“I have always held the Portuguese in high regard,” Sinclair began. “In fact, it was the Portuguese King Dinis I who came to the aid of my brothers, the Knights Templar, during their darkest hour. So, I will use my device with great discretion.” He then gave the nod.
Kilkenny slowly increased the tension on the chains allowing the pulleys and rollers to rotate the rack on its axis. The man screamed in excruciating pain as his muscle fibers began to stretch and his joints began to dislodge.
“The Templar cross bow, the Templar cross bow,” spat the man in an anguished whimper.
Sinclair held his ear close and could barely believe what he was hearing. It wasn’t the information he was seeking. But it captivated his attention. He held his hand up and signaled stop.
The sun was slowly finding its way to greener pastures. Dan Burdett followed its path while digesting the information Brick Cleary had laid forth.
“That is all well and good, Brick. Helpful. But let’s keep to the here and now,” Burdett said slowly. He knew however, that family legacies mattered a great deal in the dense nooks and crannies of New England. Reputations mattered.
Brick nodded and ordered another round. “I’ll tell you though. I could well get accustomed to the eating choices down here, Dan.”
“Sullivan’s getting a bit old, Cleary?”
“Hey, you’ll never beat a Sully’s dog, ‘all around,’ in my book. And the clam roll stacks right up there too. Looking over Castle Island and Fort Independence, nah, that will never get old.”
“Fort Independence,” Dan mused.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“It just hit me, Brick. We are, or as you pointed out earlier, I am, involved in something historical, something buried in time.”
“A buried treasure!” Brick announced with a cheer and a laugh. Dan joined in appreciating the absurdity of the conjecture.
“Boys, boys,” Merry exclaimed placing two pints on the table. “A bit tipsy are we. Dan, slow down, save some strength for later,” she added with a wink.
An offer was extended. Dan accepted. “I will need a massage after my kayak home, Merry!”
“Uh hmm, on to the here and now,” Brick said interrupting their flirtation.
“Right,” Dan said turning his attention to a map Brick began to unfold on the table. “Papi and Pete were heading out to the Elizabeth Islands.”
“Correct. And they were in the employ of Captain Mick Beckham.”
“At least according to your bookie, Mark Burns.”
“Been at this too long, Dan,” Brick asserted. “I know the type. Did he spill all the beans? No, but he gave up the essentials. If need be, I’ll squeeze him later. I can assure you, Burns will try to keep in the game.”
Dan knew Brick was as good as they came. It was his job to keep asking the questions. “Ok, let’s go with the assumption that Captain Mick has a deep self-interest which is at odds with his brother Jack.”
“And here is where the family angle, the history angle, gets interesting. The Sinclair Family privately owns the Elizabeth Islands. Their family history dates as far back as Normandy. And I don’t mean World War II. Here, I was busy at the library today.”
Brick reached into his satchel and handed Dan an A4 sized manila folder. Dan took it and deposited it into his backpack.
“I’ll dive into this at home.”
“Among other things,” Brick replied.
“Enough of my extra-curricular activities. Let’s take stock of where we are at? As you said, we’ve got four families, old money, involved in some way.”
Brick nodded in agreement. “That’s right. Let me ask you, what type of work are you doing for your client?”
It was time to clue Brick in on his work for Jack Beckham. “Ok, this should bring the jigsaw puzzle into closer focus. An old friend, Julia Beckham, came around to my house a few days back…”
“Collins is dead, Mick.” Nickerson delivered the news without emotion. “Can’t say as I regret seeing that type ushered to their rightful resting place.”
Mick Beckham continued his steely glare onto the ocean from his second story study. He stood rigidly as he received the news. “Peter had his demons but he was the best when it came to chart work.”
Nickerson walked over to the wall to Beckham’s right. A large chestnut frame, two feet by three, sturdy, hung at eye level. Encased behind the thick glass was a cross-bow. “Rather brazen wouldn’t you say, Captain?”
“A relic such as that should be in proper hands,” he snorted in reply. “Too much money in the world today, too much greed. People are able to acquire things they shouldn’t have. Take this Templar Crossbow for example.”
