Crescent Dawn

by Clive Cussler

  “Or even converted into golf courses,” Summer said.

  “Precisely. Broome Park has probably suffered the worst of all fates. Most of the manor has been sold off as a time-share and overnight lodging, while the surrounding grounds have been converted into a golf course. I’m sure Horatio Herbert is looking down in disgrace.”

  “Is the estate still in the hands of Kitchener’s heirs?”

  “Kitchener was a lifelong bachelor, but he bequeathed the estate to his nephew Toby. Toby’s son Aldrich now runs the place, though he’s getting on in years.”

  Julie parked the car in a wide lot, and they walked to the main entrance, passing an ill-kept rose garden along the way. Summer was more impressed when they entered the main foyer, which show-cased a large cut-glass chandelier and a towering oil painting of the old man himself, his stern gray eyes seemingly imposing their will even from the flat canvas.

  A wiry white-haired man was seated at a desk reading a book, but he looked up and smiled when he noted Julie coming in.

  “Hello, Miss Goodyear,” he said, springing up from the desk. “I received your message that you would be coming by this morning.”

  “You’re looking well, Aldrich. Keeping the manor full?”

  “Business is quite nice, thank you. Had a couple of short-term visitors check in already today.”

  “This is my friend Summer Pitt, who’s helping me with my research.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Pitt,” he said, extending a hand. “You probably want to get right to work, so why don’t you follow me on back?”

  He led them through a side door into a private wing that encompassed his own living quarters. They walked through a large sitting area filled with artifacts from North Africa and the Middle East, all acquired by Kitchener during his Army years stationed in the region. Aldrich then opened another door and ushered them into a wood-paneled study. Summer noticed that one entire wall was lined with tall mahogany filing cabinets.

  “I would have thought you’d have all of Uncle Herbert’s files memorized by now,” Aldrich said to Julie with a smile.

  “I’ve certainly spent enough time with them,” Julie agreed. “We just need to review some of his personal correspondence in the months preceding his death.”

  “Those will be in the last cabinet on the right.” He turned and walked toward the doorway. “I’ll be at the front desk, should you require any assistance.”

  “Thank you, Aldrich.”

  The two women quickly dove into the file cabinet. Summer was glad to see the correspondence was of a more personal and interesting nature than the records at the Imperial War Museum. She slowly read through dozens of letters from Kitchener’s relatives, along with what seemed an endless trail of correspondence from building contractors, who were being cajoled and pushed by Kitchener to complete refurbishments on Broome Park.

  “Look how cute this is,” she said, holding up a card of a hand-drawn butterfly sent from Kitchener’s three-year-old niece.

  “The gruff old general was quite close with his sister and brothers and their children,” Julie said.

  “Looking at an individual’s personal correspondence is a great way to get to know him, isn’t it?” Summer said.

  “It really is. A shame that the handwritten letter has become a lost art form in the age of e-mail.”

  They searched for nearly two hours before Julie sat up in her chair.

  “My word, it didn’t go down on the Hampshire,” she blurted.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “His diary,” Julie replied with wide eyes. “Here, take a look at this.”

  It was a letter from an Army sergeant named Wingate, dated a few days before the Hampshire was sunk. Summer read with interest how the sergeant expressed his regret at being unable to accompany Kitchener on his pending voyage and wished the field marshal well on his important trip. It was a brief postscript at the bottom of the page that made her stiffen.

  “‘P.S. Received your diary. Will keep it safe till your return,’” she read aloud.

  “How could I have missed it?” Julie lamented.

  “It’s an otherwise innocuous letter, written in very messy handwriting,” Summer said. “I would have skimmed past it, too. But it’s a wonderful discovery. How exciting, his last diary may indeed still exist.”

  “But it’s not here or in the official records. What was that soldier’s name again?”

  “Sergeant Norman Wingate.”

  “I know that name but can’t place it,” Julie replied, racking her brain.

