Under the Moon Gate (4 page)

When Patience remained silent, Nathaniel continued.

“Receipts for large shipments of gold, which are still unaccounted for, with only clues to the location of the treasure, to which you have a partial claim. And lastly, there was this.”

Nathaniel lifted a thick battered brown leather volume from his jacket pocket.

“What is that?” she said, eyeing the package suspiciously, refusing to take it.

“Your grandfather’s personal journal. I imagine it has the answers we need.”

A journal with her grandfather’s words? Something of his left behind? That was priceless. But this man was wrong about her grandfather. She was certain of that.

“Answers
we
need? I’m not interested in any dirt you think you might have unearthed that would tarnish my grandfather’s reputation and that of my family.”

“Yes, think of the scandal,” Nathaniel mused.

“And if this journal truly belonged to my grandfather, why is it in your possession and not in his vault here at home? And why would he have left a trail at all?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Nathaniel said. “The Germans were notorious record keepers. They documented everything, because of course they never doubted they would be victorious. After the war, he probably wanted to sink the evidence so deep it would hopefully never be found, especially
by his family. Or maybe someone else betrayed him and placed it where it would eventually be found.”

“And where exactly was that?”

“At the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“What kind of sea chest was it?” Patience pressed, intrigued. “Was it a pirate’s chest? Sunken treasure from a shipwrecked Spanish galleon?”

Not exactly, he thought suspiciously, but she was close. Too close. With her reference to treasure, was it possible she knew? Nathaniel didn’t believe her choice of words was a coincidence.

“The kind that’s emblazoned on the side with a Nazi swastika,” said Nathaniel.

Patience got up, rounded on Nathaniel, and stared him down.

“You have quite an imagination. This sounds like something straight out of a Jules Verne novel. You asked me to listen. Now I’m through listening. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. So please leave.”

“There’s more,” Nathaniel said. “Did your grandfather ever mention a man called Nighthawk?”

Patience looked puzzled. “Nighthawk? No.”

“Well, it was probably a code name.”

“Why are you doing this to me? If your so-called proof is in here, what do you need with me?”

“Because a man’s journal is his own. As a historian and a gentleman, I respect the privacy of the dead. This belongs to you. I just want to discuss it with you after you’ve read it.”

“You read my grandfather’s private diary?”

“Like I said, it was the property of my grandmother. I inherited it. But I need your help in interpreting it.”

“And in return?”

“I promise not to say a word to anyone about what I’ve found. If you promise to let me look on your property for the gold referred to in those papers.”

“Oh, gold? Well, if it really exists, that’s why you’re here. So why hasn’t anyone found it after all these years?”

“That’s a mystery I intend to solve.”

“If there’s any truth to your theory, you can keep your bloody fortune. I want no part of it.”

“Ah, now there’s the catch,” he said. “I don’t actually have the gold. But I think you hold the key to its whereabouts. Is anything worth more than your family’s reputation?”

“I didn’t think
gentlemen
engaged in blackmail, Mr. Morgan,” Patience fired back.

“I never claimed to be a saint. But
this
was meant for you.” Nathaniel handed Patience the diary.

The book felt heavy in her hands. “If what you say is true, then whatever you find is contaminated. I don’t want the money. You’re welcome to it. I do want the truth. I can’t believe my grandfather would be involved in anything so despicable. I want to read my grandfather’s journal, if it really is his. Maybe there’s more I can learn about him. I’ll talk with you about it, but not for your sake. I want some answers, for my own peace of mind.”

****

Nathaniel wasn’t making any promises. He was calling all the shots now. And he had some questions of his own about his grandmother’s role in this whole affair and her relationship with Nighthawk and William Whitestone. For instance, why did she keep William Whitestone’s sea trunk and make sure it went to Nathaniel?

“Has anything unusual happened since your grandfather’s death?” Nathaniel asked. “Have you been contacted by anyone?”

Patience turned on him, fury blazing in her eyes.

“Did you make those calls?” she shouted, poking her index finger sharply into his chest, causing Nathaniel to retreat to the other side of the couch.

“You did, didn’t you? How else would you have known about them? I told no one. My house was broken into, but nothing of value was taken. I thought it was someone who read about my grandmother in the newspapers and assumed I’d be easy prey.”

“That’s why you called the police?”

“Yes, but about the break-in only.”

He grabbed her arm roughly.

“The voice on the phone, how did he sound, what did he say?” Nathaniel demanded, as his grip tightened.

“Nothing that made any sense. He spoke in German, like you. Please let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”

Nathaniel scowled and ignored her.

“And?” Nathaniel questioned, sensing there was more that she wasn’t telling him.

“Someone had been blackmailing my grandfather,” Patience whispered.

“How do you know?” Nathaniel prodded, refusing to release her.

“After his death, I was reviewing my grandfather’s accounts and noticed large sums of money had been transferred out on a monthly basis to an unknown source. I found that strange. My grandfather was not the type of man to submit to blackmail.”

“Perhaps he made an exception to protect his family.”

No wonder she was so skittish. It all made sense now, Nathaniel thought. The same person who was blackmailing her grandfather, who had very probably killed him, and had broken into her house, that person had also been snooping around his, Nathaniel’s, boat.

“For a while, the calls stopped. I was hoping…” she sighed. “But then there was the note.”

“What did the note say?” Nathaniel insisted.

“It said I would be next, that I would die just like my grandfather. It said my time was up and not to call the police or I wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.”

Nathaniel grimaced. The man was circling and closing in for the kill, like a vulture or a predatory hawk in the night.

