Pirate (24 page)

T
he following afternoon, Sam and Remi left their car at the car park, then walked to the town center along Purfleet Quay, to meet with Nigel Ridgewell at the information center where he worked. That was located in the Custom House, a stone building with a steep-pitched tile roof with dormers, crowned by a wooden bell tower.

Several tourists gathered outside the building, some of them snapping photos of the river. At the head of the group, a lanky, brown-haired man in his late thirties looked up, saw them, and asked, “Here for the tour? You can still buy tickets inside.”

Sam said, “We're looking for Nigel Ridgewell.”

“I'm Nigel.” He said something to the group, then walked toward them. “You must be the Fargos.”

Sam eyed the people waiting in front of the tourist center. “Maybe I got the time wrong. I was under the impression you asked us to meet here.”

“Sorry about that. I was supposed to have the rest of the afternoon off, but one of the other guides called in. Any chance we can meet later this evening?”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Sam said. “What time?”

“Maybe around six? That'll give me a short break after my last tour before we meet up. Of course, you're welcome to come along. Or save yourself five pounds, pick up a map inside, and use that for your own tour.”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “Maybe we'll take a look around.”

Nigel returned to his tour group. “If you'll follow me, we'll get started.” He led them around the corner, saying, “King's Lynn, one of the most important seaports in the Middle Ages, used to be known as Bishop's Lynn . . .”

“He seems nice enough,” Remi said.

Except for that theft part. Knowing the guy stole Madge Crowley's papers bothered him. He gave a noncommittal response as he held the door open for Remi so that they could look over the brochures that highlighted the various tours. Sam was opening the maritime history tour pamphlet when Remi said, “This one sounds intriguing. ‘The Darker Side of Lynn. Tales of murder, treason, hangings, and witchcraft.'” But then she returned it to the rack. “Never mind. They only offer it in the summer.”

He handed her his brochure. “Then the maritime walk wins by default.”

Instead of following the guided tour as mapped out, they used it to look up points of interest as they walked through the historic sections of King's Lynn. Remi used her cell phone to take a
couple of photos of the Town Hall, a stunning, checkerboard-fronted building. They turned down a quaint, cobbled street, with its fifteenth-century brick-and-timber houses. About midway down Nelson Street, Remi pointed to a placard posted on an arched entrance to a narrow street beyond. “Devil's Alley. I'd love to know the story behind that.”

Sam tried to find a reference to it in his brochure. “Not here.”

“Maybe it's part of the Dark Side tour. The witches and murderers.”

They peered beneath the arched entrance to the alley just as a woman emerged, her gnarled hand holding on tight to a cane. Dressed head to toe in black, her shoulders stooped from age, she stopped when she saw them looking at the sign. She pointed at it with her cane. “He was there.”

“The Devil?” Remi asked.

“Aye. Came in on a ship one day. But a vicar stopped him with a prayer and holy water. The Devil stamped his foot and left his print in the alley. Or so they say.”

Remi loved old legends. “Let's go take a look.”

Sam thanked the woman and was about to follow Remi into the alley when the woman said, “Watch out for Black Shuck.”

“Black what?” Sam asked.

“Shuck. The red-eyed Hound from Hell. Comes out after dark, it does. Heard tell it's here e'en now. With the Devil.” She tottered off, planting her cane with each step, muttering to herself.

Sam glanced back at Remi, who was busy searching the cobblestones for some sign of the Devil's footprint. The sun, well
past its zenith, cast long shadows across part of the cobbled lane, accentuating every lump and bump, making it look as if an entire herd of cloven-hoofed creatures had left their mark.

“See anything?” he asked.

“No.” She took a photo of the alley anyway, and they continued on through, past the buildings, to a bordered walkway between two empty lots, following it until they reached the water at the South Quay. With time to kill, they strolled along the water's edge until they reached Marriott's Warehouse, where they stopped for a drink. Sam was always up for a Guinness, and they sat at a table overlooking the Great River Ouse. As the late afternoon turned to evening, a light fog swept in from the river, obscuring their view. When it was nearly time to meet their guide, they returned to the Custom House.

Nigel wasn't there when they arrived and so they waited out front, the fog thickening as the evening wore on. Sam looked at his watch, saw Nigel was twenty minutes late. He called Selma, who gave him Nigel's cell phone number. He left a voice mail saying they were waiting at the Custom House. After ten more minutes, he was about to suggest they call it a night when a figure emerged from the mist, walking toward them. Not Nigel.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“We're waiting for Nigel Ridgeway.”

