6
Shake-Up in Westminster
One
Andrew Trentham closed the great book of childhood memory, set it aside, stood up and stretched. Would he himself ever have a family, he wondered, a heritage to pass down to others? What a privileged thing—to father a dynasty as the Wanderer had done.
He had been so caught up in reading the story that he hadn’t noticed the descending dusk. The afternoon was obviously well advanced. Nor had he paid attention to the whereabouts of Duncan MacRanald. Now for the first time he saw that the fire in the hearth had grown cold.
He called out to Duncan. But there was no reply.
Andrew rose and walked to the door. He stepped outside. No sign of the Scotsman met his gaze, nor did a sound from the small barn adjacent to the house indicate his presence.
He set out to walk around the cottage to see if Duncan was up on the hillside behind it.
He had just rounded the corner of the stone building when the sound of horse’s hooves interrupted his thoughts.
Andrew turned toward the downhill path. A rider was galloping toward him holding the reins of a second mount, riderless but saddled. Andrew recognized the Derwenthwaite groom.
“Mr. Trentham!” called the man even before he had his horse well stopped, “I came to find you, sir.”
“Yes, what is it, Horace—” replied Andrew, “is something wrong?”
“You’ve had an important phone call, sir—from London. It was your office, sir.”
“That you ring them up—immediately, they said, Mr. Trentham.”
“What is it about?”
“They didn’t say, sir. Only that it was most urgent, and that I must get word to you without delay. I brought your horse.”
“Yes . . . I see that . . . thank you,” replied Andrew. “How did you find me?”
“Your father saw you strike out across the hill earlier in the afternoon, sir,” the groom replied. “And your mother remembered that you might be coming here.”
Andrew took the reins, glancing once more about for some sign of Duncan. He would have to pay a return visit at the earliest opportunity.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pen and hastily scribbled a note, which he handed to the groom, with instructions to leave it in a safe place for the old man. Then, his thoughts still preoccupied with the ancient Celt and with his neighbor, the Scotsman of more recent pedigree, Andrew grasped the leather firmly and swung himself into the saddle. The next instant he wheeled his mount around and hastened off downhill, around the Bewaldeth Ridge, and across the heath toward Derwenthwaite Hall.
Two
Member of Parliament Andrew Trentham looked to the right and left along Bridge Street, then dashed into the open space between two oncoming cars.
The traffic, noise, and hubbub of the city contrasted with the quiet of Cumbria even more sharply than usual, he thought.
A glance toward Winston Churchill’s bronze presence across the street in Parliament Square silently reminded him of the solemnity of his duty as he made his way toward the imposing Palace of Westminster, where the Houses of Parliament were located. He would check there briefly first, then get back to his office in the Norman Shaw building.
Andrew loved London no less than Cumbria. He enjoyed his life here. He functioned in the very hub of Britain’s affairs, even the world’s. Something about his truncated visit to his northern home, however, had pricked more deeply than usual. The walk up Bewaldeth and the pleasurable hours spent reliving the trek of the Wanderer had made him less than eager to resume the city’s pace.
So much, it seemed, had come all at once—the breaking of his relationship with Blair, the theft of the Coronation Stone from the Abbey, old Duncan’s curious statement about what made a Scot a Scot. And the stories . . . the maiden of Glencoe, the tale of the Wanderer.
His brain was full of many new things. And now had come this shocking news which had shortened his visit to Duncan’s cottage.
For the dozenth time Andrew replayed in his brain the fateful telephone conversation following his ride back from MacRanald’s cottage.
“Mr. Hamilton is dead,” had come the numbing words.
“What . . . Eagon?” said Andrew in disbelief.
“Eagon Hamilton is dead, sir,” his secretary had repeated. “Most of the other party members are here . . . everyone is returning immediately.”
“But . . . what happened?”
“No one knows, sir. A heart attack, they say.”
“Heart attack? Eagon was fit and feisty as a Highland bull!”
“Yes, sir . . . Scotland Yard has released no further details.”
“Scotland Yard!” Andrew had exclaimed. “What do they have to do with it?”
“I don’t know, sir. I think you had better come back to London as soon as possible.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course,” he had stammered. “I’ll drive to Carlisle this afternoon and catch the overnight train.”
Andrew had set down the receiver, stunned at the news, and slumped into the nearest chair, where his father found him motionless a few minutes later. Soberly he recounted the news to the two elder Trenthams. After an early light tea with his parents, he had been on the road by five.
Yet even as he hurried back to the city for the investigation—if Scotland Yard was sniffing around, what else could it legitimately be called?—and to help, if he could, with plans for Hamilton’s funeral, Andrew felt that he was leaving something important behind.
His reflections as he walked toward the Houses of Parliament were interrupted by a voice he recognized only too well.
“Mr. Trentham! Mr. Trentham. If I could just have a moment of your—”
“I just arrived back in the city, Luddington,” Andrew interrupted the reporter running toward him, microphone in hand, followed by a cameraman doing his best to keep up.
“I won’t take more than—”
“I’m sorry—I know nothing,” Andrew replied firmly. He stepped up his pace several notches. He was in no frame of mind for an interview. “The leader of my party is dead. Beyond that, I don’t know a thing.”
“But if I could only—”
“I’ll have a statement for you tomorrow.”
With those words, Andrew brushed past the persistent correspondent, showed his identification to the guard at the gate, and walked briskly on toward the Palace and inside.
Three
The late afternoon’s memory of the setting sun still glowed pink and red at the horizon, though most of the low-lying valleys and dales of the mountainous Cumbrian countryside were already enshrouded in the shadows of approaching night.
It had been a remarkably lovely day for late winter, thought Duncan MacRanald as he set down the final load of wood next to the large open fireplace. He sighed and looked over his stores. Plenty of logs and peat for another two weeks.
He straightened his aging but sturdy frame, and walked outside again for a final look at the remnants of the gloaming before it gave way entirely to nightfall.
His was a constitution that could scarcely have been more suitably reflective of the land of his ancestors. There was nothing the man could be but a Scot.
His features seemed hewn out of the rocky granite of the Highlands, as if its mountains had grown him of themselves, just as many of the ancient castles and fortresses of the region appeared to have naturally emerged out of rather than been built on top of the stones that comprised their foundations.
MacRanald’s eyes had seen a great deal and had grown wise from the season of waiting. In the economy of man’s earthly sojourn, they were not quite yet ancient eyes, for MacRanald was still three years short of fourscore. But they were old enough to have learned to look forward as well as back, safeguarding their aspirations in silence—hoping not for vindication of past wrong, as did Glencoe’s peaks . . . but for fulfillment of future dreams.
Notwithstanding the pleasant hours just past, Duncan thought, it would be chilly tonight. Unless his nose betrayed him, the wind would shift before morning. A storm was likely hurrying this way even now.
MacRanald’s mood, as if drawn by recent physical proximity, had remained gathered all day around his famous young friend. If he did possess any scant quantity of the Glencoe maiden’s ability to sense things beyond the ken of normal men and women, such a second sight had no doubt been activated by Andrew’s presence both yesterday and the month before.
Seeing Andrew again had kindled many memories in the heart of the aging shepherd.
