could mean that the ship was under the control of others. What we do know from the testimony of this crew member is that this item — we’re assuming it was the cipher wheel — was taken during Every’s first contact with the Mirabel off the coast of Spain a few years before. He specifically sought out this ship, which could mean that he knew the wheel was there. He also spared the ship, and the lives of the captain and crew, instead of scuttling it or bringing it into his fleet of pirate ships.”

“He wanted out of there fast,” Sam said. “The second contact was in Jamaica?”

“The Mirabel followed him there. According to the testimony, something of extreme value was stolen from Every in Jamaica. The Mirabel fled, we assume with the cipher wheel. He pursued in the Fancy to Snake Island. The rest, as you know, is history. Once the Mirabel sank, the wheel was lost to him — which may be why he suddenly gave up piracy.”

“If,” Sam said, “there’s no record of his being seen after that point, is it possible that he captured the Mirabel but went down with the ship when it struck the rocks?”

“A logical assumption,” Selma replied. “Except for the map detailing where to find the cipher wheel off Snake Island. It seems to me that Every made sure to document where the wheel was located in case he was ever able to get back to recover it. Unfortunately for him, his Bridgeman alias had been discovered by this time, and the Royal Navy had joined in with the East India Company in their pursuit of him. Probably prevented him from getting back to Snake Island. Some historians show him returning to England and dying a pauper, forced to live in obscurity without access to his treasure. Lazlo believes he returned to England and spent what was left of his treasure in search of the original cipher wheel.”

“We’re sure,” Remi said, “that he never recovered the original wheel? Or that it even exists?”

“Definitely,” Selma replied. “One, Charles Avery wouldn’t be after it if he had — and he seems to know his family history. Two, Lazlo’s research confirms that the original exists. Every-Bridgeman either died or was captured before he could go after it. Unfortunately, he failed to record where it was or who was in possession — assuming he had this knowledge to begin with. Either way, Charles Avery has the shipping manifest information. He’s no doubt hot on the trail.”

Sam reached over, spreading out their copy of the digitized transcripts they’d gathered from the maritime museum, looking them over. There were just a few pages of the court testimony they’d read in the Kingston Archives. “So, right now, we’re still looking at who he originally stole the cipher wheel from?”

“We have it narrowed down, we think, to a couple of the Mirabel investors. Both happen to be in England, which makes it convenient. So that’s where you’re headed next.”

Sam looked at Remi. “What do you say to a trip to the British Isles?”

“I love Great Britain this time of year.”

Late the next afternoon, they touched down at the London City Airport, and the next morning they were up early. Selma had given them two names and addresses. One was for a Grace Herbert, just outside of Bristol, the other for Harry McGregor, farther north near Nottingham. Unfortunately, Selma couldn’t narrow the odds any further, and so Sam flipped a coin while they waited for their car at the valet stand. “Heads, Herbert. Tails, McGregor,” he called as he caught the coin and covered it with his hand.

“Heads,” Remi said. “I have a good feeling about Bristol.”

“If we don’t find what we’re looking for there, it’s a long drive up to Nottingham.”

“Call it women’s intuition. Heads, Bristol.”

Sam peeked at the coin. Tails. He pocketed it, then smiled at Remi. “Why leave something to chance. I trust your intuition.”

“Tails, was it?”

“It was.” When the car arrived, Sam looked at Remi. “You drive, and I’ll navigate?”

“Ha! And trust that you’ll pay attention to the map?”

“Have I ever gotten us lost?”

“There was that time in—”

“Never mind.” He tipped the valet, then took the keys. Eventually they left London behind, the houses growing fewer, farms beginning to dot the landscape. A light mist came down, and Sam switched on the windshield wipers. It stayed that way for the next two hours.

Remi sighed at the green, rolling hills. “Beautiful out here.”

“If you like the damp.”

She glanced over at him. “You’d prefer the hot humidity of Jamaica over this?”

“I was thinking more of the warm breezes of La Jolla.”

“All in good time.” She eyed the directions on her phone. “About ten miles farther. Right turn at the next intersection.”

They continued down a two-lane paved road that wound through pastures and farmland. Eventually they found the dirt road that led to the Herbert farmhouse and saw it in the distance. White smoke swirled up from the chimney of a large cottage with several outbuildings behind it. Geese honked as they drove up to the house, and the chickens scattered, then returned to pecking the ground, looking for grubs.

Sam parked, and they got out, crossed the gravel drive to the front door, and knocked. A woman in her late fifties answered, her short brown hair graying at the temples, her gray eyes serious as she took them in. “You must be the Fargos?”

“We are,” Sam said. “Mrs. Herbert?”

“Actually, Herbert-Miller. But call me Grace. Come in, please. I have a kettle on, if you’d care for some tea?”

“Please,” Remi said.

She led them into the parlor, and Sam had to duck to walk through the low doorway. As soon as they were settled, Grace returned a few minutes later with a silver tray carrying a porcelain tea service. Sam, still tired from the transatlantic flight, would have preferred a robust cup of coffee, as he accepted the tea, declined the offer of milk or sugar, and sat back in his chair, listening as Mrs. Herbert-Miller discussed her surprise at inheriting the collection of artifacts.

“The call came out of the blue,” she said, stirring the sugar into her cup. “A solicitor from London, no less. Wanting to know if I was Grace Herbert of the Milford Herberts.” She set the spoon onto the saucer, lifted the teacup, and took a sip. “Naturally, we put up the property for sale. I can’t imagine living in an old, drafty castle, although Milford is a lovely place — or so I’ve heard. I don’t think I could convince my husband to move even if I wanted to.”

“It’s a beautiful area,” Remi said. “I passed through there once a long time ago.”

