Pirate

Forty-eight

Remi is absolutely correct,” Lazlo told them the following morning in a Skype call. Outside, the dark gray sky let loose with a sudden downpour, rain beating against the windows. Remi turned up the volume on her tablet, trying to hear what Lazlo was saying. After they’d fled the inn last night, Sam and Remi had driven straight to Nottingham, gotten a hotel suite under a new assumed name, and managed to get a few hours of sleep before making the early-morning call. “Wolf’s Head,” Lazlo continued, “is a name that Robin Hood has been known by. At least in the very early legends. And the missing f fits perfect. Had it been there to begin with, I might have been able to save you the trouble.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Sam said, steering Lazlo back to the point. “About the map ciphers.”

“Right-o. Wolf’s den and Nottingham. It’s brilliant. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

Selma cleared her throat as she placed her hand on Lazlo’s shoulder. “Here’s what we found,” Selma said. “There is a connection between Sir Edmund Herbert and Nottingham. Specifically, the events surrounding his half brother, Roger Mortimer, and Queen Isabella after her husband abdicated the throne to their son. Mortimer was arrested and held in Nottingham Castle while Queen Isabella was banished to Castle Rising.”

Remi looked at the map spread out on the table as Sam asked, “So what does this have to do with Robin Hood and King John’s Treasure?”

“That,” Lazlo said, “is a good question. Especially considering how many legends of Robin Hood exist. Definitely some that place him in the time of King John, though usually at odds with the king. But our research is starting to come together. The key to our map is there.”

“Where?” Sam and Remi asked together.

“Nottingham. Or, to be precise, somewhere within Nottingham,” Lazlo replied. “Something about the ‘four chambers’ and ‘death below.’ Still working on that part. And that’s assuming that I’m translating this correctly. Since that portion of the wheel was also washed out in the photo, I’m making an educated guess.”

Sam’s phone buzzed on the table. He looked at the screen, his face registering surprise as he turned on the speaker function. “Nigel?”

“I don’t have long. He might come back any second, and my battery’s near dead.”

“Where are you?”

“No idea except somewhere near Nottingham. Got one hand free and managed to get my phone from the coat pocket of the guy watching me. He’s — they were talking about the four chambers. I told them they must mean the four caverns. That’s where we’re going. If they can find it.”

“Four caverns?” Sam said.

“I hear them,” he whispered. “Go to Professor Aldridge.”

The line beeped.

Sam stared at the phone a moment, then looked at Selma on the screen of Remi’s tablet. “You catch that?”

“Every word,” Selma said. They heard the sound of her clicking away on her computer keyboard. “There’s a Professor Aldridge at Nottingham University.”

Sam eyed Lazlo, saying, “Could the four chambers be the four caverns Nigel was talking about?”

“Could be. ‘Den of the wolf’ might indicate caves as long as one overlooks that Robin Hood was known to hide out in Sherwood Forest.”

Selma added, “I’ve got a contact number for Aldridge. I’ll see if I can’t get ahold of him.”

“Perfect,” Remi said. “Let’s give him a call.”

Professor Cedric Aldridge, a white-haired man in his late sixties, met them at his office at the History Department.

Once they were seated, Sam got right down to business. “I hope this doesn’t sound odd, but has anyone besides us ever contacted you about King John and his treasure?”

“Funny you should ask,” Professor Aldridge said. “I’ve only ever had one other person ask and that was quite some time ago. Former student of mine from King’s Lynn. Nigel Ridgewell. Wanted to know if it was possible that the story of King John’s Treasure being lost in the fens could be a ruse. Protect the treasure from enemy hands or some such. Can’t recall what it was for. A book or something, possibly. Never heard from him after that, though.”

The professor seemed oblivious to the scandal over Nigel stealing Madge Crowley’s papers, which was just as well, Remi thought. “What was your answer?”

“I know I’m in the minority,” the professor said, “but why not? I’m the first to admit we don’t know everything about history. Piecing it together from this historian or that. Sometimes we’re lucky and an event is documented so well, there’s no denying what happened. What we do know for certain is that the king died. Whether from dysentery, as believed, or something else altogether, hard to say. We know there are reports he separated from the caravan because of his illness. It’s what happened to the caravan afterward that is not so well known. Everything after that point is speculation based on stories passed down. So who’s to say that someone didn’t steal it after making up the story of it being lost in the fens just to throw off suspicion?” He furrowed his brow, pausing for a moment. “Eliminate witnesses, and you can make up any story you want.”

“Let’s say these rumors are true,” Sam said. “That the treasure wasn’t lost in the fens…” He left it open, to see the professor’s reaction.

“You mean as Nigel theorized?”

“Yes.”

“It would be the historical find of the century.” He gave a slight shrug. “Assuming the treasure was located, that is. An archaeologist’s dream.”

Remi smiled at the professor. “Not your dream?”

