Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  “The year (write a brief talk)

  Allen Wittenborn accepted his glass of Chianti from the comely student trying her best to pass as a medieval barmaid. “Jack has you in his web has he?” Wittenborn addressed Burdett though his eyes didn’t stray far from his student’s ample bosom.

  Dan Burdett understood the attraction. They were magnificent and no doubt the reason she was chosen for the event. “Not sure I follow you, Allen.”

  “I have a soft spot for Jack Beckham. And I agree that Follins Pond, and the artifacts he has collected, deserves a closer look.”

  Like eager schoolboys, they interrupted their conversation as the barmaid served Dan his Narragansett Beer. Her demure curtsy would win her a treasure in tips. Exchanging smiles, Dan continued. “Walk me back a bit. Why hasn’t Jack received a fair hearing?”

  “He is adamant on the Viking point. Jack won’t accept any other interpretation. Stubborn bastard.”

  Dan resisted the urge to divulge any more information. In any case, the violent turn of the past week may not concern the narrow issue of Viking artifacts buried in the silt of Follins Pond. “Does the name Sinclair mean anything to you? In a historical context that is?”

  This brought about a deep laugh. Wittenborn waved his hands up in a flourish. “Our wonderful new research center. The very one where you completed your last thesis. I can thank Senator William Sinclair and his efforts for providing the funds necessary to build what I consider to be a state of the art facility. Yes, the name Sinclair means something to me.”

  “He has a brother. Henry Sinclair.”

  “A mere academic such as me does not socialize in that rarefied air. Is he a friend of Jack’s?”

  Dan shrugged. “Probably nothing. I’ll deliver something of Beckham’s in Boston later this week and that should be it.”

  Wittenborn pointed to the lights that began to bring the courtyard to life. “Later, after the evening’s presentations, we’ll have a nice soiree. Socialize. You have a career as an academic in front of you, Dan. A fine mind should always be involved in research. I’ll steer you around.”

  Dan raised his glass. Allen was a friend. He would use the opportunity to spread his wings and, naturally, be on the lookout for Jack’s associate.

  Professor George took a sip from his glass of water and passed a sly wink to Vivi. “Now, to finish up. I have tried to provide a complete view of what we know of the Templar’s. Hopefully, a clearer view of their relationship with the Cathar movement as well as European society as a whole has been provided tonight.”

  A small smattering of applause filled the conference room. Frankie smiled and held up his hand.

  “But the real story, the tale that has lit the imagination of many a writer, is what happened after the dissolution of the order. First, the Templar’s had some secret knowledge. Perhaps in the form of treasure. Did I hear Holy Grail?”

  Anna joined in with the laughter that waved over the room. For the first time, she felt as though she was engaging with higher academia. The Professor was also cute. But her woman’s intuition also told her he was taken. None the matter. Dan Burdett was a suitable toy. Adventurous. Rugged. A keen intellect. Her mind began to drift towards their afternoon as he took his seat beside her.

  “Enlightening?” he whispered.

  “Very. Listen.”

  “Perhaps they dug it up under Soloman’s Temple or perhaps they learned it from the Arabs,” George continued in a hushed conspiratorial tone. “There was something, magical, mystical, but very precious. Of course, no treasure has ever been proven. Certainly, the Holy Grail has never been found. Still, let us not let facts get in the way of a good story. So, the night before Friday the thirteenth, 1307, this treasure was secreted out of the Kingdom of France on a fleet of eighteen ships headed for Scotland. Quite a crafty bunch these Templars. Sneaking a historic, biblical even, treasure under the noses of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. Never the mind. On to Scotland.”

  Dan admired the way George was debunking the whole Templar legend. Humor truly is a mighty sword he acknowledged.

  “Now, in Scotland, things get really interesting! With open arms, almost as if they were expected, the Templars are embraced by Clan Sinclair.”

  Dan leaned forward. The mention of Clan Sinclair raised the hair on the back of his neck.

