In Camera

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘I’ve got bad news for you already,’ Keith said. ‘If that’s the right date, he wasn’t a reiver. That period ended with the Act of Union and the Pacification when Scotland took over England.’ Both his listeners looked blank. ‘It was a Scottish king who gained the English crown, not the other way around. I’m afraid your ancestor, Laird’s Tam, was just a bad hat.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ Paul said. ‘I nearly gave up just then. I could do without a gangster in the family. But what they told me tied up with a letter that’d been in my mother’s family since the year nothing, almost. The original’s locked away in a safe-deposit, but I have a photocopy here.’

  From an inside pocket of his golf-jacket, Paul produced a folded paper and handed it to Keith. Deborah hopped down and stooped to look over her father’s shoulder.

  The photocopy was of an original which seemed to be faded, creased and stained, but the ill-formed words painstakingly written could still be made out.

  Carlyl

  Jan’y

  Katherin, dear wyf,

  It seems we’ll no be trystin mair. Kiss the laddies for me and tell them they was in my thochts.

  We had sair need of ane of the weedae McLean’s yows. She’s a puir body. Ax Aikhowe can he repone. Gie him this Guid Book. There’s monie a muckle truth hid in its pages.

  My yae efterstang’s that I’ll no be hame to mynd yersel an the loons. Be suir o my love to the end.

  Aye your Tam

  ‘It’s sad,’ Deborah whispered.

  Keith’s reaction was more mundane. ‘The wording looks about right,’ he said. ‘Without seeing the original, it’s difficult to be sure.’

  ‘It’s genuine, right enough,’ Paul Cardinal said. ‘My grandmother showed it to me when I was just a kid.’

  ‘She told you what it means?’

  ‘I guess so. Family legend was that he wrote it from his death-bed, but I guess it was from the condemned cell, if they had such a place. He’s saying goodbye to his wife and kids. And he sent his Bible to this Aikhowe, whoever he was.’

  ‘There weren’t enough names to go round,’ Keith said. ‘Nicknames were commonly used and chieftains were often known by the names of their houses. Laird’s Tam was probably Aikhowe’s son, legitimate or otherwise.’

  While he spoke, Keith was still regarding the photocopy, his forehead creased in doubt. On top of two disappearances, the sudden arrival of a stranger with an improbable tale to tell merited caution.

  They heard the sound of the front door closing. He looked at Deborah. ‘Pop downstairs,’ he said. ‘Warn your mum that there may be another for dinner. And bring me up the correspondence file from the study.’

  ‘Don’t take it too far before I get back,’ she said. ‘This is getting interesting.’ To her father’s pleasure, she was recovering a little of her animation.

  ‘Now,’ Keith said as the door closed, ‘let’s just do a little checking. You were with the Los Angeles Police Department?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you know anybody in the Sheriff’s Department?’

  ‘One or two. Where’s this going?’

  ‘James Hochmeier?’

  ‘Sure. Knew him well.’

  ‘He wrote to me last month. He’d picked up a “Rotary” model Darne from near the end of the nineteenth century. He wanted to know more about the history. He introduced himself as being with the Los Angeles Sheriff.’

  Deborah returned. ‘Was that just a ploy to get me out of the room or is this what you want?’ She put down the file, open, in front of her father.

  Paul Cardinal pointed a finger at Keith. ‘You think this is a con,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think anything. But it has the makings.’

  ‘Damned if it doesn’t!’ Cardinal sounded surprised.

  ‘So do you mind if I phone Detective Hochmeier?’

  ‘He’s a sergeant, but go right ahead.’ Cardinal glanced at a thin wrist-watch. ‘He’ll have left for work by now. I can give you the Sheriff’s number.’

  ‘Jot it down for me.’

  Cardinal wrote down a code and number from memory but Keith dialled the number at the head of the letter. Far away in California, Mrs Hochmeier answered the phone in a sleepy drawl. Her husband would be at the Sheriff’s office by now. She gave him the number. It agreed with the one that Paul Cardinal had written on Keith’s scratch-pad.

  Keith dialled again and the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department came on the line. Sergent Hochmeier, it seemed, was out.

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ asked the distant voice.

  ‘Scotland.’

  ‘Jeepers! Hold the line. I’ll patch you through to his car.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Keith said. He was impressed.

