Avebury Manor, 1930
The financial aftershocks of the 1929 stock market crash had reached England. Many families were forced to sell their ancestral homes. As this shadow stretched across the English countryside, Marguerite and John Roxton found themselves facing a shadow of their own. Before the crisis knocked on their door, they had just started renovating the grand library on the ground floor. Marguerite was determined to finish this project, while John insisted on a more cautious approach.
"We've already invested so much into this, and I'm not going to abandon it just because the world is in chaos." Marguerite said, folding her arms.
"Be realistic," John countered. "The crash has gutted businesses on both sides of the Atlantic. We don't have the funds to complete this, not unless we want to lose the entire estate. Do you really want Avebury to go under?"
Marguerite exhaled deeply, "Money isn't the problem! You know I can always earn us money. One phone call is all it takes, and certain people in the business would come crawling."
"Marguerite," he began carefully, "this isn't who you are anymore."
"No, it's not who you want me to be. But if it's what it takes to protect our home, our children's future, I'll do it without a second thought."
"I thought we had a deal. When we got married, we decided—together—I'd manage the estate, and you'd keep us grounded as a family. We walked away from the life of adventure."
Marguerite let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yes, well, we also had no idea the stock market would come crashing down. The world's changed, John. Unless you've discovered how to turn back time, we may not have a choice about what we do next."
John took a steadying breath before speaking. "One thing's for sure: I'd give up this entire estate before I'd let you risk yourself with those people again. Besides, homes like this are relics of another time, of days gone by. Maybe it's time we learned to live differently—simpler."
Marguerite did not reply but instead shifted her gaze toward two footmen who were removing the portrait of Captain John Roxton from above the fireplace. As she watched the portrait being carefully taken down, Marguerite wondered what he would say to them now if he could communicate across the ages. The portrait was carefully placed on the large worktable, and both Marguerite and John approached to take a closer look. Marguerite had insisted on its restoration to preserve the dignity and legacy it represented.
"We cannot let Avebury slip through our fingers." Marguerite finally said. "Not for our sake, but for his. We owe it to him to fight—to the very last penny, if we must."
"We'll do everything we can, Marguerite, but in a fair, legal, and safe manner."
Marguerite gave a small nod, though her focus had already shifted. Her eyes inspected the portrait's frame, searching for hidden imperfections. "This frame won't do. It's too fragile to preserve the portrait properly." She turned to the footmen and said, "Carefully now—turn it over. I need to examine the back of the canvas."
The footmen obeyed and gently flipped the portrait around. Marguerite leaned in and she immediately noticed something unusual near the bottom corner. At first glance, it might have seemed like a random doodle or an unintentional smudge. But it wasn't random. Marguerite's pulse quickened. She recognized the symbol instantly—a compass encircled by a rose. It was a symbol she knew all too well: a marker for a map leading to hidden treasure. Marguerite snatched a sharp scalpel from the table and began to slice through the canvas.
"What are you doing?" John asked.
"Hush," she commanded.
With careful and precise strokes, she sliced through the fabric. Her breath caught as the truth of her discovery came into view—a neatly folded map, its edges yellowed with age, and a sealed letter bearing a familiar crest of the Roxton family.
"How the devil did you know it was there?" John asked, astonished.
"There was a mark. The compass with a rose. It's a symbol used to denote secret compartments or hidden treasures. When I saw it on the back of the canvas, I just knew there was something there."
The map was clearly old—perhaps even from the time of Captain John Roxton himself. The letter on the other hand, appeared far more recent, no more than fifty years old. Marguerite carefully unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:
"Dearest Cousin,
Allow me to congratulate you on uncovering what many in our family have sought but few have dared to pursue. The map you hold is indeed genuine—a true artifact marking the location of Captain John Roxton's legendary treasure.
But, alas, do not waste your time searching the place it originally points to. The treasure was long ago retrieved and re-hidden by myself in a more secure location. This map remains, however, as evidence of its authenticity and as a testament that the treasure does, in fact, exist.
Whether you are worthy of it, though, is a question that I cannot answer. That is for you to prove. To that end, I have devised a series of challenges—puzzles designed to test not only your intellect but your resolve and character. A scavenger hunt, if you will. Should you navigate these trials successfully, the treasure will be yours.
Understand, this was not done on a whim, nor for my amusement. I regret the necessity of this test, but the truth is that I found the current Lord of Avebury, as well as his heir, lacking in the qualities that I believe are required to claim such a prize. If you believe yourself different, then I wish you the best of luck.
Yours faithfully,
Arthur Roxton"
As Marguerite finished reading the letter, she lowered it slowly and gazed at John, shock and surprise on her face.
"Let me take a look at that," John said, holding out his hand.
Marguerite passed him the letter and he scanned the elegant script with a furrowed brow.
"Well? Who the hell is Arthur Roxton?"
John lowered the letter and met her gaze, "He was my uncle. There were three siblings in my father's generation: my father Richard, Aunt Agnes—whom you've already met—and Arthur, the youngest."
"And why did he consider your grandfather—and I assume your father—unworthy of the treasure?"
John exhaled, leaning against the table as he chose his words. "Arthur was… different from the rest of the family. My grandfather offered him the usual paths for a younger son: the army, the navy, or the church. But Arthur was gifted—an artist and a poet at heart. He wanted to study art, pursue his passion. That, however, was out of the question. In our family, being a painter or a poet wasn't considered a profession fit for someone of aristocratic blood."