Duncan had himself romped these hillsides and woodlands and explored its streams and pathways and lakes and hidden caves many years ago with Andrew’s father, Harland. Duncan had grown up in this very cottage, the only son of an elderly Scots man and woman who had done what they could to keep love of all things Scottish alive in their son. They had married late and were gray by the time Duncan’s earliest visions began to gather vaporously about them into definable memories.
Duncan’s mother had served Lady Kimbra Trentham as had her mother served Lady Ravyn a generation earlier. Such service, however, was carried out in a steadily reduced capacity as the years progressed, for the former Victorian English lady had brought her own maids to Derwenthwaite after marrying Andrew’s great-grandfather Bradburn, only four years before the end of the great queen’s long reign. In former times, even further back in the previous century, Duncan’s people had resided at the estate after coming from Scotland with Lady Gordon for her marriage in 1866 to John Trentham. But as English blood came to predominate in the modern Trentham pedigree, the onetime bond between the aristocratic family and their loyal Scots servants had steadily been lost to the sight of the former, although Duncan’s father had continued to be provided the cottage rent free, out of respect for the past and in exchange for what limited services might still be required of a gamekeeper for the estate.
Duncan had grown up not exactly alongside, but in proximity to Harland Trentham. Their playful childhood friendship, however, had gone the way of many such, fading with the passage of time.
Andrew’s father had gone south to boarding school during the war, then embarked early on the career that followed—not a particularly distinguished one, but one that certainly proceeded along normal and expected pathways. Later in his life he would become known more as the husband of the feisty MP Waleis Trentham than for his own name and accomplishments. He and Duncan scarcely saw each other now, though he like his father before him allowed the cottage to remain in the MacRanald family rent-free.
By the present era, no one at the Hall exactly remembered the reason for the connection between the family Trentham and the final remaining unmarried scion of the MacRanalds. Andrew’s father was the only one alive whose roots extended far enough back to make him privy to whatever information existed. But he scarcely remembered his own father and mother speaking a word about it.
Four
The same pinks and reds glowed down over the snow-covered mountains that overlooked the valley of Glencoe. In the north, however, they had mostly by now given way to purples and deep blues that would soon be black.
The man driving through the lonely darkness had planned to meet his seductive colleague here, when the dust settled from both the election and Scotland Yard’s investigation, to celebrate privately as well as to plan what should come next. The sudden death of their unwitting Irish Liverpudlian associate had thrown a new wrinkle into the scenario, although it might not change much in the long run. Still, they needed to talk.
He had notified her when he would arrive, but had received no confirming reply. Nor had he been able to reach her since. A gnawing suspicion or two had crossed his mind, but he had quickly dismissed them.
It was cold by the time Baen Ferguson arrived at the cottage. He was looking forward to the fire and tea Fiona would doubtless have prepared for him.
As he drove up the lonely mountain road, however, no sign of life was evident. No lights shone from the windows. No smoke rose from the chimney.
He parked the car and approached the cottage. It was nearly dark now. The door was locked.
He opened it and went inside. Cold lifelessness met his face. He felt the chilly stale odor of nonuse on his skin and in his nostrils. He turned on the light.
A quick glance told him the place had remained unvisited since their visit the previous November.
Now for the first time a premonition of deception seized him. She should have been here a week or two ago with their prize. Even if she had been delayed, she should certainly be here now.
Suddenly memory upon memory of Fiona’s face returned to him. He had tried to convince himself that she loved him. Had he been a fool all along? Suddenly he could see cunning and duplicity in those eyes.
He spun around. His hand crashed down violently on the table as an angry oath exploded from his lips in the night air. A great rage filled him—both at himself and at Fiona and whomever she might be involved with.
What was her game? he wondered. Whatever it was, he would get to the bottom of it! If she had set him up, this would not be the end of it. And if she had—
Ferguson’s brain was reeling now.
—what if she planned all along to implicate him in the theft?
He turned on his heel. There was no use his hanging around. There was nothing here for him now. Besides, if she had double-crossed him, she might at the same time have put Scotland Yard on his tail.
He had to find out where she had disappeared to. And what had become of the others. And the Stone . . . there was no sign of it here. Had she never intended to bring it at all?
He flipped off the light and stormed from the house—and was soon driving recklessly down the mountain through the night.
After the death of his own parents, Duncan MacRanald had been left to tend his sheep, help neighboring farmers with their animals, and enjoy his solitary peace . . . and hope for opportunity to carry out the familial charge as best he could in the life of the next younger in the Trentham line.
Duncan could still hear his mother’s words.
“Ye maun serve the bairns hooe’er ye can, my son, as I hae aye done these mony a year t’ their father an’ his brither, though they didna pay muckle heed t’ the auld stories nor the auld ways.”
The imperative of her words was never far from the mind of the aging Scotsman. Through the years of Andrew Trentham’s childhood, MacRanald had tried to honor her charge by planting curiosity, wonder, and a hunger for ancient times.
“Ne’er forget the auld tales . . . ne’er forget the auld homeland,” persisted his mother’s voice in Duncan’s memory. “They maunna forget. ’Tis oor heritage, an’ that o’ the wee bairns too. They maunna forget.”
He knew young Andrew had been far away, about his country’s business. But the moment he had laid eyes on him several weeks ago, he had felt the lad was at last ready to know more of his roots. He hoped the moment was now at hand that the old tales would begin to work their magic upon Andrew’s full-grown consciousness.
The water was hot, thought Duncan, glancing toward the kettle that hung above the fire. A second pot, hanging from another hook, contained boiling potatoes. Andrew’s grandfather had had electricity installed for them in the cottage forty years ago. But Duncan still boiled water for tea, potatoes, and oatmeal as his people had for centuries. He would keep the past alive by whatever means were possible.
A few minutes later everything was ready. He bent his head in a few moments of quiet thankfulness to his Lord as the source of all provision and pleasure. He then opened his eyes and proceeded to enjoy what he considered the second-best of the great “high teas” known to man. In his mind, it was surpassed only by that simpler and therefore highest high tea of all, comprised of but two chief components: oatcakes with butter, and tea with sugar and milk.
The austerity of his lifestyle was entirely a matter of Duncan MacRanald’s own choosing. In truth, he was well able to afford whatever he might want, given that his tastes were humble and that he preferred simplicity over luxury. The Trenthams had been generous to his family, and the latter had taken care to wisely use what came to it over the years. As a result, Duncan wanted for nothing in the way of pleasure or comfort.
He was known throughout Cumbria as a man honest as he was shrewd in any and all things having to do with sheep and the wool they produced. Thus, what appeared little more than an old crofter’s cottage and a few dozen acres of land to go with it had in fact, through the years, been a relatively thriving little shearing, dyeing, and veterinary enterprise. Because his needs were so simple, however, Duncan MacRanald had probably given away more than he had spent on himself.
When supper was past, Duncan cleared the few things from the table, then poured out the final cup of tea from the cooling pot and sat down in his favorite chair in front of the same hearth whose aromatic smoke had drawn Andrew to his very doorstep a month or so earlier.
His reflections still circulated about Andrew Trentham . . . Andrew Gordon Trentham, Duncan added to himself. How often had the boy sat right here, in front of this very fireplace, just as they had yesterday, staring into it just as he was now, listening fascinated to stories of the old land?