“Indeed, you have done just that. Taken it that is.”
“Me, no, I’ve got a bill of sale around here somewhere,” Beckham answered his mood beginning to brighten.
“The Templar Crossbow,” Sinclair said. “Are you sure?” The information, while not necessarily important in regards his current predicament, was intriguing.
“Yes, I’m sure,” his captive muttered.
Henry Sinclair paced around the rack. He motioned to John Kilkenny. Again the rack began to rotate stretching the poor man’s joints even further. The shrieks of pain seemed to rattle the ancient timbers holding the ceiling aloft. Sinclair came to a halt. He leaned in looking deeply into the man’s eyes searching for any sign of deception. He found none. The Portuguese mariner was telling the truth.
“Let our friend down, John,” he commanded. “Fetch some water, ale, and a bit to eat. The man has a story to tell.”
Dan was amazed at how quickly Brick had circled the square. Indeed, there was a link between Pete, Papi, and, at the very least, the Beckham Clan. Though most likely, Dan surmised, Jack Beckham was unaware of his brother’s clandestine activity.
“Brick, my client is Jack Beckham, brother of the Captain Mick that came up in your inquiries.”
“And Jack, what’s his angle, why did he hire the esteemed Dan Burdett?”
Dan looked thoughtfully down into his beer. This was a good question. “Now, after listening to what you have uncovered, I’m not completely sure.”
Brick leaned his heavy frame onto the table. “How so?”
“Really, Jack took me on a tour of his private collection. A lot of things he had dredged out of Follins Pond over the years. He is confident that they are Viking artifacts.”
“There has always been speculation that, what was his name, Erick the Red…”
“Leif Erickson.”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Brick said with a whistle. “Man, would that blow out the candle on Columbus.” He raised his arm and called for another round.
Dan finished off his second pint. “Slow down, man. I’ve got to paddle back let’s not forget. In any case, when he has gone public, his findings have been rejected.”
“There have been a fair share of hoaxes throughout the years I suppose,” Brick said with a shrug.
“Jack Beckham isn’t the type to hoist a hoax on the public. He is a serious man. What does seem curious, at first glance, is the speed with which respected historians have arrived on the scene to debunk his claims.”
Brick narrowed his eyes, a predator on the prowl. Dan noticed his friends focused glare and understood. The historian, the lawyer, and the detective, all had one thing in common. The hunt for the truth. Or, the intent to cover it up.
“You detect some mischief,” Dan asked.
“I do. Anytime a situation is met with rushed denials, well, Shakespeare, ‘Thou doth protest too much.’”
“Shakespeare now is it?” Dan said with a laugh. “But, of course, you are right. Protest what, however?”
“Women will kill for family and love. Men will drive a sword through you for money, honor, and legacy. It is that simple.” Brick downed the last of his beer. “I don’t think Peter Collins was killed for family or love. Nor Pete.”
Dan nodded grimly while Merry cleaned off th
e table. “I’ll need to meet up with Jack Beckham tomorrow. Alone.”
“And I’ll be back up to Boston. Let me know if you need me to turn over any more rocks. I’ll return next week to squeeze Mark Burns.” Brick flashed a bright smile. “But that’s just for shits and giggles.”
He still inhabited the dark dank hollowed out hill. He was off the rack. The pain, low and persistent, he figured would always echo through his bones. His life, for the present, had been spared. If he didn’t understand the historical importance of much of what lay neatly aligned throughout the cavern, he intuitively knew he was sitting on a goldmine. The skeletal remains of previous prisoners told him he would probably never cash in his chips however.
Those skulls, bones, and limbs, had once housed dreams. They were most probably left scattered to send a message, to the captured, that dreams would fade and hysteria would take control. His mind began to shiver.
Still, a sliver of hope remained. His eyes fixated on a meticulously polished object which was affixed on the opposite wall. Jesus lay listlessly on the intricately carved gold cross though the flickering flame emanating from the cavern’s lone lantern tried to coax him to life. “Jesus saves,” his sister always commented in dire times. A promise was made. He would change his life. No more visions of grandeur but rather an appreciation of the simple things. In this the most dreadful of circumstances, Jesus truly was by his side.
