Scones & Bones, page 11
"The other account," said Grace, "the one I personally subscribe to because there have been multiple historic references, is that the cipher stone ended up as a doorstop in a long-ago Charleston bookbinder's shop."
"Interesting," said Theodosia. "Has anyone ever searched for it? For the bookbinder's shop, I mean?"
"People have," said Muncie, "but no one's ever found it. The shop or the cipher stone."
"These legends and lore are fascinating," said Drayton, "but I don't see how you can put much stock in them."
But Theodosia was still processing this new information. She knew that legends were often based on little bits and pieces of historic flotsam that bobbed and swirled their way through the decades. So there might be something here, the operative word being might. Swiveling her head toward Muncie, she asked, "Have you ever searched for the treasure?"
Professor Muncie clapped his hands together, then quickly pulled them apart, as if to indicate that something important was now irretrievably lost forever. "Dear lady," he said in a kind of wheeze, "if I had even an inkling, I'd probably be out hunting right now."
They sat there for a moment, silence settling around them. Late-afternoon rays of sunlight shone through the windows, revealing slowly twisting dust motes. Theodosia inhaled sharply and said, "You said there were three items that would help fix the location. What's the third one.?"
"It's Blackbeard's actual ship," said Grace. "The Queen Anne's Revenge. It's been discovered off the coast of Beaufort Inlet, North Carolina. A bronze bell, a brass blunderbuss, pewter ware, and cannons have already been brought up. Now there's a large-scale recovery being planned to try to salvage the anchor and hull structure."
"Good heavens," said Drayton. He suddenly looked as if he did believe the legend. "They're bringing Blackbeard's ship up after more than two hundred years?"
"Trying to," said Grace. "As we all learned with the Hunley expedition, underwater archaeology is dicey at best." Theodosia nodded. The Hunley was a Civil War submersible that had been located in 1995. Finally, in 2004 the city of Charleston had staged a funeral for the eight-man crew who'd been lost at sea all these many years. She remembered well the solemn procession of men in replica Confederate uniforms and the stately horse-drawn caissons.
"I hope we've been some help to you," said Muncie, pulling himself to his feet. His knees made sharp popping sounds as a quirky sort of punctuation to indicate the meeting was concluded.
"You've given us an amazing amount of information," said Theodosia. "More than we hoped for."
"But nothing to help you solve the murder of that poor boy," said Muncie. "Or recover Timothy Neville's skull cup.”
“Probably not," said Drayton, "but, at least we can go back to Timothy and, in all good conscience, tell him we did our best. Thanks to you."
"If you think of anything else . . ." said Theodosia, handing Muncie her business card.
Professor Muncie nodded. "I'll have Peter search our files and see if there's any other data we can pull up for you.”
“Happy to," said Peter.
“Anything's appreciated," said Theodosia. "No matter how insignificant you think it might be."
"What do you think?" asked Drayton, as they bounced across town in Theodosia's jeep, heading for the Heritage Society and their late-afternoon meeting with Timothy.
"Lots to digest," said Theodosia. They were running late, and she was doing her best to maneuver through heavy traffic on Beaufain Street without cutting off too many drivers and alienating everyone in sight. Somewhere, in that part of her brain that clung to the old-fashioned notion of fairness and justice, she knew there had to be a happy medium between politeness and good, offensive driving.
"Muncie's stories could all be a bunch of hooey," said Drayton. He glanced out the window, focusing on a line of swaying palmettos that stood like the queen's guard against red brick buildings with brilliant white window trim. "Probably are."
"Maybe so. Then again, maybe not."
"You're undecided?" asked Drayton. "Sitting on the fence?"
"The thing is," said Theodosia, "if you buy into all the legends and lore, then factor in the clues and historical facts, it all merges into a kind of ... what would you call it? A chain of evidence?"
Drayton pursed his lips and picked at a bit of fuzz that had attached itself to his navy blue jacket. "Whatever do you mean?"
"Putting it simply," said Theodosia, "if the skull cup leads to the treasure, then the treasure probably leads to the killer.”
“And if there is no treasure?"
