8
Another Shake-Up In Westminster
One
This is Patricia Rawlings reporting live from outside the Palace of Westminster. . . .”
The little-known American journalist had finally landed a scoop big enough to justify her being put on live camera before the nation. A cold winter drizzle stung her cheeks but could not dampen her spirits as she looked into the camera and began her report.
These were the most talked-about stories to break since Kirk Luddington’s reporting of the Queen’s abdication a little more than a year before. And the fact that Rawlings herself had been instrumental in the cracking of the two related cases meant that Pilkington had had little choice.
Suddenly the young woman who had awkwardly put her foot in her mouth at this same spot for mistaking the English political term division was, for a few days at least, the most famous journalist in London. Her detective work in the matter of the Stone, the solving of a murder, and the breakup of an international conspiracy had made of her, if not exactly a hero, certainly a newswoman who would have plenty of offers on the table by next week if her BBC producer did not give her the airtime she wanted.
All at once Rawlings’ American accent had become a trump card rather than a liability.
So here Paddy was—while her rival Luddington cooled his heels in the crowd—her heart pounding in fear lest some other Yankee blooper pop out of her mouth, and doing her best to look calm and collected as she conveyed details to a listening world.
“After secret machinations and hidden relationships behind these walls on the very eve of Parliament’s opening for its new year,” Paddy continued, “involving Liberal Democratic leader Andrew Trentham and colleagues from several parties in the House of Commons—”
As she spoke, Paddy could not prevent another momentary glance toward Andrew, where he stood among the crowd of notables present.
“—late yesterday afternoon investigators at last broke wide open the case involving last year’s murder of the Honorable Eagon Hamilton. As suspected, the murder was connected with the theft of the fabled Stone of Destiny, which was recovered several months ago from the Celtic Druidic Center in County Carlow, Ireland, and is now once again safely in the Crown Room of Edinburgh Castle.”
Two
William Rawlings sat with a cup of black coffee—a habit he had picked up in the States and had enjoyed ever since—in front of the television set in his small rented apartment in Auckland, New Zealand. He was watching the time-delayed unfolding of events back in his homeland with both disbelief and pride.
“Well, Paddy,” he said with a rueful smile, “you did it . . . you actually did it.”
There was his wife in front of the BBC’s cameras, conducting herself with as much poise as if she’d been an anchorwoman for years. He knew otherwise, and as much as he was pulling for her, he had not honestly expected to see such a thing so soon in her career.
He glanced down at his watch. He was already late for his assignment. But what did it matter? He would be leaving this place in a week or two anyway, and no darkroom work was going to make him miss this. He didn’t have another photo shoot scheduled for two days.
He sat back and smiled, recognizing the blue suit Paddy was wearing. He’d helped her pick it out at a shop near Harrods. She had said at the time that she would save it for her first on-camera assignment. Now that moment had come.
She was a determined one, that American wife of his. He had been drawn to her the moment they met on the other side of the pond, as the saying went, while he did a stint as a visiting newspaper photographer working out of the Atlanta office. He could still see Paddy hurrying after her boss, insisting she listen to some hot lead. Paddy hadn’t even seen him at the time, but he had certainly taken notice of her.
How did you manage this, Paddy? Bill said to himself. How did you get yourself in front of the camera on such a huge story?
Three
In what appears to be a far-reaching scheme,” Paddy was now saying, “originating more than thirty years ago, connections were recently uncovered between the late leader of the Liberal Democratic Party and Conservative Party leader Miles Ramsey.
“The two business associates, whose opposite political orientations were apparently designed to disguise their long-range objectives, had a falling out earlier this year that may have led to the death of the Liberal Democratic leader. Mr. Ramsey was arrested by agents of Scotland Yard just days ago in the Shetland Islands and has been charged with Mr. Hamilton’s murder, which has remained unsolved since early this year.
“Also indicted at the time were Larne Reardon, former Liberal-Democratic deputy leader, and Baen Ferguson, SNP deputy leader. Both men denied knowledge of the murder, but were allegedly working together with unnamed others in the theft of the Stone of Scone. Their willingness, even eagerness, to cooperate with Scotland Yard in exchange for leniency in the matter of the murder enabled investigators to fill in details of an intricate plot to take over Scotland’s oil industry. Without such cooperation, these details would doubtless have remained cloudy or altogether unknown. Exactly what charges will be filed has not yet been determined.
“Still at large in connection with the theft is noted Irish druidic leader, Amairgen Cooney Dwyer.
“Motives in the complex double crime are still fuzzy, but apparently the theft of the Stone was part of the larger plan to gain control of the North Sea oil reserves of an independent Scottish state through development of certain vital sites in the Shetland Islands. The international cartel, World Resources, Ltd., is under investigation at this time, their assets frozen until the inquiry is complete.
“How these developments will affect the Scottish situation remains to be seen. Prime Minister Richard Barraclough, meanwhile,” Paddy went on, “issued a brief statement from Number Ten Downing Street, expressing shock at the developments. . . .”
As Paddy spoke, she glanced in Andrew’s direction, but neither she nor the Cumbrian MP gave any sign of their direct involvement in the case.
Four
How well he remembered, thought Bill Rawlings as he watched, the inner anxieties Paddy tried so hard to hide when she found herself in new or uncomfortable circumstances. She had certainly matured as a newswoman. If she was nervous now, she didn’t show it.
After she’d come to London to visit, three months after his own return from Atlanta, he had set her up with her first job in England. There were a lot of memories . . . those early days in London . . . their first evening together. He had called her Paddy for the first time that evening too, because of that silly little Irish song she used to sing.
Even then she had said her one goal was to do a major story on the BBC evening news, American accent and all.
Now she’d done it. He had to hand it to her. She had a job to do, and she had done it. Whereas he’d really been drifting, unsure what he wanted out of life, content to follow any possibility that occurred to him.
In the end, he realized now, that was why she hadn’t come with him. Not because she didn’t love him, but because she couldn’t just drift along in the wake of a man who didn’t know what he wanted.
But I do now, he reflected, with another sip of the American coffee that reminded him of his wife. I know exactly what I want.
And what he wanted more than anything else was Paddy.
