It was another of those wonderful early-summer mornings, full of bird song and golden clouds streaking across the horizon. The sun had just risen on fields of bright, new growth, pale yellow-green leaves on trees and rows of carefully trained vegetation in the vineyards.

All was right with the world. At least it was with my world, because I had recently received excellent news about my investments, learning that they had earned me almost a million dollars in the previous twelve months.

   I had made an immense amount of money when I was a merchant banker in London, speculating in bank shares in the depth of the recession in 2008, and had then inherited well over a million on the death of my father.

   In addition to handsome returns on my regular investments, I had finally realized a surprising amount of income from my shares in John Dempster’s winery. John had once been my best friend, but we had experienced a serious falling out which I have described in Holy Grail, Sacred Gold, the book I wrote about my first adventure as a private detective.

   Two other pieces of news had lifted my spirits. The first came from Sheik Abdul Aziz, a friend I had made in London but had not seen since I returned to Canada in 2018. He informed me that he could obtain for me a mint-condition, second-hand 2012 Bugatti Veyron L’Or Blanc, a car I had long coveted but had not been able to afford new at the going price of $2.4 million. While my own Bugatti Veyron Sports Vitesse was also in its twelfth year and was running perfectly, I knew I would not be able to resist Sheik Aziz’s offer if I could persuade my wife, Rosalie, to agree to my accepting it.

   A piece of news, scarcely of the same magnitude but nonetheless very welcome, came in the form of a telephone call from our friend Bill Jolly, a fisherman and boat owner in Kingsport, to the effect that he had just docked at the wharf and had some very fresh mackerel for me. Rosalie and I are devoted to mackerel in all its manifestations, but we especially enjoy it for breakfast, which explained my speeding over the Habitant River at 6:20 am.

   The Bugatti maintained a throaty roar as it negotiated the twisting road through Canning, past the Blomidon Winery and to the Kingsport wharf. Bill did not often dock here, usually using other harbours around the coast for his small fleet, but today all three of his vessels were awkwardly tied up here, and he was standing alongside the first of his Cape Islanders, Bill and Jenny, a cigarette in his mouth and a sack slung over his shoulder.

   “’Mornin’, Marc!” He called as I gently eased the Bugatti to a halt. “I got your fish ready.”

   “Lord, Bill, how many are in that sack?” I asked in amazement.

   “If you don’t want ’em, I’ll take ’em back.”

   “Oh, no, you won’t! What I don’t eat today, I’ll clean and freeze.”

   “Good idea,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. “I likes a bit o’ mackerel meself, but there’s not that many that do.”

   “Yes, even if it was more available, it seems to have gone out of fashion.”

   “Well, you enjoy ’em.” He flung the sack on the ground in front of me. “I got work to do. So you won’t mind if I git goin’?”

   “No, not at all, Bill. I’m very grateful for this. How much do I owe you?”

   “Not a thing, Marc. Friends don’t charge friends.”

   “That’s very kind of you. You’ll let me know if I can return the favour.”

   “Sure will. See you around,” he said as he clambered back on board and disappeared into the wheelhouse.

   It had just turned 7 am as I pulled into our yard at Grand Pre. Ours was a large, modern house, consisting of more glass than any other material apart from the roof, with a large deck and patio at the rear, a vegetable and herb garden to one side and a long, grassy hill heading toward woods at the summit. To the west we could just see vines at the tail end of John Dempster’s winery and, to the east, the many twists and turns of the Gaspereau River, and the sea beyond.

   An older, more-traditional Annapolis Valley house would have been my preference, but when I arrived back from Britain there was nothing suitable on the market, and this property was going for a good price because most potential buyers regarded it as “weird.” It had been built in an ultra-modern style by a local businessman who had subsequently gone bankrupt and left the area, and while it took some getting used to, we were glad of its up-to-date conveniences, especially its top notch security system and its bunker-like garage for the Bugatti.

