Vanished (5 page)

“Not long after the row,” Daisy answered. “Just happened to be adjusting my lace curtains at the exact moment he was leaving.”

Michael said, “Thank you,” even as he and Molly urged Dylan down the stairs.

“You can't comb your hair in Blackpool without someone noticing,” Molly said.

Michael nodded. “Even so, Fotherby got here very quickly.”

“He's just doing his duty. Isn't he?”

“Does his duty involve dancing attendance on Willie Myners?” Dylan asked.

Michael had barely said, “No,” when Molly pointed toward a garish poster at the bottom of the stairs.

“Other Syde Tours of haunted Blackpool,” she read. “Fortunes told and seances conducted by Mademoiselle Fate.”

“Mademoiselle Fate?” Michael repeated. “Where do they get these names?”

“Margaret Coffey gives the McKennas a break on the
rent for that room over the grocery store,” Molly went on, “and in return Holly reads her fortune.”

“How do you know that?”

“She was talking about it with Betsy Sewell when I ran into the grocery store to buy a bottle of balsamic vinegar and some buffalo mozzarella. Items Margaret didn't have, by the way, and seemed to think were some sort of big-city affectation. Betsy made some comment about crossing Holly's palm with gold, but then, Betsy's into occult history, New Age items, that stuff.”

Michael knew. Betsy Sewell's Curio Shop was a cuckoo's nest, if ever there was one. But Molly found her amusing.

“Crossing Holly's palm with silver and paper,” said Dylan, “never mind that the film version of gypsies are always saying gold.”

“The McKennas don't half go on about gypsies,” Michael added. “Gypsy curses…that's part of their spiel.”

“Holly dresses the part,” said Molly. “She was wearing a necklace of fake coins earlier today. I wonder if they knew about Willie's coins? Was he arguing with Liam this afternoon? Liam's got a loud voice, but I can't imagine why he'd tell Willie he had no choice.”

Dylan tried to peer in the McKennas' front window, but the curtains were shut tight. “To hell with Willie's coins. It's Naomi who matters. I'll start asking about. Someone has to have seen her this afternoon. Or Willie. If I ever get my hands on him again…” His words trailed away.

“If she doesn't turn up soon,” Michael cautioned, “you'll be obliged to file a formal missing persons report with Paddington.”

“Let us know what else we can do to help,” added Molly.

“Yeah, thanks.” Dylan was already making tracks
toward Dockside Avenue. As he hurried past the narrow aperture of Bell Street, a slender shape stirred in the shadows, then slipped away. But not before Michael caught a quick reflection from a pair of glasses, and an even quicker sparkle of police insignia. Luann Krebs.

He looked at Molly. Molly looked at him. With a mutual shrug, they closed ranks, linked their arms around one another, and turned for home.

 

A
S SOON AS THEY STEPPED
back into the house, Molly said, “It's been a long day. I'm going to treat myself to a bubble bath.”

“I'm going to my office,” Michael replied. “Do a bit of research on those coins.”

“Iris would be proud.” Molly blew him a kiss and went on her way to the spacious master bath, one of the first renovations she'd insisted on Michael and Irwin making after moving to the decaying Victorian pile that was Thorne-Shower Mansion.

Michael's long legs took the steps to the third floor two at a time. In his office, he switched on the largest of his computers, and while it booted up, he gazed around the room at his collections of action figures, movie posters, books. What he saw, though, was Willie on board the
Black Sea Pearl,
a gold coin in his pocket. A gold coin with Latin letters spelling out
Transalpina,
and Cyrillic letters, as well. Surely that mix of writing styles indicated an origin in Eastern Europe.

He sat down at his keyboard, and within moments established that
Transalpina
was an alternative name for Wallachia. Which was where? He was soon following links that led him all over the world—and then, surprisingly, back to Blackpool itself.

“Still at it?” asked Molly from behind him.

Michael swam up from the depths of his research. The digital clock on his desk couldn't be right—had he been sitting there for an hour? Rubbing his eyes, he turned around to see Molly in her favorite pink bathrobe, the one that made her auburn hair glow. Her feet were encased in the slippers he'd given her. They were shaped like furry white rabbits, long ears perked forward, open red mouths exposing felt fangs.

With a smile at her slippers, and another at her lovely face, he said, “The gold coins are from Wallachia, today part of Romania. Wallachian coins were originally made of silver, until the supply of silver dried up. Then they started using coins brought in from other countries. Willie's big silver coin, the one with the lion—that's a Dutch thaler.”

