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“I thought that was the line I’d used.”
“Glad I didn’t hear or we might not have had a second date.” She maneuvered around him. “I’m having no luck.”
He returned his attention to the shelves. “What’re the chances the one book we need—”
“Exactly what I was thinking.”
“I’ll go over what you covered. You go over my half.”
But the results were the same.
Sam started on the next row, even if the years were way off. Remi looked over the volumes they’d already checked, pulling them from the shelf and looking inside just to make sure the bindings hadn’t been mismarked.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Definitely.” She retu
rned a book to the shelf and pulled out another. Although she’d gone through several centuries, none matched up to the time period in question. About an hour into their search, a thought wormed its way into Remi’s head. “Sam . . . Why aren’t Avery’s minions here, looking?”
“Waiting for us to find the information so they can steal it again.”
“What if—”
She stopped when the clerk who had first helped them entered, pushing a cart before her. The woman looked up, surprised to see them. “Still at it?” she asked.
“It’s not here,” Remi said.
“That’s hard to believe. What year?”
“Sixteen ninety-four through sixteen ninety-six.”
The woman walked up to the same shelves they’d searched. “I hope the volumes weren’t misfiled . . .” After a few moments, she straightened. “Wait. I noticed a stack of books on the research table. I assumed someone was in the midst of a project, so left them alone. Maybe it’s there.”
She pointed them in that direction. Sure enough, there were several volumes on the table. One was sitting well away from the others.
Sam walked over, examined the cover, then the spine. “This looks like the one.”
“Finally.” Remi moved to his side, watching as he turned the pages, not daring to voice her concern as to why this particular book happened to be singled out. But after a few moments, he found the records in question.
“There was an inquest.”
“For what?”
“Claims that the Mirabel was stolen in June 1696.”
“Good. Then that should tell us who the owner was.”
“If we can wade through the testimony.” He slid the book her way.
The flowery script was hard to read. “Makes you appreciate modern type.”
“Look at this,” Sam said, pointing to a paragraph lower on the page. “Testimony from a crew member who claims that he was captured in Madagascar and taken aboard the Fancy by Captain Henry Bridgeman, arriving first in Jamaica, before setting sail for New Providence . . . On arriving at Nassau, they claimed to be interlopers pursued by the East India Company and were allowed into port.”
“Interlopers?”
“If I remember my history,” Sam said, “that would be unlicensed slavers. It was a way of getting past the slave monopoly held by the East India Company.”
“Bridgeman was a slaver.”
