Avebury Manor 1930
"Now we just need to figure out what Tortuga refers to." Marguerite said, looking at the painting. "Surely, Arthur wasn't thinking about the pirate haven in the middle of the Caribbean."
William cast a glance between his parents. "Don't you two know anything?"
The two of them exchanged glances and shrugged.
"Tortuga was the name of the small library!" Willam explained еagerly. "Although it wasn't a library back then. Back then it was Captain Roxton's... love room." He emphasized the last two words with playful mischief.
"That's right." John confirmed. "I remember hearing about it before. Must've slipped my mind somehow."
"How charming." Marguerite said sardonically, then turned to William. "And how do you know about it?"
"I read about it in our family history books."
Marguerite smiled and lifted his chin to meet her gaze. "I have never been more proud of you than I am right now."
The family decided to wait until morning to search the small library, knowing it would be much easier with the sunlight. When the following morning arrived, before breakfast—although Marguerite had already had her morning coffee—they marched straight to the little room. John and William immediately started poking around, but Marguerite's focus was different. She was calculated and contemplative.
"Stop." She said suddenly. Both John and William turned to her, startled. "Listen to me. We're not just looking for a misplaced letter. Arhtur Roxton would have hidden it somewhere it couldn't be found by accident. It would be somewhere secure and unlikely to be disturbed for years."
"How do we recognize such a place?" William asked.
"Think about places people wouldn't naturally reach for or investigate. It could be a false bottom in a drawer, a loose floorboard, a secret compartment in furniture…"
She walked over to the desk, running her fingers along the edges and testing the wood for any unusual seams. "Feel for irregularities," she continued. "A small draft, a different texture, a sound that doesn't match when you knock…"
"You sound like you've done this before." William said, wide-eyed and impressed.
Marguerite paused and looked at him with a slight smirk. "I have."
John moved to one side of the room, knocking along the wooden paneling while William ran his hands along the spines of books, occasionally pulling one free to check behind it. The small library wasn't cluttered—apart from two bookshelves, it contained a writing desk, a wireless radio, and a gramophone with a stack of old records beside it.
Marguerite was examining the opposite side of the wall from John when she noticed something. There it was, etched faintly into the plaster of the wall, barely visible, but certainly there — the letter F. A few moments later, she found another letter carved into one of the legs of the desk. It was the letter R. She straightened and turned to William. "Please, take a sheet of paper and a pencil. Write down the letters as I find them."
John continued knocking along the wooden panels. Solid… solid… still solid… But then—he stopped. He knocked again, slower this time. The sound was different. Faintly hollow.
Marguerite and William turned to him.
"What is it?" William asked.
John didn't answer. Instead, he ran his palm over the surface of the wall. It was smooth, like the rest, but something wasn't quite right. He leaned in, narrowing his eyes, studying the details.
"There's something here," he murmured.
At first, it looked like nothing more than ordinary brickwork beneath the wooden panels, but John ran his fingers over one particular section.
"A loose brick," he muttered.
Marguerite approached and looked closer. "It's almost seamless. You wouldn't notice unless you knew exactly what you were looking for."
With a firm push, John applied pressure to the right spot. The brick gave way with a quiet scrape, revealing a narrow cavity just behind it. Tucked inside was a carefully folded piece of parchment. John reached in and pulled it free. The edges were slightly worn, the ink faded but still legible. He held it up so Marguerite and William could see. Marguerite immediately took it, unrolled it and read aloud:
"You stand within the captain's cabin, searching for a sign—any clue that might guide you to your next destination. Look closely. There are nine small details, each meaningless on its own. But together, they form a pattern. Focus, and the way forward will reveal itself."
"This is getting so thrilling!" William exclaimed.
Marguerite nodded. "I agree. Even your father looks intrigued."
John smirked, crossing his arms. "Obviously, I have nothing better to do."
"Nonsense." Marguerite replied. "There's always work to be done if one wishes. But let's be honest, this has caught your attention."
"Alright, I admit it. Now, shall we focus on solving the puzzle?"
Marguerite turned around and looked around the room. "Nine small details… That must be referring to the letters we've found. How many do we have so far?"
William looked at his notes. "Five—F, R, N, C, and H."
"French," John mused. "That's almost a word already."
"So, it's something French." William concluded. "But what?"
They set off in search of the remaining letters. One by one, they uncovered them—carved into the wooden paneling near the fireplace, etched onto one of the ceiling beams, subtly inscribed along the edge of the bookshelf, delicately engraved into the wooden windowsill, and finally, the last letter was found embedded in a floorboard beneath the window.