Meanwhile, Paddy drew in a steadying breath, gradually feeling more comfortable as the cameras rolled.
“All the United Kingdom,” she went on, “indeed, the entire world, is now waiting to see how these events will affect the growing debate over the future of Scotland. No statement from Liberal Democratic leader, the Honorable Andrew Trentham, who has become a de facto spokesman regarding the cause, has yet been released. Sources close to the Cumbrian MP suggest that an announcement may be forthcoming within a few weeks.”
Another look followed in Andrew’s direction. This time Paddy could not help curling the edges of her lips in the hint of a smile at the veiled reference to herself in her own report. Andrew smiled, then chuckled lightly at her words, as most of the cameras broke from the reporter’s face to his.
After a pause, again Paddy continued.
“We will update you with more details as they become available,” she said. “According to Scotland Yard spokesman Jack Hensley, more arrests are expected. Scotland Yard will issue a full report within forty-eight hours, Hensley said. Shaken as it is by the implication of its own in these events, the House of Commons must now prepare for what may prove to be one of its most extraordinary sessions in decades. No statement has yet been issued by Buckingham Palace. It is not known whether or not the King’s speech will address this serious shake-up within Parliament.
“I will be back tomorrow with a live interview with the Honorable Andrew Trentham,” Paddy concluded.
The coverage broke away to follow Scotland Yard Inspector Allan Shepley as he explained the series of events that had led to the arrests after he and his men had landed in the Shetlands.
Rawlings continued to sit in front of his television, still amazed at what he had just seen. He didn’t care if he got no work done today. He wanted to see the remainder of the broadcast.
And he would call her!
He glanced at his watch again . . . seven-thirty. She might be home by now, depending on how her interview had gone.
He would try. Paddy’s triumph deserved a hearty congratulations.
Five
Patricia Rawlings awoke with the most profound sense of contentment. Though she had only had five hours sleep, she was too keyed up to remain in bed another second.
She leapt up as if the previous day’s adrenaline were still pumping through her veins at full strength. She had just poured herself a cup of coffee when the phone rang. She heard her husband’s voice on the line when she answered.
“Paddy!” exclaimed Rawlings. “I caught your performance on the telly—you were terrific.”
“Thank you, Bill.”
“I tried to call you several times this morning—er, last evening for you, that is.”
“I was out late.”
“But I mean it—I was really proud of you, Yankee accent and all.”
“You know, for once,” laughed Paddy, “I wasn’t self-conscious about it.”
“I only heard that tremble in your voice one time,” kidded Rawlings.
“Okay, so I was nervous,” rejoined Paddy lightly. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“And an interview with Andrew Trentham—how did you pull that off?”
“A long story. But I haven’t pulled it off yet. It’s slated for this afternoon.”
“Well, best of luck. I thought I saw a little silent eye contact between the two of you during your statement.”
“It showed?”
“Only to someone who knows you.”
“Well, let’s just say that he and I became very well acquainted during this whole investigation.—But I have you to thank for getting us going in the first place,” added Paddy, “with that connection between Reardon and World Resources, Ltd. Without that, all the rest of the pieces may never have come together.”
“No extra charge,” laughed Rawlings. “And from the way they tell it, you’re an Internet genius now.”
“Not exactly,” laughed Paddy. “Remember Bert Fenton—you introduced us several years ago? He helped out on that end too.”
“Good old Bert! I haven’t thought of him in ages. He was always something of a hacker.”
“Well, it paid off.—By the way, when are you due back? Still the same schedule as the last time we talked?”
“Yeah . . . a week, maybe two.”
There was a pause. The reminder of Rawlings’ return to London from his New Zealand assignment sobered both their thoughts toward the hazily defined status of their separation.
“You know, Paddy,” said Bill after a moment in a more serious tone, “I know how it was when I left . . . but on my end, well, now that I’ve had some time to think things over, I wouldn’t mind trying it again. If you want to, that is.”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to leave.”
“I thought—”
“I don’t know, it just seemed . . .”
Paddy did not complete the sentence. Another silence intervened, this time more lengthy.
“I still love you, Paddy,” said Rawlings after ten or fifteen seconds. “I’ve missed you. And well, I’d like to see if we can make it work. I know it was a rough go, and we both thought maybe we’d made a mistake. But being here, you know . . .”
“I know, Bill. I’ve thought about it too. Things look different when you’re apart for a while.”
“Well then, what do you think?”
“Let’s talk when you get back.”
“I’ll call as soon as I’m in.”
“Need a ride from Heathrow?”
“I can take the tube.”
“But you’ll have luggage. Listen, I’ll pick you up. Let me know when.”
“All right, then. Thanks.”
Another silence followed.
“Bill,” said Paddy, “thanks for calling—your words mean a lot.”
“I meant them—you were sensational.”
“Thanks again.”
“Right, then . . . see you in a couple weeks.”
Paddy hung up the phone, then sat back down on her couch, and smiled. It was not a smile of triumph or victory . . . but of happy contentment.
What could account for the sudden change in how she felt? Was it because of what had happened yesterday, or that her heart had gradually grown more open to Bill again?
She wouldn’t analyze it right now. There’d be time for that later. She would see how she felt when she saw Bill face-to-face.
Now she had to get organized and make final notes for her live interview with the Honorable Andrew Trentham!
Six
Andrew awoke the morning after the announcement outside Westminster Palace with a feeling of relief. At last it was over. Now he could focus his attention on the business of his party, the House of Commons, and the future of the country. With the King’s speech to open Parliament only a week away, he really had to get busy.
Actually, though, it wasn’t quite over. He still had the interview with Paddy.
He almost regretted having agreed to it. But a deal was a deal. And Paddy had certainly earned her wings on this one. Without her digging, none of this plot may ever have come to light. The Stone might still be missing, the murder of an MP unsolved. The country owed Paddy Rawlings a debt of gratitude, and an interview was the least he could do to help repay it.
He thought back with a smile to their first journalistic encounter a year before. Paddy had come a long way since then, and now here she was in the spotlight.
Andrew’s thoughts returned to the opening of Parliament. It would be like no opening in memory, with three party leaders and deputy leaders behind bars and a major scandal swirling at the highest levels of government.