It took time to know and appreciate roots. Now Duncan found himself silently praying murmurs of thanks that such a time had apparently come.
“Thank ye, Lord, fer the friendship ye’ve given me with the lad, an’ that he’s come t’ sich esteem in th’ world, without harm bein’ dune his character. Du yer work in him, Lord. Draw his hert t’ yer own. An’ when he comes t’ ken his roots, help him t’ see that ye’re the Father o’ us all.”
Slowly, after a minute or two, Duncan rose and threw two more logs and another peat brick into the fire. He stood, slowly gazing around at the four walls of this, the largest room of the cottage.
He approached his bookshelf. There were not many volumes here. But what treasures!
He reached up and reverently drew down the same worn and ancient history that had kept Andrew entranced for much of yesterday afternoon. He thumbed casually through its pages, every leaf filling him with nostalgia for bygone days.
Moving through the book as if centuries were passing under his hands, he paused over a large woodcut drawing of a towering figure of a man, clutching a sword most mortals would scarcely be capable of lifting.
Slowly a smile spread across his face.
“Eh, Bruce,” he whispered. “Ye’re still, for a’ that an’ a’ that, the greatest Caledonia’s e’er seen.”
He paused, then added, “When will we see yer likes again?”
A moment more he gazed at the drawing, in a silence that hovered in the shadowlands between awe and reverence. He set the book back in its resting place on the shelf.
Lifting down two or three others, he returned to the hearth and eased again into his chair to enjoy the renewed crackling cheerfulness of the fire and the fellowship of the authors whose companionship he had selected for the evening.
An hour passed. Duncan’s eyelids began to grow heavy. He dozed, fought the sleep away, read again, dozed again, and finally slept in earnest.
The fire in the hearth burned low. Duncan awoke from his snooze. All around the cottage the wind whistled and whipped about.
“Ay,” he muttered, rousing himself to groggy wakefulness. “I kenned it was comin’.”
With an effort he set aside the books and struggled to his feet, then ambled slowly toward his small bedroom.
He would sleep well tonight. His brain was already half full of the dreams that would pass through his inner sight before morning.
Six
“ . . . the Cumbrian MP was not available for comment upon his arrival in London yesterday. He assured this reporter, however, that a statement would be released today. Kirkham Luddington, BBC 2, reporting live from Westminster.”
The brief film clip showed Andrew Trentham’s back as he hastened by. The camera then cut again to the reporter, standing in the early morning’s drizzle, on the scene with a full film crew to capture the revelations he was certain would develop as the day unfolded.
Andrew glanced up from the morning news on the television. His housekeeper stood before him with a freshly brewed pot.
“Oh . . . yes, thank you, Mrs. Threlkeld.”
She set it down in front of him, then began to clear the breakfast things from the table. The telecast continued its report on the death of the prominent MP Eagon Hamilton, leader of the Liberal Democrats.
Andrew had been out till after eleven the previous night, involved in meetings and discussions with Larne Reardon, the heir apparent to the party leadership, and with other colleagues and members of the party, trying to piece together a strategy for meeting the immediate circumstances. The press would be on them today no less than if word was leaked about a new Jonathan Dimbleby exposé. It was important they present a united response.
He and his colleagues had also discussed at length what could possibly have been the cause of Hamilton’s death. Scotland Yard had questioned all his intimates thoroughly. Officially it was still being called a heart attack—though whether the press would believe the lie for another twenty-four hours was doubtful.
The Yard obviously suspected foul play. Just the fact that they were withholding the body said there was more to the story than they were letting on. A rumor was circulating that Eagon’s corpse had been fished out of the Dee, floating near an abandoned Aberdeen dock, but the Yard would neither confirm nor deny the report.
Given the mysterious circumstances, it had been an especially difficult call that he and Reardon had made upon Hamilton’s family yesterday. Reardon had been closer to Hamilton than any of them. He was leaving today to accompany Eagon’s widow to Liverpool for a few days.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He rose even before Mrs. Threlkeld summoned him.
“Andrew,” a voice on the other end of the line greeted him. “I wanted to extend my condolences personally.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Trentham respectfully.
“Britain has lost a great leader. I am extremely sorry.”
“It is very thoughtful of you to say so, Miles.”
“Commons won’t be the same without him.”
“I should think not . . . though on the practical side,” Andrew added pointedly, “it will make your job easier.”
“I meant no such thing, Andrew. Eagon and I may have had our differences—”
“Strong differences,” interposed Trentham.
“True enough,” consented the other. “But I had the utmost respect for him. He was true to his convictions. No one can fault a man for that,” Miles Ramsey went on. “As was your mother—tell her we Conservatives need her here to get our government back.”
“I’ll convey the message,” laughed Andrew.
“As to what impact Eagon’s death will have upon my position,” Ramsey added, “the answer to that may rest with you, my young friend, and your colleagues. If we could somehow persuade your party to join us in coalition rather than your Labour brethren . . .”
His voice trailed off significantly.
Andrew knew the powerful leader of the opposition Conservative Party was probably right. Suddenly the Liberal Democratic Party was going to be thrust into the limelight as it had never been under Hamilton’s tenure as party leader. The whole balance of national politics could be affected.
Miles Ramsey knew it. Prime Minister Richard Barraclough of Labour knew it. His own Liberal Democratic colleagues knew it. They had spoken of little else last evening, though Larne Reardon, the deputy leader of the party, had been understandably subdued. Notwithstanding his somber mood, all had deferred to him as though he were already the duly elected head of the party. That vote, however inevitable the outcome, had yet to be taken.
“We need to talk, Andrew—and soon,” the opposition leader said.
“It is Reardon you need to speak with, Miles,” replied Andrew. “He will be head of our party soon.”
“That may be so. But Reardon and I have never exactly been political friends, if you know what I mean, any more than Eagon and I were. But you and I understand one another, even if we represent different parties. I am hoping you will be able to use your influence with the party. . . .”
“Many are more senior than I am, Miles.”
“Ah, but your star is on the rise, young Trentham. In any event, I hope you will consider me an ally and friend. With you I always know I’ll get a fair hearing.”
“I appreciate your confidence, Miles,” said Andrew, smiling wanly to himself. “But surely it can wait a few days.”
“I will not object to that—just not too long.”
“I’ll be in touch to arrange something after the funeral.”
Andrew hung up the receiver, reflecting on Ramsey’s words.
Well, he thought, it’s already begun. The subtle attempt to woo him, this time with flattery and praise—it was sure to come from both sides. And the pressures would get stronger and less subtle as time went on. He may have been young, but he had been around Parliament long enough to realize that politics was a man’s sport, not a boy’s game.
Andrew returned to his chair, sat down, and took a swallow of tea from the half-empty cup in front of him. Again his attention was drawn to the television set. The BBC reporter Kirkham Luddington was just presenting his biographical portrait of Eagon Hamilton.
“ . . . outspoken critic of the Conservative government’s policies during the Thatcher and Major eras, and leader of the increasingly influential Liberal Democratic Party—found twenty-four hours ago, reportedly in Aberdeen, dead at age fifty-six.
