And he hoped to ride its wings to victory. The storm, in fact, buffered his resolve. Long ago he had receded from the public square. Academia was entrancing. It was also fool’s gold. He had found his true destiny on this island. Where at university he could teach, research, and publish history and bask in the glow of peers and acolytes, here, on this remote speck of land, he would be a part of history. A story never to be told. Yet, intricately involved in protecting the secrets essential for a living entity to survive and prosper. And now, the architect of a clandestine plan to ensure that secret would remain intact.
Sheriff Richard Sisson took a seat behind his desk. Duty came in many forms. The framing of an innocent man seemingly would not classify. Nor would murder. Bob and Pauline Corbett were, however, hippy trash. Draft dodgers and drug users. Sisson had no time for their type. On his land no less. Long ago, all of Westport was Sisson land.
The founder of the deeply entrenched Westport family, Richard Sisson, was born in 1608, probably in England and died in 1684, in Dartmouth, MA. In fact, Richard Sisson, his illustrious ancestor, was the first man to settle Westport. He was a Freeman and a Freemason.
The Sisson family scion was a prominent man in both colonies and an extensive landholder, and filled numerous official positions. For the majority of his life, his word was law in these parts. It was a tradition that had been passed down through the generations and one Sheriff Sisson took quite seriously. Yes, duty. And on some occasions that required one to follow a different and more sacred code of ethics.
A knock on the door nudged Sisson out of his thoughts. Finally, his men had finished their search.
“Come in already, Haskins,” he growled.
Instead, a man Sisson recognized only too well stepped into his office. Tall, stately, with an air of arrogance, the specter of Senator William Sinclair was imposing. Sisson, however, was not intimidated but merely surprised. The howling winds and lash of rain had seemed to usher in this unexpected appearance.
“Senator,” the Sheriff hesitated, “To what do we owe the honor.”
Senator Sinclair was brusque and to the point. “You have a friend of mine, a Dan Burdett, in custody. Release him immediately.”
He was taken aback. Burdett, a friend. “But Sir, with all due respect, Burdett is being questioned as we speak. The County Attorney is with him now. Perhaps we can wait for that interrogation to run its course and then we can proceed.”
“Immediately is an easy command to follow. Whatever you think he did, he did not. He was in my presence the entire evening.”
Sheriff Sisson seethed at the arrogance and disrespect the Senator was oozing in his very own office. The gun. How long would it take retrieve such a simple item? He heaved a sigh of relieve as Lieutenant Haskins walked into the office.
“Haskins, you have finished the search of Burdett’s Jeep.” The Sheriff spoke in a commanding voice so as to show Sinclair exactly who was in charge within these four walls.
“Yes, Sir. We just found some dirty panties. Some skivvies too. That’s it.”
Chapter 6
The age old shutter, weathered by many storms, banged loudly against the equally tested Cape shingles. Tropical Storm Henri was making its presence felt. Sheets of rain battered everything in sight turning morning into night. Dan paid little attention. He was more concerned with the storm that was battering his life. The body count was getting high. Death was abstract till it became emotional. Dan Burdett realized one thing, he needed to be the calm in the eye of the storm.
The coffee was hot and strong. The earthy aroma was soothing to Nola as she walked into the office. Groggy, she had had little sleep after the meeting with her father, it provided a jolt to the senses. Her boss was deep in thought and she had no wish to disturb that. She left him be in his office.
Nola poured herself a large cup and smiled. ‘Save The Males,’ the cup advised. Dan Burdett did have a sense of humor. Now was not the time for comedy, but at least she knew she could wrap herself in the comfort that happier times lay ahead. For the present, such thoughts were enough. She looked at the photos Vasco had given her. She then directed her attention to the map. “Naushon Island,” she murmured to herself.
“The home of one Henry Sinclair,” Dan stated.
Nola jumped in her chair. “Geezus! You startled me, Boss.”
“Better that than spending a few hours defending yourself against a murder rap.”
“What!”
