Stone of Destiny

by Ian Hamilton

  I chuckled at his logic and then listened to him as he told me that Scotland was alive with interest, and I could well believe it, as I had seen it for myself. I left Bill, agreeing to meet him later in Craig’s Coffee-room in Sauchiehall Street, where he had arranged for me to have an afternoon coffee with John MacCormick and Bertie Gray.

  I left the Union to walk down town. I was too excited to stay in one place, yet I had nowhere to go. As I walked down Gibson Street I met Tom Dawson of the Daily Mail. Tom had come up to the university a year earlier than I had, and we had lived together in the same university hostel. I knew him well. He was slim and nervous, constantly active, and always thrusting forward. He was already making a name for himself in journalism, because he would never rest while he had a story on his mind. I was not pleased to meet him. I knew he had me on his mind.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said.

  I said, ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Are you in a hurry?’ he asked.

  ‘Not specially,’ I said.

  ‘Come and have a drink then.’

  I fidgeted, but I felt that the best thing was to go with him. I like Tom, and if I were to rush away, I could only arouse his suspicion.

  He ordered two half-pints, because he had an expense account. I eyed mine sourly. ‘I expect you’ll be claiming for double whiskies on this,’ I said.

  He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t want to buy you whisky in case you think I’m trying to get you to talk.’ He laughed, and looked at me shrewdly through his laughter.

  ‘You’re another!’ I cried in simulated delight. ‘All morning people have been accusing me of stealing the Stone of Destiny. It’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been paid.’

  He looked almost pained. ‘Where were you over the weekend, Ian?’ he asked.

  ‘I was at home,’ I said, wishing fervently that I had been able to establish an alibi. Had I attempted to, by telling them my intentions, my parents would have done all they could to stop me.

  ‘Ian, Ian,’ said Tom shaking his head. ‘I phoned your home as soon as the news broke. Your mother hasn’t seen you for weeks.’

  I cast about for a feeble excuse and gave it. He did not believe it. I did not expect him to. I had known that my guilt was obvious. It had been obvious to Tom Dawson from the beginning, and it was no doubt equally obvious to the police. I felt a happy recklessness that was tarnished only by a bitter anger at Tom. I would have preferred not to have been sold by a friend. Surely he could have kept his suspicions to himself.

  ‘What am I to do?’ he asked.

  I looked at him. ‘That’s up to you,’ I said at last.

  ‘You’d better get a decent alibi before the police come,’ he said.

  I drank my beer. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. The barman approached our end of the bar. We moved over to a quiet corner.

  ‘Ian,’ he said. ‘I may be a newspaperman and I may have the greatest story ever. I’m hoping to go to Fleet Street soon, and I’m not much interested in Home Rule. But by God, I’m a Scotsman first. Don’t worry. I’ll never sell you.’

  It is times like these that make me very humble. What else can a man say?

  We shook hands on it and I went down town. Thereafter, while the newspaper world went mad, and bid and rebid for news of the Stone, Tom went quietly about his work and said nothing. He could have retired on the price of that story, but he kept his word. He kept his honour also, and that perhaps is the greatest thing of all. In the whole of this strange story it is the people who played the lesser parts who come out of it without blemish. Only a journalist, or one who has had much to do with journalists, can understand the measure of his self-sacrifice, and I write about him with pride. Maybe I can claim some reflected credit. This story shows me up as a ruthless, self-centred prig. Yet I cannot have been all that bad if I held the friendship of a man like Tom Dawson.

  Tom Dawson was the first journalist to bite his tongue but I don’t believe he was the only one. When the trail became hot other journalists must have stumbled on information that might have been valuable to the police, slept on it, and by the morning had conveniently forgotten it. I suspect some of the police did the same. To a very real extent the love of community had become identified with the Stone of Destiny, and patriotism was proved to be a stronger motive than professional success and love of money. What was true of journalists was true also of people as a whole. As the Stone was passed from hand to hand many people became involved in the secret. Not one of them spoke or availed themselves of the rich rewards that were offered for information. It was like the ’45 all over again.