And, Andrew realized, it could well be historic for other reasons. He had caught wind of serious talks between the prime minister and Dugald MacKinnon of the SNP. Some rumors suggested that Barraclough might be close to a concession on some of the SNP’s long-standing demands.
He’d have to leave all that to Barraclough for the minute. Right now he had an interview to prepare for.
Seven
As the cameras rolled, Paddy and Andrew did their best to put the personal elements of the story aside and speak to one another as the professionals they were. This was not easy in that the two of them together, and Paddy’s Internet sleuthing, as Andrew called it, had been so pivotal in what had transpired.
But that aspect of the story would have to wait. Paddy had, in fact, already been contacted by several major magazines with offers for an exclusive from her point of view. But today she had to do her job, which was to interview Andrew Trentham about his role in the story as the dramatic events had broken wide open.
“So, Mr. Trentham,” said Paddy after the introductory phase of the on-camera discussion, “we heard yesterday a brief chronology of events from Inspector Shepley. But I think everyone wants to hear what it was like for you, a politician and a layman, as it were, to find yourself in the middle of a harrowing Scotland Yard arrest.”
“It was more than a little frightening,” replied Andrew with a laugh. “I mean, I would consider myself as brave as the next man, but I have to tell you—when the guns came out, I wanted to run for cover!”
“And did you run?” asked Paddy.
“Not exactly. I believe I held my ground. But not from bravery . . . I think I was too afraid to move!”
“I doubt that!” The interviewer smiled as the camera moved back and forth between them. “The way I hear it, you remained anything but glued to the spot.”
“It’s the truth,” agreed Andrew with another light laugh. “After we landed in the Shetlands and were making arrangements and loading into the cars, with all of Inspector Shepley’s men checking their guns and talking about where to sneak up and when to fire if it came to that . . . I seriously began to wonder if I was in over my head. I mean, suddenly I realized bullets might start flying, and I could be right in the middle of it.”
“And did bullets fly?” asked Paddy.
“Only one . . . and thankfully not toward anyone.”
Alastair Farquharson’s call had come while they were still in the air, through a satellite phone transfer arranged by Scotland Yard for Andrew’s mobile number. As soon as Andrew had the big Scotsman on the line, he handed the phone to Shepley, who took down the information while he perused a detailed map of the Shetlands in his lap. A minute or two later, he handed the phone back to Andrew.
“We’ve got the site located,” he said. “Near the Moul of Eswick, east coast on South Nesting Bay. That still doesn’t tell us if anyone will be there. But it’s where we’ll start.”
“Have they heard anything from the laird or his daughter?” asked Andrew.
“No,” replied Shepley. “Farquharson said the lady, Mrs.—What’s her name?”
“Gordon, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Right. He said Mrs. Gordon knew nothing more than he told you before. She thought they were to meet their solicitor somewhere in Lerwick today, then drive up to the property.”
“When were they supposed to meet?”
“Don’t know,” answered Shepley.
They were on the ground thirty minutes later and crammed into the waiting police vehicles, speeding north out of Lerwick fifteen minutes after that.
The laird’s property of approximately eighty-seven acres comprised a stretch of isolated coastline about a third of a mile long, which narrowed as it came inland some half a mile. The result was an irregular sort of rectangle of no visible value, yet of apparent importance to World Resources, Ltd.
The narrow road from Catfirth out to the Moul of Eswick did not actually extend as far as the property. They would have to walk the last quarter mile on foot, then another half mile to the bluff where the land dropped off to the sea. Nothing about the site as it appeared on the map would indicate singular value, except that the shoreline curved in a semicircle and thus formed a protected bay within the larger South Nesting coastline. The only other feature of interest was that an oil-production platform lay in the sea three miles straight off the Moul of Eswick.
As they drove close, the cars slowed. Andrew, in the lead automobile with Inspector Shepley, saw three vehicles parked beside the road ahead, including the maroon BMW Andrew had seen pulling into the Houses of Parliament just two days before.
“That’s Ramsey’s car, all right,” said Shepley to Andrew. “So far it looks like your information was on the mark. He must have left immediately after you saw the car the other day.”
Andrew glanced about anxiously but saw no sign of Ginny, her father, or anyone else.
As quietly as possible, they parked the cars and got out. Not a tree was in sight, only an endless expanse of rolling peat moor. It was as quiet and isolated a spot as Andrew could imagine. He couldn’t understand how the property brought in the meager income it did, unless there were sheep about someplace.
Shepley conferred briefly with his men. One was already making for a rise in the rocky landscape with a pair of binoculars. After a minute, he hurried back down and joined the others again.
“They’re over there all right, Inspector,” he said, “out at the coast—a thousand, maybe twelve hundred, yards away.”
“How many?” asked Shepley.
“Looks to be five or six . . . couldn’t tell for certain.”
Andrew crowded in a little closer to listen.
“Is there a young woman with them?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think I saw what could be a female . . . rather short—red hair.”
“Do they know we’re here?” asked the inspector before Andrew could get in another question.
“Didn’t look like it. They were standing close together talking. Didn’t look my way.”
“All right, then, let’s go,” said Shepley. “We’ll have to split up, make for the coast on either side of them, keeping out of sight—”
As he spoke, he pointed to indicate a two-pronged approach.
“—Blenkinsop, you stay behind and temporarily disable their cars, then head straight over the ground between us. Give us a ten-minute lead. We’ll work our way to the shore, then approach from opposite directions under cover of the bluff. Everyone got it?”
Nods followed around, and they struck out.
“Trentham, you come with me,” said Shepley. “Everyone keep low. Stay in the hollows of the moor.”
They reached the rocky coastline without much difficulty after some twelve or fifteen minutes. Thankfully the bluff overlooking the sea was not a sheer one. They were able to crouch low enough among its uneven rocks and protrusions to begin making their way gradually westward, along a line parallel to the water, toward the small party. As they drew near, Andrew caught occasional glimpses of the backs and heads of the individuals involved. By and by voices drifted faintly toward them, though now, at the edge of the sea, a brisk wind and pounding waves made it difficult to hear.
At length Shepley paused, crouched lower yet, and turned to Andrew and the three agents with them.
