The worn leather had the smell of great age and Diana handled the little volume with exquisite care. The title page would have been a challenge to interpret even if it weren’t in a foreign language. Diana found the top line,
DEI COMMENTARII DEL
, easy enough to make out, but after that the letters became increasingly difficult to comprehend.
“This,” Serena explained, reaching for another volume, “is the 1873 translation of that book by Richard Henry Major, published as
The Voyages of the Venetian Brothers Nicolò and Antonio Zeno, to the Northern Seas, in the XIVth century, comprising the latest known accounts of the lost colony of Greenland; and of the Northmen in America before Columbus
.”
“How is this connected to the ship you are looking for?”
“These voyages led to an attempt at colonization, or so I believe.” She extracted yet a third volume,
History of the Voyages and Discoveries Made in the North
. “John Reinhold Forster wrote this in 1784. In it he identifies the northern ‘Prince’ referred to in the Zeno narrative as Henry Sinclair, a Scot holding the Norwegian title of Jarl of Orkney. I believe my early settlers were Scottish.”
“If that is so, why has no one ever heard of them before?”
“At the end of the fourteenth century, there was war between England and Scotland. Many records were destroyed, many lives lost. Among those killed in battle was that same Henry Sinclair. If he did explore these regions and afterward send settlers here, they’d soon have been forgotten after his death. No other ships would have followed that first one to these shores. And, when no shipment of timber was forthcoming from the New World, those left behind in Scotland would have assumed that the first ship was lost at sea.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“Or perhaps it reached this very bay, this very cove, this very island. The passengers aboard survived, cut off from any contract with home.”
“Why are you so convinced you’ll find something here, Serena? Why on
this
island, when there are so many along the coast?”
“I have my reasons.”
Diana was about to challenge this evasive answers when she caught sight of another volume farther along the shelf, one that seemed familiar to her. Pulling it out, she recognized the same 1835 issue of the
Journal of the Royal Geographical Society of London
that she’d seen on Winthrop’s desk.
“That contains an attack on the information contained in Master Zeno’s book,” Serena said. “Captain C.C. Zahrtmann’s ‘Remarks on the Voyages to the Northern Hemisphere, ascribed to the Zeni of Venice’ claims the entire tale was a fabrication. Of course, he is wrong.”
For Diana, the fact that there had been a copy of this publication at Lucien Winthrop’s house was proof positive that Winthrop took more than a passing interest in Serena’s excavation. “Winthrop was here that day, you know,” she told Serena. “He was the man in the dory with the binoculars.”
“Did he also poison my men and kill Frank?”
“I don’t know. He appears to be a petty, vengeful little man, and I saw for myself what a misanthrope he is, but a murderer?” Diana shook her head, undecided.
Serena reshelved the book with more force than was strictly necessary. “He does not want me to succeed. If I do, it will prove I was right all along.”
“Let’s say he was responsible. What purpose did Frank Ennis’s death serve?”
“It stopped work.”
“Only temporarily.”
Serena left the shelves, wandering the room with apparent aimlessness. She paused by the window to look out at the expanse of lawn stretching away towards the promontory. It was a perfect summer’s day, fair and a bit cooler than it had been of late, with a light breeze to stir the leaves and the long blades of grass.
As Diana stared at the scene over the other woman’s shoulder, MacDougall came into view. He was hard at work in spite of it being the Sabbath, pushing one of those newfangled lawnmowers. For a few minutes the two women watched him walk back and forth, back and forth, across the greensward, letting the blades do the work of a dozen men with scythes.
“There is one reason why Winthrop might have killed Frank,” Serena said at last. “What if he still hopes to claim my discoveries for himself? It was only after he failed to appropriate my research that he started his vicious campaign to discredit me. Before that, he seemed to accept the logic of my theory. Perhaps he expected me to be blamed for Frank’s death. Winthrop might have believed that if I were arrested, tried, and imprisoned, he could persuade Graham to let him take over the excavation.”
* * * *
Graham Somener sported a black eye and a swollen nose. Ben had a cut on his cheek and severely bruised knuckles. Both men were smiling when Diana and Serena joined them before the midday meal. Punching each other seemed an odd way to make peace, but if the bout had cleared the air, Diana was glad of it.