"Doesn't matter if there is or isn't," said Theodosia. "What we have to keep in mind is that the killer believes there is. And that's why he didn't hesitate to kill."
"Unless he's just some deranged coot who's crazy for skulls."
"There is that," agreed Theodosia.
Timothy Neville wasn't alone in his office when they arrived. An older gentleman, at least Timothy's age or older, was crumped into one of the high-backed leather chairs that faced Timothy's acre of ebony desk.
"You're here," said Timothy, inclining his head to observe Theodosia and Drayton's arrival. "Finally."
"We've just come from a rather interesting meeting," said Drayton.
"Yes, yes," said Timothy, impatiently. "But introductions first. I have someone I want you both to meet."
Theodosia wasn't psychic; she especially didn't believe in horoscopes or tarot cards or lucky numbers. But deep down in the limbic part of her brain, the intuitive part, she felt a quick spark and knew instantly the identity of Timothy's guest.
"Mr. Pruett," said Theodosia, extending a hand to the elderly gentleman.
"How did you know who he was?" Timothy rasped. Theodosia couldn't tell whether Timothy was pleased or annoyed. Probably the latter. "Took a wild guess," she told him.
The elderly Pruett closed his small hand around hers and shook her hand weakly. "Nice to meet you, Miss . . ."
"It's Theodosia," Timothy snapped, "the woman I was telling you about. The only person who had the presence of mind to rush to the rescue Sunday night."
"Lovely to meet you, my dear," said the old man.
"I take it you are Sidney Pruett?" said Theodosia. Timothy still hadn't made a proper introduction, even though she was pretty sure this was the man who'd donated the skull cup some forty years ago.
"I am, indeed," said Pruett. He gazed past Theodosia and said, "And you must be Drayton, of whom I've also heard a great deal."
"Good to meet you, sir," said Drayton, who did everything but click his heels together and bow like a fencing instructor.
"Pull up a chair and sit down, you two," Timothy ordered. "We've just been talking about our missing skull cup."
"I imagine you have," said Theodosia.
"I know this is going to sound strange," said Pruett, once they were all settled around Timothy's desk, "but I'm worried my donation may have brought the Heritage Society a spot of bad luck."
"Why would you think that?" asked Theodosia. As if it hasn't already brought bad luck. Especially for poor Rob Commers. Timothy Neville was also startled by Pruett's words. He canted his small, bony head, waiting for an answer.
Pruett suddenly looked uneasy. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and he seemed to be weighing his thoughts. He finally said, "The thing is, that awful skull cup brought my grandfather nothing but bad luck. And we're talking more than one hundred years ago."
"A long time has passed since that skull cup came into his possession," said Drayton. "Time for any number of legends to percolate." He hesitated. "Legends that are probably just ghost stories."
"Still," said Pruett, "right after that skull came into his possession, my grandfather pretty much lost all his investments and land holdings.”
"Do you know how your grandfather came to own the skull cup?" asked Theodosia.
"Not really," said Pruett. "Knowing him, he probably won it in a poker game. He had a definite wild streak."
"But you really believe," said Theodosia, "have always believed that the skull cup is the genuine article, crafted from Blackbeard's actual skull?"
"Oh my, yes," said Pruett.
"Okay," said Theodosia. "Then you must also believe that Blackbeard's trusted second-in-command buried a large pirate treasure and had a clue to its location engraved on the bottom of that cup?"
"I've never subscribed to that notion," said Pruett. "The engraving's there, of course, but I've never heard of any treasure. Surely, if the engraving pointed to a location, my grandfather would have been off and running." He gave a quick smile. "Off and digging."
"But the treasure is part and parcel of the Blackbeard story," said Theodosia. "There are supposedly clues on Blackbeard's ship, the skull cup, and the cipher stone."
"Excuse me?" said Timothy, who suddenly looked startled. "Exactly how did you come by all this information? I've never heard about this ship or a ... what was the term you used ... cipher stone?"
Theodosia and Drayton quickly recounted their meeting with Professor Muncie and his grad student, Peter Grace, and laid out their newfound information.