“The controversial Northern Irishman, who traveled to Liverpool in 1964 in hopes of seeing the Beatles firsthand, soon made the great western seaport his permanent home. He worked on the docks as a young man and eventually worked his way up to become one of the city’s six MPs. Yet he never lost his Ulster brogue, nor forgot his humble roots, and he became known throughout the United Kingdom as the champion for lost causes. During recent years, a peaceful settlement to the Irish question filled his agenda, an issue which largely frustrated the attempts of Scottish Nationalists to win over Hamilton’s support to their cause. Fighting with dedication against any break between Northern Ireland and the rest of the United Kingdom, Hamilton was on record as saying that, however sympathetic in principle he may have been to the notion of Scottish home rule, he could not allow that sympathy to jeopardize what he was trying to do for his own homeland. Having succeeded in bringing Scottish independence to national attention, the SNP has been carefully monitoring the climate in the Commons—a climate which now seems to have changed dramatically.
“To repeat—the Honorable Mr. Hamilton, Liberal Democrat Minister in the Labour government, is dead. It remains to be seen what course Hamilton’s successor, likely his deputy and close friend Larne Reardon, will follow, and in which direction he will take the Liberal Democrats.”
Andrew stood and turned off the set.
It was time to face the day.
Seven
Andrew knew from this morning’s newscast exactly where Kirkham Luddington and his film crew would be positioned. If he took a taxi or limousine straight to the front entrance, there would be no escape. Therefore he opted to try blending in with the busy sidewalk pedestrian traffic along the Victoria Embankment until he was close enough to slip through one of the side gates into the Norman Shaw building.
His party colleagues had given him the assignment of releasing a statement on their behalf today. But he had other things to do first. There were people he needed to talk to, and Inspector Shepley from Scotland Yard had promised to announce something more definite about Hamilton’s death before noon.
Andrew had decided to call a press conference for half-past one that afternoon—sixty minutes prior to the convening of the House of Commons. He would make the notification as soon as he arrived at the office, hoping it would at least secure him the morning free from the press.
The streets were busy, crowded, full of blaring horns and the smell of diesel, the rumble of buses, taxis, and trucks. He hurried along quickly, ducked through the gate, and soon was entering his office. There was hardly time to greet his secretary before the telephone on her desk rang.
“It’s the prime minister, sir,” she said a moment later.
Andrew smiled. He had known it would be a frenetic day.
“I’ll take it inside, Mrs. Blanchard,” he replied, then walked into his inner office, removed his coat, sat down behind his desk, and drew in a deep sigh before picking up the receiver.
“Prime Minister,” he said, “how good to hear from you.”
“Good morning, Andrew. Terrible business, this, about Eagon. I wanted to let you know how sorry I am.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your sentiments.”
“Reardon’s office said I should talk to you. Any more news from the Yard? The press is on me for some kind of statement.”
“Me too. But I’ve heard nothing this morning.”
“You still on for this afternoon?”
“Right.”
“Would you like me to share the heat with you, field some of the questions? I’d be happy to, Andrew. Eagon was a good friend.”
“Thank you, Richard,” replied Andrew. “That is a very kind offer, but I think it best if I handle it as planned.”
The prime minister would like nothing better, thought Andrew to himself, than to share the limelight with him at the press conference, mourning the loss of Eagon Hamilton together, and conveying the unmistakable message that the Labour-Liberal Democrat coalition was as strong as ever.
It was too soon for all that. Andrew didn’t want to begin accumulating political debts before Eagon was even buried. Neither he nor Reardon nor any of his colleagues had any intention of breaking the coalition, but they had to have time to adjust to the new circumstances.
“The Scottish Nationalists have already contacted me,” Barraclough went on, “wondering where the LibDems will line up on Scottish issues.”
“You’d think that after the fiasco with the Stone’s theft,” said Andrew, “they would lay low for a while. Their favorability polls aren’t all that high at the minute.”
“MacKinnon insists that the Abbey break-in had no connection to their movement. He would like us to think it was the Irish, but I don’t believe that for a second. Any thoughts on it yourself, Andrew?”
“Nothing more than what I’ve heard in the news.”
“In any event, Dugald MacKinnon and his Scottish Nationalist friends knew Eagon was the roadblock to much they would like to accomplish. To tell you the truth, I shudder to think where MacKinnon wants to take all this. Devolution seems hardly to have appeased him. I’m sure they’ll be talking to you and Larne Reardon soon enough.”
“No doubt. I’m surprised we haven’t heard from them already.”
“There are other matters we have to discuss, Andrew,” added the prime minister.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I told Miles Ramsey—no discussions until Eagon is buried and our party decides if it wants Larne Reardon to lead it,” replied Andrew firmly. “When the vote is taken, then you can talk to Larne. I am only acting as party spokesman on a temporary basis during his absence.”
“You’ve already spoken with Ramsey?” The prime minister’s voice was wary.
“He called to extend his condolences.”
“He will do his best to lure Reardon into his camp, and he’ll use you to do so if he can. These are tense times, Andrew. We mustn’t let either the Tories or the Scots bring down our coalition.”
“I shall keep my wits about me.”
“I suggest you do just that, Andrew. Ramsey may promise you the moon, but let’s face reality—a Conservative-Liberal coalition is impossible to imagine, even if all you Liberal Democrats were reelected. And you would lose the Social Democrats again.”
“Conservatism isn’t dead yet, Prime Minister,” laughed Andrew. “You might just lose your Labour-led coalition altogether. I’m betting you won’t call for elections quite yet, even though I admit we are sitting a tight wire.”
“Have it your way, Andrew. But I tell you that you and your colleagues belong with Labour—something Eagon Hamilton understood.”
“I’m sure we will have many opportunities to discuss these matters in the future, Prime Minister,” replied Trentham. “But I really must try to get my statement prepared.”
Barraclough laughed heartily.
“I know when I am being brushed off, Andrew. But yes—I’m sure we shall. In the meantime, I hope that either you or Mrs. Hamilton will let me know if there is anything I can do, or if she would like me to say a few words at the services.”
Andrew hung up the phone, then began flipping through the stack of calls and messages on his desk.
Half were marked urgent.
He stood, walked to the window, and stared outside for several long moments. How suddenly things could change.
By ten minutes till one, Andrew had a double-Excedrin migraine and was glad he still had a supply of pills left from his last trip to the States.
The day’s developments had made him regret a dozen times over that he had ever called a press conference. To back out now, however, would only add more fuel to the fires of speculation.
He leaned forward at his desk, resting his head in his hands.
If this was any indication of what leadership of his party was like, he was glad Eagon’s friend was going to inherit the position. Many days like this and he would go mad. Faithful Sarah Blanchard had done her best all afternoon to handle the calls and keep the pressure off him. But there were many he had no choice but to take.
The call he had just received had topped the day off with the worst possible news he could imagine.
Scotland Yard was about to issue a statement revealing more details of Eagon’s death. In view of his upcoming press conference, they wanted to give the news to him first. And then, Inspector Shepley had added, they would appreciate his coming over to the Yard for a private and more in-depth interview.
He picked up his pen, leaned forward, scribbled across the page of notes, then pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He would have to redraft an entirely new statement in light of the Yard’s disclosure.
A knock sounded at his office door.
Andrew glanced up. His secretary held a delivery in her hand.