“We’re close enough now,” he whispered. “We’ll give it another few minutes to make sure the others are in place. Then we’ll get up over the ledge as quickly as we can and hope the element of surprise does the trick. What’s your read of the thing, Burford?”
“Won’t know until we get them in plain sight, Inspector,” said Shepley’s assistant softly. “If Blenkinsop’s in place, as well as the boys on the other side, we ought to have them surrounded. They won’t have anyplace to go.”
As they waited, Andrew strained to listen, though they could only make out fragments of the conversation through the wind.
“ . . . if you don’t, you’ll be staying here . . .”
“ . . . treacherous coastline . . . anything can happen . . . food for the gulls . . .”
“Tell them, Strang . . . have to sign . . .”
“ . . . no good refusing . . .”
“ . . . offering five times what it’s worth . . .”
“ . . . dinna ken what ye—”
Andrew realized this last was the laird’s voice. His Highland temper was obviously up.
“—no goin’ t’ sell t’ the muckle likes o’ a pack o’ thieves . . .”
“All right,” said Shepley glancing at his watch. “Sounds like it’s getting heated . . . let’s bust up this little party.”
“Just make sure no one gets hurt,” said Andrew.
“Relax, Trentham. We know our business.”
“But—”
Already they were on the move. Andrew scrambled up the jagged slope to follow.
They burst quickly onto the flat of the bluff. Even as Andrew scurried to follow, Shepley was running forward, gun in hand.
“All right, everyone,” he shouted, “stay exactly where you are! No one move—we have you surrounded.”
From the other side, another three agents ran toward them. Within seconds a half-circle was stretched around the conspirators, pinning them against the sea bluff.
Exclamations and a few imprecations sounded in surprise. As he ran forward behind Shepley, Burford, and the others, Andrew recognized four of his parliamentary colleagues, including one party leader and two deputy leaders, one of whom was his own. Ginny and her father were there as well, along with a man he did not know holding a small sheaf of papers.
“What in the world, Inspector!” began Tory leader Miles Ramsey, arguably the second most powerful man in the country. “What in blazes is the meaning of this?”
“I think you know well enough, Mr. Ramsey,” answered Shepley, slowing and walking calmly toward him, gun still in hand.
“We are merely conducting a business arrangement with these good people. This gentleman is Dobson Strang, solicitor from Aberdeen. He will tell you—”
“We know all about what you are doing, Ramsey,” interrupted Shepley. “We are here on other business than a real estate transaction, namely the theft of the Stone of Scone and the murder of Eagon Hamilton.”
Andrew glanced toward Ginny but could not catch her eye. If she recognized him under the circumstances and without his beard, she did not show it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” said Ramsey. “This gentleman here, Mr. Finlaggan Gordon, controls this land on behalf of his clan, and we are simply engaged in negotiations to purchase—”
“’Tis a lie!” now interrupted Ginny’s father, emboldened to speak his mind even more by the arrival of reinforcements. “’Tis more like thievin’ than negotiations, ye foul blackguard!”
“We happen to know that Mr. Reardon—” Shepley began, still addressing Miles Ramsey, but now turning in Reardon’s direction, “was involved with the theft of the Stone. Mr. Trentham here is an eyewitness. We have had a bulletin out for Mr. Reardon’s arrest since June.”
At the word “Trentham,” both Ginny’s and her father’s faces lit in sudden recognition, though neither said a word. Shepley motioned to two of his men, who now walked to either side of the LibDem deputy leader and grasped his two arms.
“I had nothing to do with Hamilton’s murder,” said Reardon nervously. “You can’t pin that part of it on me. I didn’t even know he and—”
“Shut up, you fool!” shouted Ramsey, losing grip on his calm political persona. “They’ve got nothing on us.”
“I don’t know what part you have in all this, Mr. Burslem,” said Shepley, addressing Ramsey’s vice-chairman, “but I’m sure we’ll find out.—What about you, Ferguson?” he went on, turning toward the SNP deputy leader. “We know you were involved in the Stone theft.”
“I know nothing about the murder,” sputtered Ferguson. “The Stone, maybe, but I wasn’t alone. There was Dwyer and Reardon and all the rest. But Hamilton—”
Suddenly a gun was in Ramsey’s hand. In a single motion, he ran several steps to his right before anyone could stop him and grabbed Ginny with his left hand. A surprised scream escaped her lips.
“Let go o’ me, ye rascal!” she cried, squirming and trying to resist.
“Shut up, you little minx!” spat Ramsey, clutching her small frame all the more tightly. “—Now stand back, Inspector. Clear your men away or the girl—”
But he did not finish.
Almost without thinking, Andrew broke into a run and sprinted straight toward them.
“Let her go, Ramsey!” he shouted.
Taken by surprise, Ramsey’s grip on Ginny loosened momentarily. She wriggled free, turned and kicked him as hard as she could in the shin, then ran to her father just as Andrew crashed into the Tory leader as if it had been a rugby match.
Both men tumbled to the ground. An explosion of gunfire sounded as the pistol flew from Ramsey’s hand and landed several feet away.
Even Shepley’s men were taken by surprise with Andrew’s sudden attack, but now they hurried to help. While one secured Ferguson, two more now ran forward and pulled Andrew from the top of Ramsey.
“You all right, Trentham?” said Shepley.
“Yeah, I think so,” replied Andrew, brushing himself off.
“You were lucky that bullet didn’t find you. That was the most foolhardy move I’ve ever seen. You’d never last at the Yard.”
Andrew laughed. “That’s good. This kind of business is far too dangerous for me.”
Two of Shepley’s men dragged Ramsey to his feet. Before he knew it, his wrists were handcuffed behind his back.
“I tell you, you can’t pin the murder on us!” cried Ferguson as he, too, felt the steel cuffs clamp over his wrists. “Talk to Ramsey. He’ll tell you all about it—”
“I said to shut up, you idiot,” growled Ramsey.
“We’ll sort it all out later.—All right, Mr. Strang,” said Shepley, turning to the solicitor, “what do you know about all this?”
As they spoke, suddenly Ginny ran toward Andrew almost as vigorously as he had toward Ramsey. Before she realized what she was doing, she found herself in his arms.
“That was so brave o’ ye,” she said.
Andrew did not reply, but simply enjoyed the moment by giving her an extra reassuring squeeze.
