Plum Island (48 page)

I nodded, “A lot of our perception of history is influenced by inaccurate movies.”

“That’s probably right,” Emma said. “But one thing in the movies is pretty accurate—all treasure hunting starts with the discovery
of a long-lost map. We sell them for four bucks downstairs, but they’ve sold for tens of thousands of dollars to gullible
people over the centuries.”

I mulled this over, thinking that it may have been one of these maps—a real one—that had somehow come into the possession
of Tom and Judy, and/or Fredric Tobin. I said to Emma, “You mentioned that Gardiners Island was once called the Isle of Wight.”

“Yes.”

“Are there other islands around here that once had other names?”

“Sure. All the islands initially had Indian names, obviously. Then some acquired Dutch or English names.” She added, “And
even those changed over the years. There was a real problem with geographic place names in the New World. Some English sea
captains had only Dutch maps, some had maps showing the wrong name for an island or river, for instance, and the spelling
was atrocious, and some maps simply had blanks and some had purposely misleading information.”

I nodded and said, “Let’s take, for instance, Robins Island or, say, Plum Island. What were they called in Kidd’s day?”

“I’m not sure about Robins Island, but Plum Island was the same, except spelled P-L-U-M-B-E. This came from the earlier Dutch
name for Plum Island, which was spelled P-R-U-Y-M E-Y-L-A-N-D.” She added, “There could have been an even earlier name, and
someone like William Kidd, who hadn’t been to sea for years before he accepted this commission from Bellomont, may have had
or purchased navigation charts that were decades old. That was not uncommon.” She went on, “A pirate’s treasure map, which
would be drawn from a chart, could start with some inaccuracies. And you have to remember there are not many authentic treasure
maps in existence today, so it’s hard to draw any conclusions about the general accuracy of buried-treasure maps. It depended
on the pirate himself. Some were really stupid.”

I smiled.

She continued, “If the pirate chose not to draw a map, then the chances are much smaller of finding a treasure based on his
written instructions. For instance, suppose you found a parchment that said, ‘On Pruym Eyland, I buried my treasure—from Eagle
Rock go thirty paces to the twin oaks, thence, forty paces due south’ and so on. If you couldn’t figure out where Pruym Eyland
was, you had a major problem. If research said Pruym Eyland was once the name for Plum Island, then you have to find the rock
that everyone at that time knew was Eagle Rock. And forget the oaks. You see?”

“I do.”

After a bit, Emma said to me, “Archivists are sort of like detectives, too. Can I make a guess?”

“Sure.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Okay … the Gordons got on to some information about Captain Kidd’s treasure, or maybe some
other pirate’s treasure, and then someone else found out about it, and that’s why the Gordons were murdered.” She looked at
me. “Am I right?”

I said, “Something like that. I’m working on the details.”

“Did the Gordons actually retrieve the treasure?”

“I’m not sure.”

She didn’t press me.

I asked, “How would the Gordons have tumbled on to that information? I mean, I don’t see any files here marked ‘Pirate Treasure
Maps.’ Right?”

“Right. The only pirate treasure maps here are in the gift shop. There are, however, a lot of documents here and in the other
museums and historical societies that are still un-read, or if read, their significance is not understood. You understand?”

“I do.”

She continued, “You know, John, people who haunt archives like the Public Records Office in London, or the British Museum,
find new things that other people either missed or didn’t understand. So, yes, there may be information here or in other collections
or in private homes.”

“Private homes?”

“Yes, at least once a year we get something donated that was turned up in an old house. Like a will or an old deed. My guess—and
this is only a guess—is that someone like the Gordons, who were not professional archivists or historians, simply stumbled
on to something that was so obvious that even they could understand what it was.”

“Like a map?”

“Yes, like a map that clearly shows a recognizable piece of geography, and gives landmarks, directions, paces, compass headings,
and the whole works. If they had something like that, they could pretty much go right to the spot and dig.” She reflected
a moment, then said, “The Gordons did a lot of archaeological digging on Plum Island … maybe they were really looking for
treasure.”

“No maybes about it.”

She looked at me a long time, then said, “From what I hear, they had holes dug all over the island. That doesn’t sound like
they knew what or where—”

“The archaeological digs were cover. It gave them the ability to walk around remote parts of the island with shovels. Also,
I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of the archival work wasn’t also a cover.”

“Why?”

“They wouldn’t be allowed to keep anything they found on Plum Island. It’s government land. So they had to create a legend
of their own. The legend of how Tom and Judy Gordon saw something in the archives—here or in London—that mentioned Captain
Kidd’s Trees, or Captain Kidd’s Ledges, and, they would later claim, this got them to thinking about hunting for the treasure.”
I added, “In reality, they already knew the treasure was on Plum Island.”

“Incredible.”

“Yes, but you have to work the problem backwards. Start with an authentic map or written directions that pinpoint a treasure
on Plum Island. Let’s say you had this information in your possession. What would you, Emma Whitestone, do?”

She didn’t think about it long before she said, “I’d simply turn the information over to the government. This is an important
historical document, and the treasure, if any, is historically important. If it’s located on Plum Island, then it should be
found on Plum Island. To do otherwise is not only dishonest, it’s also a historical hoax.”

“History is full of lies, deceit, and hoaxes. That’s how the treasure got there to begin with. Why not just pull off another
hoax? Finders keepers. Right?”

“No. If the treasure is on anyone else’s land—even the government’s—then they own it. If I discovered its whereabouts, I would
accept a reward.”

I smiled.

She looked at me. “What would
you
do?”

