Foulness Island

By Dick Yaeger

A mysterious letter with Polaroids of an ancient axe leads historian Chloe to England in search of a friend accused of murder. With CIA-agent boyfriend George Saint, the trail leads to an off-limits island used by the government for testing new weapons. Amid rumors of ghosts and a deadly underwater Roman road, an old merchant mariner helps when they discover a link to international lawlessness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Yaeger
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370895304

Dick Yaeger

Dick Yaeger lives in Sunnyvale, California, is a retired physicist, former Marine, and active rower, much of which percolates into his novels. If not writing, he might be found at his forge creating iron artwork. He’s a self-taught student of Latin, a 49er and Sharks fan, earlier bagpipe devotee, and the proud admirer of five exciting grandsons.

Book preview

Foulness

Island

Dick Yaeger

This book is a work of fiction

ISBN 9781370895304

Copyright © 2018 by Dick Yaeger

All rights reserved

January 2018

Acknowledgements

Above all, for Bette

Thanks to David LaRoche and John Hotson who selflessly struggled alongside me, and to Christy Distler for her careful editing. Special thanks to Madeline McEwen who suggested the story venue and schooled me on proper English customs.

Other books by Dick Yaeger

Niki’s Touch

Niki’s Discovery

Walls of Wilusa

Myths ReImagined

CHAPTERS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

I turned the pink envelope over in my hands. Who mails letters these days? A forwarding label to my new apartment in Langley covered my previous address in Palo Alto. The handwritten, return address was S. Hetherington, Burnham-on-Crouch, Essex, England. Running my fingers through my hair—it begged washing—I searched my memory for history of anyone named Hetherington. Nothing.

With a table knife from the kitchen drawer, I slit the envelope open. Two colored Polaroids fell onto the counter—different views of a labrys, a two-headed axe common to the Bronze Age. I set them aside and unfolded the pink letter with scalloped edges.

Dear Chloe,

I hope this finds you well, and in time. I tried desperately to locate your phone number or email, but failed. Your home address, which I believe is your parents’, is my last resort. Remember when we exchanged addresses?

I’ll be brief. The enclosed pictures are of an ancient Greek axe (I am told) discovered on our property. I would normally donate it to the British Museum, but we have fallen on hard times, and I must try to sell it to the museum or a private collector. Unfortunately, I have no idea of its worth. I remember your training and obsession with Greek history and hope you can counsel me regarding the best price.

When all is done, we must reminisce over good times on The Stanford Daily.

Warmly yours,

Shannon O’Byrne

I hadn’t thought of Shannon in years. Long flowing locks of red hair, green eyes, freckles, and a loud, infectious laugh. I loved her Irish lilt, and we talked a lot during Stanford newspaper tenure.

Her letter gave no means of responding to her request for appraisal of the labrys: no email, Facebook, Twitter, or phone number. Not even a street address. Perhaps Burnham-on-Crouch was small enough that the postmaster knew everyone.

I poured the last half glass from a bottle of merlot, sat down at the kitchen table, and opened my laptop. Wikipedia recorded the city near the southeast coast of England on the River Crouch. Population seventy-five hundred. I always thought those English city-on-river names were charming. Why didn’t Americans adopt the convention more often? I suppose Washington-on-Potomac didn’t roll off the tongue well. Anyway, unless the postmaster of Burnham-on-Crouch was a savant, he would need a street address to deliver the mail.

I read the letter again. The words and in time caught my attention. The postmark was sixteen days ago, and Shannon gave no hint of urgency other than the subtle comment.

Perhaps I should phone—maybe the post office or police.

I finished my wine. Better yet, I should phone George. He had ways to locate anyone.

How about dinner tonight? I asked when he answered. Your empty fridge will applaud me.

What’s the occasion?

No occasion. I miss you.

He snorted. As I recall, you watched me put a new washer in your bathroom faucet thirty-six hours ago.

Yeah, but that was business.

"Ahhh. So tonight is not business?"

You might say that. I pictured the glint in his eyes.

Should I bring my pajamas?

"C’mon, George. You don’t own pajamas."

Well, I’ve been meaning to buy some.

That’ll be an event worth celebrating. He hated shopping. Look, I’ll defrost something bloody and you can grill, so bring a red. I just finished my only bottle.

I’m on my way.

Take your time. I have to shower and wash my hair.

Want your back scrubbed?

You can’t get here fast enough.

Wanna bet?

Sure. Ten bucks.

He hung up. I knew he’d forget the wine.

I stared at the Polaroids on the table as I slipped out of my clothes, trying to pull any tidbit of information from distant memory. I knelt on my closet floor, still in my panties, and pushed aside shoes, luggage, and packs of printer paper to reach my college textbook stacked in the corner. I pulled out a book on early Greek civilizations and a three-ring binder of class notes on the same subject. Cross-legged on the floor, I riffled through pages looking for the section that had fascinated me years ago.

I win, George said.

Ohhh. I looked up, instinctively crossing my arms in front of my chest.

He leaned against the bedroom doorjamb, smirking, his thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his Levis. How had I not heard him come in?

I lost ten dollars, and George forgot the wine. Two hours later, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, we sat down to a dinner of grilled lamb chops, potato chips, a lettuce-only salad, and Cranapple juice.

Looks like a rusty axe, he said when I showed him the pictures.

It’s not rust. Those splotches are green.

So?

It means the labrys is made of brass or bronze, which may date it to the Bronze Age, one to three thousand BC.

So?

There’s no evidence that the English made the two-headed style, so it’s likely from a foreign invader.

He frowned. Didn’t Romans invade England?

"Right, in forty-three AD, but