Pirate (20 page)

“A fund-raiser?” Remi asked, returning to her seat. “We should go.”

“Sold out, I'm afraid,” Grace said. “Has been for weeks.”

“Too bad,” Sam said. “Any chance you'd allow us to look at those items prior to the event?”

“Of course. I'll give you the name of the person at the museum.”

She read off the name and number for the contact information, which Sam entered into his phone. They spoke a few minutes longer, then, when it was clear there was nothing more to be learned, they thanked her for her hospitality.

On their way out, Sam paused by the paintings hanging on the wall near the door. He didn't recognize the name of the artists. The coat of arms, however, intrigued him, and he turned to her, asking, “You wouldn't mind if we took a photo of this, would you?”

“Not at all.”

Sam used his phone to snap a couple of shots, checking to make sure he had a clear photo to forward to Selma, both of the family crest and the round leather shield hanging below it. The interlacing Celtic knot engraved on the convex brass boss at the center of the shield seemed at odds with the definite English heritage on the family crest hanging above it, but if anyone could make sense of that, Selma could. Some of the symbols engraved on the shield boss were worn from age, and the flash washed out what could be seen, and so he tried without the flash. Unfortunately, the room was too dark, but he could read the heraldry on the crest to some extent. Enough for Selma to work from, at
least. “Thanks again,” Sam said as he slipped his phone into his pocket.

She opened the door for them, smiling. “It was a pleasure. I'm sorry my husband wasn't here to meet you. Suddenly discovering a fence that needed mending, don't you know. I think he was a bit put off by our visitors yesterday.”

“Visitors?” Remi asked.

“Like you, they were inquiring about the inheritance. Honestly, I can't see what all the fuss is about. If you saw that castle, you'd understand. A pile of stones, my husband calls it.”

Sam paused in the doorway. “Do you recall their names? Or what they were interested in?”

“I'm afraid I didn't quite catch them. But, like you, they were interested in those boxes that went to the museum.”

In the car, Sam handed his phone to Remi. “Do me a favor,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. “Forward those photos I took to Selma.”

“Quite the interesting coat of arms. Considering that her long-lost ancestor was the illegitimate son of some minor baron, there's an awful lot of heraldry painted on it.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” He turned down the graveled drive toward the country road, then checked his rearview mirror. The sun broke through the clouds, reflecting off the hood of a car heading down the hill toward them. He put on his sunglasses.

“Done,” Remi said, then placed the phone in the center console. “I suppose we shouldn't be surprised that we weren't here first?”

Sam slowed as he entered a turn. “I'm tired of being one step behind these guys.”

“Let's hope the museum sees these crooks for who they are, or at least asks for ID before they let anyone in for a personal look at the artifacts.”

“I'd like to think the British Museum has some security protocols in place. Just the same, maybe give them a call. Let them know we'll be heading out their way in the morning.”

T
he following morning, Remi called the contact at the British Museum to view the historical artifacts on loan by Grace Herbert-Miller and her cousin. A young woman with barely a trace of a British accent informed her that Miss Walsh was not expected in until the reception that weekend.

Remi asked who else might help. Apparently there was no one there with the power to give them an early view of the display or to look at the storeroom where the remaining items were kept. Everything was scheduled for the grand opening, and, unless they had a ticket for the event, they'd have to wait until the following week.

“Great,” Remi said, sliding her phone across the tabletop in frustration. “That was a dead end.”

“Maybe Selma can work some magic,” Sam suggested. “Or Lazlo. He's got to have contacts left here.”

“We can only hope.” She glanced at her watch, subtracted the eight-hour time difference. Remi emailed the details to Selma. “So now we wait.”

Sam grabbed their coats. “Or we take a walk and do a little recon of the museum. See what we're up against.”

“I like your way of thinking, Mr. Fargo.”

The museum was slightly over a half mile from their hotel, and, within the hour, they were milling about, moving from one display to another. They wandered into the gallery and stood near the Rosetta stone, an artifact that had always intrigued Remi. “Wouldn't it be nice if the key to our cipher wheel was right here?”

Sam, watching for signs of Avery's men, drew his gaze from the crowds and eyed the massive stone. “Where's the challenge in that?”

