“And I expect you to honor our bargain, Miss Brennan.” Short led us down a hallway exiting the library’s main gallery. “Anne Bonny’s letter will join the Karpeles collection after being properly appraised and registered. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Short had driven a hard bargain, but we’d had little choice. The clock was ticking.
“Then I’m happy to be of service.” Short even smiled. “I’ve set you up in viewing room A. I was able to locate several documents I believe will be of interest.”
We entered a brightly lit chamber housing four chairs and a long wooden table. Three carts lined the rear wall, each topped by a large metal container.
“This area is temperature and humidity controlled.” Short was handing out pairs of linen gloves. “Please do not touch any documents with your bare hands. The oils on your skin can damage the parchment.”
He gave us a sharp look. “You’re not chewing gum, are you? I know children like to do that.”
Head shakes.
Short clasped his hands before his chest. “On the first cart is a genealogy of the Cormac family, from their arrival in Charles Town in the late 1600s to the present.”
I nodded, if only because he seemed to expect it.
Short moved to the center cart. “Here are documents pertaining to William Cormac himself. Letters, estate records, wills, anything we could collect.”
Excellent. Exactly what I wanted.
“And finally we have documents relating to Anne Bonny.” Short gestured to the third cart. “Not much, I admit, but there are a few items of note.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’re extremely grateful for your thoroughness.”
“I will return in one hour. If you need anything before then, or have additional requests, simply press the call button. And be aware.” Short pointed to a shiny black orb positioned in the center of the ceiling. “That device is a security camera.” He headed for the door.
“Quick question before you leave …” I handed Short a slip of paper. “Can you identify this language?”
Short glanced at the page, which contained a few words from Bonny’s poem.
“Gaelic. Original dialect, not the offshoot Scottish idiom. The language is often referred to simply as ‘Irish.’ Anything else?”
“Not right now, thank you.”
As the door closed, Shelton snorted. “Of course he’s happy to help. We struck the worst bargain in history.”
Hi shrugged. “It was the only way to get access. He had all the leverage.”
“Let’s go one cart at a time,” I suggested. “Then we won’t miss anything.”
We gave the first box a cursory examination. Cormac family history after Anne Bonny was of little interest.
Moving to the middle cart, we inspected William Cormac’s private papers. Most were legal tracts, or reports on the productivity of his plantation. I began to worry we’d find nothing of use.
“Nice!” Shelton had taken a handful of pages to the table. “Check this out!”
I dropped into the chair beside him. “What’ve you got?”
“A letter to Cormac from the father of his wife.”
“His wife?” Hi asked. “You mean Anne Bonny’s mom?”
“No, his real wife. The one Cormac cheated on in Ireland.”
“Ouch!” Hi leaned over Shelton’s shoulder. “What did her father write? Is it a challenge to a duel?”
“The language is pretty old school,” Shelton said, “but this is not complimentary. He’s railing Cormac for ‘lecherous behavior’ and things like that. Calls him a ‘paunchy, beetle-headed foot-licker.’”
Hi smirked. “Why would anyone keep this letter? Cormac must’ve been a glutton for punishment.”
“Well, well.” Shelton had reached the end. “How about that!”
“What?” I asked.
“We know Anne’s father was named William Cormac,” he said. “And when she married, Anne took the last name of her loser husband, James Bonny.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Guess what her mother’s name was? The serving woman Cormac ran on with.”
Shelton waited, enjoying center stage.
“Come on!” Hi said. “You don’t really expect us to guess names do you?”
“It’s go-od!” Shelton promised in a singsong voice.
“Out with it.” My patience was wearing thin.
“Anne Bonny’s mother was named—” Shelton drum-rolled the table, “—Mary Brennan.”
My eyes went squinty. “Seriously?”
“See for yourself.” Shelton handed me the page. “Daddy is furious because Mary Brennan was his daughter’s personal servant. He wrote her full name twice.”
“Shelton’s right.” Ben placed another document on the table. “This is an expense report from the Cormac estate in County Cork, Ireland. Dated 1697. It notes that a serving woman named Mary Brennan gave birth to a daughter, Anne.”
“How about that?” Hi joked. “Anne Bonny could be your super-great-grandma. Must be the source of your charm.”
“Very funny.”
But a shiver flashed through me. The yacht club painting. The shared handwriting quirk. Now this. Was it possible? Could I be related to Anne Bonny?
Nonsense.
“There must be a thousand Brennans in North America,” I said.
“How many in Massachusetts?” Hi was flipping through the last papers in the William Cormac box. “Here’s a letter written by Mary Brennan herself. 1707. Never posted, but addressed to a cousin in ‘the colony of Massachusetts Bay.’”
Second chill. This was definitely getting weird.
“That’s it for Big Willy Cormac.” Hi returned the sheet to its container.
“Say hello to Anne Bonny.” Shelton moved to the third cart, then handed Ben a small collection of musty documents. “Enjoy!”
“Not much to see.” Ben placed the papers on the table. “Let’s examine them one by one.”
“Tory?” Shelton was studying the side of the last document box. “You don’t believe in coincidence, right?”
“No,” I said. “Sharing a surname hardly proves—”
“Not that. Guess who was the last person to review this stuff before us?”
“Enough guessing games,” Ben growled. “Make your point.”
“Check the signature.” Shelton passed me a smeary sign-out card. “None other than your boy, Rodney Brincefield.”
“The old fogey again?” Hi arched one brow. “What gives?”
I shrugged. “He really likes Anne Bonny. No big deal.”
But part of me wondered. Brincefield kept popping up like a whack-a-mole. He seemed harmless, but I’d learned the hard way not to underestimate people.
Was Brincefield involved in our attack?
Shelton interrupted my thoughts. “You guys were talking about Massachusetts a minute ago, right?”
Nods.
“I never mentioned it before,” Shelton said, “but my pirate book includes a rumor that Bonny fled north.”
“When?” Ben asked.
“After her trial in Jamaica. One theory holds that Bonny sailed to Massachusetts Bay Colony and settled in New England. Nothing more specific than that.”
This time the chill ran both my arms and legs. Things were getting freakier and freakier. I felt like I was being punked.
Sudden pang. Mom would’ve loved the intrigue.
I shoved the painful thought aside.
“But that’s wrong,” Hi countered. “Bonny was transferred to Charles Town.”
“Maybe she fled north after escaping Half-Moon Battery,” Shelton suggested. “I’m just telling you what’s in the book.”
“Can we please get through this last set?” Ben said. “I’m losing steam here.”