Page 37 of Doyle

“And that’s why you think the pirate loot survived... Because the locket resurfaced when Henry van der Meer returned to Holland.”

He touched his nose. “Why he didn’t bring the entire treasure back is the question.”

“Maybe he feared getting caught?”

“Perhaps.” He had gone to the bookcase, looking at the titles. “Or, and this is my theory, the pirate who sacked the ship, the one that vanished, actually lived. And Henry had to hide the treasure from him. Maybe the locket was the only thing he could safely recover and steal.” He pointed to a book, the leather worn and broken along the spine. “Can I see that one?”

She unlocked the door and pulled it out. Small, the size of a mass-market novel, the pages were thick, watermarked, and uneven. She should probably be wearing gloves.

Ethan pulled out a pair of black fabric gloves and put them on. He took the book and set it on the table.

Inked writing, cursive and small. She leaned over him. “Can you read that?”

“Barely, but yes.” He pulled out his phone and opened the camera. “This is better. And, yes, I believe this is from the hand of Henry van der Meer.” He handed her the phone. “Look at this.”

She centered the camera where he pointed. At the bottom of the page, initials—H.V.D.M.“How did you know?—”

He closed the book and showed her the spine, where a stamp had been pressed into the leather. “My guess is that this is homemade. It’s probable that Henry carried a stamp with him to emboss letters. Which made him not a crewmate but someone of importance. From my records, a lawyer. And you know how lawyers are.”

“They like to keep track of events.”

He pulled out a chair. “Let’s see what I can find out.”

“We,” she said.

He looked up at her.

“Mr. Pine, to be clear, if you do find anything, it’s not your property.” She hated to sound prickly, but she needed the leverage.

His mouth tightened at the edges.

“You can’t seriously think that you can come in here, use our resources to find the gold, then cart it away as if it’s finders keepers.”

“I’ll be invoking the Treasure Trove Law.”

“Yes, but if it’s found on monastery land, it belongs to Hope House.”

“Not if I’ve filed a THRC permit.”

She hadn’t seen that in her online search. “A what?”

“Treasure Hunters’ Rights and Compensation Act permit. It gives me permission to search and, if a treasure is found, to realize a portion of it. In the case of Mariposa law, it’s fifty percent.”

He pulled out a chair. “I did the math on this, and it’s in the tens of millions. I’ll be happy to take my fifty percent.”

Oh.

He looked at her. “However, the THRC does say that if it’s found on private land, the owner of that land can claim up to thirty percent. The rest after that goes to the country where it’s found, unless, of course, Holland sues Mariposa.” He offered a smile. “So...” He patted the chair next to her.

She pulled it out. “I’ll hold the phone. You read.”

He opened the book. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” He read aloud: “‘August 12, 1702. Today marks a month since the tempest that shattered our vessel against the rocks. I, Henry van der Meer, once a lawyer in the bustling streets of Amsterdam, find myself captive to fate’s terrible decree. The pirates who seized our cargo intended for the New World took me prisoner, only to meet their doom in Neptune’s wrath. Amidst the chaos, I clung to a splintered plank, praying for deliverance. By some miracle, amongst the ruin and despair, a chest from the ship’s hold—filled with gold meant for the New World—washed up beside me. Morning light brought salvation ashore, though I lay at death’s door, the chest hidden beneath seaweed and stone.’”

Ethan looked over at her. “I knew it.”

She smiled, but weirdly the words seeped into her.

He turned more pages, skimming, then, “‘October 3, 1702. The brothers of Saint Augustine’s cloister discovered me, nearly dead, on their rocky beach. They knew nothing of the chest, now secreted away, as they nursed me back to health. These weeks, enveloped in monastic calm, have revealed a treasure I had not anticipated—the peace of a quiet mind. The simple rhythms of prayer and labor soothe the tempests within. I am healing, nurtured not only by broth and bread but by a serenity that the world beyond these walls seems to lack.’”

---