Dan told her the events which led up to his being detained at the Westport Police Station. He left nothing out. Nola had a sharp mind. He was in the middle of the action. There was no detachment. Nola may be able to discover something, an item he may have overlooked, by sifting through his words. He did leave out the part about his misadventure at Horseneck Beach. But then a thought emerged. Perhaps a piece to the puzzle he was seduced to overlook.
“What’s this?” Nola asked as Dan slid the citation across the table.
“Anna Chase. What do you know about her?”
Nola went over the citation for public nudity and looked up with disgust. “Really, Boss! With a student no less.”
He put up his hand. “Stop. This is no time for a lecture. That can come later. But, and I’m just thinking of this, the way she came up to me yesterday is strange. A bit convenient even.”
“How so?”
Dan again went through the events of yesterday morning at the Cape Cod Community College campus. Anna Chase, bright eyed, innocent, and yes, alluring, catching him right before he was to leave for conference. Nola listened quietly and waited for him to finish.
“Well, as we know now, nothing is innocent about this case, Dan.” She handed him the photos that her father had given her. “Now let me tell you about my night.”
“Yes, Beckham, a meeting has been set up. Next Monday evening at my home and please encourage Mr. Burdett to be prompt. Seven-thirty sharp.”
“Of course, Francis. You have the instruments at your house then. Clever.” Jack Beckham knew Francis George was the man for this project. It represented an enormous historical breakthrough. More importantly, his lifelong endeavor to certify the Viking footprint, Vinland, was Cape Cod lay within his grasp. “Burdett is a good man. He will deliver the map as promised.”
“If it is as you say, and I can verify its authenticity, perhaps our problems will only begin. Have you heard about last night’s events?”
“The murder.”
“A double homicide to be more precise.”
“Yes, regrettable. But, be assured, my man Burdett will be on high alert. If anything, this will keep him on his guard and we are both invested in having that map put securely in your hands.”
“I hope everybody is hungry. Two dozen of Dunkin’ Donuts! One for Brick and the other for us.”
Molly Cleary had yet failed to put a smile on Dan’s face. The weather was bleak and a seemingly simple case had turned deadly yet Molly was a breath of sunshine. The loud thumb of stomping feet signaled Brick was on his way. Nola cleared the office study table allowing room for the paperwork and donuts.
“You must be Nola,” Molly offered with a radiant smile. Molly Cleary was indeed beautiful in the Irish lass, lustrous red headed type of way.
“And you, Molly. A pleasure,” Nola responded accepting Molly’s kiss on the cheek.
Brick slowly settled his large thick frame into a chair and grabbed a jelly donut. “Half dozen, Molly. Got to keep up the diet.”
Per usual, Brick came armed with a disheveled stack of paperwork tucked under his arm. He placed the overflowing folder on the table. Dan noted his friends work. “What do we have?”
“A couple of things of interest. First, let us talk about Henry Sinclair.”
Dan and Nola leaned in closely. The mysterious man cloistered on the small island had now become a prime suspect in Papi’s disappearance and Pete’s death.
“Here was a rising star in academia,” Brick began. “Henry had it all. He came from the right
family and had the perfect Harvard and Yale pedigree. To put it bluntly, his bloodline was pure. Not only that, he was indeed talented.”
The word bloodline caught Dan’s attention. “What do you mean by ‘bloodline’?”
“Very blue, Danny. The Sinclair’s epitomize the Beacon Hill blueblood aristocracy.”
“I did some reading too,” Dan interjected. “Aren’t the Sinclair’s Catholic? That doesn’t add up as the perfect Harvard man.”
“Ah, good question, Counselor. The Sinclair’s never did convert to the Protestant faith. In fact, they were fierce defenders of Catholicism. At least back in Scotland. But, they had money, were Scotch Catholic, and, most importantly, not Irish. This all mattered to the Crimson.”
Dan laughed. “No Irish Need Apply, NINA, then.”
