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“I’ll see to it. What about your suite at the Savoy?”
“We’ll stay checked in. We shouldn’t be gone that long.” She related the information told to them by Grace about the family history and King John’s Treasure.
“Right now,” Sam said, “I’m more interested in the leather shield that Grace inherited. Particularly that metal circle in the middle. Any chance those photos we sent from our first visit are usable?”
“Let me pull them up.”
While Selma was checking, Remi looked at the images they’d taken. One was washed out from the flash, the other too dark. But as before on that day she’d first seen the shield, her focus was drawn to the intricate Celtic knot engraved in the center of the shield boss. The small, rune-like symbols around the border had, on first glance, looked more like an extension of the Celtic design. Then again, maybe that was the reason for the interlacing in the center—to deflect attention from the ciphers decorating the border. Hide the cipher wheel in plain sight. After all, who would look for it on an old, battered leather shield?
“I have the photos here,” Selma said.
“Check into it,” Sam said. “We believe it’s the cipher wheel.”
There was a long pause. Then, “That certainly changes things.”
“Unfortunately,” Sam said, “it’s now missing. And why we’re calling. Can you enhance the photos enough to read the symbols around the border?”
“I’ll have Pete and Wendy take a look. They’re far more proficient with photo enhancement.”
“Appreciate it,” Sam said. “Let us know, ASAP.”
It was well after four by the time they drove through the South Gates of King’s Lynn to the city center. The low sun cast shadows across cobbled streets and centuries-old buildings, making it easy to imagine what it must have been like back when King’s Lynn was still the most important seaport in Britain.
The Old World charm extended to Madge Crowley’s neighborhood. Her address was one of several town houses that, according to the plaque on the building’s brick front, had originally been a Benedictine priory built around 1100. Smoke swirled up from one of the chimney pots on the roof, and Remi hoped that meant she was home.
They walked through an archway into a cobbled courtyard. Sam knocked on the door. A stout, brown-haired woman about the same age as Grace opened it, her expression one of curiosity.
Sam smiled at her. “We’re looking for Madge Crowley.”
“I’m she.”
“We were given your address by Grace Herbert-Miller. She said you might know something about an old family legend. Something to do with protecting King John’s Treasure.”
She was silent a moment as she searched Sam’s face. And just when Remi thought she was going to send them off as the crackpots they surely must be, she stepped aside, waving them in. “I was wondering when someone might come around about that.”
Thirty-seven
Might I inquire why you are asking about Grace and . . . ?” She smiled politely, waiting for them to fill in the blanks.
Remi deferred to Sam, who said, “Grace mentioned that you were familiar with the family legend. Regarding King John.”
“I was. The bigger question is, why are you?”
“Someone broke into Grace’s house and stole an heirloom she’d recently inherited. We believe it’s connected to this legend.”
“To the treasure, you mean?”
“Yes,” Sam said.
Her expression remained neutral as she studied them both. “Perhaps if you explained why it is that you’re interested, I might be more inclined to help.”
“We’re treasure hunters,” Sam said.
“Treasure hunters?” she repeated in a disapproving voice.
“Not for profit,” Remi said. “We either donate the proceeds to charity or return what we find to the rightful owner. There’s plenty of information about us on the Internet. What we do and the charities we support.”
“Anyone can create a web page, Mrs. Fargo. How do I know I can trust you?”