  ‘No trouble.’

  Another voice came on the line. Keith introduced himself. Sergeant Hochmeier was delighted to hear from him. ‘Say, Mr Calder, the material you sent me about that Darne just cast up a day or two back.’

  ‘Was it what you wanted?’

  ‘Right on the button. Hold on while I pull over. Say, I was going to write back and thank you but I put it off while I wondered what I could do in return.’

  ‘Now’s your chance,’ Keith said. ‘Did you know a Paul Cardinal with LAPD?’

  ‘Sure I knew him,’ Hochmeier said. ‘We were together on the Anti-terrorist Task Force for around three years.’

  Keith handed over the receiver. ‘Hello there, Jimbo,’ Cardinal said. ‘How’s Rena? And do you still pass blood?’

  He took the receiver away from his ear so that Keith could hear the reply. ‘Rena’s fine. And I got the piles fixed. No my ass only hurts when I think of you.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Cardinal said. He handed the phone back to Keith.

  ‘That was Paul Cardinal?’

  ‘That was Paul,’ Hochmeier confirmed. ‘Whatever he is, there’s only one of it; and that was the original. What’s he doing over there in Scotland?’

  ‘I’m just finding out. Thanks for the help. I just wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You went to some trouble, looking out all that material on the “Rotary” Darne. Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘You could take a couple of tickets in the LOTTO for me,’ Keith said.

  ‘Sure. I’ll do that. What numbers?’

  ‘You’ve got my phone-number and code there. Use that.’

  When the call was finished, Keith hung up. ‘So you’re Paul Cardinal, ex-LAPD,’ he said. ‘Is that why you wanted a pistol?’

  ‘Sure. After I left the Anti-terrorist Task Force I was on secondment over here for a while. No problem carrying a hand-gun then.’ He spared a sigh for the good old days. ‘I’ve put away some professional hit-men in my time. Some of those guys can bear a grudge – they don’t have much else to think about in the pen. I don’t think anyone’s looking for me, here and now, but I haven’t lived this long by being careless.’

  ‘You interest us more and more,’ Keith said. ‘You’ll stay to dinner?’

  *

  While Deborah, in deference to one of the few inflexible rules in the Calder household, changed into a frock for the evening meal, Keith had a few words with Paul Cardinal.

  ‘Deborah’s fiancé is in the police,’ he said. ‘Another detective sergeant. He was on an observation job and he hasn’t reported in. She’s worried sick – we all are. If the subject comes up . . .’

  ‘Soft pedal?’

  ‘Right,’ Keith said. ‘Help me try to keep her mind occupied. It doesn’t look good, but there’s no point saying so until we know.’

  Paul Cardinal nodded soberly. ‘I got you. Faced the same thing a dozen times. Once or twice it came out all right. Hope this is one of them.’

  ‘So do we all,’ Keith said. ‘Let’s try to keep talking about other things. Come and have a drink.’

  ‘You’re sure that I won’t be in the way, at such a time?’

/>   ‘You’ll be a valuable distraction.’

  Molly Calder dearly loved entertaining guests, even last-minute additions to the table. Some clever work with the microwave oven stretched the meat to four servings and they sat down to a good meal. Keith had brought two books to the table – usually an unforgivable sin but Molly, appeased by the good manners of the guest, decided to overlook the offending books as long as they lay unopened beside Keith. To keep the talk away from the subject of Ian Fellowes, Keith encouraged Paul Cardinal to regale Molly with the story of his luckless ancestor.

  Deborah knew the workings of her father’s mind. She put aside her anxiety and asked him, ‘Dad, what was wrong with the letter?’

  ‘Good question,’ Paul said. ‘What made you think that I might be setting you up?’

  Molly tutted. ‘I’m sure that he thought no such thing.’

  ‘I did, in fact. Thinking it over now,’ Keith said, ‘I can see explanations that make sense. But my first reaction was two-fold. Those were rough days. But the day of the reivers was past. The reivers were driven to their lawlessness by the need to survive. They managed to retain at least some codes of morality. After the Pacification, those codes lapsed. I just couldn’t see how a man facing the gallows would worry about a widow’s sheep. That’s what a yow is,’ he added.

  Paul nodded. ‘A ewe,’ he said.

