Pirate (Fargo Adventures 8)

“Definitely,” Selma replied. “One, Charles Avery wouldn’t be after it if he had—and he seems to know his family history. Two, Lazlo’s research confirms that the original exists. Every-Bridgeman either died or was captured before he could go after it. Unfortunately, he failed to record where it was or who was in possession—assuming he had this knowledge to begin with. Either way, Charles Avery has the shipping manifest information. He’s no doubt hot on the trail.”

Sam reached over, spreading out their copy of the digitized transcripts they’d gathered from the maritime museum, looking them over. There were just a few pages of the court testimony they’d read in the Kingston Archives. “So, right now, we’re still looking at who he originally stole the cipher wheel from?”

“We have it narrowed down, we think, to a couple of the Mirabel investors. Both happen to be in England, which makes it convenient. So that’s where you’re headed next.”

Sam looked at Remi. “What do you say to a trip to the British Isles?”

“I love Great Britain this time of year.”

Late the next afternoon, they touched down at the London City Airport, and the next morning they were up early. Selma had given them two names and addresses. One was for a Grace Herbert, just outside of Bristol, the other for Harry McGregor, farther north near Nottingham. Unfortunately, Selma couldn’t narrow the odds any further, and so Sam flipped a coin while they waited for their car at the valet stand. “Heads, Herbert. Tails, McGregor,” he called as he caught the coin and covered it with his hand.

“Heads,” Remi said. “I have a good feeling about Bristol.”

“If we don’t find what we’re looking for there, it’s a long drive up to Nottingham.”

“Call it women’s intuition. Heads, Bristol.”

Sam peeked at the coin. Tails. He pocketed it, then smiled at Remi. “Why leave something to chance. I trust your intuition.”

“Tails, was it?”

“It was.” When the car arrived, Sam looked at Remi. “You drive, and I’ll navigate?”

“Ha! And trust that you’ll pay attention to the map?”

“Have I ever gotten us lost?”

“There was that time in—”

“Never mind.” He tipped the valet, then took the keys. Eventually they left London behind, the houses growing fewer, farms beginning to dot the landscape. A light mist came down, and Sam switched on the windshield wipers. It stayed that way for the next two hours.

Remi sighed at the green, rolling hills. “Beautiful out here.”

“If you like the damp.”

She glanced over at him. “You’d prefer the hot humidity of Jamaica over this?”

“I was thinking more of the warm breezes of La Jolla.”

“All in good time.” She eyed the directions on her phone. “About ten miles farther. Right turn at the next intersection.”

They continued down a two-lane paved road that wound through pastures and farmland. Eventually they found the dirt road that led to the Herbert farmhouse and saw it in the distance. White smoke swirled up from the chimney of a large cottage with several outbuildings behind it. Geese honked as they drove up to the house, and the chickens scattered, then returned to pecking the ground, looking for grubs.

Sam parked, and they got out, crossed the gravel drive to the front door, and knocked. A woman in her late fifties answered, her short brown hair graying at the temples, her gray eyes serious as she took them in. “You must be the Fargos?”

“We are,” Sam said. “Mrs. Herbert?”

“Actually, Herbert-Miller. But call me Grace. Come in, please. I have a kettle on, if you’d care for some tea?”

“Please,” Remi said.

She led them into the parlor, and Sam had to duck to walk through the low doorway. As soon as they were settled, Grace returned a few minutes later with a silver tray carrying a porcelain tea service. Sam, still tired from the transatlantic flight, would have preferred a robust cup of coffee, as he accepted the tea, declined the offer of milk or sugar, and sat back in his chair, listening as Mrs. Herbert-Miller discussed her surprise at inheriting the collection of artifacts.

“The call came out of the blue,” she said, stirring the sugar into her cup. “A solicitor from London, no less. Wanting to know if I was Grace Herbert of the Milford Herberts.” She set the spoon onto the saucer, lifted the teacup, and took a sip. “Naturally, we put up the property for sale. I can’t imagine living in an old, drafty castle, although Milford is a lovely place—or so I’ve heard. I don’t think I could convince my husband to move even if I wanted to.”

“It’s a beautiful area,” Remi said. “I passed through there once a long time ago.”

Sam, wanting to move things along at a far quicker pace, said, “Was there anything . . . historically significant in what you saw? Besides the castle, of course.”