Would you judge the son by the sins of his father?
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Chapter One
Nassau, New Providence
Friday, March 11
Drew scrolled the name before his eyes. Bingo! Jessica McCormack didn’t want him involved in her life, that’d been evident from the terse note she’d left at the front desk of her hotel. But this case went far beyond what one woman wanted or didn’t want. His gut was telling him she was hiding something and, if she wouldn’t confide in him, then he’d just have to find out the truth for himself.
For the last two hours, he’d sat in the Research Room at the Nassau Public Records Office’s Department of Archives in the center of town, flipping through Estate Records and Deeds, Indentures, and Conveyances Records dating back to the eighteenth century, searching for—he didn’t know what. But his perseverance finally paid off.
Drew studied the old land chart, intrigued at what he saw. The old house at High Rock and the three hundred and sixty acres surrounding it had belonged to the McCormack family for generations.
“So, why would you trespass on McCormack land if you’re supposed to be running away from them, Jess?” he murmured. “What were you looking for?”
At this point, coincidence didn’t necessarily surprise him, but it was a coincidence he didn’t like. He leaned back in the chair, digesting the fact the fire now added to the mystery surrounding Jessica McCormack.
“I’m afraid we’ve not finished updating these particular records, Detective Inspector,” a voice said over his shoulder.
Drew swiveled the soft leather chair to face the curator, Mrs. Ferguson, who peered at him over the rim of her glasses.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” Drew said. “Something feels…I feel like something’s missing.”
“Well, if you tell me what you think is missing, maybe I can help.”
His lip curled in a wry smile. “I don’t know that either.”
That wasn’t quite true, well, not anymore. It was a long shot, but somehow, he’d hoped to find Jess’ name among these papers—something, or someone, to connect her to that old house.
“You know, a lot of the old records on the old High Rock estate have been sealed for a great many years. We’re just getting around to cataloging them. You’re welcome to take a look. They might be of more help,” Mrs. Ferguson said.
Drew rose to his feet with an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”
He followed Mrs. Ferguson to a locked door at the far end of the room. She opened it and led him down a narrow passageway and another set of downward spiraling steps.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Ferguson said, arriving at and pushing open a door in the drafty basement. She veered left and disappeared down a far aisle.
A cold mustiness hung in the air and Drew shivered. No one would guess the temperature outside was close to eighty degrees.
He waited by the door, listening to Mrs. Ferguson’s slowing footsteps. After a minute, the steps sounded again in his direction.
“Everything you need to know about the Thomas family,” Mrs. Ferguson said, handing over a medium-sized cardboard box.
“Thomas?” Drew queried. “I thought the McCormacks owned the land at High Rock.”
“They did,” Mrs. Ferguson answered. “Up until 1724. That same year the McCormack’s other plantation in Maryland was burned to the ground in a slave revolt. George McCormack owned both plantations in Maryland and on High Rock at the time. He committed, what was in those days, a cardinal sin. He fell in love with a slave that had come to High Rock from another plantation. A woman named Cordelia Thomas, and he willed the property at High Rock to the son born to her, Ben. It’s all in there,” she said, indicating the box. “Just not in the computer, yet. If you need any further help, I suggest you see Zip.”
Drew raised an eyebrow. “Zip?”
“Zip has fished these waters for the past sixty years,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “If anyone knows more about the High Rock plantation than what’s in that box, he does.”
She glanced at her watch. “You’ll find him down at St. Georges Wharf around lunchtime mending his nets before he heads out to sea. Just tell him I sent you. He’ll talk to you. But if you would tidy up before you go, I would appreciate it.”
Drew nodded his gratitude to Mrs. Ferguson for her help, and the curator left him alone, closing the door softly behind her. He opened the box and pulled out an old newspaper tucked in one corner, noting the publication and the date: The North Star, 1866.
He spied an article written by Frederick Thomas and sat down to read it.
An hour later, Drew was ready to give Mrs. Ferguson’s suggestion a try. Experience had taught him the value of conversation. Even seemingly incoherent ramblings could hold answers to otherwise inexplicable situations. He stood and replaced the documents in the box. At the moment, nothing was making any sense, and he’d already spent far too much time indoors. He had to stretch his legs, get some air and think, somehow join the dots, although he couldn’t help but feel he was still missing something—a huge part of some elaborate puzzle.
He didn’t like the sea—he never had—and as he neared the wharf and breathed in the nauseous taste of raw eggs and bloody, metallic smell of fresh fish, he was reminded of exactly why. He surveyed the scene before him and tried to control his rising nausea.
Colorful, shabby boats laden with the morning’s catch bobbed alongside the wharf: Fish of every variety of size and color, and conch, their smooth, pink coral shells, glistening in the intense sunlight.
Tourists milled around with a mixture of curiosity and awe, watching the fishermen gut and fillet their morning catch with breathtaking swiftness and expert efficiency. Large sea birds vied for the portions of discarded innards thrown their way.
Drew swallowed deeply and moved toward the blue fishing boat moored at the other end of the wharf where, he’d been told, he would find Zip. An old man sat with his back to him, mending a net.
“Zip?” He said.
The man answered without turning around. “Who wants to know?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Drew Mahon. Mrs. Ferguson at the Public Records Office said you could probably help me. I’m—”
“You’re English,” the old man stated. He kept his back to Drew.
“Yes, and I would like your help.”
“About what?”
“The Thomas plantation at High Rock. Mrs. Ferg—”
The old man turned and leveled worldly eyes and a seasoned face on Drew. He pointed a dark, crooked finger at the length of rope secured about an iron palisade.
“Get the rope, will you? If you want to talk, come aboard.”
He disappeared into the boat’s wheelhouse, and the engine started. “Are you coming?” He called out.
The vessel bobbed on the lapping tide, and even as his stomach started to regret the decision before he’d even made it, Drew took a deep breath and jumped aboard the Sea Conch. The old man chuckled softly, handed him a cup of some strange brew, and maneuvered the vessel out toward the open water.
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