Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1)

by T. Hunt Locke

  He grabbed Dan by the shoulders and sized him up with his dark green eyes. They were a set of eyes which had seen the world. Dan understood that fact instantly. Burdett had come into contact with all sorts of men in his career as a prosecutor. Some could be pushed around while others stood their ground. It was a factor he could pick up quickly. You didn’t fuck around with Jack Beckham.

  “Good, you’re not a man afraid of labor,” Beckham said. “Can’t trust a man who won’t use his hands. Julia has told me you renovated an old salt box. I can admire a builder.”

  “But then again, sir, you didn’t invite me over to discuss building plans,” Dan replied.

  Jack Beckham let out a gregarious laugh. “Good, good. Straight to the point like a lawyer should. And a scholar as well I hear. Julia, whiskeys all around, and orange juice too. It is still morning after all.”

  Dan followed Julia and Jack into the residence. Being led into the study he could not help but look in awe at the room’s attention to detail. Encased in teak wood, two book cases stood from floor to ceiling. Ivory whale tusks acted as book ends. Herodotus and Thucydides sat easily beside Charles Francis Adams. This was a study any historian would envy.

  Jack Beckham sat down behind his desk. Follins Pond was captured neatly in the expansive bay window. Dan sat directly in front and gazed down at what was surely Jack’s sail boat.

  Taking note, Jack asked, “Do you sail, Dan?”

  “No,” he admitted. “But I have recently taken up kayaking.” He let his gaze wander around the room finally settling on a smaller walnut bookcase which sat just aside the bay window. “I must compliment you, quite an impressive display of books, Jack.”

  Julia entered the study and set down a plate of crab cakes along with the whiskey and juice.

  “Not the half of it, which brings us to this meeting.”

  Dan took a sip of his whiskey. He was grateful that Julia had gone heavy on the orange juice. “Julia says that you recently had a break-in. Anything of value taken?”

  “No. But the room was torn apart. I just yesterday put everything back to order.”

  “Jack, I’m not sure how I can be of any help. This is a police matter, is it not?”

  Beckham scowled. He then withdrew an envelope from his draw and slid it across the desk.

  Dan looked down at the plain white packet. He understood what it was. Inside was what appeared to be a considerable stack of bills. He let it sit there.

  “You can easily understand a man through the opinions of others,” Beckham began. “Your former boss, Bill O’Malley, is a friend. He says you are ‘tough as nails and honest to boot.’ Allen Wittenborn, your academic advisor at UMass Dartmouth, bragged that you have a ‘Keen mind, curious, about historical research.’ I am in need of both. To answer your question, I don’t trust the police.”

  Dan picked up the envelope, looked at Julia who hovered over the conversation intently, and peered inside. “This is quite a payday. You’ve done your homework, Jack. I’ll need to ask a few questions before I answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

  Jack Beckham let out another bellowing laugh. “Oh, you’ll answer ‘yes,’ son.”

  Dan Burdett as a young man, strapping, a smile that envisioned a world of possibilities and greenish blue eyes that peered back at her with the knowledge that he would tackle those possibilities with vigor. So much could be gleaned from the eyes. She picked up another photo. The frame, like the cottage she had just spent the night, was sturdy. Dan in his football uniform, muddy, a game recently finished, the smile still beaming forth, his dad proudly by his side.

  The interior of the cottage was sparse. Like any lady left in a lover’s abode, she would snoop around. But she also had a job to do. The closet opened. That same football jersey, the red, black, and white trim, of Northeastern University lay crumbled on the floor. So, they had at least one thing in common, he Northeastern ’84 and she ’00. Yet there was little else to be found out about the man who was treading into dangerous waters. The house was newly renovated. Ghosts had yet to recede into the closets. Dan Burdett was a blank slate, a man starting over. And if that meant she’d have nothing to report the fact still brought a smile to Bess’ face.

  Michael Beckham, Captain Mick to his crew, peered intently into his well worn magnifying glass. This discovery, if true, would turn the historical world upside down. He wasn’t concerned with that however. Ever since he had taken to the sea he had been consumed with the stories of ancient mariners. None stoked his imagination as enthusiastically as the daring sagas of the Norsemen of the Viking age. Captain Mick was a diver, a treasure hunter, and he was now staring into the opportunity of a lifetime.