Dan filled his cup with a steaming strong black French Roast. His head thumped from the one too many he had enjoyed with Brick the night before. The kayak still sat by Clancy’s. Merry had been good enough to drive him home. He took care to not wake her. Dropping back into his recliner he picked up the dossier Cleary had assembled. Nickerson, Beckham, Sinclair, Chadwell. The names rolled off his tongue. These families had played a significant role in Cape history for almost four centuries.
Nickerson and Chadwell were of Pilgrim stock. ‘Bess Chadwell, a Pilgrim,’ Dan thought. ‘Well, times have changed.’ He liked Bess. That was a danger sign in itself. The same could not be said for the Chief. He was tough as nails, a salty dog, who knew where the bodies were buried. Most likely he had buried a few himself. Nickerson and Chadwell were family. He peered deeper into the folder. The history fascinated him.
1656, the first English settler, William Nickerson, ran a cart down the ancient Indian pathway. He had an eye on building a settlement. He struck a deal with the Monomoyick Tribe’s Chief, Mattaquason. A shallop, ten coats, six kettles, twelve axes, twelve hoes, twelve knives, forty shilling in wampum, a hat, twelve shillings in coin and Monomoit was established. There were not enough settlers at first to establish a church, so it would not be incorporated as a town but rather as a constablewick. And Nickerson had his fair share of disputes with Plymouth Colony.
Enough newer immigrants, second generation Pilgrims, had had their fill of the tightly run puritanical Colony and started to make their way into Monomoit. A suitably English name was chosen and the small settlement became known as Chatham. A brother and sister, Thomas and Ruth Chadwell, were amongst the first to join Nickerson in his new venture and they would prove pivotal in the success of the fledgling town. In Thomas, Chatham now had a preacher. In Ruth, Nickerson now had a bride. Another Chadwell, Moses, would establish a thriving fishing community further down the coast in Provincetown.
‘A crusty old sort,’ Dan murmured through the steam of his coffee. William Nickerson, a true pioneer, tenaciously stuck to his goal of achieving a permanent settlement. A series of legal disagreements continued to arise throughout the remainder of his life. If Plymouth Colony was happy to be rid of his ill temper, they were none too pleased to have him on their doorstep. Chief Nickerson clearly had inherited the family traits. Upon William Nickerson’s death his land was divided up between his five sons and three daughters. The clan had hung tightly to the Cape shores for generations.
And now Dan was locked in a deadly drama he realized may well be beyond his scope.
“Dan,” a sleepy voice called. “Come back to bed.”
Burdett quickly listed his to do list for the week: Set up a meeting with Jack Beckham; An afternoon with Bess; Ensure his semester got off to a strong start; Arrange lodging for the Templars in America conference. He’d start with Merry.
“Maybe I can help, Captain.”
Captain Mick Beckham looked at the small time crook with contempt. He had no choice but to accept the meeting. Still, it would occur in the early hours when prying eyes had yet to open.
“You said, Burns, you had information. Out with it! Then we can negotiate as to how much it is worth.”
Burns smiled. Captain Mick, despite his ill-concealed scorn, was Burns’ type of man. He knew how to conduct business. “Where would you like me to begin, Sir? With the Wychmere Harbor house robbery? What a score! I’m impressed. Or should we start with Pete and Papi’s latest adventure on the Sinclair owned Elizabeth Islands?”
Beckham considered his options. Clearly, Burns knew too much. The question at hand was how to proceed. He sat silent.
Burns looked on curiously. “I can go on, if need be, Sir.”
Beckham glanced up with a smile. “Uhmm, I’m tossing something around in my mind which is not coming to a ready solution.”
“And what would that be?”
“Whether to kill you or to put you to a better use.”
Burns began to laugh before realizing that was indeed the question running around the grizzled mariner’s head. “Then, by all means, take your time,” he replied.