“This just came for you from Mr. Reardon’s office,” she said. “They didn’t know whether it could wait for his return, or if you should see it.” She handed him the parcel.
Larne Reardon’s name was neatly typed on a sealed envelope. He recognized the seal on the corner immediately. It was from Dugald MacKinnon, Scottish Nationalist MP and party leader.
He had expected this, but not so soon. Richard Barraclough had been right—the Scots wasted no time. He thought they would at least have had the decency to wait until after the funeral.
Slowly Andrew slit the seal, removed the single sheet inside, and read the brief and relatively straightforward communiqué, then sat staring for some minutes straight ahead.
If MacKinnon’s words accomplished anything, it was to derail Andrew’s mind even more thoroughly from the press statement he was trying to write.
Nine
The press briefing opened to the fading strains of Big Ben’s somber strike of the half hour.
The crowded sidewalk was buzzing as Member of Parliament Andrew Gordon Trentham strode to the front of the crowd, where a bank of microphones was positioned in readiness.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have a statement to give you regarding the death of my colleague and friend, Eagon Hamilton. First of all, I would like to express what I know are the sentiments of all of us in this city and throughout the country—our sympathies and heartfelt condolences to Mrs. Hamilton and her family. Eagon Hamilton was a dedicated public servant whose voice in this nation’s affairs will be sorely missed. I have spoken with both Mr. Barraclough and Mr. Ramsey. I speak for them and their parties as well as the rest of Parliament when I say that we are all shocked at this sudden news, and we grieve the passing of one whom we all considered a friend, as well as a staunch and loyal colleague . . . and loyal Briton.”
Andrew paused and cleared his throat. Several hands shot into the air immediately. He ignored them and went on.
“As to the pragmatic matters which such an unfortunate event forces upon us, the fifty-one remaining members of the Liberal Democratic Party will meet as soon as possible to elect a successor. No major changes in the party’s policies are anticipated at this time. Deputy Leader Larne Reardon, who left the city with Mr. Hamilton’s family this morning, is expected to take the reins.
“A by-election for Mr. Hamilton’s seat in Mossley Hill will be conducted as soon as can be arranged.”
There was another pause, this one briefer than the first.
“The funeral will be held on Thursday of this week in Liverpool. Most of Mr. Hamilton’s party colleagues will be in attendance, as well as, I have been informed, both Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Barraclough. Mr. Larne Reardon will be asked to represent the family to the press at that time.
“That concludes my prepared remarks. Thank you very much.”
Trentham made no attempt to leave. He knew questions would follow in a frenzy. Therefore he stood and allowed the blitz to come.
He acknowledged one of the twenty hands that were in the air the next moment.
“Where is Mr. Reardon now?” said its owner.
“With the family. That is all I care to say.”
“You say Deputy Leader Reardon is considered the front-runner to become the next leader of the Liberal Democratic Party?” shot out someone from the rear.
“Mr. Reardon is well capable of the leadership necessary to articulate the views we hold.”
“Will he continue your party’s loyalty to Labour’s coalition?” asked another.
“That will of course depend, as in the past, on the issues involved.”
“Do you anticipate a change?”
“No, but it is not my place at this time to speak for the entire party.”
“You say you have spoken with the prime minister?”
“That is correct.”
“Was policy discussed?”
“No.”
“Did you agree to keep his coalition intact?”
“I repeat—substantive matters were not part of our very brief conversation.”
“You say Miles Ramsey has also contacted you?” came another voice.
“I have spoken with the opposition leader as well, yes.”
“With what result?”
“He was merely conveying his sympathy over Mr. Hamilton’s death, as was the prime minister.”
A brief pause came. Andrew took a breath, but the lull was short. Suddenly the gathering erupted again with questions. The most importune of them took him by surprise.
“What do you know of the report just released by Scotland Yard?” the questioner asked.
“To what report would you be referring?”
“The report stating evidence of a knife wound through Mr. Hamilton’s heart?”
“I did not know you were aware of that report,” rejoined Andrew, doing his best to keep from showing his surprise. He had assumed that Inspector Shepley’s call forty minutes ago would give him at least an hour’s lead time over the bloodhounds. He was not prepared with an answer.
“We are all aware of it, sir,” the questioner added. “The statement was given out thirty minutes ago. What is your opinion, Mr. Trentham? It was obviously murder!”
At the word, a heightened buzz spread around the crowd.
“It is far from conclusive that such is the case at this point,” replied Andrew. “I believe the Yard is also investigating the possibility of suicide.”
“No one stabs himself in the heart!” laughed one of the outspoken reporters in jest. “Not at that angle. And floating in the river—come on, Mr. Trentham, what are you trying to hide?”
“I’m hiding nothing,” Andrew shot back testily. “I am merely waiting for all the facts.”
“Who would want him dead?” shouted a voice.
“You knew Eagon Hamilton,” put in another voice over the mounting din. “Can you describe his recent mental state?”
“His recent mental state was perfectly fine,” rejoined Andrew a bit too quickly. He could feel his even temper wearing thin.
“Then you do subscribe to the murder theory. Whom do you think was responsible?”
“I subscribe to no such thing.”
“But the wound obviously rules out natural causes—”
“The Yard’s report is not so decisive,” rejoined Andrew.
“What about the rumor that the knife was Scottish, a sgian-dubh?” called out another.
“I have not heard that,” answered Andrew.
“Do you think there is some connection between the murder and the unsolved theft of the Stone?”
“I have no idea. But I really must insist we move on to other matters. Scotland Yard will release the details of Eagon Hamilton’s death in due course as they carry out their investigation. Until then it is pointless to speculate further. Now . . . I will be able to take another question or two.”
Again hands shot into the air. The sound of a dozen voices erupted around him.
One, however, stood out from the rest. How could he not give her an opportunity to redeem herself?
“Yes, Miss Rawlings,” said Andrew, acknowledging the attractive young American.
An uncommon hush came over the gathering in spite of the traffic behind it. No one wanted to miss a word, however her accent might grate upon their ears.
“It seems clear,” Paddy said, perhaps trying a bit too hard to sound forceful and confident, “that Eagon Hamilton’s death will place Mr. Reardon in a more controversial limelight than merely as concerns the coalition in Parliament. And the same might be said of you,” she added.
She paused briefly, seemingly for effect, but in reality to take a steadying breath. She knew she was on display. She was trying her best not to reveal her jittery nerves.
“—Tell me, Mr. Trentham,” she went on, “what do you think the odds are that the issue of greater sovereignty for Scotland will come up soon for division in the House of Commons?”
Her emphasis of the word, showing that she was not afraid to poke fun at her previous mistake, struck a positive chord. Most of those present, though half expecting another blunder, were willing to recognize her improved presence of mind.
Only a second or two did the quiet last. Then could be heard, first from one, then three or four, a sporadic applause, accompanied by a few nods and looks of good-natured surprise—in recognition that she had handled herself well.
“A very perceptive question, Miss Rawlings,” smiled Andrew, “—as your colleagues are well aware,” he added, glancing around. “You’ve put me on the spot, and they know it!”
Now laughter broke out in earnest. The American reporter was obviously relieved.
“But, to answer the question you raise,” Andrew went on, his face again turning grave, “I honestly don’t know.”