“I doubt I’d have been so forgiving if someone had tried to stop my wedding,” she murmured. “I do apologize, Serena.”
“I have, it appears, more serious things to worry about than misunderstood motives.” She looked Diana up and down. “But I won’t say it wouldn’t have felt good to slap you very hard across the face.”
Startled, Diana blinked at her, relaxing only after the other woman burst into laughter.
“You should see your expression! Did you really think I’d do it?”
“You are ... unconventional,” Diana ventured.
“Only if you never met Min Somener.”
“Did she have something to do with your decision to study archaeology?” Diana asked.
Serena hesitated. “Min pursued history in a more refined way. She loved nothing better than to read about the past. I like to get my hands dirty.”
“Do many women pursue careers in archaeology?”
“Quite a few. And a number of these women have made names for themselves in the field ... in spite of what Professor Winthrop may have told you.” A faint smile made Serena’s lips twitch with amusement. “Men, as you may have guessed, dominate the profession, and most of them think only men should interest themselves in archaeological matters.”
Diana made a sympathetic sound. “I have some familiarity with that attitude, Serena. Oh, there are plenty of other females who are journalists, but only a few actually venture into a newsroom every day or go out after stories. Unlike their male counterparts, most women send in pieces written at home.”
“You understand, then.”
“At least a little. And I know I envy you your working costume.”
Serena laughed. “The trousers, you mean? Both my clothing and my methods were inspired by a very great woman named Jane Magre Dieulafoy. For most of the last decade and all of this one, she has excavated with her husband in Egypt and Persia. In the early years she discovered there were advantages to traveling dressed as a man. When she returned to Paris in 1880, she continued to wear trousers and does so to this day.”
“And her methods?”
“She advocates doing a survey before digging, followed by a probe of debris under the earth to extract a sample. She keeps an excavation journal to record every object and structure found. For each find, each extraction, she writes down the relative and absolute position, makes a drawing of the object in situ, and assigns a find number. Only then is it transported from the site and stored. She takes photographs, too.”
That all sounded logical to Diana, but she gathered from the way Serena spoke that not all archaeologists were so careful. “Where did she receive formal training?”
“Neither she nor her husband were trained as archaeologists. They used common sense and a love of history as their guides. Indeed, it is difficult for a man or a woman to obtain a degree in archaeology as so few institutions offer one. Of those that do, many are still closed to women students. Even the most prestigious institutions in this country prefer to accept women only as ‘informal private students’ rather than admit them to a regular program of study.”
“Fascinating as this is, ladies,” Graham interrupted, “Mr. Carstairs will be joining us at any moment. Is he to be trusted or not?”
“He’s an old friend,” Serena said.
“And a former student of Lucien Winthrop’s,” Diana reminded her.
“Paul paid a courtesy visit at Winthrop’s request. Isn’t that what you told me he said?”
“He was extremely nervous all the time we were talking to him.”
“You probably frightened him. He’s the shy and retiring sort. He always has been.”
“Don’t be too trusting, Serena,” Diana warned her. “
Someone
killed Frank Ennis, and that it might have been Paul Carstairs, acting on Lucien Winthrop’s orders, makes as much sense as any other theory we’ve come up with.”
Mrs. Monroe rang the chime to announce that dinner was served at the same moment Carstairs rushed in from the hallway. “Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I lost track of time down at the site.” He skidded to a stop when he caught sight of Ben and Diana. “Dr. Northcote. Mrs. Spaulding. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Come along, Paul,” Serena said in a brisk voice. “We can talk and eat at the same time.”
As soon as they were settled at the dining room table and Mrs. Monroe had begun to serve, Serena repeated her suggestion that Lucien Winthrop had been trying to shut down the excavation on Keep Island.
Carstairs said nothing, but his eyes went as big as the proverbial saucers.
“That theory still leaves a great many unanswered questions.” Ben speared a slice of ham from the meat platter.
“What concerns me,” Graham said, “is that Serena may be in danger. If Winthrop was trying to drive her away from the site so that he could excavate here himself, then what is to stop him from killing her, and Carstairs, and Amity to further that same plan?”