“Thaler? I bet that's where dollar comes from.”

“Could well be, yes. There's no way of telling whether Willie's thaler came here by way of Wallachia.”

“But the other coins are Wallachian, even though they're gold, not silver?”

“Apparently so,” Michael replied. “One ruler during the sixteenth century minted gold coins that were copies of the older silver ones, but there are very few of those.”

“If they're rare, then they're extra valuable. And yet a shady character like Willie has three. That's quite a nest egg for him.”

“They're only valuable if he can find someone to buy them.”

Molly nodded. “That's why he wanted to see Trevor Hopewell.”

“There's more to it than that. I found an article from the
Blackpool Journal
about two boys exploring the passageways beneath the town back in the 1840s. One of them was named Abercrombie.”

“Tunnel ratting must run in the family—you explore the Blackpool tunnels with the modern-day Abercrombie, right?”

“Yes, and I'm wondering what else has been handed down in the family,” said Michael. “The boys found several Wallachian coins, but the story doesn't say what happened to them.”

“Ooooh!” Molly's eyes lit up.

“That's not all. Do you remember the copy of the
Blackpool Journal
that Dylan threw on the floor in Willie's kitchen?”

“With a headline about the Magic Lantern Theatre, yes.”

“I found it on the
Journal
's Web site. The article about the coins was in the same issue. A good thing I set up that Web site for Fred, isn't it, even though all I wanted was to test a new Web platform.”

“No good deed goes unpunished,” said Molly with a grin. Her voice turned cautious. “Maybe Willie having a copy of that paper is just coincidence. Maybe the paper was lining a kitchen cabinet or—no. One cabinet was lined with a 70s-style yellow-and-green flowered paper. The other ones weren't lined at all.”

Only Molly would have noticed that. “There were no other newspapers in the flat. I expect Willie saved this one for a reason.”

“You'll have to ask Rohan and the others if they've ever seen Willie scrounging around the tunnels. And where he might have found the coins. One reason people keep exploring and mapping those tunnels is because of the rumors of treasure. Pirate treasure, smuggler's goods, and there was Liam McKenna telling one of his tour groups about gold stolen from gypsies in Romania. Gold that was
cursed.” Molly raised her hands and waggled her fingers in a “woo-woo” motion.

“Rumors of treasure. Oh, yes.” Michael switched off his computer. “I'll ask Rohan, but if the rats knew where Willie found the coins—where the lads in the 1840s found the coins, come to that—the spot would already be overrun. As soon as word spreads that Willie has those coins, the tunnels will be flooded.”

“The coins are Willie's, I guess, unless the police can prove otherwise. I hope Fotherby locked them up at the police station. I don't exactly trust him.” Molly strolled over to the window.

“Nor do I.” Turning off the desk lamp, Michael joined her.

Night had at last fallen. Toward the bay they could make out the converted Victorian gas lamps along Dockside Avenue, illuminating the scene for people still eating and dancing. Hopewell's yacht was lit with tiny fairy lights outlining the masts and yards. The lights of other boats in the marina and out the harbor rose and fell with the waves.

Beyond the town, over the sea and the land alike, darkness ruled. There wasn't even any dim glow from the grounds of Ravenhearst Manor beyond the harbor, an islet in the midst of encroaching peat bogs. “No tunnel rats or ghost hunters are running the Ravenhearst gauntlet tonight,” Michael said. “No tourists, either, despite all the ones stopping in town.”

“Most of the stories you hear about ghosts at Ravenhearst are caused by a wall collapsing or an owl hooting…”

“Or by one too many pints at the pub.” Michael always told himself that any dim lights they saw at the charred ruins of the manor were those of torches, not of restless
spirits better suited to Other Syde tours. And he intended to keep right on telling himself that.

Molly leaned back against him. “Wallachia's in Romania? So is Transylvania, right?”

“Right.” Michael inhaled her scent, that of fall woods and spring flowers, wafting upward from her warm body. He slipped his cold hands into the front of her robe. Ah, yes.

“Dracula's from Transylvania,” Molly went on, even as she snuggled her arms around his. “The fictional vampire, at least. But the historical figure—Vlad the Impaler—really is from that area. I thought Liam McKenna was just blowing smoke with all that about Dracula's gold, but…maybe there is an actual connection. Rebecca says the rumors have been going around Blackpool for years. No reason Liam and Holly didn't pick them up when they got here, especially since they make their living from what Aleister calls gossip and sailor's tales.”

