Bridget stepped closer, her gaze steady but kind. “You trusted him, and he trusted you. But whatever he left with you, it may be the reason he was killed.” She let that settle before adding, “If we can find out what was so important, we might be able to find the person who did this.”
Killian’s throat bobbed in a hard swallow. He looked at the forge for a long moment before exhaling. “Up there. I put it where no one would find it.”
They climbed into the loft, the air thick with the scent of dry hay. Killian pulled aside a stack of grain sacks, revealing a wrapped bundle tucked between the wooden beams.
Bridget’s breath hitched. Her fingers hesitated for the briefest moment before she unwrapped it. Inside, several sheets of parchment, worn at the edges, lay folded together.
The inked letters were unmistakable. Alastair’s handwriting was bold and precise.
Bridget exhaled slowly, smoothing the first page open, but her stomach dropped. The text was filled with numbers, symbols, and notations in Latin, Old Scots, and something else entirely.
“This isn’t just notes written in different languages,” he muttered beside her. “It’s coded.”
She scanned the pages, her fingers tracing the inked script. “Alastair must have been trying to decode something himself. Some of this looks familiar, but…” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I don’t understand all of it.”
Thomas’s brow furrowed. “Then we need someone who does.”
Bridget refolded the pages carefully, her mind racing. “Tresham.”
Thomas met her gaze. “He’s the best chance we have of making sense of this.”
She turned to Killian, her expression softening. “Alastair trusted you to keep this safe. And because of you, we have a chance to figure out what happened to him.”
Killian nodded, his eyes somber. “I want justice for his lordship.”
Thomas extended a hand, gripping Killian’s forearm firmly. “So do we. Thank you.”
Bridget nodded in agreement. “We won’t forget this.”
Killian gave a slight nod of understanding as Thomas turned toward the door.
“Then we go to Tresham. Now.”
“Where?” Bridget stood facing him with her eyebrow raised.
“The library, of course.” Thomas grabbed her hand and pulled her along.
Chapter Eighteen
Bridget and Thomasfound Professor Tresham in Alastair’s library, surrounded by dusty tomes and stacks of parchment. The room smelled of the faintest trace of pipe smoke. He looked up as they approached and adjusted his spectacles with an absent-minded flick of his fingers.
“Ah, Lady Bridget, Captain. Come join me,” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “I confess I had planned on a quiet weekend, but with Alastair’s collection here… Well, it’s impossible not to get drawn in.”
Bridget didn’t hesitate, setting the bundle of parchment onto the desk before him. “This belonged to his lordship. We believe it may explain why he was killed.”
Tresham’s hand hovered over the pages for a moment before he carefully unfolded them. The moment his gaze fell upon the first lines, his breath hitched.
“Good heavens,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the text as though he could feel its significance through touch alone. His enthusiasm grew with each passing second. “This… this is exactly what Alastair told me about. He suspected he had found something remarkable, but he struggled to translate it fully.”
Bridget and Thomas exchanged a glance.
“What do you mean?” Thomas asked.
Tresham leaned back slightly, eyes still locked on the parchment. “One of the old tales about the Order, one of the more persistent legends, suggests that they, like the KnightsTemplar, possessed something of great value.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “But unlike the Templars, their purpose was not preservation. It was control.”
He tapped a passage with a single finger, his excitement evident. “The Order’s influence didn’t fade with time but rather adapted. It hid in plain sight, weaving itself into institutions of power, ensuring its legacy was never truly lost.”
Bridget’s stomach tightened. “And you believe this treasure still exists?”
