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

by T. Hunt Locke

  Dan rubbed his hands together and leaned his elbows on the deep mahogany table. “No doubt and quite enlightening. Now, in terms of the map, the mystery, and why people are willing to commit acts of murder, how does this fit in?”

  “Secrecy.”

  This simple response made perfect sense. “Any information given in the penitential box cannot be repeated,” Dan said recognizing the impact secrecy could have on any organization.

  “And,” Morgan continued in a commanding voice, “The Norsemen, Vikings, did eventually convert to Christianity. Celtic Catholicism that is.”

  “The Vikings, those that settled in France, become Normans and followed a sort of mixed bag of Celtic and Norse theology,” Dan asserted.

  “Very good,” Morgan said in compliment. “And it was a comforting religion for a group of knights that led a violent lifestyle. Then the Crusades emerged.”

  “And with it the creation of the Knights Templar.”

  The speed with which Morgan and Burdett were working through their ideas captivated Anna. She let her hand brush Dan’s thigh not shy about her ardor.

  “Perhaps, even, a new religion, an exclusive form of worship, was developed by that small band of brothers under the fierce sun of Jerusalem.”

  “But, it would have grown under a veil of secrecy.”

  “That is correct, Burdett. A religion, armed with what they would have considered ‘holy mysteries.’

  “Literally, a new religion created in the confessional. A secret practice of worship where a strict initiation ceremony, in fact several, would be held. And at each stage of initiation a cloak of confidentiality would be sworn to.”

  “Yes, partially correct. But my research leads me to believe the Templars had uncovered a rather ancient form of Christianity. Perhaps a mystery religion that pre-dated Christ even. A sect that may have folded itself into embryonic Catholicism.”

  Dan digested Professor Morgan’s hypothesis. “The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ, a monastic order sanctioned by the Pope, following a heretical version of Christianity. Sure, that would be something to keep under your hat.”

  The heavy Pirelli tires of Dan’s Jeep could be heard rolling onto Lane Morgan’s pebble driveway. Bess had returned. The lecture was over. Anna’s sigh could tell as much. Dan took in one more view of the spectacular scene presented through the bay window. That was scenery you had to buy and was well out of his paygrade. It was unlikely he’d be invited back. Channing Terrace would have to do.

  “Before you leave, Burdett. This is just the beginning of the story.”

  “I understand, Professor Morgan. That map, perhaps, tells of the trail the Templars new religion.”

  Morgan smiled. “I guess I should have opened that door some years back. You seem a sturdy enough intellect. You will meet a student, a colleague, of mine Monday. He will lead you further along that trail.”

  Dan accepted the compliment with a handshake. As he left the Professor’s home he took a look back. The door had shut. A thin smile creased across his face. “A nice man,” he said to nobody in particular. “Who knows? Maybe I will get an invitation to return.”

  The decision was made to call it a day. Anna followed Dan and Bess and made sure to stick closely to the Jeep as a sense of fear clung tightly to her heart. The murder of the kind and full of life inn keepers and coming upon Bess and Dan uncovering that grisly crime scene was enough for a lifetime rather than crammed into a two day period. She gripped the steering wheel tightly.

  A dinner over fried clams, a scallop roll, and beer at Dennisport’s Original Seafood restaurant helped to calm everybody’s nerves.

  “Anna, it may be good for you to accompany me up to Boston,” Dan said breaking the quiet that hovered over the table. Each person was processing the dire situation with which they now were confronted.

  “To meet Professor George?”

  “That would be best,” Bess grudgingly acknowledged. “It seems Julia Beckham is involved. To what extent is anybody’s guess at this point but, Anna, you may not be safe.”

  “Monday is a few days off however,” Dan said rubbing his chin. “Perhaps you, Bess, have a spare bed?”

  Anna’s frown let her displeasure known. Dan read her thoughts. Bess too seemed to read her mind. “No Anna, shacking up with Dan isn’t a wise choice. In fact, Dan, I would recommend you find a place other than Channing Terrace for the next few days as well.”

