Morgan raised his brows. “Why?”
“According to them, he’s a traitor. Bonaparte’s brother Joseph sent a shipment of gold and other valuables to Martinique on Napoleon’s orders around six months ago. An insurance policy for the Emperor to collect if he ever had to leave France. De Caen was put in charge of guarding it.”
“But Bonaparte’s a prisoner on theBellerophonnow, is he not?”
Melville nodded. “He is. Moored off the coast of Torbay, until the government decides where to send him. Elba, clearly, was too close to the Continent. I’ve heard they’re considering an island named St. Helena, way out in the middle of the Atlantic.”
“I know where that is,” Harriet said absently.
Morgan shot her an amused glance in the shadows. “Of course you do, Madame Map.”
She tried not to wince at the resurrection of one of his many teasing childhood nicknames for her. Cartography Kate had been another favorite.
Melville shook his head at their byplay.
“We took control of Martinique when the French withdrew, but agreed to return the gold as part of the peace settlement. General Delaval and his men searched the entire island but found no trace of it. We think De Caen hid it somewhere else, maybe on one of the other islands nearby.”
He turned to Morgan. “While you were there, did you hear any rumors about it?”
“No. But then, we were working in the fields or locked up for most of the time. De Caen had a deputy, though, a Lieutenant Garonne. I don’t know if that was his real name, or just a nickname based on the part of France he came from, but he did a lot of De Caen’s dirty work. I bet he knows where it is.”
“Garonne’s dead,” Melville said. “His body was found shortly after De Caen left the island. Shot himself, apparently.”
“Or was made to look like he did,” Morgan said darkly. “De Caen’s a madman. I’d bet he killed Garonne to keep the location of the treasure to himself.”
Melville grunted his agreement.
“There are hundreds of islands within a few days’ sail of Martinique,” Morgan continued. “Some are barely more than atolls dotted in the ocean. Without knowing which one to search, and without an accurate map, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
Harriet let out a crow of triumph. “Finally!An appreciation of cartographers and all we do!”
“The Admiralty have always appreciated your skills, Harriet,” Melville said smoothly.
Morgan merely rolled his eyes. “If De Caen had already retrieved the treasure, he wouldn’t be here in London. He’d be under a palm tree somewhere, sipping rum.”
Harriet snorted. “That’s what you’d do, I suppose?”
“There are worse ways to spend one’s days.”
“Precisely,” Melville said. “Which is why wedon’tthink he has it. Not yet, at least.”
Harriet took a few steps along the tree-lined tunnel, then swung back in the opposite direction, her skirts swirling around her legs. Pacing always helped her think.
“I have an idea.”
“Always dangerous,” Morgan muttered.
She ignored him. “There must be a reason why De Caen would want Crusoe’s maps specifically.”
“Explain.”
“Well, there are hundreds of maps of Martinique in existence. De Caen could have bought one from any mapmaker anywhere in the world. But perhaps he can’tuseany of those maps to find the treasure.”
“Go on,” Melville prompted.
“What if he used one of Crusoe’s maps when he hid the gold? If that was the case, then the only way he could find it again would be by using the same map.”
She nodded, sure she was on the right track. “If he tried to use anaccuratemap to navigate back to the gold, the island he wanted might not have been marked. Or he would have found more islands than he was expecting. I added islands where none existed, deleted others, and moved real ones miles away from where they should have been.”