"French Icon," William announced, somewhat surprised, as he arranged the letters, solving the anagram.
Marguerite frowned slightly. "How disappointing. I expected something more... intriguing."
"Who do you think Arthur meant by French Icon?" William asked. "Considering it was the late 19th century—it could be anyone."
Marguerite began listing names off the top of her head: "Victor Hugo? Alexandre Dumas? Claude Monet? Gustave Eiffel?"
"Napoleon?" William suggested.
John shook his head. "No, you're both looking at it the wrong way. French Icon—that phrase feels too modern for the late 19th century. Uncle Arthur wouldn't have used those words—certainly not to refer to his favourite persona."
"Could it be a religious icon then?" William asked. "Are there any well-known French saints we should be considering?"
Marguerite paused, thinking. Then she realized, "It doesn't matter—because French Icon isn't the right solution to the anagram at all. We misarranged the letters. The real solution is CONCHIFER."
"Oh no… it's Latin." William groaned.
John raised his hands in defence. "Don't look at me—my Latin's a bit rusty."
Marguerite smiled and said, "It means shell bearer."
"Shell bearer?" William repeated. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know…"
They stood in thoughtful silence for a moment when John suddenly chuckled. "I know what it is."
"What?" Marguerite and William spoke at once.
John smiled broadly. "Wait. Let me savor this moment first. It's not often that I know something before the two of you. This is a rare occasion."
"Dad!"
"John!"
"Alright, alright. I'll tell you. I believe the riddle refers to the scallop shell—the emblem of St. James. Traveling pilgrims carried it as a symbol of their journey. Churches dedicated to St. James often had carvings of the shell, marking them as stops for travelers on their way to major shrines, like Canterbury or even Rome. Even our own Church of St James, here in Avebury, has a carved scallop shell on the lych gate at the entrance."
Marguerite and William stared at him in admiration. Then, with a delight, Marguerite leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "I knew I always loved you."
"Does that mean we're heading to the Church tomorrow?" William asked.
"We could." Marguerite said. "It is Sunday, after all."
John raised a hand. "Wait a second..."
"What now? You're not going to oppose us going to Church, are you?" Marguerite asked.
"No, I'd actually commend it. But… Let's not forget—this family only goes to Church on major holidays. If I recall correctly, all of you agreed that weekly attendance was far too tedious. I distinctly remember the word boring being thrown around."
"Motivation changes everything, doesn't it?" Marguerite asked, crossing her arms.
"Yes, it does. But I don't approve." John replied evenly.
"You know we're not exactly devoted churchgoers." Marguerite said. "I don't see why that's suddenly an issue. As far as I recall, this whole arrangement suited you just fine."
"It's not about that—"
"Then what is it about?" Marguerite pressed.
"It's about principle. On ordinary Sundays, we can't be bothered to go. But now, the moment there's the promise of treasure, we're practically racing to the pews."
"So? Since when are you a devout man?" Marguerite asked.
"I'm not saying I'm a devout man, but I do respect tradition. As an earl, it's expected of me to attend weekly services, to set an example for the community. And yet, I don't. Because we chose a less conventional way of doing things."
"Does that mean we're not going to Church tomorrow?" William asked.
"I have no idea what it means." Marguerite said. "I'm waiting for your father to finally get to his point."
"It means that if we go tomorrow, for the sake of this treasure, I'm going to insist on regular attendance—at least until Christmas." John replied.
"But Dad..." William complained.
"It's only three months, William. That's hardly a big sacrifice."
Marguerite let out a measured sigh. "Alright, if it will put your conscience at ease, then so be it. Now, let's have breakfast. All this investigating has left me a bit famished—And I could certainly do with another cup of strong, black coffee."
They were in the dining room, enjoying a warm breakfast, when William said: "So, Mum… When are you going to tell me the whole truth about who you were and what you did... Before you ventured into the Lost World, of course?"
John chuckled, shaking his head. He hadn't expected that, but of course—that was William. No preamble, no build-up. Just a direct question.
Marguerite regarded him with a long, amused smile. "I'm not sure what exactly you mean."
"Oh, come on. It's obvious. Your knowledge of ciphers, recognizing patterns, understanding hidden mechanisms—is far beyond that of an average person."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Marguerite replied evenly.
"It's not a compliment, it's an observation. I've seen enough to know you weren't just some traveler wandering the world aimlessly. You've been places, done things."