“They're not the only ones.”

“I bet Willie went looking for more coins and Naomi went with him—she wants out of town, after all. But people get lost in those tunnels. People die…” Molly's voice drifted away into the darkness.

“Naomi's out there somewhere, love,” Michael stated. He didn't need to add the corollary:
We will help Dylan find her.

M
OLLY ADDED AN EXTRA
teaspoon of sugar to her cup of tea. Funny, when she lived in the U.S., she almost never drank hot tea, preferring it iced and her hot drinks made with coffee. But now that she lived in the U.K., the cuppa was a given, like driving on the left. “I've got nothing,” she said.

Iris's reading glasses rode low on her nose. A pencil poised in her hand, she peered at the newspaper lying in the space between tea cozy and toast rack. “When I lived in the States, I'd do the
New York Times
's weekend puzzles, but they're quite undemanding compared to these British puzzles.”

“Sorry, I can't concentrate. I'm worried about Dylan and Naomi.”

“Michael's phoning him, is he?”

“That's what he said.” Molly glanced at her watch. It was past ten Sunday morning—but then, she and Michael had slept late. Or remained in bed, rather, if not exactly sleeping.

Now he bounded down the stairs and into the breakfast nook, so quickly the hanging plants swayed behind him. “Dylan's not answering. Either he's switched off his phone because he's found Naomi, or he's fallen down exhausted in the attempt. I've asked Rohan to meet us at the bicycle shop at half past eleven.”

Molly rushed to finish dressing. Within half an hour
she and Michael were walking toward the Stewarts' small apartment above the bicycle shop. The sun shone as brightly as though Molly had special-ordered it to provide maximum publicity for Seafaring Days. A fresh breeze frilled the harbor with delicate whitecaps and already several small power and sailboats crisscrossed the water.

The peal of St. Mary's bells signaled that it was almost time for the 11:00 a.m. worship service. Along Dockside Avenue, seagulls picked their way through yesterday's litter. An ice cream van squeezed down the street and found a place to stop. The other vendors were doing a brisk business, the aromas of cooking food overcoming the usual fish-and-mold smell of the harbor.

Martin Dunhill, in his first mate's blue coat, white shirt and red neckerchief, was eating a meat pie in front of Clough's butcher's stall, a baseball cap shading his eyes. Addison Headerly, today's jeans and sweater considerably less dashing than yesterday's frock coat, stood beside Peggy Hartwick's booth, drowning his sorrows in scones, cream and jam. Rebecca Hislop wove flowers and ribbons into a crown for a child, while the child's mother fingered the sun-catchers dancing and glittering around her stall.

Molly glimpsed another man in nautical garb before the tall doors of Havers Customs House, made a quick right-angle turn and ran up the steps. “Good morning!”

Trevor Hopewell was reading the plaque fixed to the tidy Georgian front of the building, its raised letters relating the achievements of Charles Crowe. Small letters at the bottom said Donated by Ophelia Crowe.

Hopewell swept off his cap, tucked it beneath his arm and eyed Molly from her denim jacket to her cropped jeans. “Mrs. Graham. Molly, if you don't mind. And Michael, as well! What a pleasure.”

“Good morning,” said Michael at Molly's elbow. He pulled off his aviator sunglasses and hung them by the earpiece from his black T-shirt, the better to fix Hopewell with a steady gaze.

“Are you having a good time at Seafaring Days?” Molly asked Trevor.

“Fine festival. Top hole.”

“Are you planning to do some research here at the Customs House? It's the place to come, with old log books, research papers, maps.”

“Maps of sunken ships in the area, I'm told.”

“I was reading an article about sunken Spanish treasure ships off Florida,” said Molly. “The archaeologists found lots of gold and silver, some of it as coins. Do you collect coins as well as all the other fascinating things you showed us yesterday?”

“Oh, yes! I've got quite a number of rare and priceless coins.”

With a mutter of “Aha!” Michael chimed in, “Have you ever seen any gold coins with the Latin inscription
Transalpina,
and a Cyrillic inscription, as well?”

Trevor stepped from the shadow of the portico into the light, his eyes widening, his brows rising. “Sixteenth century Wallachian coins of Vladislav III? No, I've never seen any, more's the pity. They're legendary among the collectors in my numismatics club.”