From where she stood, Paddy’s eyes met those of the young Englishman. His penetrating gaze held hers for the briefest instant. The edges of his lip hinted at a smile, as if to add his own private and unspoken Well done for the pluck she had shown.
“It would seem,” Paddy persisted, “that your rising influence in the party may increase the likelihood of such.”
“That I would not want to say at this time. And my rising influence, as you call it, is nothing more nor less than simply the fact that none of my colleagues want to face any of you today! When the services are over and all this is behind us, Mr. Reardon will speak for the direction of our party.”
“Eagon Hamilton was no friend of the SNP.”
“Eagon always acted on what he felt was best for the United Kingdom and its people. Such will continue to be the policy of the Liberal Democratic Party, and that of Mr. Reardon as well.”
He turned his face away. Paddy knew her brief moment in the spotlight was over. But she was satisfied. That one instant of eye contact, and the smile he had given her, made the whole day worthwhile!
Again voices clamored for the MP’s attention.
“Yes . . . Mr. Luddington,” said Andrew, acknowledging the BBC reporter.
“You mentioned both Mr. Barraclough and Mr. Ramsey,” Luddington said, seizing upon the opening his American colleague had given him. “Have you spoken to Dugald MacKinnon as well?”
“I have not spoken recently with the Scottish leader,” replied Trentham.
“There are rumors that the SNP is about to become more aggressive in pursuit of its causes. You must admit, would you not, as Miss Rawlings indicated, that your leader’s unfortunate death changes, if not the SNP’s agenda itself, then certainly its potential timetable, especially given their apparent implication in the theft of the Stone of Scone?”
Andrew wanted to deny any knowledge of anything to do with the SNP’s plans. He didn’t want questions surrounding Eagon Hamilton’s death further stirred up by this contentious issue. Unfortunately, he could not deny it. He had just read MacKinnon’s letter back in his office, outlining the precise steps by which the SNP intended to bring the matter of Scottish independence to the forefront of national attention now that one of their chief adversaries, Eagon Hamilton, was out of the way.
“I can see where you’re going with this, Mr. Luddington,” he replied. “However, this seems a highly inappropriate time for any of us to speculate upon the future activities of the SNP. I would suggest you direct your questions to Mr. MacKinnon himself.”
“What is your position, Mr. Trentham,” persisted Luddington, “on the matter of Scottish independence?”
“As I tried to indicate to Miss Rawlings, it is too soon to speculate on such things. My position is irrelevant at this point.”
“I am not asking you to speculate whether the matter will come up for debate. I am asking what is your position on the matter. If the SNP manages to pressure the prime minister to bring it front stage onto the agenda, would you go along with Labour on it?”
“I can only repeat that it is pointless for me to speculate about things that may or may not come up in the future. That is all the questions for today, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much. Good afternoon.”
The Liberal Democratic spokesman turned quickly and strode toward the Palace.
Ten
It was different returning to Derwenthwaite this time. Andrew Trentham had not been to Cumbria so often within such a short time since last summer’s recess.
The two stressful meetings early that morning, another interview with Scotland Yard, the ride to Liverpool, the funeral, and now this long ride north had exacted their toll. Andrew was spent. By the time Horace pulled the automobile into the tree-lined approach to Derwenthwaite it was well past dark, and rain was coming down steadily.
The sound of the tires crunching along the gravel drive, and the illumination of the headlights against the large beech and sycamores along either side, warmed Andrew’s spirits as he approached the ancient stone dwelling. Gradually the faint lights of the house appeared, adding yet further to the homey feeling.
He hurried inside and greeted both his parents. As they entered the drawing room—where a crackling fire waited—there was the tray of tea things approaching in Franny’s two faithful hands. Within moments, the ill effects of the difficult day and the afternoon’s journey had already begun to fade into memory.
After tea and a scone and forty minutes’ light conversation, Andrew retired to his room. In weariness he undressed, only managing half a page in his Father Brown novel before putting it aside in favor of what his sagging eyelids were telling him.
He awoke eight and a half hours later to shafts of sunlight blazing through the windows.
In place of the roar of London streets, he gazed out now upon cold, sunny silence. Above was pure blue, unbroken by a single cloud.
Andrew dressed and made his way quickly downstairs. Sounds came from the kitchen, but he kept straight for the door and outside. He made his way around the imposing east wall to the expansive gardens and wooded pathways north of the house. The morning air was chilly, yet not so cold as to have frozen the multitudes of droplets left over everywhere from the night’s rain. Given the season, the temperature actually felt pleasant.
He paused for a moment, breathing deeply of the clean, bright air. He glanced toward the lake, then again left, allowing his eyes to drift across to the pastureland where, in summer, his father grazed a small prized herd of thoroughbred horses. Thence he gazed beyond, toward the hills.
An involuntary glance back toward the house revealed the form of his mother in an upstairs window. He pretended not to notice. It was what he continually expected to feel somewhere over his shoulder—her watching eyes. He never knew exactly what she was thinking. But he always knew he sat under the unrelenting microscope of her inspection.
He set out slowly across the wet lawn for a short walk. But he knew his parents would be down before long, and he hadn’t visited with them long the previous evening. And he was ready for a cup of Choicest Blend.
The thought of morning tea made him unconsciously increase his pace. A minute or two later he walked through the dining room door. His mother and father had only moments before taken their seats.
“Are you feeling better this morning, Andrew?”
“Much, thank you, Mother—as long as tea is brewing!”
“The water was poured two minutes ago.”
“Good! In that case, yes—I feel well rested . . . and glad not to have the sounds of London echoing in my ears for a change.”
“You’ve always liked the fast-paced life,” commented his mother. “I can’t think how many times I’ve heard you say you couldn’t wait to get back. Your sister, on the other hand, always said—”
She stopped and said no more.
Andrew pretended not to notice. “Maybe I’m changing, Mother,” he said.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with Blair?” she asked, her voice probing for more information.
Andrew shrugged. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” he replied. “All I know is that I find myself thinking about new things these days—more country things than city things.”
He took a seat. Within a short time the three were enjoying toast, tea, and hearty conversation. Mr. and Lady Trentham were always interested to hear every detail about the public life of their son, and they were especially eager to hear the latest developments in the Eagon Hamilton situation.
There wasn’t a man who knew him who did not love and admire Harland Trentham. His soft-spoken demeanor and dry wit insured that he was a favorite in any and all company. But in public it was Lady Trentham who had always been out front and in the news, vocal and controversial. Many whispered privately, especially in the early days of their marriage, that she was the one who wore the trousers of the family. But her husband seemed not to mind her forthrightness and drive. He was along for the ride and enjoyed life as he went. He hadn’t realized he was marrying the conservative political version of a feminist. But as that’s how things had turned out, he had made the best of it.
That Lady Trentham loved him in turn was clear enough, though her husband’s phlegmatic personality did nothing to dissuade her from the opinion that women were more suited to lead anyway, and that the world was lucky it had managed this far with men at the helm. But new days were coming. She had been part of it and had cherished the hope, now gone, that her daughter would take such leadership even higher. Even so, she maintained a lively interest in the London activities of her only son.
“I see you mentioned in the Times every day, Andrew, my boy,” laughed Mr. Trentham. “Seems like the old days—just as when I saw your mother on the news almost every evening. You won’t need to call us ever again—we can find out all we need to know about our son from the papers!”