  A high-pitched squeak echoed from the other room, slowly growing louder in intensity. They looked to the doorway to see Aldrich entering the study pushing a tea cart with a bad wheel.

  “Pardon the interruption, but I thought you might enjoy a tea break,” he said, pouring cups for each of them.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Kitchener,” Summer said, taking one of the hot cups.

  “Aldrich, do you happen to recall an acquaintance of Lord Kitchener by the name of Norman Wingate?” Julie asked.

  Aldrich rubbed his brow as his eyes darted toward the ceiling in thought.

  “Wasn’t he one of Uncle Herbert’s bodyguards?” he asked.

  “That’s it,” Julie said, suddenly remembering. “Wingate and Stearns were his two armed guards approved by the Prime Minister.”

  “Yes,” Aldrich said. “The other fellow . . . Stearns, you say his name was? He went down on the Hampshire with Uncle Herbert. But Wingate didn’t. He was sick, I believe, and didn’t make the trip. I recall my father often lunching with him many years later. The chap apparently suffered a bit of guilt for surviving the incident.”

  “Wingate wrote that he had the field marshal’s last diary in his possession. Do you know if he gave it to your father?”

  “No, that would have been here with the rest of his papers, I’m certain. Wingate probably kept it as a memento of the old man.”

  A faint buzzer sounded from the opposite end of the house. “Well, someone is at the front desk. Enjoy the tea,” he said, then shuffled out of the study.

  Summer reread the letter then examined the return address.

  “Wingate wrote this from Dover,” she said. “Isn’t that just down the road?”

  “Yes, less than ten miles,” Julie replied.

  “Maybe Norman has some relatives in the city that might know something.”

  “Might be a long shot, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

  With the aid of Aldrich’s computer and a Kent Regional Phone Directory, the women assembled a list of all the Wingates living in the area. They then took turns phoning each name, hoping to locate a descendant of Norman Wingate.

  The phone queries, however, produced no leads. After an hour, Summer hung up and crossed out the last name on the list with a shake of her head.

  “Over twenty listings and not even a hint,” she said with disappointment.

  “The closest I had was a fellow who thought Norman might have been a great-uncle, but he had nothing else to offer,” Julie replied. She looked down at her watch.

  “I suppose we should go check into our hotel. We can finish the files in the morning.”

  “We’re not staying at Broome Park?”

  “I booked us in a hotel in Canterbury, near the cathedral. I thought you’d want to see it. Besides,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “the food here isn’t very good.”

  Summer laughed, then stood and stretched her arms. “I won’t tell Aldrich. I’m wondering if we might be able to make one stop along the way first.”

  “Where would that be?” Julie asked with a quizzical look.

  Summer picked up the letter from Wingate and read the return address. “Fourteen Dorchester Lane, Dover,” she said with a wry smile.

  THE MOTORCYCLIST SLIPPED ON a black helmet with matching visor, then peeked around the back end of a gardener’s truck. He patiently waited as Julie and Summer stepped out the front door of
Broome Park. Careful not to let himself be seen, he watched as they climbed into their car across the parking lot and then drove down the road to the exit. Starting his black Kawasaki motorcycle, he eased toward the lane, keeping a wide buffer between himself and the departing car. Watching Julie turn toward Dover, he let a few cars pass, then followed suit, keeping the little green car just ahead in his sights.

  27

  MODERN DOVER IS A BUSTLING PORT CITY BEST KNOWN for its ferry to Calais and its world-famous white chalk cliffs up the easterly coastline. Julie drove into the historic city center before pulling over and asking for directions. They found Dorchester Lane a few blocks from the waterfront, a quiet residential street lined with old brick row houses constructed in the 1880s. Parking the car under a towering birch tree, the women walked up the cleanly swept steps of number fourteen and rang the bell. After a long pause, the door was pulled open by a disheveled woman in her twenties who held a sleeping baby in her arms.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” Julie whispered. “I hope we didn’t wake the baby.”