  He took a sip from his bottle of Shipyard Ale and walked over to his telescope. His home was built by a famous local seafarer in the mid-seventeenth century. Naturally the views of the sea were spectacular. Set majestically just beyond Falmouth’s Village Green, the Atlantic had always called his name. On another day he might have taken up position on the widow’s walk. He trained his sight out to the sea, past the harbor and the beaches, and onto the tiny islands which guided one on to Narragansett Bay. “Vinland,” he whispered in awe.

  Cartography was his passion. And the map which lay before him seemed genuine. The outline of the coast, Maine to Rhode Island, appeared amazingly precise. He couldn’t be sure. His friend, a partner of sorts, from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute would aid him in that regard. Still, he would honor the request made of his brother. The map would be protected and sent for expert analysis.

  A loud knock could be heard at the front door. Captain Mick walked back to the map which had been placed carefully across his desk. He took one last look. His friend would take it back to the Institute where it would be stored properly.

  John Kilkenny sat patiently on the tidy park bench. It was nice to take a trip into town. While he enjoyed the quiet isolation of island life, it was still a pleasure to spend a day in Falmouth. Set beside him was a piping hot Dunkin’ Donuts coffee alongside two blueberry cream donuts. Simple indulgences provided a calming effect.

  Falmouth’s Village Green, the site where, in 1776, Cape Cod fishermen and cranberry farmers mustered into a revolutionary militia, staring down at the formidable cannons of the British warships which had gathered in the harbor, beckoned for his attention. The Sinclair family had played such a pivotal role in the formation of a rough and ready Cape Cod fighting force willing to die for the freedoms most now took for granted. Pride welled up in his heart. He too was more than willing to serve, do what was necessary, and sacrifice his life for the greater good.

  His job, on this afternoon, was simple: stake out Captain Mick Beckham’s house. He took a photo of the home which had graced Old Main Street for more than two hundred and fifty years. It was a grand one indeed befitting a man of Beckham’s standing and stature. The house was a testament to Georgian eighteenth century grandeur. The Captain could be seen peering into his telescope.

  Kilkenny noted a man approach the front gate, open it, and stride to the front door. He quickly snapped a photo. Down the street a Ford SUV sat recently parked. The insignia on the driver’s door read: The Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute. He noted the license plate number into his notebook. He dipped into his bag. John Kilkenny closed his eyes and savored the rich blueberry cream. Yes, the simple pleasures. His wait continued.

  “Follow me, Burdett.”

  Dan got up and walked to where Jack Beckham was standing beside the oak paneled wall. The wall held many photos themselves bracketed in oak frames. Carl Yasztremski had his arm wrapped around Jack in one.

  “Bank Street Beach,” Dan said with a grin. “I used to lifeguard there during summer break.” He turned to Julia. Another memory, their missed opportunity, came rushing to mind.

  She seemed to read Dan’s mind, raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders, but then changed the subject. “A Bonatt’s Bakery Meltaway and then off to the beach if I remember correctly, Dan.”


  “That’s right. Walked right past Yaz’s house in fact.”

  Jack looked on satisfied. “Now there’s a man. Yaz, I mean. Great guy, great friend. We’re all getting older I guess.”

  An opening in the wall suddenly appeared. Startled, Dan jumped back.

  “As you said, Burdett, we’re not here to discuss matters even as pleasant as this hall of famer or even the teenage shenanigans of you two. I handed you an envelope and I intend to get my money’s worth.”

  Julia and Dan followed her grandfather into the secret chamber. A light was turned on which dimly lit the room. It was small and efficiently cluttered. A candle, sitting in an ornate silver candle holder, was lit to further illuminate the hidden chamber’s contents. Much of it was dusty. An old coffee jar held an assortment of coins. On top of a rickety table lay three daggers of varying lengths. Each contained intricate, if faded, carvings. The etchings were slightly different though each prominently displayed an encircled cross. Dan let his eyes hover over the ancient tools of death.

