The Ghost Manuscript

by Kris Frieswick

  “I’m not quitting,” she said. “Annie, I’m sorry. You told me sometimes there are things worth fighting for, and this is one of them.”

  “A thousand-year-old dead guy?” asked Annie, her voice back to normal.

  “Fifteen-hundred,” she said. “And you know it’s more than that. It’s one of the most important historical discoveries in the world. And it’s in danger.”

  She watched the fight drain out of Annie.

  “How can I help?” Annie asked.

  “You can’t,” said Harper. “Although we may be in need of your services once this is resolved.” He smiled at Annie.

  “I’m planning on it,” Annie said.

  “Let’s figure out what this book is telling us about where Madoc Morfran landed,” said Harper, beaming.

  He stroked the cover of Morfran’s manuscript as if it were a pet. He put the book on the long antique table in the middle of the room, then retrieved a large rolled document from one of the bookcases. He unspooled it on the table, placing other books on all four corners. It was a map of the northeast coast of North America.

  “We know he landed here,” he said, sweeping his hand across the map. “Which is strange. Did he mention why he came all the way to North America?”

  “Yeah,” said Carys. “He wrote that he needed a safe place to bury his father where the hordes could never find him. But he was also searching for a safe, green, and fertile land for his people to start over after the drought and plague that hit the British Isles. He wrote that the northern peoples had already sailed as far as what is now Greenland. He called it the great icy land past the smoking island, or Iceland.”

  “But that was a good five hundred years before any recorded Viking settlements in Greenland,” said Harper.

  “Not all explorers stick around long enough to build settlements,” she said. “The fact is that Morfran specifically states that the hordes had already made it that far. But neither Iceland nor Greenland were green or fertile, so he decided to keep looking.”

  “Next stop would have been Newfoundland, then Nova Scotia, then New England,” said Harper. “Remarkable. Read me the part where he describes the location of the tomb.”

  She picked up the manuscript with her bare hands and opened the heavy pages. Out of habit, she began to lift the book to her face for a sniff.

  “Carys,” said Harper. She looked up at him. He furrowed his eyebrows at her slightly and shook his head. She lowered the book and continued to flip through Morfran’s dense Latin writing until she came to the section that described the beach where they had buried the King.

  “Here it is,” she said, placing the book on the table. “‘We interred our lord in a grave constructed by the native ones. The people gathered around with their sacred objects—bones, shells, bowls of food, offerings to ensure my father’s safe passage to his next adventure. As was the people’s custom, we laid him in a pit dug in the sand above the waterfront, surrounded by short and bushy trees. In front of us was the ocean, behind us was a great green marsh, filled with every sort of bird, with the broad flat land of the natives farther on still. The dunes around us were on a long narrow spit of land, like a finger pointing toward our homeland.’”

  “Clearly a barrier island or narrow peninsula,” said Harper, his eyes closed in concentration. “‘Pointing toward our homeland’—east?”

  “Probably,” she said. She continued reading. “‘We laid him in line with the shore, which ran straight and true as far as the eye could see in both directions. We placed his head toward home, and his feet toward his final glory. I laid him on his back, his right arm outstretched and wearing the ring of Ambrosius. He shall point to the ocean and his star for eternity. I placed our people’s treasures from the cave crypt into his grave, and the native people placed their sacred objects there as well. I conducted what I could remember of a Christian burial rite and made the sign of the cross. Then we stacked the gravel and rocks and sand upon his body. We then placed stones in the shape of a cross upon his grave. I wept.’”

  “Toward whose star?” asked Harper.

  “Ad aeternitam stellam suam indicabit,” read Carys. “Suam—it’s a possessive male pronoun. And it refers back to Arcturus.”

  “Okay, his star. And they laid him in line with the northern shore, so parallel to it,” said Harper. “‘His head toward home.’ East.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “So, if his head is facing east, his feet are west, and if they laid him on his back, his right outstretched arm would point north.”

  “Is there a star named Arcturus?” asked Annie.

  They both looked at her. Harper went to his desk and flipped open a small laptop computer, typed quickly and then stood, staring at the screen. A broad smile spread across his face.

  “‘Arcturus,’” he read, “‘the left foot of the constellation Bootes. Visible in the northern celestial hemisphere. Next to Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. It is called the guardian of the bear.’” He looked up at them triumphantly. “Due north in the northern hemisphere.”

  Carys smiled, despite the exhaustion that now penetrated down to her very core. Her knees were beginning to weaken, and the pain in her gut had made a reappearance and was beginning to gnaw away. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself.

  “If they placed him in line with the shore of the island, and the island was straight as far as the eye could see, the barrier island would have a due east-west orientation,” she said.

  “And his hand pointed north toward the ocean,” said Harper. “So the barrier island would have a north-facing shore.”

  Harper bent over and began to scan the coastline on the map. Annie and Carys waited silently, stealing only a short glance at each other. Annie’s eyes were wide.