“Asks the man who doesn't have to do the deciphering.” She looked around.

“Different gallery entirely.” She waved her map. “This room is Egyptian sculpture.”

He took her arm, leading her away from the Rosetta stone. “The drawback, if his men
were
seriously injured in that accident, is that Avery would just send someone else.”

“Good point. At least we know what those guys look like.”

“Does that map of yours tell you where this special event is going to be held?”

“No. But I expect we can find a helpful docent to point us in the right direction.”

They did. A gray-haired woman who told them the display
was currently housed in Room 3. “Once you enter the Great Court,” she added, “you'll cross through it and see the entrance to your right.”

They thanked her, then walked through the vast atrium, its glass-and-steel-checkered ceiling giving the area a brightly lit space-age appearance. Eventually they found the room in question.

Blocked off, with a guard present.

He, however, had little information to add or was unwilling to discuss it.

Sam and Remi stared at the closed-off area.

“Ideas?” Remi asked.

“Not a one.” He looked at his watch. “If we're lucky, Selma's found out something by now.”

Sam retrieved their raincoats from the coat check. Outside, they found a quiet spot to call Selma. Sam held up his phone so that he and Remi could hear. “Tell me you have some good news?” he asked her.

“Sorry, Mr. Fargo. This is a highly anticipated event, with a waiting list. And unless you can convince the organizers that you're more important than some of the various celebrities on said list, I don't think you're getting in.”

“Lazlo? Surely he still has contacts here.”

“Academia isn't the sort of profession that is able to break through the ranks of royals. Neither is simply being a multimillionaire. I do, however, have some good news.”

“And that would be . . . ?”

“That academia is good for researching the coat of arms. How much do you know about heraldry?”

Remi replied, “Enough to know it'll put you to sleep slogging through the archaic language.”

“Exactly,” Selma said. “According to Lazlo, it appears your farmer's wife and her cousin up in Nottingham aren't related to just any illegitimate son of a minor land baron. It would be a minor land baron who appears to be the illegitimate son of Edmund Mortimer, Second Lord Mortimer.”

“And Mortimer's significance would be . . . ?” Sam asked.

“The father of Roger de Mortimer, Third Lord Mortimer, who happened to have an affair with Queen Isabella. Undoubtedly one of the reasons he was executed by her son, Edward III.”

“Got it. Any connection to this cipher wheel business?”

“Hard to say. Still working on it, as well as the rest of the coat of arms. It's like a foreign language. Everything means something.”

“You know where to find us.” He disconnected.

“What now?” Remi asked.

“I say we find a decent pub, have lunch, and figure out our next plan of action.”

They started down the street and hadn't gone more than a half a block when a Rolls-Royce pulled up alongside them. The rear passenger window rolled down, revealing a man with dark hair salted with gray at the temples. He smiled at them, though his dark eyes looked anything but friendly, Remi thought.

“You must be the Fargos.”

Sam took Remi's hand, pulled her back, then stepped between her and the car. “Let me guess. Charles Avery?”

“Sorry to disappoint. Colin Fisk. It seems you and my employer are after the same little bauble. The original cipher wheel.”

“Not sure what you're talking about.”

“By the way, my men survived their car accident yesterday.”

“Don't recall asking,” Sam said.

“I take it you weren't able to get tickets to the festivities tonight at the museum?”

Sam gave a casual shrug. “There'll be other displays and other events.”

“A shame. As I
will
be there.”

Remi, curious, asked, “And how was it you managed to get tickets?”

“Connections. It's all about who you know. It's a not-to-be-missed event. Unless your name is Fargo. I understand you're on the blacklist. Enjoy your stay in London. You're at the Savoy, correct?”

“And where is it you're staying?”

“Somewhere else.” He gave a cold smile again, then rolled up his window as the car took off.

Remi moved to Sam's side, watching until the car was out of sight. “That was a bit unsettling,” she said.

“I'm sure that was the purpose.”

“How do you think he found out where we were staying? We're not registered under our names.”

“Picked out the various five-star hotels and made a lucky guess?”

“Maybe we should have stayed someplace a little less refined.” She linked her arm through his. “Now, what were you saying about lunch and a battle plan? I have a feeling we're going to need it.”