  “Now this family sports a fascinating legacy. Descendants of Vikings as well as Jesus. Who wouldn’t brag of that lineage and, well, a Sinclair was nothing if not boastful. Once in Scotland the Knights Templar joined forces with Robert the Bruce at Brannockburn and defeated the English. This I can buy. The Templars were soldiers. Damn good ones. Then they made a sudden career turn. They became architects and navigators. Quick learners of Euclidian geometry apparently. Resourceful, no?”

  A buzz filtered around the room. Frankie George was punching a hole straight through the heart of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code premise. The mention of Vikings, and Jesus, struck Burdett like a cold splash of water however. Crazy, perhaps, but the events of the past few weeks were nothing if not bizarre. Could the Sinclair family legacy still held to be true by some in their clan? He would need to corner this Professor George.

  “To sum up, the Templars greatest champion was Henry Sinclair, Duke of Orkney. Not only was he of the “Holy Bloodline,” and of good Viking stock, but he now was in control of a secret treasure. Naturally, he took a band of Templars, along with the family jewels and was off to America. The treasure is now buried on an island off of Nova Scotia or, who knows, maybe even right here on Cape Cod. I don’t make this up. These ‘historical’ theories are contained in numerous books I have consulted. Of course, no footnotes are included. Except for my favorite source that is, the elusive Mr. Anonymous.”

  The Bristol County Sheriff looked grimly upon the crime scene. He had been careful to ensure the room was left intact and any evidence untouched. There did not appear to be much. The crime scene investigator would make that determination.

  A call had alerted him. The news saddened him but, still, he had a job to do. Bob and Pauline were friends. This only added to his burden and yet, he had sworn an oath. Duty could be a burden. It could also lead to greater rewards and honors.

  “The room was booked to a Dan Burdett,” his lieutenant shouted breathlessly.

  Sheriff Richard Sisson looked on with disgust. “It is only one flight of stairs, Lieutenant Haskins,” he rebuked his second in command. “Burdett is it. Well, I’ll need to have a talk with this man. There is a conference, over at the University, you can start there.”

  A Medieval fair theme was chosen as the backdrop for the conference’s opening night theme. Jugglers and jesters roamed the premises entertaining the guests. A Viking nobleman was spotted. The mood was festive with an eager audience waiting to meet their favorite historian whom basked in the glow of adoration. It was a sensation rarely felt.

  Professor Francis George easily smiled and graciously answered the questions which came his way. A beautiful young lady stood just behind and to his side. Dan noticed her furtive eyes dart across the room. Anna was focused on the professor.

  “Dr. George, sir,” she began nervously.

  “There will be no ‘sir’, Miss. Professor works nicely for my students, but for everybody else, Frankie is preferred.”

  Anna blushed. “Well, I’m not your student. But, in the future I hope to be so I’d prefer Professor.”

  “Professor it is,” he replied with a flash of a smile Dan could only describe as electric. “How can I be of assistance?”

  George’s tone spoke of Milton Academy. There was an air of Kennedy to be found in his accent and confidence. Charm oozed. Still, he seemed as if the type you could sit down and have a beer with over a Red Sox game. Dan enjoyed summing up people. It was a lawyer’s trick. The lady who accompanied Frankie was a much more suspicious sort. Beautiful, with a European cut, her eyes were deep, seemingly with knowledge, certainly tantalizing. Her gaze finally came to set
on Dan. Their eyes locked. Burdett smiled. It was not returned. Then her scan drifted to Anna whom she looked up and down dismissively.

  “I am a student at Cape Cod Community College. Dan, uhm, Professor Burdett, is my lecturer and advisor. I’ve brought a sample of my work. It is my intention to apply for admission to Harvard for next fall but I’d like, if you have the time, to look at my research and then provide an honest assessment.”

  George accepted the manila envelope and slipped it to Vivi. “History is a subject you must love,” he stated. His words seemed intended for Dan. “Isn’t that correct Mr. Burdett?” He didn’t wait for Dan to reply. The remark was designed to send a message. “There is little reward, financial or otherwise, in our work.”

  “I know,” Anna responded. “The work, the research, is the reward.”

  “A fine response! I shall be happy to review your paper. Let me buy your advisor a drink.”

