Month 13, April 2023

The trail was too hot, too exposed for Aidan to follow his original plan. It made sense why Rafe wasn't there, to begin with - his yacht would be out in the Atlantic, one of many of the boats that NBC had told the general public, were waiting for information.

Or pretending to. Knowing Rafe, he would be off his ship and ingratiating himself with the private dive team and the Virginia Antiquities, discovering, stealing information about Blackbeard.

He should not have told Raymond he had a plan, and the only person he wished was still alive was Devon Sunn, who would have given his unique insight into Edward Teach's activities off the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been a ferry of daytrippers that Aidan had stowed away with, ending up on the northern ridge near Hamiltons' Cruises. A sickening feeling had been growing in his stomach, one that was telling him to give up and go home.

Only, there was no "home". "Home" was Bristol, if it had ever been such a place or, at a pinch, Charleston. But there was no way Aidan Drummond was going back to his mother's house, or find Renfield, who she had felt, in her bones, that was linked to Rafe's shooting.

No, he was on his own, and because "home" was not an option, an overwhelming desire to break into Tannyhill - that night - came over Aidan, to ignore Raymond's warnings and risk everything on finding some clue to the dinner in the 1930s and Rafe and Sarah's great grandfather.

So he sat on the beach, and watched the stars, cuddling close into his denim jacket. Nothing much clean - he would have to "laundry-bomb" at the launderette at Kildare - tomorrow, perhaps.

No, not tomorrow. Because, the early hours of the morning was his only chance to break into Tannyhill with the least chance of being caught.

Ambling along the beach got Aidan Drummond to the Cut, boats banked by boats sat beside the jetty of the Recovery, where thet were in various states of repair and recondition.

Beyond, was the Wreck, belonging to the parents of Kiara, and the Heyward's store. Despite it being late, lights shone from every front window.

And then he came across a house, burned out tyres in the front yard, a broken down utility van and a hammock between two trees. The moon was up, the darkness not quite upon him. It was John B's house and, as such, John Routledge's.

His father's house.

Her father. John Routledge was busy bringing up his son, in a veritable outdoor paradise as she was brought up in a terraced house on a huge council estate in one of the most industrialised cities n Britain.

Aidan's feet got her to the front of the steps that led to the porch. That led to the outer screen door and the front door.

It wasn't locked. Indeed, the knob turned easily and the door swung back onto itself. A waft of dust came to his face and Aidan coughed. Not inhabited for some time. And yet, the house's overall condition wasn't that bad. No excessive rubbish on the floors, plates and cups stacked neatly, with purpose.

So he lived here then, her father. Adeline came to Aidan's mind now, and she thought of the man, now dead in pursuit of his lifelong gold hunt. Blackbeard's was one of many, she knew.

Aidan walked carefully across the floor to the open door at the back of the property. That door, unlike the front door, had been busted open at some stage, its hinges hung off at the top and the middle, it being attached to the wall by the latch, on the opposite side.

Aidan picked his way through, and saw the mess. Drawers had been removed, papers scattered all over the desk and floor. Even if she had wanted to, Aidan would never have enough time to go through all that was here. Not that it would matter: anyone who cared to look for information that was valuable would have taken it with him - these were the discards.

But Aidan was desperate. Information, however vague or inconsequential, might be a lead, and he was in no mood to rest. Two hours later, as the moon rose higher, a document, a thin book, tucked behind a shelf, came to his hand.

He flicked through the pages, wishing he hadn't. There was a lot of dust inside, and also a lot of writing. And sketches of various nautical scenes.

Aidan turned back to the front of the book and looked over the frontispiece. There was a date, 1718, and inside seemed to be notes about an exhibition in Paris. Tulip bulbs were for sale, and large pots in which to put them.

There was a name. Aidan held the page closer to his face. A captain's log. Captain...captain...

Aidan couldn't quite read the name. But it seemed to show an exact location where the ship sailed - Jamaica, that was clear there, and the shape of the east coast of America - the Outer Banks were a chain of islands before the land curved to the west. Charles Town was clearly marked. And Virginia.

In a different hand, there was an X, just off the Virginian coast.

Just where...

Just where...where the ship stopped. Just where the world's media were fully focused right now.

And underneath the X was a name. Aidan could barely read it aloud in the privacy of his own head.

So they had located the Queen Anne's Revenge, Aidan mused as the slim book slipped easily into his rucksack. Then, he pulled it back out.

In the failing light, Aidan opened the manuscript book back out again and leafed through. At the back, another name was apparent. It was a name he knew. Blackwood. Ibra Charles Blackwood. And under it? Mackenzie Cameron.

It was Rafe and Sarah's great grandfather: Aidan had gleaned that from his time at Tannyhill, at least.

And another name. Routledge.

Aidan wracked his brains to think what a Routledge was doing at a dinner for the up and coming of the Carolinas. Hadn't John Routledge been without means, ending up living in a hosue like this, on the Cut.

Was his father - John B's, and Aidan's great grandfather, in fact, with means? So he had been there at a dinner celebrating the election of the new governor, a dinner which, by the hand of Blackwood, told of a boast, to whit, the drinking of something alcoholic from a skull?

As Aidan slipped the book into his bag, he spied something else, something which had floateed down past the edge of the desk. Aidan stooped beside the desk and picked up the something else.

It was a picture, of John Routledge and John B. Clearly someone who had taken the picture for him knew that there was composition to be had with portrait - trees framed the two of them, John Routledge with his arm around John B, who had a pair of mackarel, one in each hand, cleary the day's catch.

And they looked so happy. Routledge was dead now, and Aidan knew, coming all the way to the Outer Banks, that even alive, he may not have acknowledged him.

Her.

He never would.

Jealousy overcame Aidan now, and he siezed the picture, tearing it into pieces with the venom and anger that was raging inside him.

He would never, could never, be as John B was to their father - John Routledge must have known of Aidan's existence, but had never, once, to his knowledge, tried to contact him.

Then, with pieces as small as confetti littering the office, Aidan Drummond tore through the Routledge house and into the cold of the night.