"Amazing," breathed Timothy. "I've lived here all my life and never heard these far-fetched tales."
Pruett shook his head. "I only knew about the engraving on the skull cup. And then I still never knew what it meant.”
“Your Professor Muncie is quite a fountain of knowledge," said Timothy.
"It's too bad," said Drayton, "that no one took the time to read the cup's inscription." He frowned, lifted a hand to scratch his cheek, then said, "Or did they?"
That thought tickled Theodosia's curiosity. "That's a very good question. Did anybody here take a look at the bottom?" And, pray tell, why hadn't she thought to ask this before?
Timothy gave a halfhearted shrug. "I certainly didn't.”
“But someone must have seen the inscription," said Theodosia, starting to warm up to the idea. "Who handled the cup? Who set up the display?"
"George Meadow, one of our curators, set up the display," said Timothy.
"Can we get him in here?" asked Theodosia.
"Unfortunately," said Timothy, "George is on his way to a trekking expedition in the Himalayas even as we speak.”
“Someone else, then?" said Theodosia.
"Camilla helped," said Timothy. "I distinctly remember her making a comment about tarnished silver, then taking the skull cup and doing a beautiful job polishing it."
"There you go," said Drayton. "We should talk to Camilla. She may have read the inscription!"
"She's still in the hospital," said Timothy.
"Even so," said Drayton, "we may have to get in touch with her. This is important. Practically life and death.”
“We can't just call Camilla up and start firing questions," said Theodosia. "It might ... frighten her. If she's in a fragile state of mind, the murder and the assault could come crashing back at her." She hesitated. "It could all be dangerous to her psyche."
"She's being discharged later today," said Timothy. He glanced at his watch and seemed surprised at the time. "Maybe right now."
"Perhaps she'll be at the funeral tomorrow?" offered Drayton.
"The funeral," Theodosia murmured. "Yes, we should probably attend."
"No telling what Camilla will remember, though," said Drayton. "She got hit awfully hard."
They sat for a while in Timothy's palatial office. Low lighting fell upon the Oriental carpets and mahogany bookshelves as the tick of an old clock kept time with their thoughts.
Finally, the proverbial lightbulb went off over Theodosia's head. "I have an idea." It was a big idea, she thought. A cagey idea.
"What?" asked Drayton.
"There's a chance we could get a look at that skull cup after all," said Theodosia.
"What are you blathering about?" Timothy snapped "The skull cup's missing! It didn't suddenly come waltzing back in here of its own accord."
But a slow smile was beginning to spread across Theodosia's face. "The photo and blurb that appeared in last week's Post and Courier? We need to get in touch with the reporter who wrote that blurb. Nick Van Buren."
"Goodness," said Drayton, "Theo's right."
"And talk to his photographer," said Theodosia. "Because maybe, just maybe, those newspaper guys got a shot of the bottom of that skull cup!"
14
"We're here to see Nick Van Buren," Theodosia told the receptionist. She was slightly out of breath from rushing across town and was feeling more than a little jangled. After all, in less than two hours she was supposed to don a silk blouse and long hostess skirt and play the role of warm and charming new homeowner. She also had her fingers crossed, hoping against hope, that dear, dependable Haley and goodhearted Miss Dimple would schlep all the appetizers to her home and keep them warm and cozy in the oven while they set up wineglasses, small plates, and everything else. Oh, and could they please deal with Earl Grey, too, whose nose or entire muzzle might possibly be out of joint?
"Sign here," said the receptionist. She was an older lady with frizzled gray hair and a no-nonsense black pantsuit. Without glancing up at them, she slid a pen across the counter, followed by a large book that looked a little like an old-fashioned ledger. "Name, company, time of arrival," she told them.
Theodosia signed in, then passed the pen to Drayton. Once they were officially logged in, the receptionist gave them visitor's passes to clip to their clothing and instructed them to wait in the lobby while she phoned for Nick Van Buren to come down and escort them upstairs to the newsroom. They'd called Van Buren on their way over, and he'd graciously agreed to meet with them. Of course, Theodosia knew he wasn't doing this out of the goodness of his heart. Van Buren was doing it because, like a good bluetick coonhound scenting fresh game, he sensed the continuation of a juicy story.