“Right. He was a bit late on his last tour. He
did
mention he was meeting someone back here, if that helps.”

“Thanks,” Sam said as the man unlocked the door and let himself into the building.

Remi wrapped her arms close about her. “I hope he gets here soon. It's getting cold out.”

Sam pulled her close. A few minutes later, the same man stepped out, locking the office door behind him. He nodded at Sam and Remi as he left.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, stopping him. “Do you know which tour he was on last?”

“Pretty sure it was the maritime. That ends on South Quay in front of Marriott's Warehouse. You might check there. A lot of the tourists stop after for dinner.”

“Thanks.”

“We were just there.”

“Let's go back and check,” Sam told Remi. “Maybe someone there will know if he actually made it that far.”

“And if he didn't?”

“We start looking for him.”

By the time they reached the warehouse café, visibility had lessened considerably. The gentle lapping of water on the quay quickened with an approaching boat, invisible in the fog. Diffused auras of light encompassed the street lamps, the glow barely reaching the ground.

They stepped into the café, looking around, but didn't see Nigel. The hostess who'd seated them earlier smiled. “Forget something?”

“Looking for someone,” Sam said. “Any chance you're familiar with a tour guide named Nigel Ridgeway?”

“I am, but I haven't seen him tonight. He did have a tour, though. I seated some of the guests.” She nodded toward a table near the window where two couples sat, drinking wine. Sam thanked her, then took out his cell phone, telling Remi, “I'll try calling him again.”

“I'll check with them,” Remi said, walking toward the table.

Sam stepped outside the restaurant and hit redial. The phone rang several times, then someone answered, “Yeah?”

“Mr. Ridgewell?”

“Who—who is this?”

“Sam Fargo. We were supposed to meet. Where are you?”

Several seconds of silence, then, “The silos . . . I'm—I think I've been robbed.”

Nigel's voice sounded groggy to Sam, and when he tried to ask
where
these silos were, he heard a soft beep as the phone disconnected. Sam returned inside the restaurant and saw Remi talking to the diners who'd been on Nigel's tour. He started toward her but stopped when he saw the hostess returning to her station. “Where would I find the silos?” he asked her.

“Silos? They're gone.”

“Gone?”

“Demolished several years back. Why?”

“If someone said they were at the silos, where would that be?”

“Just down the road.” She pointed south. “Can't miss it. The lots are still empty.”

He realized she was talking about the vacant lots this side of Devil's Alley. Remi returned just then, and Sam drew her outside. “Something's happened to Nigel,” he said as they walked in the direction indicated. “He said he was robbed.”

“Has he called the police?”

“Not sure. You find out anything?”

“Not much. He was here but took off in a hurry.”

Sam took Remi's arm as he quickened his pace, almost
missing the pathway due to the thick fog. He stopped, listened, hearing nothing but the rhythmic splashing of water.

“What are we doing here?” Remi whispered.

“He said he was at the silos.”

“There aren't any silos here.”

“There used to be.” He took her hand and led her down the path. Unfortunately, they couldn't see more than a few yards in front and he stopped. “Nigel?”

No answer.

Sam turned at the sound of footsteps but couldn't see anyone in the thick fog. Whoever it was continued on around the corner, their footsteps fading in the distance.

“Listen,” Remi said. “I think I hear something.”

Sam heard it, too. Coming from somewhere to their left in the lot. “Wait here,” he said, then climbed over the cable barrier that marked the pedestrian path. He took out his phone, turned on the flashlight. Sparse, long weeds and grasses grew on the rocky soil, looking undisturbed as far as he could see. But as he walked a bit farther, he noticed the grass and weeds were trampled, the rocky soil disturbed. Drag marks, he realized. He followed along, reaching a thick growth of shrubs near the adjoining building. Something rattled the branches down low.

He leaned down, shined his flashlight into the bushes, and saw Nigel, blinking against the light. “I found him!”

Nigel struggled to sit, looking confused. He touched the back of his head, then winced.

“You okay?” Sam asked as Remi joined them.

“I think so. Did we just talk?”

“On the phone.”

“Right.”

Sam held his hand out, and Nigel grabbed on, allowing Sam to help him to his feet. “Think you can walk?”

“Yes.” He took a step, then swayed.

Remi reached out at the same time Sam did. “Maybe we should call an ambulance,” she said.

“No. I'm fine. Just give me a moment.”