  “Agreed. Also, I’ll want Nola, my assistant, to question Anna about the events up in Westport.” Dan finished off his plate and called for the bill. “Anna, I’ll meet you at the campus on Monday. Park your car outside the gate. We can take the BMW up to Boston. In case anybody is tailing me, I’ll want my Jeep in the staff parking lot.” With that he marched to the exit.

  “Dan,” Bess called. “Where are you off to?”

  “So far it seems we have been on the defensive. Surprised at every corner. Now it is time to turn the tables.”

  Anna and Bess both wanted to stop him. But Dan Burdett’s course seemed set. “Be careful,” was all they could muster.

  Lane Morgan diligently engaged in his favorite hobby. Only last month the famous yearly run of the bluefish had passed through the Cape. With pole in hand, rubber boots tightly fit to his thighs, and a cooler full of ice, he had made his way to Popponesset Beach for the bluefish blitz. It was an epic experience. Nature was beautiful to witness in action. It could also be dangerous. The lifeguards had planted the No Swimming sign at the entrance to the beach. The bluefish invaded for the small squid which hung close to shore but their tiny jagged edge teeth caught what it could. From a bluefish’s perspective a hand full of fingers does not look all that different from the tentacles of a fresh squid.

  He lived alone so his needs were scant. Still, he filled up a ten gallon cooler full of the tasty fish. On the way back home he stopped by the nearby Episcopal Church and donated most of the catch to be cooked for an upcoming dinner for the needy. Looking out the kitchen window onto his million dollar view, he was happy that charity was a principal drilled into him at an early age by his teachers at Saint Paul’s School.

  Here, he was also taught patience. Primarily, his teachers were concerned with academic fortitude. Lane took to his studies well. But persistence for excellence took many forms. This he applied in the kitchen as well. The bluefish sizzled on low heat. A lemon and lime sauce, with a touch of dill and garlic, had been prepared and was now slowly decanted on the edges of the foil which lay upon the grill.

  A properly cooked meal should delight many of the senses and not just appeal to taste. He closed his eyes and allowed the smell dominate his conscience. Because of this, he failed to hear the knocking at his front door. He opened his eyes annoyed. Then a thought occurred. Perhaps Burdett had come back. It was a pleasant thought. A glass of wine, a plate of fish and grilled potatoes, and scholarly conversation. He turned off the grill and shuffled to the front door with anticipation.

  A look out the front door’s viewing hole showed that no one was there. Strange. Perhaps one of the mischievous overly entitled children who were sprinkled throughout the exclusive neighborhood was up to a prank. Then, a large crash could be heard from the door leading to his beach front back yard. Lane Morgan’s reactions failed him. Instead of running out of the house seeking help, he ran towards the crash.

  What he encountered paralyzed him with fear. A fearsome face. One filled with fury and menace strode towards him. An axe was brandished in the air and came down with a swift swoop cutting through his right shoulder. Morgan fell to the floor in agony and shock.

  John Kilkenny threw his fallen foe over his shoulder. The slight man was not much of a burden. The foul smell of urine soaking into his shirt did little to dampen his enthusiasm for what he was about to carry out. The infamous Viking ritual killing, the blood eagle. He had been shown and practiced the ceremonial torture before. But never on a life human being. This was reserved for royalty. And if Lane Morgan was not officially r
oyal, or even have a coat of arms, Henry Sinclair assured him he inhabited the rarified air of academic royalty. Akin to an ancient bishop, he was told. A bishop, that is, that had run afoul. This was enough. He had no intent to create a martyr.

  Chapter 7

  A weekend getaway seemed prudent. The Inn At The Beach was chosen for its calming tuck away ambience. Dan opted for the Chatham Room. Equipped with a television to watch some college and pro football, a refrigerator for beer and snacks, plus a balcony which offered a pristine view over Bank Street Beach. Not to mention, a rustic breakfast to soothe any hangover. If the weekend was about relaxation, he would also keep an eye on Julia Beckham.

  Chase & Beckham Realtors was located on the corner of Bank Street and Main in the center of Harwichport. It was a location Dan knew well. There was, after all, a nostalgic reason he had booked the Chatham Room. Just down the road, on Bank Street Beach, he had patrolled the sands as a lifeguard on summer holiday from university. Life had been ideal. Yet those breezy days had done little to prepare him for the rollercoaster which lay ahead. Maybe that was the point. The calm before the storm.