Brick Cleary was rarely wrong when it came to the folly of men. His father had told him, “There are two roads in life. The straight and narrow avenue, and then there is the crooked path.” His dad, a straight as they come officer on the beat, was not a fan of his son’s sense of direction. But now, in his line of work, Brick’s familiarity with the GPS radar of the scum he had to deal with proved uniquely beneficial.
He lifted his head up from the Boston Herald. His New England Patriots had rebounded from their week one debacle and he now felt better about the five grand marker he had laid. Mark Burns jogged across the street. Brick started up his engine and glided onto the road. He slowly passed Captain Mick Beckham’s grand Cape mansion. He thought of Molly. He’d like to give her that type of life. She deserved it even if he didn’t. Burns, locked in his thoughts, didn’t raise his head to see Cleary ramble past.
Again, his instincts were on target. Burns had negotiated his way back in the game. Brick gave one last look at Beckham’s manor and wondered what path the Captain had taken.
“Sinclair, Nickerson, Chadwell, Beckham,” Dan whispered as he typed the names onto Nola’s computer.
“What, you’re writing a who’s who guide for the Cape, Boss,” Nola snapped sarcastically.
“I need you to dig into the court records. Have these families made a habit of playing Hatfield and McCoy in the Cape courts? You know, land disputes and the like. Marriages, divorces, property settlements, anything.” Dan noticed Nola staring at him oddly. He rose and walked back to his office. He motioned for her to follow.
“Look,” he said as beckoned her to sit. “This is about Pete and Papi.”
Nola sat at attention. “How so? I mean, you know, we don’t exactly hobnob with the ‘it’ crowd.”
“Nor do I,” Dan replied with a smile. “But, Papi and Pete had done some work for Captain Mick Beckham. And…”
Nola jumped in breathlessly. “And the map, the treasure, the, the thing that would make us all rich. The big man was Beckham then,” she exclaimed bounding from her chair. “Aha, you told me to research the Elizabeth Islands. Boss, get this, owned lock stock and barrel by the Sinclair family!”
Brick had told him as much. Still, it was good that Nola was engaged. He would need her. “Ok, so now you know why I need these families checked out. Specifically, how do the Nickerson’s and Chadwell’s fit into this?” He took a breath. Dan wanted to choose his words carefully. “Because I believe Pete has been
the victim of foul play. They came across something on one of those islands.”
“Something worth killing for,” Nola added.
Dan’s face turned serious. “If that be the case, then the murder lies directly at Chief Nickerson’s feet.”
“But,” Nola whispered. “There is a piece of information which doesn’t add up.”
“That being?”
“The latest census shows the Elizabeth Islands to be uninhabited.”
Dan digested this potentially critical detail. Nola then sat down softly. She shook her head fiercely. “I got a message this morning. The autopsy has been finished. ‘A boating accident,’ they said. A notarized letter will be brought to the office soon and then we can pick up Pete’s body.”
Dan let quiet embrace Nola’s stoic demeanor. This was not the time to outline the information Brick had uncovered during his investigation. Pete was a friend. It was time to show respect.
“Come on, I’ll place a call to the Barnstable County Courthouse. You make arrangements for the wake and funeral. Time to bring Pete home.”
He handed Nola his credit card and put up a hand to silence her protest. He placed his arm around her shoulder. She buried her head on his chest. He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe the plastic will bounce.”
She elbowed him in the ribs. “Boss, please, don’t make me laugh when I need to cry.”
Mark Burns savored both the taste and smell of the rich black coffee. Sitting here, at the Moonakis Cafe, was a daily ritual. It was routine. But only an hour before he had come to believe all was near an end. He rubbed the back of his neck where Captain Mick Beckham had clubbed him. An oar from an ancient Viking long boat he was told. His job was simple. “Follow Dan Burdett and you follow the map,” Beckham ordered. In return, in form of payment, he’d receive his life. ‘Seemed fair,’ Burns thought as his breakfast was served.
Vinland: A Dan Burdett Mystery (The Cape Cod Mystery Series Book 1) Page 7