They found a nearby pub and ordered fish-and-chips with
mushy peas and a pint of Guinness each. Sam carried the beer to a table, where they could keep their backs to the wall and watch the windows and entrance—just in case.

He handed Remi a pint.

She took a sip of the dark, room-temperature brew, then leaned back in her seat, thinking about their encounter. “How is it,” she asked, “that Fisk, of all people, managed to get tickets and we couldn't?”

“Because he's willing to break the law.”

“We have to find a way in there.”

“I'm open to suggestions.”

“Same,” she said as a waitress brought their lunch. They finished eating. Sam ordered another beer while Remi sat back, watching two women walk past their table on the way out, one of them saying, “Don't know what you're so upset about. Especially since your ex will be there. It's just going to be a bunch of blighters singing happy birthday. I'm not going if that makes you feel any better. Unless you want to crash it?”

“Remi . . . ? Did you hear anything I just said?”

She looked at Sam. “Sorry. No.”

“If you want to walk away from this, I'll do it. We've cleared Bree's name, and—”

“What? No. The last thing I want is to let a man like Charles Avery win.”

“It's not a game.”

“He tried to kill us.”

“Remi—”

“We crash it.”

“What?”

“Those women who just left were discussing crashing a birthday party.
We
could do that.”

He waited for her to explain.

“How many fund-raisers have we been invited to over the years where someone didn't show? And how many of those where someone who
wasn't
invited ended up attending?”

“Plenty.”

“Exactly. The worst that can happen? We're turned away at the door. The best? We get in and find what we're looking for.”

F
rom the backseat of their hired Mercedes, Sam watched the entrance where the luxury sedans dropped off the formally dressed guests, then departed. Slipping into a tightly controlled and heavily guarded event unnoticed wasn't going to be easy. Liveried personnel stood at the doors checking invitations before allowing entry.

“Ideas?” he asked Remi.

“Waltz in like we own the place?”

“Don't think that's going to work. What we need is some sort of distraction. A bottleneck of some sort. Something creative . . .”

“The royals are always good for a distraction.”

“You happen to know any who are coming?” Sam asked as the Maybach pulled to a stop.

“It's called
A Royal Night at the Museum
. Surely one or two will be attending.”

“Or it's just a theme, which explains the liveried servants.”

A footman approached and opened their car door. A moment later, Sam and Remi stood waiting behind a number of other people near the entrance.

Sam noticed a few admiring glances turned their way, undoubtedly directed at Remi, who wore a sleeveless black silk gown and a diamond pendant at the neckline that drew the eye to the hint of cleavage. Some designer. Chanel? Armani? The moment she rattled the name off, he put it from his mind, not that it mattered. What did was that his wife looked amazing.

Remi nodded at the footmen. “They're announcing names at the door.”

“That presents a slight problem. At least if we want to stay low-key.”

“So what's the plan?”

“I'm working on it.” The truth was, he hadn't yet come up with anything. Within seconds, they'd be at the door, only two more couples ahead of them.

He glanced around him, hoping something would come up, as he heard the footman announce, “Sir John Kimball, Lady Kimball.”

“Sam,” Remi whispered, a smile pasted on her face. “We're almost up.”

“Isn't that Charles Avery's Rolls-Royce?” he asked. “Or, rather, his hired henchman Fisk?”

She looked back. “It would seem so.”

“What are the chances he or his driver has a gun in the car?”

“About a hundred percent.”

Sam leaned toward her, whispering, “And what would
happen if a beautiful, frightened woman were to make that fact known?”

“You know any?”

“Beautiful? Yes. Frightened? Never.”

“One way to find out . . .”

As they reached the doors, the so-called footman asked for their invitation. Remi placed her hand on her throat, her beautiful green eyes turning all doe-like, as she said, “Thank heavens.” She moved in closer, lowering her voice. “I've never been more frightened in my life. There's a man with a gun.”

The footman, his shoulders tensing, scanned the crowd behind her. “Where?”

“Standing near that Rolls-Royce. He's tall, dark hair, graying at the temples. You see the way he keeps looking at us? It's like he knows.”

“Wait right here, please.”

He left them to go talk to a couple of men in dark business suits standing about ten feet to their right, undoubtedly part of the security detail.