Rosalie was starting to stir when I got in, so I prepared for breakfast by laying the table, setting out pans, bread, butter and grinding some of our favourite Blue Mountain coffee beans. We liked our mackerel simply fried and served with bread and butter without any other accompaniments, except for a tiny dab of horseradish.

   I met my wife during my first foray into the world of private detection, and we have been blissfully happy ever since. Rosalie is a part-time Associate Professor of History at nearby Acadia University, and is a vital and invaluable collaborator on my investigations. She comes from a poor fishing family with antecedents in Wales and Scotland, some details of which may be found in my book Best Served Cold. 

I, on the other hand, am of French Acadian stock, son of a Wolfville book seller who, alarmingly, turned out to be the head of an international crime syndicate, murdered by a mysterious Russian who left the country before he could be apprehended.

   When not pursuing an investigation, Rosalie and I live quite quietly, walking on our hill, reading, talking, cooking and enjoying the contents of my extensive collection of very fine wine. We have a small circle of friends in the area, chief among them being Ray Bland, a car dealer and his wife Rachel; Walter Bryson, my lawyer, and his wife Joyce; and Gary and Jane Marshall, local business people. From further afield our friends are limited to Frank Wilberforce, a large and encyclopedic agent for the Canadian Agency for the Prevention of Art Theft and Forgery; and Patrick Kennedy, a superintendent in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and his wife Ruth. Rosalie and I are not involved in any local societies or projects, chiefly because should an investigation arise it would command all our attention and we should be unable to meet our commitments to the community.

   The mackerel was superb and we both overindulged, each devouring three fish and most of a loaf of freshly made sourdough bread. As we were draining the last of the coffee, the telephone rang.

   “It’s for you,” said Rosalie.

   “Who is it?”

   “I don’t know. A man with a strange accent.”

   “What kind of accent?”

   “Hard to tell. Maybe British.”

   “Okay. Thanks.”

   I searched my brain to think of anyone I met during my years at the bank in London, but could think of none who might be calling me here. “Hello. Marc LeBlanc speaking.”

   “Good morning, Mr. LeBlanc.” The accent seemed like a strange mixture of English and American.

   “Good morning.”

   “My name is Outerbridge. Nicholas Outerbridge.”

   “What can I do for you, Mr. Outerbridge?”

   “I am a solicitor in Hamilton.”

   “Ontario?”

   “No, Hamilton, Bermuda.”

   “Yes, go on.”

   “Well, more by default than anything I am representing a client who has been detained on certain charges and requires someone of substance to stand bail for him.”

   “What on earth has that got to do with me?”

   “The, er, client is a Mr. Lawrence LeBlanc.”

   “Larry?” I saw Rosalie’s head snap up. She hurried over to stand beside me.

   “Yes, your brother, I believe,” Outerbridge said.

   “Good God! What is he charged with?”

   “It is a rather obscure charge under the Banking Amendment Order of 2014. It would take some time to explain it to a layman.”

   “But what does he want me to do, and why?”

   “You would have to come to Hamilton and put up the bail money or otherwise stand surety.” Outerbridge sounded apologetic.

   “How much is the bail?”

   “Not much as these things go. Two thousand Bermudian dollars.”

   “How much is that in real money?”

   “Bermudian currency is real money, Mr. LeBlanc.” Outerbridge said, sounding aggrieved.

   “Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

   “That would be $2,790.50 in Canadian funds.”

   “I would have to bring cash. A cheque would be no good?”

   “If it were certified.”

   “And why can’t Larry take care of it himself?”

   “That is something to which I am not privy, Mr. LeBlanc.”

   “Well, why have I got to be there in person? Can’t I email the money?”

   “It would seem not.”

   “Why not?”

   “Again, I cannot say. I am just carrying out the instructions of my client.”

   “Very well, Mr. Outerbridge.” I sighed deeply. “I shall come as soon as I can. Where do I find you?”

   “My office is at 23a Front Street in Hamilton.”

   “Okay. Goodbye.”

   “What on earth was that all about?” Rosalie asked, her eyes wide with expectation.

   “Pack your bags, girl. We’re off to Bermuda.”

   “Oh, goody!”