As he spoke, he held up that morning’s edition, pointing to a caption halfway down the page: “Reardon, Trentham both silent on LibDem future.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” groaned Andrew. “I’m well enough aware of it!”
“Has the Yard made progress in the Hamilton affair?” asked Andrew’s father, marmalading a slice of toast.
“Not much.”
“Dreadful business, that,” he said, “—imagine, a knife between the ribs. I didn’t know Hamilton kept such company.”
“Nor did I,” replied Andrew.
“Any sign of the weapon?” asked Lady Trentham.
“Not a trace, Mum. The Yard’s got nothing much to go on. They’re trying to track down two roughs in the East End, but without much success. I’m not sure what the connection is.”
“Any idea as to motive?”
Andrew shook his head.
“What do you think, son?” asked his father.
Andrew was quiet a minute or two before replying.
“I am puzzled, Dad,” he answered at length. “I thought I knew Eagon Hamilton nearly as well as anyone. Obviously not as well as Larne. But I haven’t the slightest notion who would want him dead. His involvement in Irish affairs always makes one wonder in that direction. But to my knowledge he was highly thought of in both Northern Ireland and Eire. I just don’t know.”
Eleven
By midday, Andrew’s early morning good spirits had begun to give way to reminders of the reflective mood which had driven him out of the city twenty-four hours earlier.
He walked outside and toward the stables. Within ten minutes he had saddled his favorite gray mare, Hertha, and was cantering away from the house, up the gently rising slope in the opposite direction from the lake.
It was quarter past two, and he could not have imagined a finer afternoon. The sun shone brilliantly overhead, and the waters of ocean and lakes reflected of the deepest blue.
In no apparent direction he rode, pausing halfway up the northern slope of Bewaldeth to behold the sea in the distance. It was one of those twice-in-a-year days when you could see almost forever. The haze had been cleared off by last night’s rain, and the horizon seemed magnified in its brilliance.
Sight of the blue expanse reminded him of a favorite childhood overlook. To him as a boy, the incomprehensibly wonderful fact of being higher than the gulls as they circled in the windy inland eddies in front of the cliff below had never failed to seize him with a special mystery and delight. To fly himself would have been best of all. But to be capable of looking down upon a flying creature had given wings to his own sense of fantasy and wonder. It had filled him with quiet sensations of boyish power and sent his imagination off in a thousand directions at once.
He smiled as the images refocused themselves on the lenses of his memory. He would visit the overlook again!
He hoped the gulls were playful today. Watching their aerial games would suit his nostalgic mood.
Unconsciously he quickened the pace of his mount along the thinly discernible trail winding slightly upward and to the east.
It was not far. In less than ten minutes he dismounted and tied the mare’s reins to the branch of a tree. The final ascent he would make on foot.
Andrew walked for only a moment or two, then set off in a run up a slight incline. After some fifty yards he turned all at once onto a track leading to his right and found himself, after another half dozen paces, halting quickly at a clifflike ledge overlooking a small lake. This had been his most cherished vantage point when he was a boy.
Looking at the spot now with the realism of years, he found it a wonder his mother had ever let him come here alone.
The lake below was not deep, nor was it large. Most natives of this region would scoff at calling the little thing below known as the Tarn Water a lake at all. Scarcely two hundred yards from end to end, and only perhaps fifty wide, the tiny expanse rated not even a mention in the tourist guides alongside the likes of Bassenthwaite, Ullswater, and the Derwent Water. All the more reason for him to love it, Andrew thought. He had always considered the tiny lake his very own.
But the Tarn Water was unusual in this—that when approached from the direction he had come, by the trail leading to the peak of Bewaldeth Crag another quarter mile up the hill, it lay glittering beneath a steep drop-off. The path seemed to end with astonishing abruptness. One found oneself suddenly looking down at the surface of the Tarn from a height of a hundred or more feet. The water could be reached easily from below by other paths. But from this one spot, the first glimpse over the sudden precipice was enough to bring a momentary quiver to anyone’s knees. It was no place for carelessness.
Andrew crept out onto the stone promontory overlooking the peaceful and protected lake, then sat down on the rough foot-high stone next to the path and drew in a deep breath of the unseasonably warm air. The few gulls visiting the inland lake from the seashore swirled about along the steep cliff face with an occasional shrill cry, just as he remembered them.
Of course, there were other memories too.
How could he not think of his sister here? They had both loved coming here . . . until that fateful day. For a while he had revisited the spot every so often, as if hoping to exorcise the haunting ghosts of the incident. But it had been no use. He had not been back in years.
And now he found his mind drifting toward yet another of MacRanald’s tales . . . not of the Wanderer this time, but rather the story of the two brothers who loved each other.
Now he remembered . . . they had had a lake with a high-cliff overlook too, just like this.
Their adventures had always been among his favorites.
What were their names . . . odd and ancient tribal names . . . ?
Try as he might, however, Andrew could not now recall them.
He turned, walked slowly back to his horse, remounted and rode on.
Memory of his two recent visits rushed back upon him. The smoke . . . the smell of peat . . . thoughts of old Duncan . . . the tales of the Maiden and the Wanderer . . . then Horace’s appearance and the call from London that seemed destined to change his life.
Time to visit old Duncan again, thought Andrew. This time he would not leave until he knew more about his own past!
Andrew wheeled his mount around, and the next instant was cantering over the uneven terrain as rapidly as was safe, upward and yet deeper into the hilly region of the Scawthwaite Fells.
In the dimly lit nave of the ancient church named for St. Bartholomew the Great in northeast central London, two men walked slowly toward a deserted corner where they would not be disturbed.
They did not sit down. The interview would not be a lengthy one.
The robed member of the duo felt a pleasing sense of dark affinity with the atmosphere here in one of London’s oldest churches. He had chosen the place for its mystical symbolism and imagery—though his own religious inclinations were in the opposite direction altogether, and with roots far more ancient than the good St. Bartholomew.
His suit-and-tie-clad colleague had agreed to come here, not because of the church’s mystical vibes, but because he could not afford to be noticed. Should the two be seen together, each could have much to lose. Both were well known in their respective fields—disciplines as far removed from each other as it would have been possible to imagine. Circumstances, however, had brought them together for a common purpose, of which it was in the best interest of both that the public remain unaware.
“The people I brought into this thing are not the sort who are known for their patience,” now said the suit. “They will expect payment upon delivery.”
“All will be completed in due course,” replied the robe. “They needn’t worry.”
“Soothing words will do little to placate their anxiety. They are eager to get out of the country.”
“They must be patient.”
“Look, Dwyer, I don’t—”
“Keep your voice down,” interrupted the mystic. “You of all people should know that the powers can be trusted. Where is the . . . object now?”
“It is safe—here in London.”
“London!”
“Of course—the last place they will look for it.”
“Has transport been arranged?”
“When the time is right. But I shall require assistance with customs.”
“It will be done. You will carefully supervise the movement? It must be intact or power will be lost.”
“It will be well crated, I assure you.”
“Then when the time comes, I will meet you at the Green.”
