Crescent Dawn (Dirk Pitt 21)

Giordino brought up an enlarged photo of the crown while Zeibig thumbed to the description in the report.

“The engraving is in Latin,” Zeibig reported with a quizzical look. “Ruppé translated the inscription as follows: ‘To Artrius, in gratitude for capturing the relic pirates.—Constantine.’”

“Ruppé found records of a Roman Senator named Artrius. It so happens that he lived during the rule of Constantine,” Pitt said.

“Constantine the Grea

t?” Gunn blurted. “The Roman Emperor? Why, he lived a thousand years earlier.”

The room fell silent as everyone stared at the photographic image. Nobody had expected such a disconnect with the shipwreck’s other artifacts, particularly by something as remarkable as the gold crown. And yet there was no clue as to why it was aboard. Pitt inched away from the monitor and stood up, finally breaking the silence.

“I hate to say it,” he said with a grin, “but I guess this means that King Al has been transferred to the Roman Legion.”

26

BROOME PARK WAS A CHARACTERISTIC OLD ENGLISH manor. Purchased by Kitchener in 1911, it featured a towering Jacobean-style brick house built during the rule of Charles I, surrounded by 476 acres of lush, parklike grounds. During his short occupancy, Kitchener labored extensively to upgrade the estate’s gardens, while commissioning an elaborate fountain or two. But like top hat and tails or horse and carriage, Broome Park’s original grace and charm was now mostly reserved for an earlier age.

Sixty miles southeast of London, Julie turned off at Dover and followed the short road to the estate. Summer was surprised to see a foursome playing golf on a stretch of grass just beyond a sign welcoming them to Broome Park.

“It’s an all-too-familiar tale around Britain,” Julie explained. “Historic manors are passed down from generation to generation until one day the heir wakes up and realizes he can’t afford the taxes and maintenance. First the surrounding acreage is sold off, then more desperate measures are eventually taken. Some are converted to bed-and-breakfasts, others leased to corporations for conferencing or used as outdoor concert venues.”

“Or even converted into golf courses,” Summer said.

“Precisely. Broome Park has probably suffered the worst of all fates. Most of the manor has been sold off as a time-share and overnight lodging, while the surrounding grounds have been converted into a golf course. I’m sure Horatio Herbert is looking down in disgrace.”

“Is the estate still in the hands of Kitchener’s heirs?”

“Kitchener was a lifelong bachelor, but he bequeathed the estate to his nephew Toby. Toby’s son Aldrich now runs the place, though he’s getting on in years.”

Julie parked the car in a wide lot, and they walked to the main entrance, passing an ill-kept rose garden along the way. Summer was more impressed when they entered the main foyer, which show-cased a large cut-glass chandelier and a towering oil painting of the old man himself, his stern gray eyes seemingly imposing their will even from the flat canvas.

A wiry white-haired man was seated at a desk reading a book, but he looked up and smiled when he noted Julie coming in.

“Hello, Miss Goodyear,” he said, springing up from the desk. “I received your message that you would be coming by this morning.”

“You’re looking well, Aldrich. Keeping the manor full?”

“Business is quite nice, thank you. Had a couple of short-term visitors check in already today.”

“This is my friend Summer Pitt, who’s helping me with my research.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss Pitt,” he said, extending a hand. “You probably want to get right to work, so why don’t you follow me on back?”

He led them through a side door into a private wing that encompassed his own living quarters. They walked through a large sitting area filled with artifacts from North Africa and the Middle East, all acquired by Kitchener during his Army years stationed in the region. Aldrich then opened another door and ushered them into a wood-paneled study. Summer noticed that one entire wall was lined with tall mahogany filing cabinets.

“I would have thought you’d have all of Uncle Herbert’s files memorized by now,” Aldrich said to Julie with a smile.

“I’ve certainly spent enough time with them,” Julie agreed. “We just need to review some of his personal correspondence in the months preceding his death.”

“Those will be in the last cabinet on the right.” He turned and walked toward the doorway. “I’ll be at the front desk, should you require any assistance.”

“Thank you, Aldrich.”

The two women quickly dove into the file cabinet. Summer was glad to see the correspondence was of a more personal and interesting nature than the records at the Imperial War Museum. She slowly read through dozens of letters from Kitchener’s relatives, along with what seemed an endless trail of correspondence from building contractors, who were being cajoled and pushed by Kitchener to complete refurbishments on Broome Park.

“Look how cute this is,” she said, holding up a card of a hand-drawn butterfly sent from Kitchener’s three-year-old niece.

“The gruff old general was quite close with his sister and brothers and their children,” Julie said.