  ‘Right. Nor could I see him taking a Bible with him on a foray.’

  ‘He might have been given one, after he was sentenced,’ Molly said.

  ‘That’s very likely what happened,’ Keith said. ‘But why would he expect his laird – Aikhowe – to want it? And there’s more.’ He filled his mouth with the last food from his plate and, while he chewed, he flipped the pages of one of his books. ‘Here we are,’ he said, swallowing. ‘In seventeen thirty-four, the year before Laird’s Tam Elliot was hanged, a certain Tom Elwood – the name Elwood was a variant of Elliot – was taken after a pursuit of more than two weeks. His crime was waylaying a traveller.’

  ‘Was the traveller killed?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Of course. Well, that crime became a local pastime. In the days of the reivers, the traveller was usually left alone. Later, the usual attitude was that it served him right for venturing into the Borders without adequate protection. A pursuit of over a fortnight suggests that the traveller must have been of more than ordinary importance. Elwood was taken to Carlisle but there’s no further record of him – perhaps because of the alternative spelling of the names.’

  ‘That checks with what I told you,’ Paul pointed out.

  ‘Yes. But there’s another story which I’ve always believed may have been connected.’ Keith picked up the other book but without opening it. ‘At that time, Scottish weaponry was at its peak. Sword- and gun-making were virtually stamped out later, after the Forty-five Rebellion. When they recovered they had lost their individuality. But early in the eighteenth century, even the Czar of all the Russias – Peter the Great – ordered his sword-hilts from Glasgow or Stirling and pistols from Doune. He’d studied shipbuilding in England – remember?’ – the others nodded their heads wisely – ‘so he’d have met up with work from the different gun centres.’

  Keith let the book in his hand fall open. ‘This is a rather rare book about certain royal armouries. I picked it up at a sale, years ago. Peter the Great’s guns and swords are inventoried, but there’s an interesting footnote. “In 1735, Czar Peter sent his envoy to Berwick with orders to commission pistols from Alex Campbell of Doune and sword-hilts from Walter Allan of Stirling, but the envoy never returned.” I’ve another book, which I can’t put my hand on for the moment, in which the writer suggests that the envoy decamped with what would have been a considerable amount of money.’

  ‘But you think,’ Paul said slowly, ‘that Laird’s Tam might have knocked off the Russian envoy and taken the goodies.’

  ‘It would make sense. Berwick must mean Berwick-on-Tweed, not North Berwick. If the envoy was heading back there to take ship, he’d pass this way. And if Laird’s Tam had knocked off the Russian envoy, it would explain the hunt being kept up for a fortnight.’

  ‘But surely,’ Molly said, ‘word would have got back to the Czar?’

  ‘Not if the Constable at Carlisle, or some other official, had frozen onto what was left of the money.’

  ‘Or the weapons,’ Paul said. ‘Or do you suspect that they’re still around, buried some place.’

  ‘Some of them,’ Keith said. ‘They’ve never shown up in any collection, public or private, that I’ve been able to trace. That would explain why he sent a Bible to Aikhowe. “There’s monie a muckle truth hid in its pages.”’

  ‘They’d be valuable?’ Paul asked.

  Deborah, in suitably reverent tones said, ‘The last good pair of Doune pistols to come on the open market fetched the equivalent of a quarter of a million dollars.’

  ‘Now that,’ Paul said, ‘is valuable.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to kid you,’ Keith said. ‘It’s unlikely that the arms are intact and even unlikelier that we could find them. But I wouldn’t swindle you either. You see, if that Bible still exists I just might make a guess at where it is. I could have gone after it on my own. But would you be interested in following it up with me, on a fifty-fifty basis?’

  ‘You mean, splitting the value at sale?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Molly advised him quickly. ‘When Keith gets his hands on goods of that sort, somehow they never make it to the sale-room. He just can’t bear to part with them. He’ll deny it, but he’s a collector before he’s a businessman.’

  ‘Long before,’ Deborah said.

  ‘I sympathise. All I want out of it is an antique pistol for the wall,’ Paul said. ‘A piece of history with my ancestor’s name attached. So we share out the goodies. Who gets first pick?’

  ‘I do,’ Keith said. ‘You’ll never get there without my help.’

  ‘And with it?’