“She's right,” Sam said. “You need to get checked out.”

Nigel smiled, as if to prove he was fine. “What I need is a good stiff drink.”

Sam helped him navigate the uneven terrain to the pedestrian path while Remi stood guard on the other side. As far as Sam could tell, he didn't look too injured. No blood, just dirt, leaves, and damp hair from being out in the fog.

After they climbed over the cable barrier, Nigel brushed some of the debris from his gray suit, looking somewhat dazed.

Remi cocked her head at him. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Going to have quite the headache for a while,” he said.

“What happened?” Sam asked.

“Not sure. I ended my tour at the warehouse and was going back to meet up with you. Someone came up and told me there were some shady types on South Quay, so I figured I'd take a shortcut through the alley to avoid them. Don't think I got much farther than this when someone whacked me from behind.”

“Sounds like a robbery,” Sam said.

He patted his pockets, then gave a slight laugh. “Got my wallet. They're going to be disappointed. Not sure I had more than five pounds on me.”

Sam was about to suggest they call the police when he heard a low growl coming from the direction of the quay. The other two heard it as well, and they all turned as a large, dark dog appeared like some apparition in the mist. It stood there, its head low, its teeth bared as it growled.

Sam put his arm out, moving Remi behind him.

Together, the three backed down the path, Sam keeping an eye not only on the dog but on the silhouette of the broad-shouldered man that appeared behind it.

R
emi?” Sam said quietly. “Do you have—”

She handed him a small canister of pepper spray.

“Run,” he said.

Remi and Nigel turned and ran. Sam aimed the canister, but the dog, as though sensing trouble, backed off. Instead, Sam sprayed a shot toward the man, then ran after the others, not waiting to see if he hit his mark. The dog started barking just before Sam heard the sound of heavy footfalls as someone chased after them. Either he missed the dog handler or the man had an accomplice.

Remi and Nigel were up ahead, racing beneath the same arch they'd gone under earlier in the day, Devil's Alley.

Aptly named, Sam thought, as he caught up to his wife. He glanced back but couldn't see anyone in the fog.

“This way,” Nigel said, turning to the right. “The police station isn't that far.”

In less than five minutes, they were pushing through the door of the police station, then reporting the attack. The officer on duty took Nigel back to an interview room while Sam and Remi waited in the lobby.

Remi took a seat in one of the chairs. “A good thing we happened along when we did.”

Sam paced the room, keeping an eye out the door. “What are the chances the one man we're waiting to see is robbed?”

“Too much of a coincidence.”

“After everything that's happened to us so far? Definitely.” He stopped and looked at her. “That whole Black Shuck story from Devil's Alley . . .”

“You think Fisk or Avery wrangled some old lady to stop and tell us some legend about the Devil's dog just to set up this whole robbery?
That
part could be coincidence. But the robbery . . .”

“What good does robbing him do?”

“Stop him from talking to us.”

Remi gave a tired sigh. “Who knew associating with us could be so hazardous?”

Eventually the officer came out and took a statement from Sam and Remi as well. When Sam mentioned the man with the dog, the officer shook his head. “Black Shuck and the Devil, right? Can't tell you how many complaints we have anytime anyone walks their dogs on the quay. Last year, it was Rupert Middlefield walking his mastiff. Seemed to think it was funny. Lucky he doesn't get shot, I say.” The officer closed his notebook and gave a bland smile. “If there's nothing else?”

They thanked him for his time and left. Outside, after receiving assurances that Nigel did not need medical assistance, Sam
offered to buy him that stiff drink. They ended up at a nearby pub, finding a fairly quiet corner to sit and talk.

Sam waited until their drinks were served before moving on to the real purpose of their visit. “About that translation. Have you had a chance to take a look?”

“I have,” Nigel said, placing his scotch on the table, then reaching into his inside suit coat pocket. A worried look came over his face and he checked another pocket, then stood, reaching into his pants pockets. “Maybe my wallet wasn't the only thing taken.”

Sam and Remi exchanged glances. No doubt in Sam's mind who was behind Nigel's attack. “Were you contacted by anyone else about translating Old English phrases?”

“How did you know?”

“A guess,” Sam said. “It's likely the robbery was a cover-up to get to your notebook.”

“But it wouldn't take me that long to translate it again. The original text is on the email that Lazlo sent. So why steal it to begin with?”

“Maybe to keep us from getting it.”

Remi asked, “Do you remember any of it offhand? The translation?”