"So they denied him his dream?" Marguerite asked.
John nodded solemnly. "My grandfather and father were strict, rigid in their beliefs about duty and tradition. They saw Arthur's aspirations as frivolous, unbecoming of a Roxton. He never forgave them for that. He resented what he saw as their narrow-mindedness and lack of imagination. That resentment is probably why he didn't think they were worthy of the treasure."
"I'm truly sorry. A life of wealth may seem liberating, but it can be just as confining. But I'm glad you and I know better. Our children will have the absolute freedom to choose their own paths."
John nodded with a small smile. "Of course."
Marguerite's expression suddenly shifted, as she grinned mischievously. "And now, let's see what the first riddle has to say." She cleared her throat and began to read:
"You set sail from Plymouth in your hunt for Captain Blood.
In an odd quirk of fate, your galleon was once captured by Blood and used for several years as his flagship. Now back in the hands of the Crown, you wonder if it may contain any clues to the location of Blood's headquarters and resolve to carry out a thorough search of the ship.
But first, the signal flags for our destination.
Where shall we set course to, Captain?"
John couldn't help but smile when he saw her intrigue. "Marguerite, I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no."
"Are we really going to argue about this?"
"We won't succeed in finding that treasure; you'll just get obsessed over nothing. I know what you're like when something gets under your skin."
"You're mad if you think I'm going to pretend we haven't discovered what we did. What happened to Arthur, anyway? Is he even alive?"
"I don't know," John admitted. "He disappeared many years ago, and we never saw him again. There's no guarantee he didn't take the treasure with him."
"I don't believe that. He wouldn't have gone to all this trouble if that were his intention."
"Even if you're right—even if we do find it—we're not using it. That treasure is blood money. Who knows how many lives were lost for it."
Marguerite looked at him slightly annoyed. She didn't reply immediately, but her lips pressed into a thin line.
"You know what, darling?" She asked. "I think you're right. You should focus on managing the estate, and I'll stick to my own affairs. Let's keep it that way. You do your work, and I'll do mine."
"Marguerite, don't twist this thing around."
"Oh, I'm not twisting anything. I'm simply agreeing with you. You've got your responsibilities, and now I've got mine."
John crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing. "You always twist everything around."
"So now I'm twisting?"
"Yes, you are. And somehow, I always end up doing exactly what you want without even realizing it."
Marguerite smirked. "Well, if I'm so good at twisting things, maybe you should stop giving me so much material to work with."
"This time, it won't work. I've learned all your tricks and schemes by now."
"Oh, really?" Marguerite asked mockingly.
"Yes. This time I'm putting my foot down. No treasure hunting, no wild goose chases. We're not doing this."
Later that evening Marguerite sat upright against the headboard, her mind clearly far away, lost in deep contemplation. John, on the other hand, was beside her, restless. His side of the bed was rumpled from his constant shifting.
"How much longer do you plan to be captivated by that puzzle?" He asked.
"Until I crack it."
John let out a huff of air, leaning forward slightly. "Do you really have to do it now? We're in bed."
She finally glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "And? Is there a rule against solving riddles under the covers?"
"No… but there are far better things we could be doing."
Marguerite didn't bother to respond. Instead, she rolled her eyes and returned her focus to the puzzle, speaking her thoughts aloud. "It says we sail from Plymouth… but it doesn't specify where to. Could it be the Caribbean? Do you think we'll need to go to Plymouth? It's not that far from here, maybe a three or four-hour drive?"
"Marguerite, we're not going to bloody Plymouth."
Marguerite's expression shifted abruptly. She placed the puzzle on the small bedside table on her side of the bed an turned to face John directly.
"You know, you're really starting to irritate me right now—a lot." She warned.
"Oh, is that so? Well, let me tell you, Marguerite—you irritate me far more, and far more often."
They glared at each other, the air between them crackling, the warmth of the room overtaken by the heat of their argument. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, Marguerite exhaled sharply and turned her head away, refusing to let him see the frustration in her expression. After few moments of silence, she asked, "Then why did we get married if we irritate each other that much?"
"Because no one else would put up with either of us."
At this she couldn't help but smile. She turned around to face him again, her expression softening. "Is that supposed to be romantic?"
"No, Marguerite. It's because even when you're driving me mad, there's no one else I'd rather argue with."
"You're lucky I feel the same way."
They exchanged soft smiles, then Marguerite added: "I know this whole endeavor seems ridiculous to you, but it doesn't to me. I want to try solving Arthur's riddle, even if it leads nowhere. At least I'll know I gave it my best shot. I have nothing to lose, and besides, we might all have some fun along the way."
"When you say all, I hope you're not planning to drag children into this."
"Not all children, just William."
"Absolutely not. I forbid it."
Marguerite arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as she waited for him to elaborate, just how he thought he could forbid such a thing.
"He's about to start school for the first time—his first time away from home for an extended period." John explained. "That's exciting enough on its own. I don't want to overwhelm him with anything else."
Marguerite nodded slowly. "Of course, I agree. He'll need time to adjust. But after a few weeks, once he's settled in, I fully intend to bring him into this. After all, why have I been teaching him to solve riddles and decipher codes since he could hold a pencil if not for a situation like this?"