  Anna beamed. “I’ll mingle, Professor,” she said as an exit.

  Dan leaned against the bar and accepted a pint of ale. “So, Frankie George, I believe we have a mutual friend.” He knew from both the lecture and their brief conversation this was the man Jack Beckham said would contact him.

  “Indeed. Next Monday evening you’ll deliver something to me. Here is my card. My home address is on the back. I’d like to leave this out of my office.” George placed an emphasis on the last sentence. The conversation was over.

  But Dan was intent on keeping him cornered. “I have a few questions first.” He leaned his large frame onto the bar closer to Frankie George.

  “Sadly, my assistant and I are on our way. Next week. Early evening will do fine.”

  Dan clutched George at his bicep. The message was clear. “Just a bit of your time, now, Professor.” His manner was collegial, friendly even. The grip on George’s arm sent a different message.

  He jerked his arm away. “Very well, Burdett,” George scowled. “One question.”

  “You talked about a Sinclair. The Duke of Orkney was his title I believe you said. He was a Viking and a Templar, correct?”

  “Yes. And, if you want to take the Clan’s legend at its extreme, a descendant of JC himself. There, I’ve answered your question.”

  Dan blocked his exit. Vivi became agitated. “To follow up, if I may, Frankie.”

  The Professor understood it was not a request. He seethed inwardly while maintaining his debonair smile. “You are quite persistent.”

  Dan nodded. It was true. “Sorry,” he said genuinely. “I am on a case. Then again, persistence is a necessary tool of the historian. Now, the family, Sinclair, is quite prominent in New England. Are we talking about the same clan?”

  George squinted his eyes taken aback by the question. “Yes,” he replied slowly. “The Sinclair family has a long illustrious legacy. In fact, Senator William Sinclair is here tonight. Why is this important?”

  Dan stepped away from the bar no longer blocking Frankie and Vivi’s path. “I’ve kept you too long, Sir. Thank you for your time. Next Monday it is.”

  The busty barmaid refilled Dan’s mug. She seemed disappointed at his lack of attention. He absentmindedly turned and leaned his elbow on the bar. The Sinclair Clan. A Templar treasure. If Frankie George was quick to dismiss this as folly others, it seemed, paid it more respect. A treasure hunt had just turned deadly. And the Barnstable County Police was intent on covering it up. Powerful, perhaps maniacal, forces were at play. Dan downed his pint and scanned the crowd. There, outside on the veranda, Wittenborn was schmoozing his benefactor Senator Sinclair. To their side stood Henri Sangreal.

  “Mr. Sangreal, a pleasure,” Dan said by way of introduction.

  He was greeted by a pleasant face with an impish grin. Dark black hair, cut neatly, sprinkled with a splash of gray, offered a distinguished look. Henri Sangreal raised his glass. “A pleasure indeed. A friend of Allen’s?”

  “Yes. Dan Burdett. Could I borrow a bit of your time, sir?”

  “Surely. How can I help you, Mr. Burdett?”

  “I have some questions about the research of Henry Sinclair,” Dan answered.

  Sangreal looked surprised. “He has none. At least recently that is. I am not even sure what happened to him.”

  “Yes, it has been a while. I did come across something however. And, perhaps, based on your research, you could help me understand it better.”

  Henri Sangreal’s eyes lit up. Truth be told, his research, despite the ample book sales, was held in scant regard. “Of course, Dan. I am always willing to help out a fellow scholar.”

  “But not here, Henri. I see you are doing a book signing at the Barnes & Noble in Hyannis.”

  “Indeed I am. Day after tomorrow. A late afternoon drink would fit nicely into my schedule.”

  “Barnes & Noble it is. I’ll even have you sign a copy,” Dan said with a grin.

  Burdett noticed Allen Wittenborn beckoning him to come over. He took Sangreal’s business card and excused himself.

  “Here he is, Dan Burdett,” Wittenborn said in a gregarious voice. “Dan, I would like to introduce you to our great supporter, Senator William Sinclair.”

  Sinclair rubbed his chin. “Burdett, now why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Sir, you are also a great friend of law enforcement and…”

  Sinclair snapped his fingers. “Yes, of course! Dan Burdett, assistant district attorney, Quincy, Massachusetts.”

