“They need the sea to be part of their blood!”
“To a man they have all served upon a vessel,” Burns explained. “You supply the equipment and they’ll supply your muscle. But,” Burns began to caution, “Renege on your deal and this crew will have no qualms about mutiny.”
“Look here,” Beckham said as his blood boiled. Then another thought occurred to him. Burns was right to place the warning. The bullet also focused his mind. Sturdy seamen, marauding pirates, were not to be trifled with. “They will receive their due. And more if they perform above and beyond. Also, make it clear, if you haven’t already, danger will meet them when they step foot on the island. If anybody loses their life, anything coming to them will go to their family.”
“Good. You have got yourself a crew. When?”
“Tuesday night eight sharp. Oh, and if this leaks, I’ll know who to blame.”
Perched beside Saquatucket Harbor, Brax Landing enjoyed a loyal local following. On most occasions Burdett would have his thoughts focused on the menu while sipping a cold brew. Today was different.
His eyes fixated on the shimmering water and the boats bobbing lazily against the docks, he finally had his mind firmly in tune with the case Jack Beckham had been handed him along with a thick envelope. A few elements still eluded his grasp. A call to Lane Morgan had gone unanswered. An avid fisherman, the good professor was probably out surf casting. Dan had taken his seat early. Brax’s outdoor deck filled up quickly. His hope was that Julia Beckham would arrive as arranged.
She was a part of this. And, Dan knew, she was not the innocent granddaughter helping out dear papa. It could be easily inferred Julia was working in tandem with Henry Sinclair. The Boston Globe, with Dan’s name scribbled in red, was highly incriminating. He had been set to take the fall for a gruesome murder. Or, perhaps, the aim was just to sideline him. Either way, Julia Beckham had blood on her hands. Figuratively if not literally.
Julia was now ten minutes late. He finally ordered that beer. Brax Landing was a luncheon hotspot and Dan was occupying prime real estate on the outdoor deck. Ten minutes was an eternity for the impeccably precise Julia Beckham.
He made the call. “Julia Beckham is missing.”
“What? How do you know?” Bess asked.
“After leaving you and Anna, I paid a visit. No one was at her office. So, I took a stool at Embers bar and sat on her house. Nothing.”
“That means nothing. A romantic weekend getaway, maybe she is beginning to feel the heat, or a business appointment out of town, any of these reasons can explain her absence.”
“Why make a lunch appointment with me?” Dan quizzed.
“It happens. People skip out. This isn’t enough to file a missing persons report, Dan.”
Bess was right. He rolled the earring he had found beneath the sofa cushion between his thumb and forefinger deciding whether to tell her about his slightly illegal escapade of the night before. “You may want to check the Chase & Beckham office. Concentrate on the study across from her working office. Specifically the sofa may interest you, Officer Chadwell.”
“Geezus, Dan! You broke in?”
“Look, just go with Anna and see what you can find. Be careful.”
The phone was placed down on the table. He too would take care. Suddenly the usually peaceful outdoor patio now felt like it left him exposed. A large if solitary cloud passed overhead obscuring the Sun. It only served to highlight the brilliant blue sky that seemed to stretch on for eternity. Maybe Julia had gone underground. Briefly, just as the Sun was now ducking out of sight. Sound logic. It was a strategy that seemed prudent for Dan Burdett as well.
Chuck Martin trudged into the Barnstable County Police Station with a feeling of unease. It had been a bleak day. Death was never an easy sight even for a seasoned professional. But when the dead body was a friend and former colleague a dispassionate mood was hard to summon. Now, a meeting with Chief Nickerson. In the best of times this was not welcome.
The Chief, in his usual gruff manner, came straight to the point. “Martin, you are a Freemason are you not?”
The County’s medical examiner slumped down in the chair. “I’m exhausted, Nickerson. Consider the question asked and answered. Or don’t you remember our last meeting?”
Nickerson walked to the oak hutch set beside the bay window. He looked out over the harbor and poured himself a scotch. “Yes, of course. You admitted as much.”
Martin looked greedily at the Waterford crystal glass with two fingers worth of nectar. None was offered to him. “Admit? There is no crime in my association.”
“Your meetings occur on Naushon Island. The head of your chapter would be a Mr. Henry Sinclair. Am I correct?”
His hand began to shake and Martin felt as if he was on shifting sands. “I am under no compulsion to answer your questions.” Indeed he was correct. But his quivering voice and shaking hands betrayed his fear. “I think it is time to leave.”
The Chief smiled. He walked back to the hutch and poured another glass which was placed in front of Martin. “You can leave. But, before you do, there is something you need to understand. An investigation has been opened. One way or another you are a part of it. You can become a target of the operation or an asset.”
“Then I should call my lawyer,” Martin hissed relieved that the strong liquor was now caressing his throat.
“While you do that I’ll arrange a search warrant for your home and office. Accessory to murder is what I’ll tell the judge.”
“And if, as an honest member of the Barnstable County justice establishment, I offer my assistance?”