  Harper took a pencil and lightly drew a circle on the map on a section of the Maine coastline, then continued scanning down through Connecticut.

  “Do we think he could have been talking about Long Island?” asked Carys. “That’s almost due east-west in orientation.”

  “But no northern-facing barrier islands,” said Annie. “They’re all south-facing.”

  She and Harper looked at Annie, puzzled.

  “What?” Annie asked, shrugging her shoulders. “I used to date a guy from Southampton. I know the beaches there by heart.” Carys shook her head and smiled.

  Harper stood up and rubbed his eyes.

  “There’s only one place that meets our criteria on the entire coast from Maine to Delaware,” he said. “We’ll need to confirm that it was inhabited by aboriginals fifteen hundred years ago, but it looks like this might be it.”

  He drew a circle on the map and stabbed his pencil into it. She and Annie looked down at it.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Annie. She burst out laughing.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  The office of Professor Lydia Grant was not much more than a closet, yet she’d managed to pack more Native American art and artifacts on the walls and shelves than Carys had ever seen in her life. Not that she’d seen that many. She tightly clutched a plastic bag containing the arrowhead, afraid that after one look, this guardian of Native American history would demand to take possession.

  Harper, a major benefactor at Harvard University, had pulled strings and wrangled a meeting on short notice with Grant for that afternoon. Annie went into work for a few hours. She said she had things to do—and that she’d seen quite enough of Harvard, thank you very much, during her law school years. Carys drove Harper’s Range Rover into Cambridge, pleased to be back on the right side of the road again.

  Grant was one of the preeminent scholars of Native American anthropology, not just at Harvard but in the United States, which was impressive considering her young age. She was in denim shorts and a tank top, makeup-less, her short, cropped Afro covered in part by a bandana. She clearly had pl
ans that, until a couple of hours earlier, had not included being in her office on a glorious summer weekend afternoon. She sat across from Carys and Harper at her small desk, all but glaring at them.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Harper, on this fine day?” she asked.

  “Thanks for meeting us,” said Harper. “I certainly owe you and President Davidson.”

  Mention of her boss’s boss’s boss seemed to temper her anger a bit.

  “We are trying to determine the age and provenance of some artifacts,” said Harper. He nodded at Carys. She placed the plastic bag containing the arrowhead on the desk. Grant reached across and picked it up.

  “We’d be most appreciative if you could tell us anything at all about this,” Harper said quietly.

  “Where did you get it?” asked Grant. “You realize that if you disturbed a gravesite or native lands, you’ve committed a felony.”

  “I assure you that we did not,” said Harper in a voice that made it clear they would not discuss its provenance further. “We’re trying to confirm that it could have been crafted by a tribe in New England during the mid-sixth century.”

  Grant put on her eyeglasses and picked up the tiny arrowhead from the desk. She leaned over to take a closer look, and as she did, her eyes widened. The professor reached into her desk and pulled out a loupe, like the ones jewelers use to examine gems, and snapped it onto the front of her right lens. She flipped the arrowhead over, studied it for a moment longer, and then peered over the top of her glasses at Carys.

  “Who are you again?” Grant asked her.

  “She’s my associate,” answered Harper. “What can you tell us?”

  Grant’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then her eyes returned to the arrowhead.

  “It’s a pristine example—the best I’ve ever seen—of an arrowhead from the Middle Woodland period. That’s roughly mid-sixth century,” said Grant. “There were aboriginal people in the northeast at the time, from Maine down through the mid-Atlantic. Their territory spread all the way west to the Mississippi River, so this could have come from any of those locations.”

  “We believe it came from a barrier island in New England,” said Carys. “Were there Middle Woodland populations there at that time?”

  “The aboriginal populations used barrier islands as seasonal villages,” said Grant. “Burial mounds and graves from that era, some containing arrowheads just like this, have been found all over New England. There is one barrier island that has been particularly fertile for archaeologists over the years.”

  “Where is it?” she asked.

  “Cape Cod,” said Grant. “Sandy Neck. On the bay side, north of Hyannis.”

  Carys shot a glance over at Harper, who looked her way briefly then averted his eyes.

  “We’ve recovered evidence from burial pits that it’s been inhabited for several thousand years,” said Grant, removing her glasses. “I actually did a dig there myself during my grad work. That’s the only barrier island I’ve ever heard of with signs of long-term established communities on it. There have been other minor finds on some of the other barriers, but none as rich as Sandy Neck. There was a large, very developed population there. And they stayed there year after year, unlike other tribes that moved their base around. The fishing and hunting were particularly good in that area. Their homes would have been protected from the sea and wind by the big sand dunes there.”

  “What tribe would have been there?” asked Harper.

  “They weren’t really organized into tribes at that time,” said Grant. “But the aboriginals who live in that region today are all part of the Algonquin peoples. That particular area would be…”

  She turned to her computer and typed a few words.