Nola took a bite out of her donut and looked around confused. “What the Devil does this have to do with today?”
Brick looked at her impressed. “Right, on point. People, or clans, often act on loyalty. It can even be a more powerful motivator than money. Many Scottish clans converted to the Protestant cause because of expedience. But the Sinclair’s did not. Why? It is a great question and I have no answer. But, perhaps, the question leads us to that little aging man on Naushon Island. The question arises again. Why?”
Dan perused Brick’s notes. He looked up. “Why leave such a position? A tenured professor, at Harvard no less. Henry Sinclair was a rock star in the ivy halls. Nobody gives that up.”
“Except this strange little hermit,” Nola said while tapping her pencil on the table. She looked at Dan who nodded his approval. She then slid an envelope which contained Vasco Gome’s photographs.
George laid his phone on his desk. The new academic year was now in full bloom. The dark skies did little to stop the students from scurrying around Harvard University’s hallowed courtyard. A chill slowly descended down his spine. Jack Beckham’s distinct lack of sympathy for the murdered inn-keepers was cold. To see the act only through his myopic lens spoke volumes. Beckham’s ambition ruled his every thought. But, he realized, that was the essence of history. The passion and desires which flamed his fires were precisely the characteristics which fueled the men and women who have shaped the historical record. Beckham was driven by a single pursuit. It was a trait which could be ascribed to any number of historical figures.
He thought to his latest historical best friend: Bernard the Third, Count of Comminges. A man who gave up all his worldly possessions and took up the Cross. The Count was a man of great piety. He was also a man of great cruelty. A seeming contradiction. But, for men of action, maybe the two went hand in hand.
George followed a pair of young students who merrily scurried through the raindrops. Innocence. Yet, they would soon develop skills to take on their journey through life. Young vipers. The two inn-keepers were once young. Veterans of Woodstock the Boston Globe echoed through a faded photograph. Bob and Pauline were caught up in a deadly struggle over a historical drama they probably knew little about. Who pulled the trigger? Professor Francis George’s thoughts once again raced to Jack Beckham’s icy tone.
This echo ringing in his head guided his eye to the mammoth chestnut tree which dominated the middle of the square. There, a man, wearing a trench coat and his balding head matted with mist, stood. His eyes were locked on George’s window. The Professor stiffened. This man was clearly neither student, staff, nor faculty. He did not belong. George slowly turned and reached for his Nokia phone. The camera function is ‘amazing’ Vivi had claimed gleefully. Fashioning a casual pose, he raised the phone and snapped a photo. The man, perhaps wise to Frankie’s, turned, also casually, and walked away. Coincidence? Perhaps.
He sighed and sat down at his desk. A mountain of work stared back at him. Then a thought leaped into his mind. He arose and walked briskly to the door. He let out a sigh. Yes, it was locked.
Brick Cleary scanned the photos closely. “That does appear to be our mysterious professor. Island life seems to suit him well. This other chap, what about him?”
“Good question,” Nola responded.
“And one we were hoping you could help us with, Detective,” Dan added.
“I could pass this guy through an FBI database,” Brick said slowly. “But something about him rings a bell.”
“What?” Nola asked eagerly.
“Not sure, cannot put my finger on it. By the way, these photos are from one high powered camera. They ain’t leisurely snapshots. Naushon Island and Henry Sinclair were, are, being cased.”
Dan looked at Nola who shrugged her shoulders. “Vasco Gomes,” he answered.
Brick whistled. “The enterprising Vasco is it.” Vasco Gomes was known up and down the Atlantic Coast. If you wanted something fixed, on Cape Cod, you talked with Vasco. Brick looked at Nola and quickly summed up the situation. “Got it. Your dad I take it, Nola. And he is pissed about his dead kid.”
Nola betrayed no emotion and answered with a slight nod.
“We know Henry Sinclair is alive and well on Naushon Island,” Burdett stated. “It is also reasonable to assume that the legend of treasure on the Island is held true by some. But this unknown man could be a missing link to our story.”