  The woman shook her head and smiled. “This one could sleep through a U2 concert.”

  Julie quietly introduced the two of them. “We’re seeking information on a man who lived at this address quite some time ago. His name was Norman Wingate.”

  “That was my grandfather,” the woman replied, perking up. “I’m Ericka Norris. Wingate was my mother’s maiden name.”

  Julie looked at Summer and smiled in disbelief.

  “Please, won’t you come in?” Norris offered.

  The young woman led them into a modest yet warmly decorated family room, easing herself into a rocking chair with the sleeping baby.

  “You have a lovely home,” Julie said.

  “My mum grew up in this house. I think she said grandfather bought it just before World War One. She lived here most of her life, as she and Dad purchased the home from him.”

  “Is she still alive?”

  “Yes, she’s a spry ninety-four. We had to move her into the old folks’ home a few months back so she could receive proper nursing care. She insisted that we move in here when the baby was on the way. More room for us, at least.”

  “Your mum might still be able to help us out,” Julie said. “We’re looking for some old records from the war that your grandfather might have had in his possession.”

  Norris thought for a moment. “Mum did end up with all of my grandparents’ belongings,” she said. “I know she got rid of most of it over the years. But there are some old books and photographs in the nursery that you are welcome to have a look at.”

  She cautiously led them up a flight of stairs and into a pale blue room with a wooden crib on one wall. She gently laid the baby in the crib, eliciting a slight whimper from him before he drifted back to sleep.

  “Over here are my grandfather’s things,” she whispered, stepping to a high wooden shelf. Old clothbound books filled the shelves, fronted by black-and-white photographs of men in uniform. Julie picked up one photograph showing a young soldier standing next to Kitchener.

  “Is this your grandfather?”

  “Yes, with Lord Kitchener. He headed up the entire Army during the war, did you know?”

  Julie smiled. “Yes. He’s actually the reason we are here.”

  “Grandfather often spoke about how he would have died along with Kitchener on his ship that sank during a voyage to Russia. But his father was gravely ill, and Kitchener had excused him from the trip.”

  “Ericka, we found a letter from your grandfather indicating that Kitchener had sent him his personal diary for safekeeping,” Julie said. “We’re hoping to locate that diary.”

  “If grandfather kept it, it would be here. Please, have a look.”

  Julie had read Kitchener’s earlier diaries, which had been kept in small hardbound books. Scanning the shelves, she froze when she spotted a similarly bound book on the top shelf.

  “Summer . . . can you reach that small blue book up high?” she asked nervously.

  Stretching to her toes, Summer reached up and pulled the book down and handed it to Julie. The historian’s heart began to beat faster when she noticed there was no title printed on the spine or front cover. Slowly opening the cover, she turned to a lined title page. In neat handwritten script was written:

  Journal of H H K

  Jan. 1, 1916

  “That’s it,” Summer blurted, staring at the page.

  Julie turned the page and began reading the first entries, which described efforts by the author to boost compensation for new military recruits. She soon flipped to the last written entry, located halfway through the book, which was dated June 1, 1916. She then closed the book and looked hopefully at Norris.

  “This lost diary has long been sought by historians of Kitchener,” she said quietly.

  “If it means that much to you, then go ahead and take it,” Norris replied, waving her hand at the book as if it were of no consequence. “No one around here is likely to be reading it anytime soon,” she added, smiling toward her sleeping baby.

  “I will donate it to the Kitchener collection at Broome Park, if you should ever change your mind about that.”

  “I’m sure Grandfather would be thrilled to know that there are still people around with an interest in Kitchener and ‘the Great War,’ as he used to call it.”

  Julie and Summer thanked the young mother for the diary, then tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house.

  “Your detour to Dover certainly produced an unexpected bit of good luck,” Julie said with a smile as they stepped to her car.

  “Persistence leads to luck every time,” Summer replied.

