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

by T. Hunt Locke

  Dan opened the gate and he along with Bess and Anna walked up the flagstone path. Lane Morgan was the owner of postcard perfect Cape home. The view over Cape Cod Bay was spectacular. It was said he very rarely ventured off his property. Dan understood why. His research materials were delivered, either electronically or by post, directly to him. This left the academic to his work and aesthetically vibrant surroundings.

  Dan could only dream of such a life. But on this day he had no problem being the fly in the Professor’s ointment. He gave a loud wrap at the door. Bess rang the doorbell. “Barnstable County Sheriff’s Office. Please open up, Sir,” stated clearly.

  After a moment’s wait the door opened a sliver. The chain lock was not removed and a figure peered out from the shadows. “You, again, I told you to go away. Still haven’t finished your thesis I gather. I’ve no time for second rate academics,” he squealed at Dan. “And you, with the badge, I have no need for the police. Buzz off, the both of you.”

  He tried to shut the door but Dan blocked it with his foot. He also leaned his shoulder heavily against colonial style entryway. “Sir,” Bess continued. “We need to ask you a few questions about a string of crimes that seem to have an historical bearing.”

  “Trust me,” Dan interjected. “This in no way has anything to do with the child molestation accusations from a few years back.”

  Bess shot him a sharp glance. But it seemed to work. The door swung open.

  Professor Morgan shuffled slowly back to his study. The wide sweeping expanse of the Bay came slowly into view as Dan and Bess followed him into the room. He slumped into his leather chair. “Child molestation, how dare you?”

  “I needed that door opened, Professor,” Dan answered. His tone was hard. He, Bess, and Anna too, were knee deep in a murder investigation. And, it was becoming clear, these murders were steeped in a historical drama and they were targets. There was no time for subtlety. Morgan could help. “Just answer our questions and Officer Chadwell and I will be on our way.”

  “Burns, I have a job for you,” Captain Mick barked a small smile curling on the edge of his mouth. “As I promised, you will earn your life.” The smile then emerged as a throaty chuckle.

  Burns nodded. It was all he could do. He knew, for a small amount of cash, Mick Beckham could go down to the docks and enlist a hungry sailor to do his dirty work. ‘Bide your time,’ he thought to himself. “What do you need, Beckham?”

  “A crew. I need a crew.”

  An odd look came across Burns’ face. He was many things, con artist, bookmaker, and occasional pimp. He wouldn’t know the first thing about hiring a crew for reclamation dive however. Beckham recognized his consternation.

  “I need some roughnecks. They will need to be handy with their fists and able to swing a club. No guns. Oh, yeah, they need to be familiar with a boat. I don’t want them heaving all over my boat.”

  Burns ears jumped. Now something, other than fending off his death, was beginning to take shape. Beckham was looking to storm Naushon Island. There was a damn treasure after all. “I can get you a crew. How many men are you talking about?”

  “Five should be good. It needs to be kept quiet. Understood!”

  “Sure, five is doable. I’ll rustle your men up off the Cape. I know a guy, a real hammer, over on Martha’s Vineyard. He needs work. And he’s into me for a grand. I’ll get the rest over in Fall River, New Bedford way.”

  “Good. On with it then,” Beckham said waving Burns out of the room.

  Mark Burns sat still. “I’ll need cash.”

  Beckham reached into his desk drawer and passed an envelope across the table. “This should do.”

  Burns looked inside and nodded. “Now I’ll need my cut.” He sat expecting the worst. His payday, as Mick Beckham had made clear, was his life. Some things were worth dying for.

  As a seaman, Captain Mick understood each day brought new challenges when on the sea. A good skipper needed to be armed with a variety of tools to run a crew and manage a hostile ocean. For now, he needed Burns. A smile and a good natured shrug of the shoulders took Burns by surprise. “Two grand should suffice for now, Mark. Welcome to the crew and do mind to carry out your business ably.”