Sam used that moment to take Remi's arm and lead her in. They were stopped by another footman, who asked for their invitation. “I gave it to that other gentleman,” Sam said, pointing to one of the three men who were now walking toward Fisk and the Rolls.

The guard eyed them, slightly confused. “What names to announce?”

Remi stepped forward. “Longstreet,” she said, giving her maiden name.

Sam added, “Mr. and Mrs.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Longstreet,” he intoned, and he waved them through.

Sam moved Remi quickly from the door, planning to get lost in the crowd before anyone realized what had happened. Especially if Fisk connected the contact by security to them. “That worked out well,” he said once they were safely inside and there didn't seem to be anyone coming after them.

A liveried waiter passed by carrying champagne flutes and Sam took two, handing one to Remi. “Here's to beautiful women who are good actresses.”

“And handsome men who can think on their feet.” She touched her glass to his and sipped as they strolled through the atrium, neither of them wanting to waste any time mingling.

Sam glanced back as they exited toward the gallery with the display.

Remi asked, “Something wrong?”

“We probably stirred a hornet's nest by siccing those guards on Avery's man.”

“If we're lucky, we can get in and out before we get stung.”

“Let's hope so,” he said as they neared the gathering of guests just outside the new exhibit. He took in their surroundings, searching for anyone who looked the least bit suspicious. He noticed a few undercover security guards, something to be expected. He dismissed them as a threat, instead looking for anyone who might be working for Avery or Fisk.

So far, so good.

A woman at the entrance of the gallery handed them a colored, tri-fold pamphlet.

Remi looked over hers. Sam took the moment to examine the
guests milling about inside the long room. No one seemed to be paying them the least bit of attention.

“Fascinating,” Remi said.

“What is?”

She pointed to the pamphlet. “Considering what this display is focusing on, you'd think they would've come up with a different name for the event. It's formally called the
Illegitimate Royal Children of England
.”

“Somehow I don't think that would have the same cachet as
A Royal Night at the Museum
.” He looked around the room and noted a large number of older patrons. “Some of these people might have a hard time writing the official version in their checkbooks.”

Remi laughed. “Good point, Fargo. Shall we see what all the fuss is about?”

He took her arm, and they strolled through the exhibit, set out chronologically by year and by the family associated with it.

About midway through, they reached the display that contained the items donated by Grace Herbert-Miller and her cousin and they stopped, took their time giving everything a thorough examination. There were paintings, a suit of armor, weaponry, and jewelry, just to name a few of the many items. If the cipher wheel was there, it wasn't in plain view.

“You take photos,” Sam said. “I'll watch for Fisk.”

She used her phone and snapped pictures of every item. “Done,” she said after a couple of minutes.

A woman in a business suit approached, her ID tag clipped to her pocket identifying her as a museum employee. “Interesting, isn't it?”

Sam's first inclination was to agree with her, but he decided that action would elicit less information. “What is?” he asked instead.

“The Mortimer Collection. Our newest. I helped put it together.”

Sam and Remi exchanged quick glances, and Remi moved closer, smiling. “What a fascinating job you must have, Ms . . . ?”

“Walsh. Meryl. And, yes, it most certainly is fascinating.”

Sam asked, “What can you tell us about the collection? Edmund Mortimer, Second Lord Mortimer—where does he fit in?”

“It's Mortimer's grandmother, Maud de Braose, who generated our interest in this display as well as giving us the idea for our event name,
A Royal Night at the Museum
. Through her children, Maud de Braose is related not only to the last Plantagenet kings, Edward IV through Richard III, but all English monarchs from Henry VIII on. When Grace Herbert-Miller offered the artifacts for display, we couldn't resist.”

“Impressive,” Sam said. “Anything about Mortimer's illegitimate son that makes him stand out in history besides a distant link to royalty?”

“Unlike his ancestors, who certainly have their share of skeletons in their closets—massacres, plots to dethrone the king—Sir Edmund Herbert and his descendants appear to have led rather boring and exemplary lives—as long as you overlook his half brother's feud with this notable character.”

She moved to the adjacent display. “Here we have the illegitimate grandson of Hugh le Despenser, a man who was reputed to be having an affair with King Edward II. Queen Isabella hated
him and managed to convince her husband to force Hugh into exile, during which Despenser was said to have turned to piracy.”