Sam, wanting to move things along at a far quicker pace, said, “Was there anything… historically significant in what you saw? Besides the castle, of course.”

“To be sure, I couldn’t say. It’s all being dealt with. I inherited the castle, and my cousin in Nottingham, Harry McGregor, inherited a small estate up there. It’s possible he knows of something, though, like me, he sent everything that seemed historic to the museum. They were very interested, even though Sir Edmund Herbert, it turns out, was an illegitimate son.” She lifted a plate of cookies. “Biscuit?”

Remi declined. Sam took one. “Thank you.”

She returned the plate to the center of the table. “The only proof I have that my cousin and I are actually related is an old family bible that was among the items given to me. If I’ve read the lineage correctly, he and I are the second cousins of the last-known male heir.”

“These historical items,” Sam said. “Is there some sort of list of what they are?”

“There is. Would you like to see it?”

“We would.”

She rose from the table, crossed the room, and picked up a manila envelope from a secretary in the corner that was cluttered with bills and paperwork for the farm. She pulled a sheaf of papers from the envelope and handed it to Sam as she took a seat. “Not that you can tell much. It’s all up for auction, and I believe they’re going to have photos of everything. I don’t yet have them.”

Remi leaned over, glanced at the papers as Sam looked them over. “That’s quite the list,” Remi said.

“Imagine someone like me putting a harpsichord in this parlor. Or a suit of armor. Even if I had room. Better to sell it and provide for the farm. I did keep a few items, however.”

“Oh?” Remi said.

“This tea set, for one. It’s quite lovely.”

Remi ran her finger over the delicate edge of her saucer. “It is.”

“There were also a few paintings.” She pointed toward two small pastoral landscapes on the wall hung on either side of a coat of arms. “They didn’t seem too outlandish for a simple farmhouse. The family crest, however. Vanity, plain and simple. It’s not every day you find out you’re distantly related to the illegitimate son of some lord, even if that son’s father was only a minor land baron. And then just below it on the wall is the leather shield that dates back to Sir Herbert’s time. I kept it mainly because that engraving of the Celtic knot in the center is so pretty.”

Remi lowered her teacup to the table. “Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

“Help yourself.”

Remi wandered over as Sam turned the page, noting there were several cartons of miscellaneous items listed. “These boxes,” he said. “Any idea what was in them?”

“Just odds and ends. A lot of papers, books, and one box looked like someone had dismantled a suit of armor into it. The appraiser thought some of it might be historically significant. Which is why my cousin and I decided to lend the entire collection to the British Museum in London. Whether or not anything there is of any real value, I couldn’t say… More tea?” she said, noting that Sam’s cup was nearly empty.

“No thank you.”

She refilled her own cup. “Not that we’re rich. We just have no need of anything. We’d rather see the artifacts go to the museum than end up in private collections. They’re having some gala fund-raiser there this coming weekend and they wanted to include it in their display.”

“A fund-raiser?” Remi asked, returning to her seat. “We should go.”

“Sold out, I’m afraid,” Grace said. “Has been for weeks.”

“Too bad,” Sam said. “Any chance you’d allow us to look at those items prior to the event?”

“Of course. I’ll give you the name of the person at the museum.”

She read off the name and number for the contact information, which Sam entered into his phone. They spoke a few minutes longer, then, when it was clear there was nothing more to be learned, they thanked her for her hospitality.

On their way out, Sam paused by the paintings hanging on the wall near the door. He didn’t recognize the name of the artists. The coat of arms, however, intrigued him, and he turned to her, asking, “You wouldn’t mind if we took a photo of this, would you?”

“Not at all.”

Sam used his phone to snap a couple of shots, checking to make sure he had a clear photo to forward to Selma, both of the family crest and the round leather shield hanging below it. The interlacing Celtic knot engraved on the convex brass boss at the center of the shield seemed at odds with the definite English heritage on the family crest hanging above it, but if anyone could make sense of that, Selma could. Some of the symbols engraved on the shield boss were worn from age, and the flash washed out what could be seen, and so he tried without the flash. Unfortunately, the room was too dark, but he could read the heraldry on the crest to some extent. Enough for Selma to work from, at least. “Thanks again,” Sam said as he slipped his phone into his pocket.

She opened the door for them, smiling. “It was a pleasure. I’m sorry my husband wasn’t here to meet you. Suddenly discovering a fence that needed mending, don’t you know. I think he was a bit put off by our visitors yesterday.”

“Visitors?” Remi asked.

“Like you, they were inquiring about the inheritance. Honestly, I can’t see what all the fuss is about. If you saw that castle, you’d understand. A pile of stones, my husband calls it.”

Sam paused in the doorway. “Do you recall their names? Or what they were interested in?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch them. But, like you, they were interested in those boxes that went to the museum.”

In the car, Sam handed his phone to Remi. “Do me a favor,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. “Forward those photos I took to Selma.”

“Quite the interesting coat of arms. Considering that her long-lost ancestor was the illegitimate son of some minor baron, there’s an awful lot of heraldry painted on it.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” He turned down the graveled drive toward the country road, then checked his rearview mirror. The sun broke through the clouds, reflecting off the hood of a car heading down the hill toward them. He put on his sunglasses.

“Done,” Remi said, then placed the phone in the center console. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that we weren’t here first?”

Sam slowed as he entered a turn. “I’m tired of being one step behind these guys.”

“Let’s hope the museum sees these crooks for who they are, or at least asks for ID before they let anyone in for a personal look at the artifacts.”

“I’d like to think the British Museum has some security protocols in place. Just the same, maybe give them a call. Let them know we’ll be heading out their way in the morning.”