He could see how his revelations were affecting Patience, and he regretted it. Seeing how the winds were blowing, Nathaniel decided to try a safer tack.

“I’m sorry, Patience, if I was too rough on you,” Nathaniel apologized, releasing her arm.

“Just get out of my house and let me read my grandfather’s words in peace,” she pleaded, tears threatening to spill over.

Just then Sallie entered with a laden tray and a cheerful, “Tea, anyone?”

Later, steering his rental scooter down the driveway, Nathaniel reviewed the situation. He had involved Patience in this affair, and now he couldn’t in good conscience leave her unprotected. Whoever was threatening her was the same person who was now after him and the contents of the sea chest. He had a pretty good idea who the stalker was. Or at least that his codename was Nighthawk—Island Eagle’s dangerous associate. But he hadn’t had any luck locating the man. Was Nighthawk still in Bermuda after all these years?

****

Patience watched Nathaniel saunter out to the circular driveway, where he took off recklessly on his scooter. Hopefully, the police would catch him on the way out, throw him in jail, and make sure he never came near her again.

Locking the door after him, she wandered back to the sofa, where her legs buckled beneath her. Thank goodness the arrogant man was gone. She was having trouble catching her breath around him. His accusations were disconcerting, and every time he got near her, she lost control of her thoughts.

The journal had been preserved in plastic, so the inside pages were in fairly good condition. As the sun began to move to the back of the house, lowering the level of light in the room, Patience switched on a table lamp and became absorbed in the past.

Yes, it was her grandfather’s familiar handwriting she was seeing on the pages, but the story she was reading was about a stranger, and the man who had written it was one she didn’t know at all.

Chapter 5

Patience was still reading her grandfather’s journal when she heard the knock at the door. This was the second time today. Why couldn’t everyone leave her alone? She dried her eyes and hid the journal in the cedar chest under the stairwell before opening the door. The first pages had been damning, but she refused to believe a stranger’s accusations of the grandfather she had known and loved all her life. There had to be some other explanation. And she would find it or force Nathaniel to help her find it.

She could hardly keep her eyes open. Her head felt muzzy. It couldn’t be the black tea Sallie had prepared for them after she’d finally shown up and insisted on being hospitable to the “gentleman caller” just when Patience had been on the verge of throwing him out. Black tea was supposed to be invigorating. And she felt anything but invigorated. At this rate she was going to sleep her life away, she thought, opening the door.

“Cecilia,” she said as she stared into the face of her best friend. “Come in.”

“I thought you might be up for some company. It’s been a whole week, and I haven’t heard a peep from you. I’ve sent food to the house. Did Sallie tell you? I didn’t want you wasting away. I know you didn’t leave the house for the entire month your grandmother was sick, except for the funeral. You’ve cut yourself off from everyone. You could stand the company. I was starting to get worried. We all were.”

Cecilia continued to chatter as she followed Patience into the drawing room. “I just came from the Rediscover Bermuda committee meeting. I presented your ideas for the annual celebration. They loved everything you proposed, especially the idea about the expanded Dine Around program. That will benefit all the restaurants on the island. They’re going to adopt all your recommendations.

“Oh, and they loved your ideas about the special celebrations planned throughout the year, to coincide with Bermuda’s holidays and sporting events, especially the personal tour of the current homes of some of the original families. I reminded them that the celebration will touch every parish, every part of the island, every aspect of our culture, our history, and our future, just like you told me to.

“They were thrilled with the brochure copy, and the watercolor you painted will look great on the postcards we’re having printed for the travel agencies. Everyone misses you. They want to know when you’re coming back. There’s a lot of work yet to be done on the campaign. We’ve arranged for all the advertising agencies to make presentations next week. You absolutely have to be there.”

“I’ll try. Can I get you something to eat? Maybe some of those cookies you sent over?”

“They fed us at the meeting,” said Cecilia as she joined Patience on the couch.

“I want a local agency, Cecilia.”

“One you can control?” Cecilia smiled. “Or one that won’t mind working with a theme you’ve already selected, even if it is terrific?”

“You know that’s not why. I think it’s important that a Bermuda agency be given the contract for the celebration. It will be more meaningful.”

“I agree with you. I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, but you have to be prepared that some people on the committee will question your opinion because you’ve never been off the island. You’ve been insulated. You don’t really know what’s out there. The New York and London agencies are slick. They know the market we’re targeting. Their argument is bolstered by the fact that Bermuda has only 69,000 citizens but about 600,000 tourists a year come here, more than half of them by cruise. And eighty-five percent of all those visitors are from the United States.”

“Just because I’ve never left Bermuda, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s available. Bermuda is such a jewel. In my opinion it’s the best-kept secret in the world. The island is such a surprise to first-time visitors that almost half of Bermuda tourists are repeaters. People who live here understand that better than anyone. I feel strongly about that. It’s just the right thing to do. I’ll try to be there for the presentations, but I’m still mourning my grandmother.”

“I know, but you’ve shut off everyone just when you need people around you.”

“I’m not in the mood for company,” Patience protested. “I don’t really feel like talking right now. I want to be left alone.”

“Well, sorry, I can’t do that. You shouldn’t be alone. I’ve told you that. I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to talk. I’ll just sit here with you. If this is going to be a clash of wills, I’ll win.”

“Speaking of letting you in, how did you get around the police? They’re supposed to have guards posted at the gate.”

“Patience, you know I can get around
any
man,
any
time. Each of those young officers asked if he could walk me to your door, and I told them to knock themselves out. And that’s exactly what they did. They actually came to blows over which of them would get to escort me.”