  Like a sleeper cell, John Kilkenny had disappeared into the embrace of Naushon Island. Under the employ of Henry Sinclair and the fresh air of the Atlantic he seemed to have weathered well. Fit and trim for a man of sixty. Now people were turning up dead. In his prime, Kilkenny was one of the top enforcers on the East Coast.

  Brick Cleary tried to piece together the puzzle. One important fact became clear. John Kilkenny vanished shortly after the discovery of the grisly murder of the Lady of the Dunes. Vasco Gomes had always been a prime suspect. In his research Brick had come across an interview with Sandra Lee. She, as a young girl, had stumbled across the body. Ironically, as an adult, she had become a noted crime writer. Sandra Lee’s theory was that this was Whitey Bulger hit. It didn’t take him to long to put two and two together.

  “Brick, snap out of it,” Molly snapped. “We need to be off to our classes. Finish up your plate.”

  “Ok, Molly. You know how I get on a case. And this one, wow it is a doozy. But, you are right. Might make a good book even.”

  “That’s the spirit. Wow, you got an ‘A’ on your last paper! The professor quite likes you.”

  Brick beamed proudly. He had never been much for school. Now, with Molly’s encouragement, he was halfway towards a degree. He gobbled down the rest of his Hot Dog All Around. Bobby Sullivan, the owner’s brother, came by and lit up a cigarette.

  “They say they’ll kill you, Brick. But I look forward to a smoke and a pint with my Boston Harbor view every day,” he said with a wink towards Molly.

  “Then I wouldn’t recommend you change a thing. Bobby, how long do you say you’ve been taking that smoke and pint?”

  “We’ll open spring of next year, young fella. That will mark my fiftieth year on the grill here at Castle Island.”

  “A time for a celebration then,” Brick said wrapping his arm around the genial restauranteur. “You’ve seen a lot guys come and go.”

  “I have indeed.”

  “How about a man by the name of John Kilkenny? Remember him?”

  Bobby jerked his shoulder away. “Who doesn’t?” he replied. The smile on his face clouded. He finished his beer and stomped out the butt. “I enjoy more pleasant topics for my afternoon smoke. Brick, Molly, you’re always welcome. Next time leave the trash at home.”

  As they walked down to their car, Molly asked: “What was that all about?”

  Brick smiled. “I touched a nerve.”

  Her eyes began to roll into the back of her head. She grasped for breath. Julia Beckham was being strangled. Slowly. Gently. An odd sensation overtook her. She was reaching climax. Sexually her body contorted. The strange hint of death hovered over her.

  Then a voice. His voice. Henry Sinclair. It invaded her captivity. She grasped for breath as the rope was eased from her throat. Julia raised her head but her limbs were secured. Each were bound tightly together limiting her movement. She lay on the same sofa on which she had frolicked with Jonathan Stork only hours before.

  Standing over was ‘Elizabeth’ who brandished a still vibrating dildo close to her face. “She can hear you, Sir.”

  “Very well, Julia. And you seem to have enjoyed your ambush quite well.” A sort of deranged laugh filled the room.

  Her throat raged in pain. Fear was a more pressing worry. She struggled to respond. “What, why are you doing this to me?” she pleaded.

  “To reacquaint you to your place in the hierarchy of things, my dear. In ancient times, a king, emperor, even a prince, would throw a suspected usurper in the dungeon. Sometimes this person would be given their freedom and returned to their position. On other occasions they would be put to death. And still, on others, they would be forgotten and left to wither away in confinement. Your fate is yet to be determined.”

 
Henry Sinclair has gone mad she thought. And this monster standing over her, ‘Elizabeth, was an instrument of that madness. Supplication was her only option. “Henry, we came to an agreement last year. I was to carry out a certain role. I believe I have done that and have never challenged your leadership either in this plan or in our Freemason Chapter in which you have been my champion.”

  “Elizabeth, please.”

  His beautiful instrument of terror quickly jumped into action. The silky rope was quickly wrapped around Julia Beckham’s neck. The dildo again came to life and was thrust between her legs. A lack of oxygen caused her sight to blur.