“How so?” Nola inquied.
“Muscle,” Brick replied. “This is a serious man, a fixer, an enforcer.”
“Exactly,” Dan interjected. “He doesn’t appear to be the bookish type, does he?”
“Well,” Nola injected, “They do raise sheep, have for hundreds of years, on the Elizabeth Islands.”
“Yeah,” Brick retorted. “Well he ain’t no shepherd either. I’ll get this character figured out. You’ll have your answer next week and in the meantime keep yourself on the right side of the bars,” Brick said as he slowly raised himself from the chair. “Sullivan’s, Castle Island, Monday afternoon.”
To walk in the very footprints of Leif Erickson always gave him a thrill. He had given up much to inhabit this land. Vinland. But it was a small price to pay Henry Sinclair knew. His younger brother, the Senator, always looked at him oddly. Why give up a life of prestige and accomplishment to sit dormant on a speck of sand in the middle of the ocean? People of his ilk would never understand. So he never bothered to answer. Senator William Sinclair and his type were always on the outlook to exploit and profit. Vinland was not for sale. How very different they were.
The whipping winds and battering rains served to uplift his spirits. His Viking forefathers sailed through this type of weather with great dexterity. They had also committed acts which appeared, to many, barbaric. These so called atrocities were in fact necessary. So it was with little effort and ease of mind Henry Sinclair walked up the mound and unlocked the secret entrance.
Lighting the lantern he descended into the sturdy cavern. John Kilkenny had shackled the prisoner securely. The eyes, now bereft of life, squinted dully at the flickering flame. He sat down at a sturdy ancient desk. It was said that this very desk, a Sinclair Clan family heirloom, was once the writing desk for William Sinclair, the 3rd Earl of Orkney. A candle was lit. If he had left the halls of academia decades ago, his research had continued. Kilkenny was given a reading list monthly which he faithfully delivered.
He carefully set his tools of scholarship on the table. A quill pen was gently dipped into the ink he had made in the Roman or Medieval way. His story was a medieval tale. It would be written in the medieval manner. He took pride in living of the land. His carbon based ink, far superior to the modern inks, was proof of that. Surely his ancestor, Henry I Sinclair, Earl of Orkney, Baron of Roslin, would approve. As would Sir James Gunn, a heroic member of Clan Gunn, and more famously recognized as the Westford Knight. And here is where the tale would unfold.
‘Was the storm over or had it just begun?’ he began to write in his graceful style. A slight quiver of his hand was noted. The wooden hand carved mug was filled with wine from a flask that was never too far off during his writing sessions. Henry looked up at his book case. It c
ontained four leather bound manuscripts each meticulously engraved in the medieval style. They looked weathered and old. In fact, each volume was relatively new. The Sinclair Chronicles. He was now half way through volume five. One volume for each decade he had called Naushon Island his home.
Anna Chase took her seat for class. She had arrived early. This was new as she usually sauntered in a respectable five minutes late. Today was different. Her life had changed and tardiness would not do. Dan Burdett was always a rung on the ladder. The first of many she assumed. Anna had figured it was just a matter of time that she would lure him into bed. Now it was her intent to keep him there. Dan could open doors. Anna Chase wanted him eager to do so. She was after bigger fish. Professor Frankie George big. But, now, Dan Burdett was viewed through a different lens. Dan was a badass. A United States Senator connected badass. Perhaps her teacher wasn’t a rung on the ladder at all. It may be he was, in fact, the ladder itself.
“Ok, good afternoon, students,” Dan said with the easygoing smile that had made him a student favorite. “Open your books to page thirty. Today we will begin to delve into the fascinating career of William the Conqueror. The bastard son of Viking stock, this man of means was a true Norman, Norseman, or man from the north if you will.”
He scanned his class and was surprised to see Anna seated in the front row. Their eyes met and remained locked for just a bit too long. His mobile phone lit up which broke the trance. It was a message from Bess. ‘We need to meet!’
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 12