  Getting out of his car he glanced across the street. The old home of Bonatt’s Bakery was now a high end eatery. A deep breath conjured up the unmistakable smell of their famous meltaways. Times changed. People too. The youthful breath of fresh air that once was Julia Beckham had now turned to something less pleasant. Time had wreaked havoc on him also.

  He walked onto the back porch. A gray Lexus sat in the back lot. The midnight blue Jeep Cherokee Dan had seen Julia driving was parked beside it. He was hoping to catch her unawares and coax her next door for a bottle of wine. An innocent night out. It would not have been the first interrogation he had conducted over drinks. The house appeared empty. A decision loomed. The first, best, and most obvious choice was to walk away. Or at least start on that bottle alone and wait for her return. The second was to jimmy open the back door. He noted an alarm. For better or worse, Brick had long ago taught him how to get around that. Obviously the easier route would be to call Anna to open the door. Tonight he was flying solo. Any surprises he would deal with alone. His confidence would be higher had Brick Cleary been at his side.

  A deep breath confirmed what he already knew. Dan Burdett would once again skirt that line between right and wrong. He reached into his pocket and fetched a lighter. Brick had shown him that the heat, applied to the wires, would cause a short. At least on a cheap piece of work such as this.

  In a minute, Dan found himself in the office’s back room. Even without a light he could see Julia’s gleaming smile beaming at him from the many For Sale signs which cluttered the room. He made sure not to disturb anything. In the hall there were two doors, a room to either side. Being left-handed he chose the room on the left. It was open. The office was immaculate. Julia obviously ran a tight ship. But something was amiss. Almost as if the room had been ‘sanitized.’ He had been at many a crime scene where the perpetrator had been exacting in trying to cover their footsteps. Dan slowly walked through the office. He noted nothing out of place. Julia was a hard working professional. She wasn’t a maid. Perhaps she did have a service which would explain a lot.

  He then sat at her desk. All the drawers were locked. This was not a surprise. There was something that did catch his attention. The lower right hand drawer showed signs that it had been tampered with. The wood around the lock was heavily frayed. The splinters were still sharp, the exposed wood not yet discolored. He gave a sharp tug but the drawer remained shut.

  Dan raised himself out of the chair. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Even the drawer may simply be the case of a missing key and a frustrated Julia. Still, something gnawed at him.

  The room across the hall was also open. This room had no windows so he turned on the light. Everything here was also in order. If he was expecting to find anything he was, at first, mistaken. Dan placed his hand on the sofa cushion to push his body up. He felt something moist. Looking at his hand he saw what appeared to be blood. Lowering himself on his knees he lifted up the sofa cushion. A glittering flash of gold fell to the ground. A diamond studded earring lay beside his leg. The cushion appeared to have been turned over. The bottom side was shredded. Dan thought to Julia’s high heels. Clearly something sharp had dug into the fabric. It also appeared to be stained with blood.

  Dan quickly stood up and neatly placed the earring in his wallet. This was a crime scene. He hurried out the back entrance. A decision loomed. Should he involve the police?

  The smell emanating from Embers, the restaurant across the street, was appealing. Cool jazz also seemed to be riding on the wave of fragrance. A thought came to mind. He got into his Jeep and drove it across the street into Embers parking lot. It had been a while since he sat in on a stakeout.

  A seat on the far left of the bar was vacant. Looking down the bar he could see a jazz quartet set up plying their trade. The lighting was dimmed to a romantic level. A glance to his left allowed a fine view across the street.

  “May I help you sir? A drink, some food, or perhaps both menus,” the bouncy brunette bartender offered with a genuine smile.

  “I had only thought to come in for a glass of wine and the music. But, the food smells so good you best bring me both menus.” Dan noted that she had no ring on the relationship finger. He also placed both of his hands on the bar. “I’m Dan by the way.”

  Her smile brightened and she extended her hand. “And I am Rachel. At your service, Dan.”