Chief Nickerson took Martin’s empty glass and refilled it. “Very well, Chuck. This will go a long way towards unburdening your soul.”
Henri Sangreal was well into his talk when Dan arrived at the I Cannot Live Without Books bookstore. A standing room only crowd was there to hear him talk of his research regarding the Westford Knight, his ancestor Henry Sinclair the Earl of Orkney, and their voyage to the New World in 1398.
“The Westford Knight in reality was Sir James Gunn. He accompanied the Earl and, I claim, they made it through Nova Scotia and down the coast of what today is New England by following a map created centuries earlier. Sir James was a Knight Templar you see. And a holder of ancient knowledge!”
Dan appreciated the verve in which Henri delivered his talk. He backed out of the store and walked across the street to O’Shea’s Olde Inn. In fact, Henri Sangreal, or his given name, Hank St. Clair, was held in little regard by the academic community. Often, he was compared to Erich von Däniken and his theories of past alien visitations to the planet earth. To be honest, he was ridiculed. But, like Däniken, he sold a lot of books.
Whatever the case, he did seem quite engaging. Sangreal walked onto the patio, dropped into a chair, and exclaimed, “That went well! Now for a bit of Guiness.”
“It is a pleasure to make you acquaintance, Henri. Or should I call you Hank? Hank St. Clair,” Dan said.
“Whatever suits you, Burdett,” he replied yet to lose his smile. “But, I have had my named changed. Legally that is back to its original French roots.”
“Sangreal, the blood line. So, Henri, do you believe you are a descendant of Christ?” Dan asked. He appreciated that Sangreal took little offense to his line of questioning. “In any case, you trace your lineage well before the Viking age.”
Sangreal smiled. “Indeed I do. My clan does go back well before that time and, around a thousand years ago, intermarried with Norman nobility, and then the name changed into Sinclair or, as I was born into, St. Clair. As for the claim that Jesus is our clan patriarch, well, why not!” Sangreal’s voice turned into laughter as he accepted his pint.
“I just caught a bit of your talk,” Dan said enjoying Sangreal’s joviality. “You talked of a map. Do you have evidence of it?”
“No,” he shook his head. But a friend, part of the Scottish nobility, pointed me in the direction of Jura, an island in t
he Hebrides, and once part of the Earl of Orkney’s holdings. In an old monastery, I was told by this old and grizzled lord, a map, and other important relics, could be found. The map, it was said, held the key to Vinland.”
Dan sat in stunned attention. He was on the same trail as Professor Lane Morgan. “And what did you find?”
Sangreal sighed. “At first things were going well. You see, the leading men on Jura and a couple of nearby islands, were looking to play their ancient traditions into a more vibrant tourist economy. But they needed a member of the academic community to bring their legends to the public. I was their man I told them.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “Word got around that I was a charlatan, not held in good repute in the historical arena. What an insult! I showed them an account of my book sales. They said they were looking for legitimacy.”
Dan could feel the bitterness in Henri Sangreal’s voice. “So that was that.”
“I was rudely asked to leave,” Sangreal admitted with spirit. “But, the idea for my latest book, The Westford Knight, was cemented.”
It was clear that Henri Sangreal, despite his passion, was not involved in any of the nefarious activities concerning the map and Henry Sinclair of Naushon Island. In fact, he had very little knowledge of Sinclair or his career. Another beer was ordered, a couple of laughs, and after a while they parted ways with a handshake.
The rest of the weekend passed with little to no activity. Dan’s decision to hunker down at the inn had been, at least for him, an oasis in the storm. Bess Chadwell envied him that. On the other hand, she was fighting a battle on several fronts.
Her Uncle seemed to be taking on the murder of Rebecca Leary in vigilante fashion. She confronted him as to the investigation. He was tight-lipped. If he had any leads they weren’t being shared with her.
Julia Beckham had indeed gone missing. Burdett was right in assuming a struggle had taken place in the study. Perhaps it was sexual. Still, it was violent in nature. A missing person’s case was opened. Anna Chase, as opposed to Chief Nickerson, was helpful. Unfortunately the video system had been of little help as it was found disabled.
Surprisingly, Anna and she enjoyed a Saturday night over a couple of bottles of wine. Girl gossip. It was pleasant and had taken her mind away from the grisly investigations that were now staring at her from her desk. The ring of the phone startled her.
The brief conversation left her even more flustered. Nola Vasco wanted to meet. The name Vasco made her skin crawl. Should the sins of the father be visited on the daughter? ‘Yes,’ Bess felt intuitively. The fact that Nola was Dan’s office manager did little to ease her suspicions.
“Time to dance with the Devil’s daughter,” she said as she marched out of the station.
Chapter 8
A late Sunday afternoon walk on Boston’s Castle Island was a picture perfect way to conclude a weekend. A crisp breeze barreled into the harbor. The American flag held sturdy in its embrace. The boom of a tug boat’s horn could be heard. Another vessel from a land unknown had arrived. Castle Island, or Castle William as it was originally named, would be the first piece of Boston real estate the foreign ship’s crew would see as they entered port.