Behind them, the laird now approached, patting Andrew on the shoulder and greeting him warmly.
“Ye’re a right braw lad, Mr. Trentham,” he said, “gien ye dinna mind me callin’ ye by yer real name.”
“Of course not,” laughed Andrew. “I just wish I had told it to you when we first met.”
“’Tis all behind us noo. Dinna ye worry yersel’ aboot it again.”
“What about the woman you told us about before?” Shepley asked Andrew.
“Oh, right, Blair—they call her Fiona.”
“Where’s the woman called Fiona?” said the inspector, turning back toward his prisoners.
“He stashed her in a cottage not far from here,” said Ferguson, nodding his head in Ramsey’s direction.
“What for?” asked Shepley.
“He said she’d watch the girl if he had to put her on ice for a while to convince her father to cooperate.”
“I see . . . so we have a planned kidnapping to add to everything else. What about it, Ramsey?”
As the inspector continued to grill the conspirators, Ginny gradually came to herself, embarrassed for her impulsive actions. She stiffened and pulled away from Andrew’s arms.
“Why did ye du this?” she said to Andrew, backing away.
“What do you mean?” asked Andrew, still smiling and unaware of what she was thinking.
“Why did ye come here?” she said.
“Because you were in trouble,” replied Andrew, “not to mention that we learned that man there may be a killer. I was worried about you.”
“But hoo did ye ken whaur we were?” she added insistently.
“Alastair Farquharson telephoned me. He saw the maroon car and was worried. He thought maybe I could help.”
“Why the muckle lunk!” exclaimed Ginny, her temper rising—toward Alastair, toward Andrew, toward everyone. “He had no right t’ du it.”
“Even if he was trying to help you?”
“We Gordons can tak care o’ oursel’s, thank ye verra much,” she huffed. “Besides, wha kens whether we can believe ye or no?”
“What are you talking about?” laughed Andrew, bewildered by the turn the conversation had taken.
“Ye’re an Englishman!”
“And that makes me a liar?” said Andrew incredulously. What in the world could have aroused this sudden change within her?
“I dinna ken aboot that, but I ken ye’re no friend o’ Scotland.”
“Why would you say that?”
“’Tis what the papers say.”
“And you believe everything you read?”
Ginny was silent a moment.
“How do you know any of that?” asked Andrew. “Maybe I am trying to be a friend, and you won’t let me.”
“Noo ye’re jist tryin’ t’ confuse me wi’ yer smooth Englishman’s tongue!”
“Ginny, ye’re bein’ a perfect nincompoop,” scolded the laird. “Ye can at least give the lad a chance t’ explain himsel.’ He’s proven himsel’ oor friend today. He could hae been shot, as weel as yersel.’ ’Twas a brave thing he did. Seems ye’re bein’ a mite hard on him whether or no, like ye say, he’s a friend t’ Scotland.”
“Well, he’ll have t’ prove it t’ me!”
She turned and stormed off, hiding the hot tears that were already clouding both her vision and her good sense. The laird turned to Andrew, now embarrassed himself.
“Ye’ll have t’ forgive the lass. She’s a mite hotheaded by nature, an’ more’n a wee bit confused at the minute.”
“Confused,” repeated Andrew. “Confused about what?”
“Why aboot ye yersel,’ lad—dinna ye see it wi’ yer ain twa eyes? She doesna ken whether t’ love ye or hate ye. So all she can du is blow off steam through that fiery red head o’ hers, an’ say foolish things she’ll regret one day.”
Before the conversation could go further, Inspector Shepley again walked toward them.
“Everyone all right here?” he said.
“We’re fine, Inspector,” replied Andrew. He introduced him to the laird. The agent and the Scotsman shook hands.
“Right,” said Shepley. “Well, we’ve about got it wrapped up here, so let’s be off. I’ll want to talk to you further, of course, Mr. Gordon.”
They turned and followed Shepley’s men back across the moor toward the cars. Ginny kept her distance, and she and Andrew did not speak again.
Eight
The King’s speech at the state opening of Parliament in late November did not offer a great many surprises. Labour’s program for the following twelve months was not unlike what everyone had expected and what Prime Minister Richard Barraclough had predicted. In keeping with the centuries-old formality of the occasion, no mention was made of the parliamentary scandal that had so recently rocked the world.
There was, however, one item in the King’s address which took the entire United Kingdom by surprise: Home rule for Scotland would be put on the agenda for debate in the House of Commons. The SNP had lobbied strenuously and successfully, and the Right Honorable Richard Barraclough had at last consented.
“My government,” stated the King, “will introduce a bill to provide increased independence for Scotland, to be phased in over a period of several years, with an end in view of complete autonomy.”
As His Majesty King Charles III read out the simple statement, buried two-thirds of the way through a speech whose monotone was only slightly less uninspiring than his mother’s, he seemed completely unfazed by the historic implications of his words.
But Dugald MacKinnon and his colleagues were exultant. After years of trying, they had finally succeeded in bringing the issue of Scots independence before Parliament.
What the prime minister’s actual plans in the matter were, he had divulged to no one. Did he really intend to proceed with debate and a vote on the matter? Or did he think the Scottish Nationalists could be bought off by simply inserting the item in the speech and then proceeding to ignore it?
Only time would tell.
As Andrew sat listening, his thoughts drifted to Malcolm and Margaret. Things had certainly shifted for Scotland during their reign too. Was another such era of dramatic change coming for Caledonia?
So much he read about Margaret and Malcolm reminded him of himself and Ginny—except in reverse.
He was the sedate Englishman who came north and found himself face-to-face with a tempestuous Highland Celt. He might not exactly be a saint, but he could probably be forgiven that. And on the other side of it, he supposed that to draw a parallel between the diminutive Leigh Ginevra Gordon and huge old ruthless Malcolm Canmore—
What am I thinking? Andrew asked himself.
Even if the comparison were apt, he had thus far been no more successful at subduing her Celtic temperament than Margaret had Malcolm’s. What did it matter anyway? He might never see Ginny again. Her Highland temper was directed in the opposite direction from Malcolm’s. Whereas Malcolm loved Margaret, she seemed to hate the very sight of him. He had begun at least ten letters to her since they had seen each other in the Shetlands, but they had all ended up in the bin.
