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“So, any guesses?” Remi asked, holding up the diamond coin.
It had spent the afternoon first sitting in a bowl of ten percent nitric acid, followed by Sam’s secret formula of white vinegar, salt, and distilled water, foll
owed by a scrubbing with a soft-bristle toothbrush. While many spots remained obscured, they could make out a woman’s face in profile and two words: “Marie” and “Reunion.” These details they’d relayed to Selma before leaving the bungalow.
“Not a one,” Sam said. “An odd shape for a coin, though.”
“Private minting, perhaps?”
“Could be. If so, it’s well done. Nice clean edges, good tooling, solid weight . . .”
Elimu returned with the wine, decanted, poured for both of them, waited for their nods of approval, then filled their glasses. This particular Pinot Noir was South African, a rich red with hints of cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and something Sam couldn’t quite place.
Remi took a second sip and said, “Chicory.”
Sam’s phone rang. He looked at the screen, mouthed, Selma, then answered. “Evening, Selma.” Remi leaned forward to listen in.
“Morning for me. Pete and Wendy just got here. They’re starting on the Tanzanian law angle.”
“Perfect.”
“Let me guess: You’re sitting at the the Ekundu Kifaru, staring at the sunset.”
“Creatures of habit,” Remi said.
“You have news?” Sam asked.
“About your coin. You have yourself another mystery.”
Sam saw the waiter approaching and said, “Hold a minute.” They ordered a Samakai wa kusonga and wali—fish croquet and native rice with chapati bread—and for dessert, N’dizi no kastad—Zanzibar-style banana custard. The waiter left, and Sam un-muted Selma.
“Go ahead, Selma. We’re all ears,” Sam said.
“The coin was minted sometime in the early 1690s. Only fifty were made, and they never saw official circulation. In fact, they were a token of affection, for lack of a better term. The ‘Marie’ on the coin’s face is part of ‘Sainte Marie,’ the name of a French commune situated on the north coast of Reunion Island.”
“Never heard of it,” Remi said.
“Not surprising. It’s a little lump of an island about four hundred miles east of Madagascar.”
“Who’s the woman?” Sam asked.
“Adelise Molyneux. The wife of Demont Molyneux, the administrator of Sainte Marie from 1685 to 1701. According to the stories, for their tenth anniversary Demont had his private stock of gold melted down and minted into these Adelise coins.”
“Quite a gesture,” Remi said.
“The coins were supposed to represent the number of years Demont hoped they would spend together before dying. They came close. They both died within a year of each other, just shy of their fortieth anniversary.”
“So how did this one get all the way to Zanzibar?” Sam asked.
“Here’s where truth gets mixed up with legend,” Selma replied. “You’ve heard of George Booth, I assume?”
“English pirate,” Sam said.
“Right. Spent most of his time in the Indian Ocean and Red Sea. Started as a gunner aboard the Pelican around 1696, then aboard the Dolphin. Around 1699 the Dolphin was cornered by a British fleet near Reunion Island. Some of the crew surrendered; some, including Booth, escaped to Madagascar, where Booth and a another pirate captain, John Bowen, combined forces and hijacked the Speaker, a four-hundred-fifty-ton, fifty-gun slave ship. Booth was elected captain, and then around 1700 he took the Speaker to Zanzibar. When they went ashore for supplies, the landing party was attacked by Arab troops. Booth was killed and Bowen survived. From there, Bowen took the Speaker back to the waters around Madagascar, before dying a few years later on Mauritius.”
“You said the Dolphin was cornered near Reunion Island,” Sam repeated. “How close to the Sainte Marie commune?”
“A few miles offshore,” Selma replied. “Legend says Booth and his crew had just finished raiding the commune.”