So Trevor probably would have bought Willie's coins, if his reputation for dealing drugs hadn't preceded him. Molly wondered where Willie and Dunhill had met.

Here came Fred Purnell, his camera slung around his neck, his nose for news quivering. “Good morning, Mr. Hopewell. Having a chat with our local sleuths, are you? Michael and Molly helped solve a murder at the theatre,
and now I hear them talking about Wallachian coins, another of our local mysteries.”

“We're not sleuths,” Molly protested.

“We got caught up in some bad business is all,” Michael added.

“Have Wallachian coins turned up here in Blackpool?” Trevor asked.

Michael seized his opportunity. “Fred, you published an article several years ago about two lads in the 1840s finding Wallachian coins in the old tunnels.”

Martin Dunhill hurried up the steps, the very unnautical baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, shielding his eyes from the bright sun behind them. He swiped his throat beneath the open collar with the neckerchief from his uniform then stuffed it into his pocket and said, “Boss, you've got that phone interview in half an hour with the BBC's legal department.”

Trevor barely even glanced at Dunhill, giving him a “down, boy” gesture and focused again on Fred. “Coins? Tunnels?” Molly could have read a newspaper by the light shining from his eyes. With a shrug, Dunhill slipped away.

Fred replied to Trevor, “Supposedly, Charles Crowe brought gypsy gold back from Romania, gold he came by dishonestly, and so, out of guilt and fear of reprisal, he hid it in the tunnels running beneath the town.”

“Indeed,” breathed Trevor. “The Charles Crowe on the plaque there? Any relation to Aleister Crowe and his siblings?”

“They and their great-aunt Ophelia are Charles's descendants,” answered Michael. “Keepers of the family flame.”

“Crowe was a remarkable man,” Fred said, “although ‘remarkable' cuts both ways. He dominated a generation
of Blackpoolers, despite being away for long stretches. Fought with Nelson, did business in Eastern Europe, engaged in the opium trade—that was quite lawful at the time, mind you. Charles was also a bit of a blackguard, greedy and secretive.”

“He dug out these tunnels, then? They're not mine workings or something similar?”

“Crowe built half the town, so likely he improved the mining tunnels and built new ones. They're smugglers' dens, pirates' lairs and more going back for centuries. The local people still explore them and turn up interesting items—which brings us round to the coins, which may or may not be part of Crowe's secret gold that vanished so many years ago.”

“Gold that has a curse on it,” murmured Molly.

“You don't need a curse to explain people cheating, robbing, even murdering for wealth of all descriptions,” Fred told her. To Trevor he said, “An interview with the BBC?”

Taking a step back, Trevor glanced at his watch. It was a pricey Patek Philippe, Molly noted. “Corporate law. Always a fascinating topic, eh? Mr. Purnell, I'm looking forward to hearing more about the town's hidden treasures. Molly, Michael, I'll have Martin phone about that dinner date. I'm looking forward to learning more about your detective work, as well.” He set his hat firmly on his head and glided down the steps.

“Wallachian coins,” Fred said, half to himself. “You won't believe this, Molly, Michael, but Daisy Coffey's saying that Willie Myners has a bag full of them. Willie Myners? That layabout? Pull the other one!”

Molly smiled. Ironic that Fred would be skeptical about something that was true. Sort of. Then her smile faded. “Daisy must have been listening at Willie's door while
we talked to Fotherby yesterday. I bet she even looked inside.”

“Ah, yes,” Fred said with a nod. “I wanted to ask you about that. Daisy says you and the lad from the bicycle shop were involved in a break-in.”

“We weren't involved,” Michael stated. “And to be accurate, Willie has four coins, not a bag of them—three gold Wallachian and one silver Dutch thaler.”

“Willie's found himself the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, has he? Cripes!” Fred's eyes lit up almost as brightly as Hopewell's had earlier.

Gold, Molly thought, did tend to cast quite a glow. “All we know is that P.C. Fotherby took the coins.”

“Did he, now? I'll ask Paddington for a photo or two, then.”

“Good luck with that,” Molly told him.

Suddenly, the distinctive rhythms of Bollywood echoed off the portico. Michael dived for the pocket of his cargo pants. “Hello? Dylan? I phoned but you didn't… What? I'll be right there.”

“What is it?” Molly and Fred both asked simultaneously, but Michael was already running down the steps.

“Naomi phoned Dylan,” he shouted over his shoulder. “She's on Willie Myners's boat. It's drifting out into the harbor—she can't operate it and Willie's badly hurt.”