Andrew glanced up. The King was still speaking. He tried to force himself to pay attention.
The Labour prime minister and the leader of the Scottish Nationalist Party listened too, with very different responses. But neither Richard Barraclough nor Dugald MacKinnon realized what deep and dramatic changes were taking place within the heart of their longtime colleague and new party leader Andrew Trentham—changes that could ultimately make him either an ally or a foe in the approaching debate on the matter of Scottish home rule. Nor did they realize that he rather than either of them would become the focal figure in the Commons when the division came to a head.
If the Honorable Andrew Trentham did not know what he himself planned to do in the matter, he had certainly been giving it considerable thought, much of which now involved his own very personal reasons for being interested in Scotland and its future.
Nine
Andrew went back to his flat that same evening thinking that he had to try to write Ginny again. He simply could not let more time pass without trying to explain himself to her.
After sitting a moment, he took down the volume in which he had read the story of Malcolm and Margaret, opened it and stared for a long minute at the color portrait of the two together under a tree, the saintly Queen’s hand resting gently upon her husband’s. There was no way to know how accurate the representation might be—no doubt it was colored by centuries of romantic mists that had embellished the legends. Yet the painting of the two ancient lovers was so compelling! How different their personalities had been, yet they had been devoted to one another.
He replaced the book and made his way to the desk, sat down, and pulled out a sheet of his monogrammed stationery.
Dear Ginny, he wrote. I know it has been a couple of weeks since—
Andrew’s hand stopped.
It was no use. He still didn’t know what to say! He had to say something . . . but what?
He sighed as slowly the paper crumpled in his fist, then remained on the top of the table as a twisted reminder of his uncertainty.
He rose again and this time went straight to his bedroom. It was late, anyway. Tomorrow was just a few hours away.
Andrew awoke a little before seven. It was still dark out. He had tried to resume his morning and evening routine of the previous spring since his return to the city. But all was so changed now. He was not in the same curious and eager frame of mind as when the exploration into Scotland’s history, poetry, and music had been so fresh. Everything had now taken on more weighty overtones—both personally and nationally. It was difficult to read Burns with the same exuberant innocence as before. Now he felt like he was a star-crossed lover in one of the bard’s poems!
What a momentous year it had been. If he thought his life as an MP had been hectic before—now he was a party leader, and the demands on his time and energy and commitments had increased tenfold.
His whole outlook had changed as well. He knew Scotland now—knew it personally. Caledonia had become his friend. He knew its past and its people. He had listened to its music. He knew more than a few of its moors and hills better than places in Cumbria only a few miles from his home. And had he not so entirely bumbled his handling of the incident at Ballochallater, he would probably have said he was falling in love with a certain Highland lass.
That, of course, was the most significant change in his perspective. He not only loved Scotland, he cared for a Scot. A beautiful, intriguing, maddening Scot.
There could be no denying that the politics of Scotland were changing as well. Andrew felt the storm clouds on the horizon perhaps more keenly than any man in England. He knew he must brace himself in readiness. For there was one thing of which he could be certain—whenever the storm broke, he would be right in the middle of it.
Ten
It was early December, with the nip of winter in the air, when Paddy and Bill Rawlings agreed to meet early one morning for a walk in Regent’s Park and then have breakfast together.
Bill had been back a week now, and they had seen one another every day. The time together had been good, Paddy thought to herself, better than she had expected. She was remembering what she liked about Bill—his easygoing nature, his enthusiasm about his work, but also his willingness to stop working from time to time and enjoy a holiday. Because she shared her days with a pack of workaholics—and tended a bit that way herself—she found herself enjoying Bill’s lower-key presence.
But something about Bill had changed too. She couldn’t exactly put a finger on what it was, but she liked it. He was the same old Bill, and yet somehow he seemed more settled, more grounded, more confident in what he wanted. Stronger, somehow—in a way that caused her pulse to quicken when she saw him.
Could it be that she was falling in love again with her very own husband?
Andrew had dropped by unexpectedly one evening and she’d been able to introduce them. The discovery of several mutual acquaintances in their respective fields of journalism and politics gave them more than enough to talk about, and the two men hit it off quickly. Somehow that fact warmed Paddy’s heart in a way she couldn’t explain.
The feel of frost on her face as she left the flat turned Paddy’s thoughts away from Bill and Andrew and reminded her instead of visiting her grandmother in Boston at this time of year. Of being at home in Upstate New York. A momentary pang of nostalgia surged through her.
There might even be snow on the ground by now, she thought.
The melancholy lasted but a minute. This was home now. She would not go back except to visit, even if someone came up and handed her a one-way ticket to the States with the offer of a cushy network job.
For some reason winter always brought her reminders of the past. It was probably the holiday season that did it. When time for Thanksgiving came around every year, she could not keep from thinking of the old stories of the pilgrims and Indians. Then the sweet melancholy would engulf her and linger through Christmas. She realized she had been especially lonely these last two seasons without Bill—though she had worked hard to ignore the feelings.
A gust of wind whipped up, sending dried fallen leaves swirling in a miniature tornado at her feet. Paddy gave a kick at them in instinctual pleasure to be out in the elements on a day such as this. She was nearly alone in the park, for it was early, and the morning was easily the coldest of the season thus far. The sky was covered over in a thick gray that looked and felt as if the overspreading clouds had settled over the whole island for a lengthy stay.
She pulled her coat tightly up around her neck, thinking with a smile about the morning last spring when she had orchestrated her so-called chance meeting with Andrew.
But then quickly her reflections drifted back to her own situation. It would be good if she and Bill could get things worked out in the next couple weeks. She didn’t particularly want to spend another Christmas alone. And as she thought about it, she realized she wanted to spend the holidays with him.
As if in answer to her thoughts, in the distance she saw two men approaching.
“Look who I ran into,” said Bill with a wide smile on his ruddy face when he saw Paddy walking toward them.
“Andrew . . . good morning!” exclaimed Paddy. “Back to your old early-morning wandering practices, I see.”
“Not every day, but when I can.”