But Van Buren was as good as his word. He appeared before them barely two minutes later and hastily escorted them up to his cubicle in the writer's bullpen on the third floor.
When they were ensconced in uncomfortable director's chairs, their three sets of knees practically touching, Theodosia said, "Were you able to get hold of the photos?"
Van Buren hesitated before he answered. Then he said, "Yes, I did. Sort of."
"You don't have them," said Drayton. "I knew it." He threw his arms up. "Yet another wild-goose chase." Theodosia lifted a hand to make a calming gesture. "Let him explain, Drayton."
"If I share the photos with you," said Van Buren, "then I need to have some kind of assurance that you'll share your information with me. And I'm talking any and all information about the skull cup and that so-called treasure you mentioned."
"I hear you," said Theodosia. "And I agree." She slid her foot over and nudged Drayton's foot. "We agree."
"I suppose," said Drayton.
"Okay," said Van Buren, leaning back in his chair, looking relaxed now. "Good enough."
"And the photos are ... ?" asked Drayton.
"The photographer has the ones we didn't print," said Van Buren. "A freelance guy named Sonny Wickes."
"How many are there?" asked Theodosia. "Fifteen, maybe twenty shots," said Van Buren.
"Some showing the bottom of the cup?" asked Theodosia. After all, this was the biggie; this was why they'd chased over here like crazy people.
"He says yes," said Van Buren. "Anyway, I already spoke with Sonny and he's promised to e-mail you jpegs. We both agree that's the best way.”
“Jpegs," said Drayton. "That means photos?" Theodosia nodded. "When can I get them?"
"Possibly tonight," said Van Buren, "tomorrow at the latest." Theodosia dug in her purse and pulled out a business card. She twiddled it between her fingers, then handed it to Van Buren. "I'll be home tonight and at the tea shop first thing tomorrow. All my numbers are right there."
"I'll call you first thing tomorrow," said Van Buren. "See what kind of game plan we can work out."
"You didn't mention the cipher stone," said Drayton, once they were well outside the building.
"Not yet, I didn't," said Theodosia.
"It's our little secret?" said Drayton.
"I wish," said Theodosia, "but I have the distinct feeling that news of the cipher stone is going to go viral very shortly. Think about it. Professor Muncie and Peter Grace know about it, as do Timothy Neville and Sidney Pruett. Tomorrow, I'll probably have to cut Van Buren in."
"So now it's a race. A competition of sorts," said Drayton, as he climbed into the jeep. "To see who finds out what first.”
“Always is," said Theodosia. She climbed in, pulled her door shut, and kicked over the engine. A throaty and not-so-subtle vroom burst from the rear pipes.
"When are you going to trade this thing in?" asked Drayton.
She gazed at him. "Never?"
One of his eyebrows pulled up into a quivering arc.
"I love my jeep," said Theodosia. "What else can take me into the low country so I can gather wild dandelion greens, herbs, and morels?"
"Maybe they'll bring back that Cash for Clunkers program from a couple of years ago," Drayton muttered as he pulled his seatbelt across and fastened it.
"I heard that," said Theodosia. "I'm sitting right here, you know." She put the jeep into gear and pulled into traffic on Rivers Avenue. 'Just for the record, do you have any thoughts on the cipher stone?"
"Such as?"
"Well, do you think it might still be kicking around Charleston?"
"No idea," said Drayton.
"Noodle it around, will you? If the cipher stone was used as a doorstop at an old bookbinder, where's the old bookbinder now? Have you thought about that?"
"Not really," said Drayton, "but I could certainly do some research."
"That's a great idea," said Theodosia, hoping her enthusiasm might spark some more spirit on Drayton's part. "Because you're our resident book lover and history guru. So while you're at it, think about where that cipher stone might have disappeared to. Did some antique dealer snap it up? Is it now a stone in somebody's backyard garden? Or, if it was a big enough curiosity, could it be the cornerstone in some old building?"