  ‘If they’re still where Laird’s Tam left them,’ Keith said, ‘I think that I could have a chance of finding those weapons with or without your help.’

  Paul looked down at his fingers. When he looked up again, he said, ‘A pair of pistols counts as two items?’

  It was Keith’s turn to hesitate. ‘We shouldn’t split a pair,’ he said at last. ‘But as long as we keep in touch so that they could be brought together again . . .’

  For the first time, Paul Cardinal smiled. ‘I said I was a gambler. You’ve got yourself a deal.’

  The sound of a telephone bell stopped conversation in its tracks, drowning thoughts even of a treasure trove of royal arms. The nearest phone was in Keith’s study, across the hall. Quickly as Keith moved, Deborah was in front of him, the wind of her passing scattering the petals from a vase of flowers. When he arrived in the doorway she was already speaking, her voice shrill with excitement.

  ‘Yes, of course we’ll accept the call,’ she said, and then, ‘Ian!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Ian! Where are you? Are you all right? What’s been happening? Why hasn’t anybody heard—?’

  Keith felt his heart lift with relief, for Deborah more than for Ian Fellowes. Gently, he detached her from the phone. Deborah was laughing and crying. Her mother held her warmly.

  ‘Let’s have it,’ Keith said briefly into the phone. He listened for a long minute. ‘I’ll tell the Chief Super and I’ll get somebody to square things with the boat’s owner,’ he said. He looked up. ‘Ian’s with a boat,’ he said. ‘He’s come by some very important evidence and a vital witness, both of them implicating a criminal big-shot. He thinks that every hard man in the country may be on the lookout for him. Perhaps he’s being paranoid, but perhaps not.’ He spoke into the phone again. ‘You could be right. One venal coastguard could put you back into danger. Do as you said. Get out to the islands and I’ll come for you – hire another boat from Berwick or something.’

  He felt a tug at his sleeve and looked round. Paul Cardinal was leaning over him. ‘
I still have some contacts around here,’ Paul said. ‘And money’s no great concern. If I whistle up a chopper, do I get first pick of the Czar’s weapons?’

  ‘We’ll toss a coin.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘You were right,’ Keith said. ‘You are a gambler.’ Into the phone he said, ‘We’re getting a helicopter. I don’t know how long it’ll take. When you see it, head in towards the beach at Bamburgh.’

  Deborah tried to wriggle out of her mother’s clutches. ‘I want to speak to him.’

  ‘We don’t want the phone tied up,’ Keith said. ‘And Ian’s got to get out of Lindisfarne before the causeway uncovers.’ He disconnected.

  ‘Well, I want to come with you.’

  Paul Cardinal shook his head. ‘We’re not talking Sikorski,’ he said. ‘All I’ll be able to get in a hurry’s a small four-person job; and there’s two to collect.’

  ‘You’re going to wash your face in cold water and lie down, my girl,’ Molly said. This was her panacea for over-excitement in the family. She packed Deborah off upstairs. Paul was already on the telephone.

  Molly jerked her head and retired to the kitchen. Keith joined her. ‘I’m tempted to keep Munro in the dark until the midnight deadline,’ he said. ‘Teach him a lesson. But he might jump the gun. I’ll call him as soon as the phone’s free.’

  Molly had more important matters on her mind. ‘You’ll have to go with Paul in the helicopter,’ she said.

  ‘Me?’ Keith said. ‘Not for the world!’

  ‘Think about it.’

  ‘If I think about it I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’

  ‘Mess your pants,’ Molly said briskly. ‘Yes, I know you’re terrified of flying, but this is important. What do you really know about Paul Cardinal?’

  ‘Only that he really is Paul Cardinal, ex-LAPD.’

  ‘And that he’s American and he turned up here at the very moment Ian escaped with a witness and evidence against an American, and he arrived with just the sort of story most calculated to catch your attention. Is it so impossible that a retired Los Angeles policeman would turn professional hit-man?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘If he’s what he says he is, why would he go to all the expense of hiring a helicopter to rescue somebody he’s never met?’ Molly persisted. ‘To get first pick of a treasure that’s probably rusted away by now, somewhere nobody’ll ever find it? Be your age! If he can whistle up a helicopter at a moment’s notice, we’ll know that he made arrangements in advance.’