“How did you two hook up?” she asked, turning around and joining them at Bill’s side. She always had to stretch a bit to keep up with his lanky stride. “I thought I was the one who arranged chance meetings like this.”
Andrew roared. “You don’t mean to tell me you arranged that last spring!”
“What’s all this?” said Bill, glancing back and forth between the two.
Now Paddy laughed, reddening slightly.
“Let’s just say that I used my reporter’s wiles to ambush the Honorable Mr. Trentham, even before I became a sleuth and detective in the matter of the Stone of Scone.”
“Aha, so it all becomes clear!” said Andrew.
“My apologies,” said Paddy, “although I’m not really sorry.”
“I suppose neither am I,” rejoined Andrew. “—Well, I’ll leave you two here.”
“No, wait,” said Bill as Andrew turned and began to walk off. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast?” As he spoke he glanced inquiringly toward Paddy.
“Yes . . . do, Andrew,” she said nodding. “That would be great.”
Thirty minutes later, the three were seated in Cachao enjoying coffee, tea, and croissants—a more Italian or French version of the morning repast than English—and the subject had gotten around to the upcoming holidays.
“If I can just make it to the Christmas recess,” Andrew was saying, “it will give me a chance to catch my breath. The opening of any session is hectic, but this has been doubly so.”
“What will you do for Christmas?” asked Paddy.
“I hope to make a quick trip up into Scotland—sort of on my way, if you can call it that,” replied Andrew. “Then I’ll spend several days with my mum and dad in Cumbria.”
“How is your mother doing?” said Paddy.
“Very well. Which reminds me . . . I need to get you up again to Derwenthwaite for a visit. I’m afraid the old girl’s still annoyed with me for running you off last time. Perhaps the two of you could come up together for the New Year.”
“I, uh, don’t know,” said Paddy, glancing toward Bill, then back at Andrew. “We haven’t even made Christmas plans yet, much less for the week after.”
“But if that’s an invitation,” added Bill, “then we certainly shall talk about it.”
“It is an invitation,” said Andrew. “I know my parents would both be delighted.”
Eleven
For the third time in four months, Andrew found himself driving into the small Highland village of Ballochallater.
How different were the circumstances now, and how gray and brown the hillsides that had so recently been adorned by the royal purple garment of Caledonia. Snow now covered the highest crests and was piled at both sides of the road. The cold here at this time of year was bitter, far worse than in Cumbria. Andrew found himself wondering how the ancients had managed to survive so far north.
He had already determined not to make an effort to talk to Ginny. If she did not want to see him, he would respect that. He had finally written her. Beyond that, he would leave whatever happened next between them in her hands. But he had two things of importance to discuss with the laird, and he could not postpone them no matter how his feisty daughter felt.
From his correspondence with the laird, he imagined everyone in Ballochallater would know in advance of his coming. If not, by the time he checked into Craigfoodie and had enjoyed supper with Alastair Farquharson at the Heather and Stout, every man and woman for miles would be talking of his presence.
On this occasion, however, he was relieved to draw friendly nods and greetings from a good many of the villagers, though a few expressions indicated uncertainty about his motives.
The next morning, he had an appointment with the laird. On his last visit, he had gladly walked the half-mile distance to the castle. Today, with a light snow beginning to fall and the temperature several degrees below zero Celsius, he paid his bill to Mrs. Stirrat, then climbed in his car for the short drive.
Three hours later, after a conversation he would never forget, Andrew rose to take his leave from Laird Finlaggan and his wife. Already he felt he had known them both all his life. He would not be able to rest until he had seen the laird and his friend Duncan MacRanald enjoying tea and oatcakes face-to-face.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, offering his hand. “Your hospitality, as always, warms the heart. I appreciate it very much.”
She brushed aside his hand, and Andrew found himself swallowed up in her motherly arms. When he stepped back two or three seconds later, he realized she had tears in her eyes. The good woman turned and made a hasty exit toward the kitchen. The laird accompanied Andrew outside to his car.
“Ye’ll hae t’ take it slow, laddie,” he said. “The snow’s comin,’ an’ it’ll be piled on the road afore nightfall.”
At the window of her room, peeking from behind the curtain so she wouldn’t be seen, Ginny Gordon watched them leave the house together. A perfect hurricane of confusing emotions swirled about inside her.
For the last three hours she had done everything imaginable to summon the internal fortitude to go downstairs and talk to Andrew. But every time she approached the door, something had held her back. Not a few pillows, several childhood stuffed animals, two books (one poetry, one animal physiology), and one vase of dried heather had been hurled across the room in the interim during the ebb and flow of her ranting tirades against her own indecision.
And now he was leaving!
Andrew and her father were shaking hands . . . he was walking toward his car . . . he opened the door and got in—
Suddenly she spun around, threw open the door, bolted through it, and ran for the stairs.
Outside, Finlaggan Gordon watched the young Englishman he had grown to think a great deal of slowly pull out of the castle drive. The tires of his car crunched in the quarter inch of new white powder as he turned onto the highway.
Suddenly behind him the door swung open with a crash. Footsteps ran toward him on the snow-covered gravel. He turned to greet them.
“Ginny,” he said, “ye’re a wee late gien ye were thinkin’ o’ sayin’ good-bye.”
“He’s gone!”
“Ay. What did ye think, lass? There’s his car jist disappearin’ doon the road.”
“What fer did ye let him go!” she cried. “Didna ye ken I wanted t’ see him?”
“Ye sure got a mixed-up way o’ showin’ it, lass. He thinks ye canna stand the sight o’ him.”
“And maybe I canna!” she yelled, turned, and stomped off a few steps. “Maybe I do jist hate him, the confounded Sassenach!”
“Ginny, ye’re bein’ a bigger fool than I ever saw ye—an’ ye’ve ne’er been a fool! But noo ye’re jist talkin’ nonsense.”
Ginny froze in place, drawing herself up to her full height, the picture of righteous indignation. The next minute, she spun around and ran toward her father. He opened his arms to receive her. But if he thought she was seeking comfort, he was mistaken. She began pounding with her little fists against his chest.
“Why’d ye let him go, Papa? Why’d ye let him go!”
Her father did his best to draw her struggling frame toward him, patting her gently on the shoulders and speaking soothing words. Gradually she calmed and let his embrace enfold her as when she was young.