“Something about castles, rocks, holes . . . I can't remember exactly what it was. Some of it didn't make any sense. But it seemed harmless enough.” He shrugged. “Definitely not something I'd expect to be robbed for. So what exactly is going on? Why me?”

“Are you familiar with Madge Crowley's alternative history on King John's Treasure?”

Nigel reached for his drink, sipped it, then finally met Sam's gaze. “Not my finest moment, taking her papers. Put it this way. I was young and stupid and very arrogant. But, short answer, yes. What's that have to do with what happened to me?”

“Someone else we know believes this alternative history. Enough to go after anyone who has what they want or who gets in their way.”

“I'm sorry. You're saying that the translation I was asked to do by your friend—no. That's ridiculous. Madge's theory, though clever, is all wrong. The treasure was lost in the wash. Everyone knows it.”

“And what if everyone was wrong?” Remi asked. “What if it was really out there? Hidden somewhere on purpose?”

“That's . . . You can't be serious.” He waited for Remi to say something, deny it, and, when she didn't, he turned to Sam. “King John's Treasure?”

Sam nodded. “Bottom line, we have no idea if it's out there. But there seems to be enough evidence on this alternative history that makes it worth looking into. And it seems that your translation of the Old English phrases found on this map could be of value to our search.”

The waitress returned, asking if they needed anything. Nigel held up his near-empty glass, and Sam ordered another round for the table. When she left, Sam said, “We'll understand if you'd rather not involve yourself. Obviously, we're dealing with some unsavory characters. But this may be the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“
May
be?” Nigel said. “It
is
the opportunity of a lifetime. I'm in. What, exactly, do you need from me?”

“To start with,” Sam said, “the translation of what Lazlo sent.”

“If you have some paper, I have the original email on my mobile. There were a few words I couldn't get, but several of them I knew right off.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and started scrolling through his messages while Remi looked through her purse for paper. He glanced up suddenly. “One question. I'm not the only expert in Old English. Definitely not the foremost. And given my history with Madge, what made you pick me?”

Remi handed him pen and paper. “Luck of the draw, mostly. You happened to be in the area.”

It didn't take him long. The passage that Lazlo had sent was short. “Something to keep in mind,” Nigel said, “is that there's plenty of room for error. We seem to be working with a mix of Old English and Middle English. Spelling varied over the centuries, as did the meanings of words and the order in which they were written. What I'm trying to say is, hand this to someone else, they may come up with something different.” He slid the paper across the table toward Sam. “These are the words. The first three are pretty simple. Anyone with an Internet connection could've looked them up and translated them.”

Sam read the list. The first three words translated to
hole
or
well
,
castle
,
rock
or
hill
. “No idea about these?” Sam asked, not able to make anything out of them himself.
Wul hol
and
wul eshea od
 . . .

“That's the part I had difficulty with. Sorry. No idea.”

Remi studied the list for a moment. “So we have a few of the words. Now what?”

“Context,” Nigel said, “is everything. It might help to know where they originated, and when they were written, especially regarding any word that might have a dual meaning. Like that last one which could be
rock
or
hill
.”

Remi returned the list to Sam, who said, “They were found on an old map that we believe dates from 1696. But the original wording was probably transcribed from something written around the time of King John's death.”

Nigel's brows went up. “You're saying
this
list is a key to the missing treasure? That it's here in King's Lynn?”

“That, I don't know. It's taken from a coded message that's not completely deciphered.”

Nigel held out his hand. “May I have another look?”

Sam handed the list to him.

He studied it as the waitress brought their drinks. When she left, he said, “When it comes right down to it, any one of these words could be describing a hiding place. The problem arises in narrowing down a location—assuming they've been properly translated.”

“Anything around here fit?” Remi asked.

“Yes. But there's nothing around here that hasn't been searched a million times by others looking for the same thing.”

“Maybe so,” Sam said. “But they're not us. So what's your take on locations?”

“
Hole
or
well
could be a description of King John's Hole. That's about halfway between here and Long Sutton. And, if true, buried beneath about thirty feet of silt. Except—”

“Except what?” Sam asked when Nigel didn't continue.

“Except why have these other indicators with it?
Castle
and
hill
, for instance? Maybe a
well in a castle
? Or a
castle hill
? There are plenty of those about.”

“Anything dating from that era in the general vicinity?”

“Castle Rising.”

“Looks like we have a bit of exploring to do in the morning.”

Remi raised her glass in a toast. “Here's to good hunting.”