  “Again you speak to me as an equal,” Henry Sinclair stated calmly enjoying the muted moans which could be heard over his speaker phones. “You speak of ‘we’ and talk of my ‘leadership’. I am your Lord! Since I accepted you, Julia Beckham, consider it an honor that you serve, and live, at my leisure.”

  These were the last words Julia Beckham heard before drifting off into darkness. She had wanted to tell Sinclair she had set up a lunch date with Dan Burdett. Regret stopped her. Regret that she had ever joined league with this certified madman. And regret she had involved Dan Burdett as a tool to achieve her ambitions. One thing did dance into her mind which gave her comfort. She had installed a hidden video camera in all rooms in the house. Her murderers would be identified. So, if she had regret, she also had revenge.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose,” Lane Morgan said glumly.

  Dan could not help but think of the contrast between the man’s reputation, a vigorous and active scholar, his website presence, a jovial rake of a historian, and his dour personality in the flesh. “Shouldn’t be surprised about what?” Dan asked.

  “You, being here, of course. The police is a touch unseemly I might add.”

  Dan and Bess shared a confused look. Ann probed gently, “And why would you expect Dan Burdett to knock on your door, Professor?”

  “Why, the map naturally. That is the reason you threatened to knock my door down. Is it not?”

  “Yes,” Dan snapped. This was a surprise and one he hastened to exploit. “A map that has ushered a few people to their grave. Why? What is it about this chart that people are willing to kill for?”

  The Professor frowned. “I’ll need to go further back into history if you want an answer to that question.”

  “Sir, we haven’t the time for a history lesson. Some answers to a few simple questions will suffice,” Bess stated tartly.

  “Wait, I need to know as much as possible about Henry Sinclair, Bess.” He looked out the bay window and noted the sun beginning to set. “And, I’m not sure we can beat this view.”

  Anna, who had sat quietly off to the back of the study, perked up. “Why not? Dan and I can see how Dr. Morgan can enlighten us. Bess, you can go back to Race Point and see how your forensics team is getting on. Tonight, we can compare notes over dinner.”

  Bess wanted to tell Anna Chase to shut up her meddlesome little mouth. Still, the annoying vixen was completely right. “Very well. Make it quick Professor Morgan. I should be back in about an hour and we’ll need to on our way.”

  The Barnstable County Police had cordoned off the stretch of road surrounding the crime scene. The forensic team, all two of them, were busy categorizing every minute detail they could find. Luckily, Bess thought, the photograph she had happened on in her Uncle’s office was enough evidence to put away this killer. If the killer could be found. She allowed the team the space to finish their job. Her thoughts gravitated to Julia Beckham. How she was mixed up in all of this was not readily apparent. Then Bess thought back to a conversation she had overheard her Uncle having with a local politician.

  “Freemasonry is making a comeback, Chief!”

  Chief Nickerson had nodded grimly to a fact he knew to be true. “Better to stamp that out before trouble starts brewing,” he retorted.

  ‘Freemasonry, Henry Sinclair, Julia Beckham,’ she murmured to herself. The elements of trouble seemed to fit.

  “It was a long time ago when Henry and I first crossed paths,” Professor Morgan said as he sipped his brandy. “We were friends. Rivals, but friends.”

  “You knew each other well I take it.”

  “Yes, Burdett, we did. We belonged to a very small club. Those days are so very far away and dashed past in a flash. Soon, Henry had dropped out of sight.”

  “And why was that? Did he give any hints at such a radical life transformation?”

  Professor Lane Morgan arose and walked over to an overflowing book shelf. “My first, “he said casually while holding a tattered book aloft. “Now, on to that history lesson.”

  Anna took out a note pad and pencil. The Professor smiled wanly. Perhaps, Dan thought, Morgan was letting his mind wander back to those days when he seduced his young acolytes. Seeming to sense Burdett’s thought, Morgan stiffened.

  “Fifty years ago, or thereabouts, let us say the post-war era, a new strain of thought began to trend through academia. Specifically, historical research. Things, periods more precisely, were always looked at as separate pieces. What do I mean? Well, for example, the Roman Empire, beginning to end, was look at as one block. It had nothing to do with historical or social themes happening in say ninth century Britain. This of course was nonsense.”