“Oh, what’s wrong with me?” she wailed. “I’m behavin’ like sich a ninny!”
“Lass, I think ye’re confused ’cause yer head sees an Englishman, but yer hert sees a Scot.”
“He’s no Scot, Papa—he’s jist a Sassenach!”
“No, Ginny, he’s no Sassenach. He’s a Gordon.”
“A Gordon! Hoo can ye say sich a thing, Papa!”
“’Tis true, Ginny. He jist told us himsel.’ His name’s Andrew Gordon Trentham.”
Now Ginny pushed herself away and stared at her father with wide, tearstained eyes. Then she carefully turned and half ran back into the house. She managed to get up the stairs to her room before the tears started again. Then she threw herself onto her bed.
“I canna fall in love with an Englishman!” she cried. “I just canna!”
In the distance, between the village and the castle, his cap and shoulders covered with falling snow, the village blacksmith watched the drama unfold. In spite of the distance, he realized what had just passed between the laird and his daughter.
He turned and walked back toward his workshop, revolving in his mind what he now knew he must do.
Thirteen
Bill Rawlings was already waiting downstairs in the lobby of the BBC building when Paddy emerged from the elevator doors. His well-worn trench coat and gigantic umbrella, hastily furled, still dripped from the downpour outside.
“Bill, what on earth are you doing way out here?” she asked. The BBC headquarters at White City in Shepherd’s Bush were at least a twenty-minute train ride from the apartment Bill had sublet from a friend.
“I thought you might fancy a drive in the countryside,” he answered. “On a lovely day like this, who could resist?” With a straight face, he gestured gallantly through the glass doors toward the soggy brown-and-gray landscape outside.
Amused, Paddy followed his gesture. From her desk, she had been watching the cold, slanting rain all morning. “Perhaps we could have a picnic,” she commented wryly. “We’ll put the top down on the Mercedes.”
Bill pretended to be hurt. “You don’t believe me.”
“What, that we’re going for a picnic in the rain in your nonexistent Mercedes?”
“Ah, but I didn’t say it was a Mercedes.”
“But, Bill, you don’t have a car.”
“Correction. Didn’t have a car. A responsible married man with a responsible job and a promotion needs a way to get around, don’t you think?”
It took a minute for the words to sink in.
“Bill!” Paddy exclaimed after a moment. “You got the promotion?”
“Right,” he said in the fake Liverpudlian drawl that always made her laugh. “And don’t forget the car.”
“What I thought, actually,” he said, dropping the accent, the tenderness of his lopsided smile pulling at Paddy’s heart, “was that a car might come in handy for a lovely Christmas trip up north . . . and perhaps a bit of a second honeymoon. If you’re interested, of course . . .”
Paddy didn’t answer immediately. She just stood gazing into his dear, familiar face, realizing for the first time in a long while that she wanted to see that face beside her every morning when she woke.
Neither spoke for several long moments. Then Bill added, very softly, “So what about it, Paddy? Want to see the car?”
The next instant she was in his arms, heedless of the wet, dripping raincoat.
Fourteen
The new year came.
Paddy and Bill Rawlings, who had celebrated Christmas together as a renewed commitment to their marriage, took the train north and spent two days with Andrew and his family at Derwenthwaite. Nothing had proved such a healing tonic to Mrs. Trentham during the months of her recovery as the lively talk of politics and journalism and recent events in London. By the end of the holidays her speech had improved noticeably, and her eyes shone with a spark of the same fire that had blazed during her years in the Commons.
Andrew, Bill, and Paddy all returned to London together.
Though it was still midwinter, the change of year caused Andrew to look forward and give even more focused attention to the Scottish issue.
The woman called Fiona had been located, arrested, and brought back to London. Like Ferguson and Reardon, she was eager to save her own skin and only too happy to talk. Soon Malloy and Fogarty, who also had been instrumental in the theft of the Stone, were also behind bars. The druid Amairgen Dwyer, however, continued to elude Scotland Yard’s most concerted efforts to locate him.
The Conservative leader Miles Ramsey still professed his innocence, though he stepped down temporarily from his party’s leadership. But evidence continued to mount against him in the murder, including a match of the partial fingerprint painstakingly lifted from the sgian-dubh murder weapon, as well as information provided by his former accomplices.
Perhaps knowing that to apply pressure would prove futile in the long run, the SNP had not made contact with Andrew since the King’s speech. But new Conservative Party leader Archibald Craye, who had served as Miles Ramsey’s second-in-command for several years, was doing his best in the suddenly altered political landscape to woo Andrew’s affiliations in the direction of a new alliance in the Commons. The stakes were high, for if he succeeded, the SNP would be denied its coveted objective, and the Labour government of Richard Barraclough—held partly through coalition with Andrew’s Liberal Democrats—would surely tumble.
As the new year progressed and as generally noncontroversial legislation worked its way through the parliamentary process, Andrew knew that eventually forces would converge to bring home rule to the front burner. When that time came, Barraclough, Craye, and Dugald MacKinnon would all do their best to convince him to side with them.
Fifteen
Meanwhile, Andrew’s walks, reading, and research now took the course of a dedicated search, motivated not merely out of curiosity but out of mounting commitment to make certain he possessed the historical detail necessary to make a wise decision for the country.
As the backward threads of his own genealogy became clearer, Andrew found himself swept up in the drama of Scotland’s independence on two levels at once—historical and contemporary.
He had managed to trace his own family’s line several generations further toward the present. Having discovered Foltlaig, Fintenn, Donnchadh, Dallais, Breathran, and Fionnaghal, now the name Darroch suddenly arrested his attention in his twelfth-century research. Darroch and the sons of Darroch were no Gordons. But the fact that circumstances had forced one of Darroch’s sons to move from Fife to the heart of the Gordon district indicated potential links with the Gordon name that Andrew found intriguing.
It was a period of Scotland’s history, like today, when change had been imposed upon its people by forces from the south. Norman feudalism had sent the young MacDarroch, descendent of Fionnaghal, northward to a region known as Strathbogie. And right in the middle of Strathbogie now sat the town of Huntly—where the colorful blue sign had made him wonder if his family had roots everywhere in Scotland!