A pen-and-ink illustration of a single-masted ship was posted on Despenser's time line in 1321, with a paragraph below noting that Despenser was “the monster of the sea.”

Remi leaned in for a closer look. “I'm assuming this feud is the reason these two sons were placed next to each other?”

“It is,” the woman said. “When Despenser took to the seas, he attacked a ship belonging to the Mortimer family, which was carrying a fortune belonging to Queen Isabella. Roger Mortimer, who helped Queen Isabella depose her husband, Edward II, from the throne, was eventually executed, and some say it may have been due to the loss of Isabella's fortune.”

“Despenser?” Remi said. “If I recall my history, Mortimer was executed several years
after
Despenser.”

“True,” she continued. “But there was also the matter of family honor. For generations, Mortimer and his ancestors had sworn an oath of fealty to the kings they served. Edward III could forgive Mortimer for participating in the deposing of his father, whose relations with Despenser had endangered all of England. But once Edward II had abdicated, Mortimer's duty was to step aside. He failed to do so.”

Sam, who had always been a history buff, took it all in while examining the artifacts laid out in the cases. “How do these illegitimate sons play into this? Beyond simply being born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

“Sir Edmund Herbert, Mortimer's half brother, managed to recover part of Isabella's treasure stolen by Despenser, which in
turn brought the Mortimers back into the good graces of Edward III. In contrast, Despenser's illegitimate son, Roger Bridgeman, carried on the new family tradition of piracy.”

Bridgeman? Sam thought. That certainly explained Avery's interest.

“Fascinating,” Remi said. “But is this everything?”

“I'm sorry?”

“I mean, all the artifacts from the Mortimer side? We were fortunate enough to run into Grace Herbert-Miller, who mentioned that she'd recently turned everything over to you. Naturally, that made us wonder if this was everything or were there some items that didn't make it to the display?”

“Well, naturally, not everything would fit, and so we picked the most relevant pieces or those that we thought would tie into our theme. Was there something in particular you were interested in seeing? I might be able to arrange a private viewing at a later date.”

“That,” Remi said, “would be appreciated. Do you have a detailed inventory list of what was turned over?”

The woman hesitated when she noted Remi typing into her phone. “May I ask what your interest is?”

“Writers,” Sam said. “We're hoping to complete a history on the Mortimer family. And now that we know there's a Mortimer-Herbert on the wrong side of the blanket, we'd like to add him.”

Remi nodded, holding up her phone. “Notes.”

“Oh,” Miss Walsh said. “Then you've come to the right person. Let me get your name and number and I'll be glad to give you a call.” She pulled a small notepad and pen from her pocket.

“Longstreet,” Remi said. “Mr. and Mrs.” She recited her cell phone number.

“I'll give you a call.”

As she walked off to speak with other guests, Sam asked Remi, “You get all that?”

“Texting to Selma and committing it to memory as we speak.”

Since Remi had a near-photographic memory, he didn't doubt it for a second. “Let's see what else we can find.” He looked up and saw Colin Fisk approaching, in his hand a black cane with a wide brass handle—not that he seemed to walk with any noticeable limp. “Guess who just arrived.”

“Lovely. And here we were having such a good time.”

“How original,” Fisk said. “Man with a gun? That's all you could think of?”

Sam gave a casual shrug as he scanned the room for any more of Avery's cronies. “Did the job.” He was surprised to see Fisk without one of his henchmen. “No ‘plus one'?”

“Some of us have the good sense to leave our stunning wives at home when danger lurks.”

Sam felt Remi bristle beside him at the veiled threat. “I'd ask what brings you here, but we know the answer to that.”

“Or do you? I see you've found the Mortimer Collection. A shame they put it next to the Despenser display.”

“Seems the perfect location, considering their background.”

“If you only knew.” He gave a cold smile, his gaze flicking to Remi, then back. “Now, if you'll be so kind as to precede me out the hall toward the back.”

“You think we'd go anywhere with you?”

“Naturally, no. Which is why I've taken the liberty of
ensuring your cooperation. That young curator . . . Walsh, I believe her name is? On the far side of the gallery?”