  “So,” Dan interjected, “Historians, through more precise archival research, began a more assiduous approach in assessing a period.”

  Morgan smiled. “Correct. In fact, the annals d’histoire economique et sociale, the Annalles School, had started this exciting brand of social history back in the 1920’s. As a young academic, an historian looking to make waves, it was liberating.”

  “How so?” Dan inquired hoping for elaboration but also brevity.

  Morgan tapped the book. “Groundbreaking stuff. And still taught in college classrooms today.”

  Whatever lessons Professor Lane Morgan had learned over the years, humility wasn’t one of them. “And how does this help me with the myriad of problems sitting in my lap?”

  The severity of the moment seemed not lost on the Professor. “Certainly. This book, A Soldier in Time, was able to connect the dots from medieval warfare to the modern armies of today. Fiefdoms collected into one vast fighting unit. Liege Lords became colonels, majors, and princes became generals. Through religion, I showed how the Roman Empire survives, organizationally, through the Roman Catholic Church. An emperor becomes a pope.”

  “And the map is able to do that. But connect what?”

  “There has been an undercurrent of thought, unproven, unseen, but a strong belief that Northern Europeans saw what we now know as America as a viable option long before Christopher Columbus stumbled upon these lands.”

  “But they kept a lid on it,” Dan stated skeptically.

  Morgan arose to grab another tome. This one was also well worn with an intricately designed leather cover. He placed it on the desk in front of Dan. “Here are my charts. Do be careful as they are quite old.”

  Dan carefully turned each page with Anna hovering over his shoulder. They both were in awe. Lane Morgan continued.

  “Some are originals, others copies, all are quite old. This map, the one I have shared with Jack Beckham, is unique. It was given to me when I was conducting research on the Isle of Iona. There, at Saint Oran’s Chapel, a man approached me.”

  “And he just handed you the map?” Dan asked the skepticism yet to fade away.

  “Over several days and more than a few bottles of strong ale. Actually his family is quite prominent in those parts. He even proudly carries a title, Sir Geoffrey. And his family history claims to come from the line of the ancient king and warlord, Somerled.”

  Dan’s eyes widened. “From the island of Jura.”

  “Exactly, the twelfth century King of the Isles, the legendary Norse Gaelic hero of the Hebrides.”

  Dan sat back in his chair and digested the information. “So this gentleman gave the map to you for verification.�
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  “No. He needn’t that. To him and his small cabal it is quite real. But, no doubt, he has his motives.”

  Those motives were of no concern to Dan Burdett. “Then, these people, Sir Geoffrey, have shed the cloak of secrecy it appears.”

  “Yes. Apparently. Back to your question, why ‘keep a lid,’ as you say. Burdett, I’m thinking Scotch-Irish, correct?”

  Dan looked up and nodded.

  “Probably an altar boy at some point and no stranger to the confessional booth I will also assume.”

  Dan again nodded now beginning to appreciate the Professor’s line of logic.

  “Ok, let us take up that still essential element of the Church.” Morgan looked at both members of his audience. One was held in rapt attention while the other also had one eye on the clock. “I understand your time is limited. And, I too look forward to your departure. The confessional experience you may or may not participate in has been around since at least the seventh century though most probably longer. It is called the tariff penance. This form of confession first developed in the early years of the Celtic Church. So, we can assume, its origins can be found in pagan practices. Some historians see a Druidic influence. In any case, the Celtic Church grew in isolation for many centuries having little contact with the Continent. But, it did have extensive relations with what we now call Scandinavia.”

  “Home of the Vikings,” Anna remarked.

  “Yes,” Lane Morgan smiled revealing a warmth Dan had yet to see.

  “Yet, still very much loyal to the pagan gods,” Dan added.

  “True,” the Professor agreed. “They traded in goods, culture, and ideas. Religion had yet to enter the conversation. However, many elements of ancient Celtic Christianity was something the Norse would not have found strange.”