They probably wouldn’t know, or even care, that overlooking Fort Independence they were viewing America’s oldest fortified site from the days of British Colonial rule. Edgar Allen Poe did however. It is said that an unpopular British officer killed a man of standing and was walled up in the fort’s infamous dungeon. The famous writer, as a young soldier serving at Fort Independence, heard of the story and based his story “The Cask of Amontillado” on this Bostonian legend.
Dan Burdett reveled in such bits of historical trivia. His dad would regale him with such stories on weekend afternoons such as the one Anna and he were enjoying. Today his mind was concentrated on matters not related to Poe. Fortunately, Anna was a sponge for history and was drilling him for all she could get.
He lit a cigarette, looked at his watch, and pointed to the nearby monument. “Here is the end of the tour, Anna. This monument is dedicated to Donald McKay. He was a master shipbuilder. You’ll find a list of all his Boston Clipper ships that he designed and had built just across the harbor in his shipyard in East Boston. The names are all etched into the monument’s concrete.”
“Ok,” Anna answered. She was intrigued by the monument and the mention of the famous Boston Clippers. “And why is this important?”
“He was Scotch-Irish. The sea was in his blood which was most likely Viking tinged as well.”
She looked on confused. “You have lost me, Dan.”
“Lane Morgan implied, asserted even, that history can often be found, connected I guess, lying on a string handed down from generation to generation. The Boston Clippers were beautiful vessels. As good a ship as had ever sailed the seas. It opened up the China trade over one hundred and fifty years ago. Boston to San Francisco in eighty nine days. Four hundred and thirty six miles in a day.”
“Wow. That is impressive,” Anna said in awe.
“The Viking long boat was also a work of art. Europe to the Americas probably four hundred years before Columbus. Where is their monument?” He stubbed out his Marlboro. “Time for the best hot dog you’ve ever tasted.”
The sunset lazily bid farewell to a glistening Cape Cod weekend. Tropical storm Henri was but a distant memory and life on the Cape transitioned into another gear. Usually this was Nola’s favorite time of the year. Pete was dead. Papi had likely been handed the same fate. She wanted to bring those responsible to justice. Her father also shared that sentiment. But Vasco Gomes form of justice took on a much different shape.
She heard the crush of Bess Chadwell’s vehicle on the pebbled driveway. Dan had directed her to set up the meeting. It was prudent. He had also instructed her to install a deadbolt to both the front and back doors to the office. This was also prudent. The new lock was stiff and it took her a short while to unbolt it.
Bess Chadwell entered the office crisply and took a seat on the reception area’s wicker chair. She took a quick glance at her watch. “Ok, Nola. What is so urgent?”
“Two things actually. First, have a look at these photos.”
Bess carefully went through them.
“You’ll note the island, Naushon, and the two men. One you may know as Henry Sinclair, Senator Sinclair’s older brother. The other man, a John Kilkenny, has been thought to have fallen of the map. Both, from our investigation, we believe to be behind our current predicament. You will find Kilkenny’s fingerprint file also in the folder.”
Bess shook her head in approval. “I’m impressed, Nola. These photos should be useful. Especially the one of Sinclair admiring the, well, I guess that is an old weapon of sorts.”
“It is a crossbow. And yes it is quite old.”
“Where did you obtain them?” Bess asked. “Did Dan hire a photographer?”
Nola hesitated. She was unsure if she wanted to divulge the truth. “My father. Vasco Gomes,” she answered squarely.
Bess accepted the answer without reply. “You said there were two things.”
“A message from my father to your uncle. Simply put, he suggested John Kilkenny could be the answer to a question that has long troubled the Chief.”
“The Lady of the Dunes,” Bess said shaking her head. “That isn’t a question that has troubled Chief Nickerson. He has the answer. Vasco Gomes.”
Nola shrugged her shoulders, got up out of her chair, and opened the door. “One more thing,” she said ushering Bess’ exit. “Wednesday night. My father said something is going down, Wednesday night, at Naushon.”
Bobby Sullivan managed the grill, a position he had manned for over fifty years. He had had the pleasure of coming to Castle Island at the beginning of each spring and making his unique brand of hot dog till the snows began to fall. It was a special life. Young kids grew into men and then brought their own kids to the hot dog sand on the harbor. Then they’d come bac
k with their grandkids. He’d also gone to his fair share of funerals. If the Irish funeral was more of a celebration, the sadness was felt through loss. The dead never came back.
That is until recently. John Kilkenny, Johnny Kill, had somehow risen from his watery grave. The word on the street was that Johnny had met his end after an escapade with Whitey Bulger.
“Bobby, you are sure?” Dan questioned.
Bobby Sullivan tugged on his Marlboro and then sipped from his beer. “Faces change. The eyes though, they remain. Some dim. Others retain their childish wonder. And, like a fingerprint or snowflake, each is unique. Johnny Kill sat down at that table only a couple of weeks ago. He ordered a plate of fish and chips along with a Coke.”
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 18
