So, Macintyre had entrenched himself in the old castle!
Ross Sprague made a hasty departure from the Bluster ’N Blow where he had gleaned this nugget of information from the talkative innkeeper. Well, the kid is a smooth operator, indeed, thought Sprague as he ambled down the cobbled sidewalk of Strathy’s main street. He would never have thought that Macintyre could have managed to get that close to the town’s resident nobility. He wondered how he had done it, and if it meant he was any closer to the treasure.
It had been only a few days since Sprague’s arrival in Port Strathy, and nothing of great import had occurred. He had managed to keep tabs on his young quarry mostly by listening in on the village gossip and occasionally asking a few innocuous-sounding questions. It seemed Macintyre had been making quite a name for himself around the card tables, and despite the fact that he had recently fleeced several of the locals, he appeared to be held in rather high regard. He had become a regular mascot on one of the fishing boats and now was setting up housekeeping with the town highbrows.
Well, Logan Macintyre, thought Sprague as he turned into the mercantile, enjoy it while you can—it won’t last.
Sprague got no particular thrill out of hurting people. When it came time for him to walk in and ruin all of Logan’s hard-wrought labors and plans, he would feel no sense of elation or particular pleasure. In fact, he would probably not feel a thing. He never became emotionally caught up in his work, and was thus considered by some as downright cold-blooded. But a man didn’t get ahead by allowing his emotions to rule him, he reasoned. And that’s exactly what Sprague’s goal was—to get ahead. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve that end. Tailing a kid from London was nothing compared to what one of his particular calling was usually asked to do. He expected his boss would have him let Macintyre find the treasure, and then Sprague would jump in at that moment and take possession. It was a pretty standard plan that should work, especially with a man like Sprague in command. He was neither greedy, nor angry, nor vengeful—emotions that usually fouled up even the best-planned scheme.
Sprague suspected his boss’s interest in this whole affair had roots in the nonreasonable—revenge was the most likely candidate. Probably something had happened years ago and he felt he had some score to settle. But that was hardly Sprague’s concern. He was a man who could do his job. He’d walk in, cool as you please, and take what he came for. He’d do whatever he had to. If it meant not only retrieving the treasure but also getting rid of Macintyre, well, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sprague was not squeamish. This Macintyre kid was not a bad sort. Sprague had known a lot worse in his business. But that would not prevent Sprague from successfully completing his assignment.
And he was ready to find out exactly what that assignment was going to be. He didn’t like working in the dark, as his boss was forcing him to do on this case. With this sudden change in Macintyre’s living situation, things could start happening pretty fast, and Sprague wanted to be prepared.
He walked up to the cluttered counter. The woman behind it was about his own age, although her rough appearance made her appear older. She was seated in an old captain’s chair thumbing through a catalog of boats and fishing equipment.
“Mornin’ t’ ye,” said Jesse Cameron, filling in while Olive Sinclair stepped out for a moment.
“Hello,” said Sprague in a tone not unpleasant, but nonetheless laced with a certain arrogance. “I was told you have a telegraph here.”
“Aye we do.” She laid aside her catalog and rose, motioning him to follow. “Olive put it back here,” she added as they entered a small back room crowded with a roll-top desk, stacks of cartons, and a narrow table which held the telegraph equipment. “It doesna get too much use in these parts, but the auld laird had t’ hae one.” Jesse blew away a layer of dust to punctuate her point. “Jist fix yer message doon on this,” she went on, handing him a small piece of paper.
Sprague cleared a space on the corner of the desk in order to find room to write, then he chewed at the end of his pencil for a moment while he clarified in his mind the code he and his boss had settled upon. Finally he scribbled several lines on the paper and handed it back to Jesse.
“Noo, let me read it back t’ ye, so’s I know I hae e’ery word aright.” She cleared her throat and began in an oratorical tone: “‘To Hawk: The pigeon is in nest. The robins are blind. The worm remains hidden. When and how will fox strike? Signed T.H.E. Fox.’”
Jesse paused and cast a puzzled glance at her customer. “That’s what ye’re wantin’ sent, Mr. Fox?” she asked, trying with little success to subdue the incredulity of her voice.
“Birdwatchers,” Sprague offered by way of explanation. “My employer is one of those—what’s the fancy name?—ornithologist, that’s it! And a bit eccentric, too.”
“Oh . . . I see.” But the way Jesse drew out the words seemed to indicate that she did not see at all, but was willing to let the matter drop. “Noo,” she went on more briskly, “Olive will send it soon’s she gets back.”
“But this is urgent.”
“Weel, I canna run the machine, but Olive’ll be back directly.”
“I expect it to go out today.”
“Dinna ye worry aboot that.” Jesse impaled the telegram decorously on the outgoing spindle. “I’ll make sure Olive checks this first thing.”
“And I’ll be expecting an answer. Deliver it to Roy Hamilton’s place.”
Sprague turned smartly and strode from the store, leaving Jesse shaking her baffled head and wondering just what the world was coming to.
Sprague glanced at his watch. Well, if the telegraph was par with the rest of the service in this little village, he’d better not expect an answer until tomorrow. That would mean another whole day of sitting around this hick town. He’d end up going crazy before he had any real work to do. That wire might spur his boss to some action. But what could he do before Macintyre located the treasure?
Actually, Sprague hoped the telegram from London would tell him to abort the whole crazy mission. There couldn’t be any treasure. And even if there was, there were certainly easier ways of earning that kind of money.
Whatever the reply to his wire, he’d have to figure out a more foolproof way to keep track of Macintyre now that he was situated at Stonewycke. He couldn’t very well hang about the place without attracting attention.
Sprague decided to spend the rest of the day assessing the castle’s staff. There must be at least one person out there whom he could buy, someone who could deliver regular communiques about Macintyre’s activities, and especially someone who wasn’t apt to run off at the mouth.
Glad for the prospect of some activity, Sprague turned into Hamilton’s pub in much better spirits than when he had left an hour ago.