Marguerite shooker her head thoughtfully. "I suppose I've picked up a skill or two over the years."
"Mum, you're doing it again. You're dodging the question." William remarked.
"It's no use, son." John commented. "If your mother doesn't want to reveal something, there's no force on earth that can pry it out of her."
William glanced up at him. "You know what, Dad? You're just as suspicious. I think you know something."
"I'm her husband. Of course I know something."
"When will I know, as her son? And don't give me that when you're older nonsense, because that's a total—" He hesitated, then finished with a grumble, "bullshit."
"Language, William." John warned.
"William," Marguerite said, "when the day comes that you stop calling an answer you don't like bullshit, you might just prove yourself ready to hear some of my stories."
William huffed, leaning back in his chair. "So never, then?"
"That's entirely up to you."
"At least tell me if I'm on the right track. Whether I'm thinking in the right direction."
"Alright. Indulge me—what exactly are you imagining?"
He hesitated for a moment, then grinned mischievously. "That you were some sort of Mata Hari, if not Mata Hari herself."
"Mata Hari? Darling boy, she was at least fifteen years older than me. Flattered as I am, you're far off the mark."
"Alright." William straightened, his expression firm. "I'm going to ask my next question directly and to the point, and I'd like the same kind of answer in return." He met Marguerite's gaze. "Were you a spy?"
"What?"
"A spy!"
"Is that what you think?" Marguerite asked.
"It's the only answer that makes sense and that could explain everything."
"Interesting conclusion…" Marguerite murmured, not denying, but certainly not admitting.
William leaned forward, his tone insistent. "Well… Were you or weren't you?"
"If I were, do you think I'd be allowed to tell anyone?"
"What do you mean?"
"If I were a spy, it would be a military secret. I'm not saying I am, but whoever is—or was—wouldn't be able to discuss it with anyone, not even their family. To do so would be a breach of protocol and could be punished as high treason."
William blinked. "High treason?"
"Yes. Espionage is a matter of national security. Those who take on such roles carry secrets to the grave. So, even if I were a spy… which I'm not saying I am… you'd never hear it from me."
John chuckled from his spot, adding dryly, "And there's your answer, son. Or lack thereof."
Marguerite took the last sip of her coffee, then set down her cup with a decisive clink. "Alright, enough commentary. If you're both finished with breakfast, we should head to the grand library. The nanny will be bringing the girls down soon."
Marguerite was the first to leave the dining room. John and William lingered for a moment, watching her go.
"You know, Dad…" William began, "If the answer had been no, she would have said it clearly and outright."
When girls entered the library, Isabelle settled onto the sofa beside Marguerite, while Juliette took a seat on the opposite sofa next to John. William dropped into the armchair between them. Marguerite and John had decided—independently of what might ultimately happen with the buried treasure, or whether they would even find it—that it was time to give the children a broader understanding of the world beyond their estate. The current state of affairs, both in the country and abroad, was shifting, and the possibility that they might have to adopt a more modest lifestyle was not entirely out of the question. It was best to prepare them, gently but honestly, for what lay ahead.
Marguerite began, "Children, we want to talk to you about something..."
"Are you pregnant?" Isabelle blurted out.
John chuckled, while Marguerite looked at her, startled. "No! Where on earth did you get that idea?"
"Are we moving to France?" Isabelle asked next, undeterred.
"No."
"Then I'm not sure I care." Isabelle replied casually.
"Where is this cheek coming from?" Marguerite asked.
Isabelle grinned at her mischievously, "From you."
Marguerite looked at John. "I thought I was ready for anything—but candid and completely shameless children? That, I did not foresee."
John responded with a satisfied look. "Like mother, like daughters."
Isabelle tilted her head. "So, what was it you wanted to tell us?"
"Are we getting a new puppy?" Juliette asked.
John gently ruffled her hair. "No, my princess. But that's exactly the point. There may come a time when we won't be able to have everything we want."
They briefly explained the situation, outlining the uncertainty ahead and the possibility of having to adjust to a more modest way of life.
Juliette looked up innocently. "But isn't that why you're searching for the buried treasure?"
Marguerite's eyes widened slightly as she stared at her. "Where did you hear that?" Then she looked at William who quickly exclaimed, "I didn't tell them!"
"Relax, no one told us." Isabelle said. "But we're part of this family too. We listen, and we notice."
"Wonderful. A house full of little spies," Marguerite murmured and pulled Isabelle into a warm embrace, gently running her fingers through her hair. Isabelle giggled, nestling into her mother's touch, clearly pleased with herself.