Thirteen
As Andrew rode up the wet moorland toward the farthest boundaries of the Derwenthwaite estate, a gust of chill wind met his face. His eyes squinted against it, but just as quickly it died back down.
Andrew glanced northward.
Black clouds seemed to be massing at the horizon. How quickly the sky could change in this region! When he left the house, it had been clear as far as the eye could see.
Andrew knew what the clouds contained. The temperature had already dropped several degrees since he had set out an hour ago.
He drew in a deep breath. He recognized the fragrance. There was snow in the air.
Andrew’s first impulse was to turn back for home.
No, he thought. Let the weather come and do its worst. He would not leave this errand uncompleted a second time.
Within ten minutes he was reining in his mare in front of the familiar old stone cottage set in its protected dell. Duncan MacRanald had just walked outside to gather a supply of fuel for his fire. He too had detected the change in the weather.
Andrew hailed him, then leapt from his horse.
Their greeting was filled with that rich affection true men extend toward one another. Truly did this old Scots shepherd and this young English politician love each other.
“See to that fine cratur o’ yers. Git her brushed and under cover wi’ some oats, then help me with these peats an’ wood,” said Duncan. “I was jist aboot t’ light a fire. There’s a cauld wind blawin’ in.”
Within half an hour both men were settling themselves inside. Again Andrew made his way slowly about the cottage, once more eying the books.
Meanwhile, Duncan crouched on the floor, first laying, then lighting the fire in the hearth. With breath from between his two wrinkled lips, he gently encouraged the newly lit flame underneath paper and wood scraps into greater robustness of life.
Such was the only use he ever made of newspaper. Old editions were brought to him by the same woman in the village who supplied him with bread, for the sole purpose of furnishing flame beneath his chunks of peat. He scarcely looked at a word printed upon them, and though he knew that the son of the man who had been his childhood friend was a member of Parliament, he possessed not the slightest notion of the new prominence into which Andrew had risen. Nor did he realize that for the previous week he had been using to ignite his fire the very photographs and articles about the young man who now stood watching him that the rest of the country had been reading over its morning tea and toast.
Once the fire was well lit, he rose to his feet with a sigh of satisfaction.
“An’ hoo has it been since the last time I saw ye?” the Scotsman asked, now setting about to the boiling of water and the making of tea—a necessity of equal importance to the fire for the drawing out of happy conversation between companions of the heart.
“Hectic and sometimes busier than I would like,” replied Andrew. “Which is why I rode out to see you again,” he added after a brief pause, “—to try to get in touch with some things that I’m wondering if I haven’t paid enough attention to.”
He paused thoughtfully. “I’ve found myself remembering another time, years ago,” he went on after a moment. “I couldn’t have been more than eight or ten. You took me up to the top of Bewaldeth—I’m sure you remember.”
Duncan nodded.
“You pointed out over the moor, to the sea, and beyond to the hills. You said to me—and suddenly I remember it so clearly!—you said, ‘There’s the land o’ yer ancestors, laddie. Someday ye’ll ken . . . someday.’”
Duncan smiled at Andrew’s use of the old Scots tongue, as poor as was the attempt. His heart warmed to hear that Andrew remembered the day.
“I guess the time has come,” Andrew resumed “that I want to know all I can about the land north of those hills. The real land, the real story. You know, it’s strange. I never paid much heed to the place except as a setting of storybook adventure, in those tales you told. Or as something we learned in history lectures. Or as a place I go for meetings. But suddenly it has become important to me to know everything I can.”
“Why, laddie?” said Duncan. “Why has it become so important?”
“I suppose it’s become more personal now?”
“More personal,” repeated Duncan. “How . . . why?”
“Because of what you said. Don’t you see? If Scots blood is in my own veins, then Scotland’s past is not mere stories. It’s not mere history. I’ve been drawn up into it now myself, drawn in a new way, drawn into the story as if I am part of it . . . because it is my story too.”
“Ye’re aye knockin’ away at trowth in the matter, laddie, when ye speik aboot bein’ drawn up intil the story like it’s yer ain. I kenned such a day would come when ye was a wee bairn an’ I held ye in my ain two hands.”
“What—you held me as a baby?” laughed Andrew. “I’ve never been told that.”
“Yer father was prood t’ have a new son. He invited me doon t’ the hoose fer a wee peep.”
The words pierced Andrew with a strange fondness for his father.
“The moment I held ye, somethin’ inside me kenned that the Lord had great things fer ye, lad,” Duncan went on. “An’ I believe it still.”
Andrew took in the words deeply, and as the conversation went on asked many questions, and told the old Scotsman much of what he had been thinking. Duncan listened more than he spoke. Everything would be known . . . but he would rather his young friend make the important discoveries for himself.
The fire burned. Logs and peat were added. The cottage warmed. Neither was aware of the continued drop in the temperature outside.
Slowly afternoon gave way to evening. Tea was consumed, oatcakes eaten, followed later by boiled potatoes with butter and cream. Steadily night drew down over the fells.
Still the tea flowed and the peat burned . . . while they spoke of many old and pleasant things.
Fourteen
As the dusk turned black, the young man and old man, as of a single mind, found themselves reflecting together on eras that once had been . . . and of the men and women who made of them times to remember.
After some time Duncan rose and ambled to the door and slowly opened it. Large silent white flakes were falling thickly in the blackness, illuminated by the faint glow from the fire inside.
“We’ll be buried in a blanket o’ white afore mornin,’ laddie,” he said, staring out. “Gien ye’re goin’ t’ mak it t’ Derwenthwaite, ye’d best be on yer way afore it’s too thick underfoot. It’ll be a hard enough ride fer the mare noo, even wi’ a bright torch shinin’ in front o’ her hooves.”
Behind him he heard no reply. Andrew’s thoughts were far away. Parliament, parties and majorities and coalitions, the Stone of Scone, and Eagon Hamilton’s murder, all of which had recently been at the center of his thoughts—they had now grown hazy and distant.
“I think I would just like to sit here awhile longer, Duncan,” said Andrew.
But even as he spoke, he unconsciously stood. Without forethought his steps found themselves moving slowly toward Duncan’s bookshelf. A moment later his favorite old volume was in his hands. He clutched it almost reverently, then eased back into his chair. Already he was flipping through it for the story he had remembered while looking down upon the Tarn Water.
“Suit yersel,’ laddie,” Duncan said in response to Andrew’s previous words. “When ye canna stay awake, jist make yersel’ a bed there on the couch like ye did when ye was a bairn. There’s two o’ three tartan blankets t’ heap o’er ye gien ye’re cauld.”
But already Andrew was lost between the pages of the well-worn book of legends. He did not see his host fill the fire with peats, give them a few stoking jabs with the poker—all peats, no wood this time. He would make circumstances as favorable as possible for the mystique of Scotland’s past to envelop his young friend. Within another three or four minutes, Duncan left for his own bed.
Meanwhile, Andrew had located the story.
The book opened just as he remembered it as a boy. As he began to read, he could recall Duncan’s voice intoning the ancient ballad of the people who lived in the remote northern region of Caldohnuill.
A chill of adventure swept through him.
If he let the vision of his imagination stretch further toward the north, in his mind’s eye he could just barely make out the two spear-carrying descendants of Hunter, Son of Wanderer’s Son in the distance. . . .