  “That barrier island would have been populated by ancestors of what today is the Mattakeese, a tribe of the Wampanoag nation,” said Grant. “They had a great chief during the 1600s who was very helpful to the European invaders. As thanks, the invaders gave them all sorts of nasty viruses. Most of the natives died from it. But the surviving Mattakeese can be traced to that region since long before Columbus showed up. Sandy Neck is a state park now. There’s some rare bird that breeds there, so there’s no more digs allowed without jumping through all sorts of legal hoops. Bit of a nightmare actually.”

  Harper’s hand shook.

  “Do you have anything we could read about the Mattakeese—their legends, origin story, the gods they worshipped, anything at all?” he asked.

  “I don’t have anything specific to that tribe here in this office. There’s a tribal office located not too far from Sandy Neck,” said Grant. “Not sure if it’s the Mattakeese or some other tribe of the Wampanoag, but I’m sure they’d be helpful in answering any of your questions. Let me get their address.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Gyles strolled through the rain to Boodles for a late Sunday roast dinner. The stately private club, made of granite, brick, warped ancient glass, wrought iron, and history, was just a few blocks from his flat. Although the rain was hammering down, the walk helped dissipate the stress that was gnawing at his stomach and threatened to suck the enjoyment out of the only meal to which he looked forward during the week.

  Frank was still missing. But Jones wasn’t. She was back in Boston. There’d been activity in her bank account—an ATM withdrawal. She was being very sloppy if she was trying not to be found. Of course, she couldn’t possibly realize how easily he could track her.

  Mounting the stairs to the lounge abutting the regal dining room, adorned with portraits of the royals and prime ministers who had been members for the past three hundred years, he felt, as he always did—like he was trespassing. If they really knew me, he thought with a grin, they’d bar the door and set the place on fire before they’d agree to let me in.

  Despite his sterling reputation in the art and antiquities community, his international law and art history degrees from Trinity College, and his upper-class network of contacts, it was still his lower-class upbringing that had given the membership committee serious pause. Class structure still ruled here at Boodles. But there is nothing quite so influential as gobs of money to grease some wheels and change some minds. His membership had been unanimously approved after the delivery of a very large check for his initiation fee and the first year’s membership, as well as a receipt for a donation of twice that size to a local orphans’ charity in the club’s name.

  He sat in his usual spot, by a window in a black lounge chair. No one was sitting within earshot. He nodded to the barman, who arrived a minute later with his scotch, neat, and a side glass with four ice cubes. He placed one cube in the amber liquid, took a sip, felt its heat at the back of his throat, and pulled out his burner phone.

  Plourde answered in two rings.

  “Martin,” said Plourde. “I’m not somewhere I can talk. Can I call you back?”

  “No,” he said. “You don’t need to talk. Just listen.”

  “This really isn’t a good time,” said Plourde.

  “I’ll be brief. Then you can go back to whatever it is that you Yanks do on Sundays. Football, is it?”

  On the other end of the phone, he could hear a television blaring and a woman’s voice yelling at someone to pick up his damn shoes. Domestic bliss.

  “Let me go somewhere more private,” said Plourde. The background noises faded. A door shut, then all was quiet.

  “What is it?” asked Plourde.

  “I need you to watch Carys Jones for me,” he said.

  A long pause. He waited it out. Yanks hate silence.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline,” said Plourde.

  “You’re not in a position to decline.”

  “You’re not in a position to ask,” said Plourde. “Why don’t you get Frank to do it? Or one of your other helpers? I can’t go near her.”

  “F
rank is indisposed. And I want you to do it. You’ve managed to keep your hands clean in our dealings so far, and it’s time for you to put a little bit more of your own personal skin in the game.”

  Plourde took a deep breath. “I’m out,” he said. “I provided a fucking murder weapon. How much more skin do you want?”

  “Some more,” said Gyles.

  “Martin, I’ve been more than cooperative, and I’ve generated a great deal of value for you over the past years. But it’s over. At least until this stuff with the maid blows over. It’s just too hot for me right now,” said Plourde.

  “You don’t decide when it’s over,” he said, his voice dropping an octave and to a near whisper. He could feel the chilling effect that his tone was having on Plourde, even from an ocean away.

  “I am very grateful for our business relationship,” said Plourde. “But I think it would be unwise to try to pressure me into doing something I do not want to do.”

  “Unwise?”

  “I can connect you directly to the murder of that woman, and to a variety of other crimes, and you do not want to piss me off,” said Plourde quickly, as though he were racing to get the words out. The man was scared.

  Gyles smiled.

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Plourde?”

  “No,” said Plourde. “But you are not the only one with leverage here. I make one phone call and you won’t see the sky for twenty to thirty years minimum.”

  “So, yes, then. You are threatening me. That’s a very interesting play, Mr. Plourde. Bold. Thank you for your time and your years of service.”

  He hung up.

  With Frank missing, presumed who knew where, he needed to know just how much of a risk Plourde represented in the matter of the maid. Now he had his answer. Soon, he would, at least, have this problem solved.

  2

  Monday, June 25