  “They are captivating. The Cross, in my estimation, is an early rendering of the Lorraine Cross,” Jack said breaking Dan’s spell.

  He looked up quizzically. “The Templar Cross? Cape Cod is a long way from the Holy Land, Jack.”

  Jack Beckham shrugged his shoulders. “The Vikings travelled the known world over. They were explorers, settlers, farmers and fishermen. Some became familiarly known as Normans while others became the Rus, or Russians. In any case, much of what you see here are trinkets. Other than the daggers, they are of little value, historical curiosities, but, in my estimation, they do place the Vikings here, right here, the very place where my home stands.”

  Dan held up his hand. “Sir, if you need me to help you in what one may call a quixotic quest I must decline.” His words, if not his tone, may have appeared harsh. He had always found the direct approach to be best.

  “I’m not chasing windmills, Burdett. I can assure you of that. But come, over here, let me show you two things.”

  Beckham walked behind the room’s lone desk. He opened the bottom draw and produced a heavily wrapped object. He carefully unwrapped the hemp woven sack and produced a strange looking object.

  “This is a Viking sunstone,” he stated.

  Dan walked closer. He looked on the object with curiosity. An oblong crystal the size of a cigarette pack sat next to a pair of dividers. “I thought these were, I mean, the Viking sunstone, it was part of the mythology. Where did you, really, here, at Follins Pond?”

  “Yes. Iceland spar,” Jack Beckham began to explain. “I had this analyzed at a private research facility up in Boston. It’s a form of calcite and it has a unique property in that it can diffract light into two separate ways.”

  “Even during the night or on a cloudy day?” Dan asked while keeping his eyes trained on the odd device.

  “That was the beauty of it. The crystal will emit two beams and, when you rotate it, just like this, the beams will converge. That is when you can tell the direction of the sun and thusly chart a course.”

  “Why not go public, Jack?”

  Julia took the exquisitely carved crystal into her hands. “Grandfather is afraid the experts will say it is from a later date, seventeenth century or thereabouts, or worse, a hoax.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” he rebuked her warmly. “But, these were used well past the Viking age. I’ll admit that. And yes, strangely, anytime I have made a discovery public an army of detractors appear quickly on my doorstep.”

  Dan considered this for a moment. “Well, sir, perhaps it is from a later date.”

  “Burdett, in your work, I believe they call it a preponderance of evidence. Let me show you the other things I’ve collected over the years. Then I’ll show you a map. If you think I’m up to a hoax, shake my hand, return the envelope, and we’ll walk away chums.”

  Captain Mick Beckham opened the door to greet an old colleague. His excitement caused him to dismiss all courtesy. “This way, Collins.”

  Peter Collins was an esteemed marine historian. A graduate of the Massachusetts Maritime Academy, Collins had long since been regarded as a leading expert on the cartography developed during the age of discovery. The man lived for maps. And he could sniff a fake, forgery, or hoax without fail. This unique skill had proven quite useful as he had teamed up with Captain Beckham to scour the eastern seaboard for sunken vessels and treasure. It had also proved quite lucrative as neither he nor the esteemed Captain had any qualms about placing certain items on the black market.

  He followed Beckham up the sturdy pine stairway steadying his rotund body on the immaculately polished oak rail. The Captain picked up the map canister and carefully removed its contents. He unfurled the scroll and placed it on his antique chart table. He secured the maps edges and borders and stepped away.

  Collins, much like a doctor, opened up his black leather bag and removed a magnifying glass and chart measure. He hovered over the map. First from a distance and then inspected it from a closer range. He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his heavily perspiring brow. “This can’t be,” he huffed trying to catch his breath.

  Mick Beckham, who had been standing at a respectable distance, leaned in closer. “What do you see, Pete?”

  “Look here, Mick,” the historian beckoned. He pointed to the lower left segment of the map. “Here we have the Elizabethan Islands. This would be Uncatena Island and right beside is Nonamesset Island. They are exquisitely drawn right down to the proportions. And follow my chart measure, this can be none other than Quick’s Hole,” he said barely able to contain his excitement.

