I spent an hour, my back aching from bending beneath the low ceiling, my eyes and nose and hands and clothes powdered with dust, and found nothing of value. Just as I was about to give up and descend back into the land of the living, however, the beam of my flashlight landed on an ancient wooden filing cabinet. Something about it piqued my curiosity: even with its veneer of dust I could see that the cabinet was of a higher quality than its neighbors. A swipe with the cuff of my jacket revealed the cabinet to be made of high-quality rosewood, with brass fittings. Luckily, it was unlocked. I opened it—and found precisely the treasure-trove I had been hoping for.
Inside the two drawers were scores of Lady Hurwell’s personal documents: papers relating to the estate; various deeds; legal documents in a right-of-way dispute she’d carried on with a neighbor; an early copy of her will. But of greatest interest to me was a diary that she had kept in her teens and early twenties, and a bundle of letters, tied up in a ribbon, that was the correspondence she’d kept up with Sir Hubert Hurwell during their courtship. This was a rare find indeed—after all, Lady Hurwell had been something of a free thinker as well as a proto-feminist, and her marriage was rumored to have been a stormy one before it was cut short by her husband’s premature death—and would no doubt prove fascinating. I immediately began planning my campaign to convince the remaining Hurwells to allow me to transcribe both the diary and the letters.
There was another set of intriguing documents in the cabinet, consisting of a maritime contract, an insurance document, and a list—carefully enumerated—of a series of gemstones.
I turned first to the list of gems. There were twenty-one in total, all cabochon cut rubies of the star and double-star variety, and all of the highly prized “pigeon’s blood” color. The carat weights varied between 3 and 5.6. Without doubt, this was a catalogue of the famous “Pride of Africa” suite of family jewels given to Elizabeth by her husband as a wedding present. Because the stones have since been lost, I knew this detailed catalogue would prove of great interest.
The attached insurance document was of still greater interest. It was from Lloyd’s of London and it verified the enumeration and evaluation of the gemstones, which had been done at Lloyd’s request, and was stamped with the notation “This cargo is now certified and insured.”
Next I examined the maritime contract. It was dated November of 1883 and was made between Lady Hurwell and one Warriner A. Libby, a licensed sea captain. According to the stipulations of the contract, Libby was to take command of the London and Bristol steamship SS Pembroke Castle and, on behalf of Lady Hurwell, deliver its “most precious and unusual cargo” to Boston with all haste. The contract contained several very specific certifications related to the “twenty-one gemstones enumerated in the attached insurance document.” Libby was to carry the gemstones in a leather pouch, which would be sewn tightly shut and affixed to a belt. The belt was to be worn on his person at all times, even at night. He was not to cut open or otherwise interfere with the pouch or its contents, nor was he to speak of it to anyone. Upon making landfall in Boston, he was to immediately deliver the belt and the attached pouch to Oliver Westlake, Esq., of Westlake & Hervey, Solicitors, Beacon Street.
“Most precious and unusual cargo.” If this is what I believe it to be, the document may well shed light on what I’ve found to be a rather obscure episode in Lady Hurwell’s life—an episode that ended with her receiving a large insurance settlement from Lloyd’s. It would also shed some light on a persistent maritime mystery connected with Lady Elizabeth and the loss of the “Pride of Africa” jewels. I knew that my first job was to convince the remaining members of the family to give me further time to study these papers…although I took the precaution of using my phone camera to photograph them by the glow of the flashlight, just in case. My next job would be of a rather more extended nature, and might in fact ultimately entail a journey—a journey all the way from that dark and dusty attic to the shores of North America, in search of the final resting place of the SS Pembroke Castle.
29
Lake climbed the final narrow, curved steps, then moved to one side, puffing from the exertion, to afford the others room to join him. Normally, the lighthouse top was a favorite spot of his: the view from the generous, 360-degree windows was remarkable, the solitude much appreciated. Today, however, the view was marred by a dirty, swollen sky. And with four people crowding the small space, solitude was in short supply.
He looked on as his companions arranged themselves around the tower: Carole; Constance, distant and elegant as usual; and Pendergast. The FBI agent was wearing a black cashmere coat, which served only to make his alabaster skin look that much paler.
Lake shifted uneasily. Despite himself, he could not help but feel a trickle of resentment lingering from his last meeting with Pendergast. “I assume,” he said, “you didn’t ask us up here to enjoy the view.”
“That assumption is correct,” Pendergast said in his bourbon-and-buttermilk voice. “I would like to bring you up to date on the status of our investigation.”
“So you’ve reconsidered,” Lake said. “Keeping me in the loop, I mean.”
“The fact is, we have reached a point in this affair where it seemed prudent to share our findings.”