“Willie's hurt?” Molly repeated, even as she fell farther behind Michael, with Fred huffing and puffing behind her. “He has a boat? I suppose that makes sense. He must use it to smuggle drugs into town. There are always boats coming and going from the marina.”

There was Rohan, galloping through the crowd on Dockside Avenue in an admirable display of broken-field running. He and Michael almost collided outside the Bait
and Tackle Shop. They exchanged a few terse words, then Michael called to Molly, “I'll be back soon as may be!”

Side by side, Michael and Rohan disappeared toward the marina.

Molly stopped dead. “Michael! Don't…”
Get involved in anything dangerous,
she wanted to finish, but danger had a way of sneaking up on you.

Wheezing, Fred caught up with her. “Smuggling? Drugs? The illegal sort, you mean?”

“Or maybe legal ones used illegally,” she told him. Knowing that it was too late to protect Naomi now, she added, “I'll fill you in on the way to the marina.”

 

M
ICHAEL AND
R
OHAN CUT THROUGH
the crowd and onto the pier. Their shoes thudded on the wooden planks. Lines banged among the maze of pleasure craft and fishing boats. Water sloshed, gulls called.

His broad chest heaving, the whites of his eyes glinting, Dylan stood with Owen Montcalm beside the Grahams' small cabin cruiser. “An old banger of a boat,” Owen was saying, “but Willie had the money so I sold it to him. No affair of mine where that money came from.” Using his pipe as a pointer, he indicated a gray shape bobbing in the harbor. “That's it. Looks to have been drifting for half an hour or thereabouts—it'll be running aground on the sandbar before long.”

Digging through his pockets for the keys, Michael leaped onto his boat.

Dylan followed, Rohan on his heels, and Owen cast off the lines. It took only a moment for Michael to start the engine and maneuver away from the crowded pier. Once in the open water of the harbor, he accelerated. The salt breeze combed through his close-cropped hair, but it wasn't the breeze that chilled him to the bone.

Dylan's voice blended with the throbbing rumble of the engine. “My phone went dead. I had to recharge it—had to recharge myself. Didn't catch a wink last night. Good job I'd just turned the phone back on when she called—she can't drive a moped, let alone a boat. She's not mechanical, she's artistic. She's in trouble, she said. Terrible trouble.”

Poor Naomi, Michael thought.

Rohan asked, “Willie's hurt?”

“So she said. No more than he deserves.”

Willie's boat, a cabin cruiser even smaller than the Grahams' and much the worse for wear, bobbed up and down like a cork. Naomi clung to the strut supporting the half roof. Her face, turned toward them, was more than ashen, it was almost green. The circle of darkness that was her mouth emitted jagged part-sobs, part-shrieks, that resolved themselves into words as the men grew closer. “Help me, Dylan. I'm so sorry. Help me…”

Skillfully, Michael guided his boat next to the peeling paint of the cruiser. Rohan scrambled over the side and tied the boats together while Dylan followed. He embraced Naomi, muffling her cries in his denim jacket.

Michael vaulted onto Willie's cruiser. Beneath his boots, the deck was flecked with rust-red droplets that spread into splotches, forming a trail that led into the shadow of the half roof. He wanted nothing more than to climb back onto his own boat and leave. But he couldn't do that.

“Where's Willie?” Rohan asked Naomi.

She could only shake her head against Dylan's chest. Over the crushed spikes of her black hair, Dylan focused on the rusty smears and winced.

Grateful for Rohan at his side, Michael ducked beneath the roof.

Willie Myners lay curled below the wheel. His sweater, his jeans, his hands—all were stained rust-red, burnt umber, crimson. How many shades of red did blood come in? Kneeling, Michael pressed his fingertips into the clammy flesh of Willie's throat. He detected the slightest of pulses, faint and uneven. “He's alive, just. We need to get him back to town.”

“Sorry, mon.” Leaning over Willie and Michael both, Rohan turned the cruiser's starting key. The engine coughed, but didn't catch. He inspected the gauges behind the wheel and announced, “There's no petrol.”

“It's no good dragging him into the other boat,” said Michael. “The police…”

“I'll phone them.” Rohan returned to the deck. Michael heard the three beeps of 999 and then Rohan's voice. “Man hurt—boat—Blackpool Harbor.”

His stomach knotted, Michael stood and walked out onto the deck. Naomi was still clinging like a barnacle to Dylan's chest.