“Well … in the spirit of Captain Kidd, I’d try to cut a deal. I wouldn’t just turn the location over to the person whose land
is represented on the map. It would be fair to trade the secret for a share. Even Uncle Sam will make a deal.”

She thought about that and said, “I suppose.” She added, “Only that’s not what the Gordons did.”

“No. The Gordons had a partner or partners who I believe was more larcenous than they were. And probably murderous, too. Really,
we don’t know
what
the Gordons were up to, or what they intended, because they wound up dead. We can assume they began with hard information
about the location of a treasure on Plum Island, and everything we see them do after that is simply a deliberate and clever
ruse— the Peconic Historical Society, the archaeological digs, the archive work, even the week in the Public Records Office
in London—it’s all in preparation for the transportation and reburial of the treasure from Uncle Sam land to Gordon land.”

Emma nodded. “And that’s why the Gordons bought that land from Mrs. Wiley—a place to rebury the treasure … Captain Kidd’s
Ledges.”

“That’s right. Does it make sense to you or am I crazy?”

“You’re crazy, yet it makes sense.”

I ignored this and continued, “If there’s ten or twenty million bucks at stake, you do it right. You take your time, you cover
your tracks before anyone even knows you’re making tracks, you anticipate problems with historians, archaeologists, and the
government. You’re going to be not only rich, you’re going to be famous, and you’re going to be in the spotlight for better
or worse. You’re young, handsome, bright, and in the money. And you don’t want any problems.”

She stayed silent awhile, then said, “But something went wrong.”

“It must have—they’re dead.”

Neither of us spoke for a while. I now had a lot of answers, and I still had a lot more questions. Some of them might never
be answered, since Tom and Judy Gordon, like William Kidd, had taken some secrets to the grave with them.

Emma finally asked me, “Who do you think killed them?”

“Probably their partner or partners.”

“I know … but
who?
”

“I don’t know yet. Do you have any suspects in mind?” She shook her head, but I think she had a suspect in mind. I’d confided
a lot of information to Emma Whitestone, who I really didn’t know. But I have a good sense of who to trust. On the chance
that I’d misjudged, that she was part of the plot, then it didn’t matter because she knew all of this anyway. And if she went
and told Fredric Tobin or someone else that I’d figured it out, so much the better. Fredric Tobin lived very high in the tower,
and it would take a lot of smoke to reach him up there. And if someone else were involved that I didn’t know about, then the
smoke might reach him or her, too. There comes a time in an investigation where you just let it rip. Especially when time
is running out.

I pondered my next question, then decided to go for broke. I said to her, “I understand that some people from the Peconic
Historical Society were on Plum Island to do a survey of possible digs.”

She nodded.

“Was Fredric Tobin one of those people?”

She actually hesitated, which I guess was out of an old habit of loyalty. Finally, she said, “Yes. He was on the island once.”

“With the Gordons as guides?”

“Yes.” She looked at me and asked, “Do you think … I mean … ?”

I said to her, “I can speculate about motive and method, but I never speculate out loud about suspects.” I added, “It’s important
that you keep all of this to yourself.”

She nodded.

I looked at Emma. She seemed to be what she appeared to be—an honest, intelligent, and pleasantly crazy woman. I liked her.
I took her hand, and we played hand squeezies.

I said, “Thank you for your time and knowledge.”

“It was fun.”

I nodded. My mind went back to William Kidd. I said, “So they hanged him?”

“They did. They kept him in chains in England for more than a year before he was tried at Old Bailey. He was allowed no legal
counsel, no witnesses, and no evidence. He was found guilty and hanged at Execution Dock on the Thames. His body was covered
with tar and hung in chains as a warning to passing seamen. Crows ate the rotting flesh for months.”

I stood. “Let’s get that drink.”

I
needed a major pasta fix so I suggested dinner at Claudio’s and Emma agreed.

Claudio’s is in Greenport, which as I said has a population of about two thousand, which is fewer than the number of people
in my condo building.

We traveled east along Main Road. It was about seven
P.M.
when we entered the village, and it was getting dark.

The village itself is not as quaint or ye olde as the hamlets; it was, and still is, a working port and a commercial fishing
town. There has been some gentrification in recent years, boutiques, trendy restaurants, and all that, but Claudio’s remains
pretty much the same as it was when I was a kid. At a time where there were very few places to dine on the North Fork, there
was Claudio’s, sitting on the bay at the end of Main Street, near the wharf, just as it had been since the last century.

I parked, and we walked out on the long wharf. A big, old three-master was permanently moored at the wharf, and there was
a clam bar nearby, people strolling, and a few motor vessels tied up whose passengers were probably in Claudio’s. It was another
nice evening, and I commented on the fair weather.

Emma said, “There’s a tropical depression forming in the Caribbean.”

“Would Prozac help?”

“A baby hurricane.”

“Oh, right.” Like a baby lion. Hurricanes were nice to watch in your condo in Manhattan. They weren’t nice out on this spit
of land less than fifty feet above sea level. I remembered an August hurricane out here when I was a kid. It started as fun,
then got scary.

So, we strolled, we talked. There’s an excitement in the early stages of a relationship—like the first three days— after that,
you sometimes realize you don’t like each other. It’s usually something the other person says, like, “I hope you’re a cat
lover.”

But with Emma Whitestone, so far, so good. She seemed to enjoy my company, too. In fact, she said, “I enjoy being with you.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, you’re not like most of the men I date—all they want to do is hear about me, talk about me, discuss art, politics,
and philosophy, and get my opinion on everything. You’re different. You just want sex.”