“What would be the point?” Diana passed a plate of freshly baked dinner rolls, taking one for herself. “He’d only call attention to the fact that Ennis’s death was a murder, and he’d lose Serena as a scapegoat.”
“Why are you so certain Professor Winthrop killed Frank?” Carstairs asked in a tentative voice. “How did he do it?”
“He must have slipped unnoticed onto Keep Island—Diana was able to, if you recall—and poisoned the provisions. When that didn’t work, he returned and damaged Frank’s air hose.”
“All unseen? And old man like that?” Ben looked skeptical.
“Don’t let that cane he carries fool you,” Serena said. “Lucien Winthrop is a trained archaeologist. He’s accustomed to traveling over rough terrain. I doubt anything on this island would present much difficulty.”
“She’s right about that,” Carstairs put in without looking up from his food. “He’s sure-footed as a mountain goat.”
“But why kill?” Ben asked. “Yes, I understand that he hoped Serena would be blamed, and he’d be able to take over the excavation, but there must be non-violent ways to cause problems for her and achieve the same end. Is it possible he also had a personal grudge against Frank Ennis?”
“If he blames me for his forced retirement, then it makes perfect sense to me that he would become obsessed with claiming my discoveries as his own.” Serena’s glower put thunderclouds to shame. “He’d do anything to achieve that end. Make no mistake, Lucien Winthrop is a thoroughgoing villain.”
The crash of a dropped serving dish made everyone jump. Mrs. Monroe stood, face ashen, staring at Serena is shock. At her feet, an unsightly heap of mashed potatoes lay congealing amid shards of a broken bowl.
“Mrs. Monroe, what is the meaning of this?”
Ben held up a hand to silence Graham. “Mrs. Monroe? Are you ill?”
She blinked at him and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. “Oh, Mr. Ben. I didn’t know. Well, how could I? I didn’t think there was any harm in it.”
“Any harm in what?” he asked gently.
“That Professor Winthrop. He asked me to do him a favor, to collect any mail going off island and turn it over to him. He promised he’d send it on, said he just wanted to read it first. Said he needed to know what was going on here. Said it was important, and that Miss Min would have wanted him to know.”
“Aunt Min?” Graham looked flabbergasted. “What does she have to do with this?”
Prudence Monroe flushed and twisted her hands together. “I’ve been here a long time, Mr. Graham. You know that.”
“Yes, Mrs. Monroe. Of course I do. Now what the devil has my aunt to do with Lucien Winthrop?”
“They were ... very good friends.”
Lovers?
Diana saw the astonishment on every face, but when she thought about it, the idea was not so impossible. Graham’s aunt and Lucien Winthrop would have been of an age, and Min Somener, from all reports, had been an independent soul. She’d had a town house in Boston, too. That she’d been an acquaintance, and more, of a professor at Harvard was not such a great leap.
With careful questioning, the whole story tumbled out. Several weeks earlier Mrs. Monroe, a native of Islesborough, had been visiting friends there on her day off when she’d run into Lucien Winthrop. She’d met him before, when he’d visited Min on Keep Island, and knew that her old mistress had trusted him. When he’d confided that Min had shared secrets about the island with him, then hinted that Serena was not to be trusted, Mrs. Monroe had reluctantly agreed to his request that she intercept communications from Keep Island to the outside world. In the event, there had only been three letters, including Ben’s.
“And the others?” Graham’s voice was icy but Diana could sense the fiery explosion building just beneath that surface calm.
“One from you to Miss Beatrice Law,” Mrs. Monroe said.
Graham’s expression darkened. “A note of condolence to my former partner’s sister. He died several months ago but I only recently found out about it.”
“And a letter from Miss Dunbar to some foundation in New York City.”
“A request for funding.” Serena sounded bitter. “No wonder I never heard anything from them. That’s what he wanted, all right. To stop me from moving forward.”
“Why did you need more funding?” Graham’s uncertain temper flared, shifting with unsettling swiftness to focus on his new wife. “I told you I’d provide everything you needed.”
“I didn’t want to be beholden to you. Not after it became clear that we ... that you and I ... oh, botheration, Graham! I didn’t want to take advantage of your feelings for me.”