  Excited with their discovery, Julie was oblivious to the black motorcycle that followed them off Dorchester Lane and onto the road to Canterbury, holding a steady pace several cars behind. As Julie drove, Summer skimmed through the diary, reading passages of interest out loud.

  “Listen to this,” she said. “‘March third. Received an unexpected letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury requesting a private viewing of the Manifest. The cat has finally escaped the bag, though how, I do not know. The late Dr. Worthington had assured me his secrecy in life, but perhaps he has failed me in death. No matter. I declined the Archbishop’s invitation while risking his ire, in hopes that the matter can be deferred until the time when we are once again at peace.’”

  “Dr. Worthington, you say?” Julie asked. “He was a well-known Cambridge archaeologist around the turn of the last century. He carried out several high-profile excavations in Palestine, if my memory serves.”

  “That would seem an odd connection,” Summer replied, skimming more pages. “Kitchener was right about upsetting the Archbishop, though. Two weeks later, he has this to say: ‘Called upon this morning by Bishop Lowery of Portsmouth, on behalf of Archbishop Davidson. He eloquently expressed a strong desire for me to donate the Manifest to the Church of England for the good of all mankind. He failed to elaborate, however, on the Church’s intended use of the document. From the earliest moments, my kindred hopes were for a benevolent quest for the truth. It is now regrettably apparent that my Church is reacting in fear, with suppression and concealment their primary aim. In their hands, the Manifest might disappear for all posterity. This I cannot allow, and I informed Bishop Lowery as much, to his extreme disappointment. Though now is not the time, I believe that at the conclusion of this great conflict, a public release of the Manifest will offer a spark of hope for all mankind.’”

  “He certainly makes this Manifest sound profound,” Julie said. “And now Bishop Lowery has made an appearance. His cryptic letter to Davidson in June suddenly becomes more interesting.”

  “Kitchener doesn’t provide much detail, but his anguish with the Church keeps growing,” Summer said. “In April, he writes, ‘Plans for the summer offensive in France are nearly complete. The constant harassment from the Archbishop’s minions is becoming overwhelming. P.M. has approved my r
equest for a security detail. Thankfully, I didn’t have to specify why.’ ”

  “So our friends Wingate and Stearns finally appear on the scene,” Julie noted.

  Summer thumbed faster through the pages as they approached the outskirts of Canterbury.

  “In his April and May passages, he is bogged down with war planning and an occasional weekend away with relatives at Broome Park. Wait, though, listen to this. ‘May fifteenth. Received another threatening call from Bishop Lowery. With his nefarious manner, I believe the country would be better served if he headed the Directorate of Military Intelligence rather than the Portsmouth Diocese.’ A day later, he writes, ‘Caught in a streetside confrontation by an anonymous C of E member who demanded the Manifest. Corporal Stearns disposed of the renegade without further incident. I’m beginning to regret ever discovering the blasted thing back in ’seventy-seven . . . or letting Dr. Worthington decipher it last year. Who would have imagined that an old slip of papyrus sold by a beggar during our survey of Palestine would have such consequence?’ ”

  Summer turned to the next page. “Does that date mean anything to you?”

  Julie contemplated her earlier writings on Kitchener. “That was well before his famous heroics in Khartoum. In 1877, I believe he was stationed in the Middle East. That’s about the time that he took over an Army survey party in northern Palestine, as part of the Palestine Exploration Fund established by Queen Victoria.”

  “He worked as a surveyor?”

  “Yes, and he took over the field survey team when its commander fell ill. They did quite top-notch work, despite being threatened on several occasions by local Arab tribesmen. Much of the Palestine survey data was in fact still being utilized as recently as the nineteen sixties. But as for Kitchener, he was traveling throughout the Middle East at that point, so there’s no telling where he specifically may have acquired it. Unfortunately, he didn’t begin keeping a diary until many years later.”

  “It must be very old if it is a papyrus document.” Summer neared the end of the diary and halted at a late May entry.