  ‘Perfect’ Dan thought. A conversation with Rachel may possibly shed even more light on the increasingly mysterious Julia Beckham.

  A video camera had been set up to record the event. It was more than just a simple experiment. Professor Morgan Lane wore a grotesque expression as he was pinned to his dining room table. There was no possibility of escape. The brutish man who had invaded his home had knee capped him. The blow from the axe had torn through his right shoulder blade and the left had been wrenched from its socket. His limbs were of no use. A long tightly bound hemp rope had tethered him to the table with a kettle bell attached to each side.

  The voice was a distant echo from his past. The man, Henry Sinclair, had long ago slipped in to the realm of the mad. It was assumed he had been institutionalized. Only now did Morgan understand the depths of his former colleague’s depravity.

  “Just tell me what you know, Lane,” Sinclair had demanded. “This will all be over. A nightmare yes. But your life will be spared. You can call, when you wake up, the police. Claim a home invasion. Surely make no reference of me. Oh, be careful with your words, don’t leave anything out.”

  What choice did he have? Lane Morgan spit out every last detail. The map had been given to him from a friend. Actually, it had been left to him through a will by a person of ancient Scotch Norse lineage. ‘Sir Geoffrey’ poured forth from his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ he further admitted, Jack Beckham’s archeological work had intrigued him for years. The two had struck up a friendship. There was a great possibility this map was a forgery so, at the outset, he did not want to sully his reputation. It was better to work through Beckham. A meeting had been arranged. The map would be at Professor Francis George’s house on Monday night. An address was given. Seven sharp in the early evening.

  Silence met him at first. “Very well,” Sinclair said at last. “You are a fine scholar, Lane,” Sinclair continued. “Your research methodology is impeccable and if you have little regard on where to tread, you have certainly advanced our knowledge of the historical record.”

  Lane Morgan listened silently his mind making that sad descent into despair knowing he had probably just signed the death certificate of his dear friend, student, and colleague, Francis George.

  If Henry Sinclair was waiting for an acknowledgement of the compliment he had just given, none was forthcoming. He could hear heavy breathing however. Wonderful. It was necessary, or at least preferred, that Morgan be awake.

  “In any event, histo
rical research can only take us so far. For example, the blood eagle.” A deep moan followed by uncontrollable sobbing could be heard. “Perfect. You are still with us, old boy. Tonight we shall see if this method of execution really can work as it was intended. In many respects you should be honored, dear friend. As you know, the blood eagle was reserved for royalty or high clergy.”

  John Kilkenny then entered the room. He was clothed in an ancient looking frock. The instruments of the torture and execution were held up to the camera. Without a word he turned his attention to his subject. He placed an ax and knife beside Lane Morgan’s face. Kilkenny then kneeled to the ground, crossed himself, and fell into prayer.

  Morgan’s sobs were replaced by a thick flow of tears. He instinctively called on any energy his muscles might provide. His tank was empty. The end was near. Now all Professor Lane Morgan could hope for was a quick death. And it was for that which he started to pray.

  “So why in God’s name are you staying in a bed and breakfast in Harwichport?” Rachel asked.

  “Good question,” Dan answered trying to suppress a laugh. He reached into his slack’s pocket and put his cell phone on the bar. He fumbled with a couple of apps and finally brought up a series of photos. “Almost finished,” he declared proudly. “I did most of it myself. All of the masonry work, in fact. But I am shite when it comes to fitting pipe.” Dan knew from his years as a prosecuting attorney that a lie was always better couched in the truth.

  “Aha. It all makes sense. And, seeing as you are not driving I will happily refill your mug.”

  As Rachel made her way down the bar he tugged his stare away from her very attractive sway and returned his attention to the Red Sox game. There was no sign of activity at the offices of Chase & Beckham. Nothing strange in that. It was Friday night after all. Still, he had a gnawing suspicion he had just left a crime scene.

  Rachel came back with his pint of Sam Adams Summer Ale. “Normally I wouldn’t recommend mixing drinks, Dan. But you don’t seem like you’ll have too much of a problem navigating your way back to the beach.”