  “And now a member of academia I am happy to report,” Allen Wittenborn interjected.

  “Academia’s gain is law enforcement’s loss,” the Senator said raising his pint of tawny ale.

  Dan needed to keep his tone light and friendly. He also needed to probe. Gingerly. “I can understand your interest, Sir. In history that is.”

  “Actually, Dan, my interest has always been dominated by public policy. But, the more one deals with foreign affairs, the more one realizes the importance of culture and history.”

  “Yes,” Wittenborn agreed. “Unfortunately historical studies has taken a back seat as of late. Hopefully energetic conferences such as tonight can lead to a revival of historical research.”

  Dan attempted to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I guess, what I meant, Senator, at least according to the distinguished Professor George, your family has played a prominent role in late medieval history. I’m quite interested in that period.”

  Sinclair replied with a good natured laugh. “And, I must confess, dear Frankie knows more about Clan Sinclair’s colorful history than I. My brother is the one to talk to on that account, always his head buried in a book.”

  “Your brother on the Elizabeth Islands, correct?”

  “Yes, Henry,” the Senator replied with a nonchalant shrug.

  Dan tucked that bit of information away. It was a step in the right direction. He spotted Anna. She was beginning to look bored. Her objective was achieved as was his. He nodded his head towards the exit which elicited a broad smile. The night was still young.

  Chief Nickerson sat placidly in his cabin cruiser. He enjoyed the early evening on Cape Cod Sound. The moon, three quarters full on this night, began its nightly ascent. The waves provided a gently sway. Here was a place to relax, a time to reflect, and, on a night like this, to gather one’s thoughts. If the sea beneath his boat was calm, the waters flowing through his office were rocky. Rebecca Leary. Missing. If police work had taught him that life was full of coincidences, Rebecca Leary’s disappearance seemed sinister. Why run away from a plum job? Why had the Medical Examiner’s Office not filed an inquiry? He would investigate. Quietly.

  Still, the day had gone by without accomplishment. The Coroner was spooked. Captain Mick Beckham was another story. He understood Mick. Respected him even. There was, Beckham assured him, a treasure of great historical importance buried on one of the Elizabeth Islands. Nickerson reminded his friend, if his efforts continued, he’d be arrested for trespassing. The Elizabeth Islands were Sinclair property. Beckham
smiled at the threat. He was not a man dissuaded easily.

  “Lobsters are served, Chief.”

  Nickerson looked up at his shapely new hire. She was straight out of the academy and eager to advance her career from the get-go. Rebecca Leary would be missed. She would not be forgotten. He got up, grabbed the willing cadet by the shoulders, and turned her around. She bent over and grabbed the boats rail. Her Levis cut-off shorts fell to the ground.

  “Dinner can wait, my dear.” Nickerson looked up. The moon was on schedule, the sky brilliant in its clarity, and the ocean air scintillating. A rush of adrenaline overtook him as he accepted what was willingly given. His charge bellowed. The special bond he shared, that his family had forged, with Cape Cod was sacred. Nobody, not a Sinclair nor a Beckham, would come between that.

  “It’s gone! It’s gone!” The shout of the brightly colored minstrel attired graduate student caught everybody by surprise. Dan and Anna both stopped abruptly. They had paid their respects, headed for the door, and were looking forward to a night by the bay at the Otis Thatcher Bed and Breakfast.

  “The Narragansett Rune Stone, it has vanished!” the young man continued excitedly.

  Allen Wittenborn rushed to the student’s side. His face had turned ashen. “John, what possibly could you mean?”

  Dan came to his former teacher’s side. More than anything, he was curious. What the hell was the Narragansett Rune Stone?

  “Professor,” the young man began. He took a breath and attempted to collect himself. “Earlier, as you suggested, I walked the beach at Pojac Point to rehearse the tour I am to give tomorrow. Then, when I came to the site, the Rune Stone was not there.”

  “What do you mean, lad? Something that large doesn’t just vanish,” Wittenborn exclaimed.