“Mine?” he asked, smiling back at her. “Never gave it much thought. My fascination lies with the students facing me in the classroom. Seeing their expressions and hearing their theories. But you’re not here to talk about me. Unless I misunderstood, you’re looking for information on the origin of Wolf’s Head, or, as we call him around here, Robin Hood. According to some historians, he lived during the same time period as King John. According to others, centuries off — in both directions. Ever since my colleague Professor Percival Wendorf retired, I’ve added the history of Robin Hood to my syllabus. It’s one of my more popular classes. My students walk away with a greater understanding of the Middle Ages, using the hunt for Robin Hood as a backdrop.”

Remi had always admired professors who could muster interest with their students. “Definitely a class I would have taken. Was he as heroic as the movies have portrayed him?”

“A good question. This whole rob from the rich to give to the poor is legendary, but with an emphasis on legend. More pirate than hero, according to Percy. Hence the term Wolf’s Head.”

“How disappointing,” Remi said.

“Quite. The probable truth is that men like him were nothing more than highway robbers.”

“Landlocked pirate?” Sam asked. “Could he, or another like him, have set up the theft of King John’s Treasure?”

“An interesting theory, to be sure. That sort of secret would be hard to keep. Except the legends that have survived the centuries, via ballads or fireside tales, seem to be based on some kernel of truth, even Robin Hood. And the general consensus is that King John’s Treasure went down in the fens along with the men who were entrusted with it. It’s what became of the treasure afterward that leaves much to the imagination. Why hasn’t it been found? In fact, the only account of any physical trace of it was the rumor, several centuries later, that it had been found by Robert Tiptoft, Third Baron Tibetot.”

“Tibetot?” Remi asked. “What rumor is that?”

“That the baron is said to have come into a sudden and unexplained fortune quite possibly because he found the king’s treasure on his land. Most historians discount that telling.”

“Back to Robin Hood,” Sam said. “Is it possible that there’s some history relating to him that isn’t mainstream? Say, if he were to steal the treasure, would there be a place he might hide it? And any experts who might speculate on a location? Something called the four caverns?”

“There are two experts in the area that I know of offhand. The foremost is the retired professor I mentioned, Percy Wendorf. Back in the day, I would have pointed you to him in a heartbeat. Now…”

“Now?” Remi asked, wondering what he wasn’t saying.

“Just…” He gave a slight shrug, before meeting Remi’s gaze. “My friend is—was—a walking encyclopedia of anything to do with Nottinghamshire and the Middle Ages, including Robin Hood, the castles, King John, and, well, anything else you could think of. Lately, though, Percy’s been… a bit forgetful. It’s why he retired.”

Before Remi had a chance to comment, Sam asked, “And this other expert?”

“Malcolm Swift. Knowledgeable, to be sure. Just lacking that obscure knowledge that Percy always seemed to have a handle on. I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend either. Being a bit prejudiced in his favor, I invited Percy to join us so that you could meet him yourself. Knowing Percy, I probably should have had someone pick him up. Like I said, his memory is getting a bit spotty.”

He looked at his watch, then took out his cell phone. “I’ll ring up his wife. He was supposed to meet her first, then walk over here after.” He made the call. “Agatha? It’s Cedric. Any chance Percy’s still there…? I see. What sort of problem…?” His brows went up as he listened. “No. We can drop by… It’s no trouble… Yes. I’ll ring you up as soon as I get there.”

He disconnected, his expression one of concern. “Apparently he left a message for his wife that he’ll have to reschedule. Bit of a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Sam asked.

“That’s just it. He didn’t say. She hasn’t been able to get ahold of him since. Doesn’t answer his mobile or his texts.”

“We have a car,” Sam replied. “We’d be glad to give you a lift.”

“Brilliant. Thank you.”

Percy Wendorf lived about ten minutes from the university. Professor Aldridge, sitting in the backseat, leaned toward the center, pointing. “Just up there. Next turn.”

But when they arrived, a uniformed officer stood at the intersection. “Sorry. Road’s closed,” he told Sam through the open window. Unfortunately, the road curved, and they couldn’t see a thing except a thick cloud of black smoke swirling up above the rooftops before disappearing into the dark clouds that threatened more rain.

“What’s going on?”

“House fire.”

“We’re trying to get ahold of a friend who lives there. Can you tell us how long?”

“No idea. Once they have it under control, they’ll open up again.”

Which told them nothing. He looked back at the professor. “Sorry. I guess this is the best I can do.”

“There’s a footpath through the park that should get us closer. I doubt they’ll have it closed off. And if they do, we can at least see what’s going on from up there.” He directed them to the next street up the hill, where they eventually took a paved footpath between two cottages that allowed the area residents access to a small playground situated across the street from Percy’s house — which happened to be the one burning. A number of residents had gathered in the park to watch the firefighters in action, and the three joined them. The house, a two-story brick structure, appeared relatively intact from the outside, the rising smoke lighter than it had been when they first arrived. Remi hoped the fire was out.

A tall, bald-headed man with wire-rimmed spectacles stood off to one side, alone, watching the firefighters. Aldridge pointed. “That’s Percy.”