  The Captain clapped his hands together. “Aha, I knew it!” he exclaimed punching his finger down towards the map. “Nashawena Island right here and the strait, Quick’s Hole, separating it from Pasque Island.”

  They both fell into silence trying to reign in their elation. Finally, Mick Beckham raised up his thick frame. “It seems, Professor, we’ve found our Holy Grail.”

  The tour had been illuminating. Burdett had to admit that. The artifacts, ancient fishhooks, what appeared to be woodworking mallets, a rusted yet still sturdy sword, all made for one impressive home museum. “You’ve assembled quite a collection here, Jack.”

  “Forty years of amateur archeology resides in this room,” Jack Beckham said not trying to hide his pride.

  “And, this is what your intruders were after,” Burdett ventured.

  “Yes. But I also mentioned a map. Are you in or out?”

  “How could I not, sir,” he replied shooting a smile at Julia.

  In truth, his business was in no position to turn down business. Nola came rushing to his thoughts. He’d contact her straight away after the meeting. The gnawing thought that these two seemingly unrelated events were connected still haunted him. A strong gust of wind unhinged a window shutter which slammed back against the house. Dan gave a start.

  Jack Beckham chuckled. “They say all these old Cape houses have a ghost or two running around somewhere. Come here,” he ordered as he smoothed out a map on the ancient oak desk.

  Peter Collins could hardly contain his elation. He had always been convinced Cape Cod had played a large role in the Viking voyages of North America. Vinland. It made perfect sense. He maneuvered his vehicle through the Sunday traffic as Church was just letting out. He was grateful to break away from Falmouth’s Village center set on the marsh road towards Wood’s Hole and his office at the Oceanographic Institute. His heart raced. Work needed to be done quickly. He would enter the map’s information into his database, none better in the world, and see if this map had ever been referenced before. He knew the answer to be ‘no.’ Still, due diligence was in order. But, perhaps this map, along its life journey, had influenced other cartographers. That would be worth its weight in gold as well. So engrossed in thought, he almost missed the man on the side of the road waving him over for help.

  ‘Bad place for a car mishap,’ Collins thought as he
brought his SUV to the side of the narrow road set just behind Little Harbor.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the stranded man said amiably.

  Collins smiled as he noted the man’s flat tire. “Glad to be of help. Do you have a spare?”

  “That I have. My wife, unfortunately, has left me high and dry without a jack however.”

  “Women,” Collins chuckled. “My wife is a piece of work as well. Let me fetch mine. Pete Collins, by the way.”

  “Pete, thanks, John Kilkenny.”

  Peter Collins went back to his SUV and retrieved his jack and lift. He set to lifting the vehicle while Kilkenny stood to the side as a motorcycle roared past. He watched it keep pace down the road before lowering his head into the trunk. He perused over the number of tools in his box. Finally he settled on an ancient iron fish hook. ‘Over a thousand years old and favored by Viking fishermen,’ Henry Sinclair had proclaimed proudly. Kilkenny had found other uses for it as well. Four inches in length with an open eye razor sharp hook, its prey would rarely survive.

  “You got that tire, John.”

  “Sure, Pete, let me give you a hand.”

  Peter Collins caught a glimpse of something strange from the car’s chrome reflection. He looked over his shoulder to see John Kilkenny hacking down on him with what appeared to be a large fish hook. There was no time to react and the blow was swift. Kilkenny’s aim was perfect as he landed the spiky hook in the center of Collins skull. The scream of anguish set a group of seagulls to flight. The hook had taken hold. Kilkenney wrenched it back and forth. It was not the first time he had chosen this particular method. Collins body began to spasm wildly as his shrieks turned to gurgles. Soon the body quietly fell limp. He extracted the deadly tool from Collins head and calmly wiped the hook free of the brain matter which clung tightly to sharp edge.

  Kilkenny moved Collins’ body to the marsh’s periphery. He quickly hacked off the unfortunate scientist’s limbs and sent them adrift amongst the weeds of the marsh. Satisfied that the body was sufficiently disposed he walked back to the SUV. A satisfied feeling of accomplishment overcame him. “The map!”