  That there were would-be informers, I know. I even know who some of them were. I bear no animosity towards them. Their political views troubled their conscience, but in the end they had nothing to tell. The startling fact remains that after two centuries of quiet history a country reawakened, covered the people who had acted in its name, and would not give them up.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As arranged by Bill, I went to Craig’s Coffee-room in Sauchiehall Street at four o’clock. I was to meet John MacCormick and Bertie Gray. I was becoming quite familiar with their Christian names by now. Bill arrived first, and when I joined him we sat and sipped our coffee among all the businessmen whom we felt were pointing us out to one another. Since I had been approached by Tom Dawson I was certain that people were already looking at me as the criminal. All around us we could hear the hum of conversation, and the word ‘Stone’ was often audible. By God, if we could get Glasgow businessmen to talk of something other than money and golf, we had worked a miracle! Among them I felt like Cain at a police conference. The feeling passed off quite quickly, but we had only been home for a few hours and were not yet accustomed to what we felt as exposure. By the next day I was able to play the innocent fool with a great deal of ease. Indeed, when the police questioned me towards the end of the whole episode, I had so convinced myself of my innocence that I was highly indignant when I was aroused from my bed at seven in the morning. This afternoon, however, I was nervous, and when we had gulped our scalding coffee, Bill and I fled down to the basement and hid in the lavatory.

  We had been in the lavatory only two minutes when a lawyer’s clerk came in. I am reasonably certain he was a lawyer’s clerk, but to us he looked like a detective. We stopped washing our hands (we had washed them twice already) and I nonchalantly made for the door. Bill waited behind to see if I was followed.

  In the hallway I met Councillor Gray coming in to keep his coffee engagement. He saw me. I saw him. We walked towards one another, then, remembering who I was, I walked straight past him and out of the door. Had I not been to London? Were not the police even now trailing me? Should I not show him what a dangerous man I was – too dangerous to recognise a friend? It was fine fun. Bertie enjoyed it too.

  Outside in Bertie’s car I met John MacCormick. He looked as small and drawn and tired as ever. What we had done was only a fraction of what he had done for Scotland. As I climbed in beside him, he smiled at me. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You pulled it off. To be truthful I never thought you would.’

  I wasn’t having that. ‘To be truthful,’ I replied, ‘I never thought I wouldn’t.’

  Then we both laughed. Every mile had been worth it.

  Councillor Gray returned, followed by Bill. The lawyer’s clerk had washed his hands and gone, fresh and hygienic, to drink his coffee. Sheepishly I explained to the councillor why I had ignored him, and we drove off.

  Riding round the town I told them my story. We did not have much time so I made it as brief as possible. I could talk freely in the car, for there could be no eavesdroppers. In the days to come we were to hold many such councils in Bertie’s car, since John did not have one. There is more money in tombstones than in law. When my recital came to the bit about hiding the Stone I was questioned closely. Was I sure I could find it again? Was it safely hidden? Was there any chance of someone stumbling on it? To all of these questions I was able to give satisfactory answers
.

  Then it was my turn to ask questions. Both the older men were delighted at the public reaction. Only the previous night the Dean of Westminster had been on the radio lamenting ‘this cunningly planned and carefully executed crime’. If you get away with a crime it’s always cunningly planned and carefully executed. Once you’re caught, everyone tells you how clumsy you were. The Dean’s comment on our action was high praise. The authorities were determined to treat the affair as one of the first magnitude, and that suited us admirably. If they had ignored us we would have felt fools. On the other hand the Dean had said that the King was sorely troubled about the loss of the Stone. Something should be done about that. We arranged that we should meet that night and petition His Majesty, reaffirming our loyalty to him, and setting out our reasons for taking the Stone. Bertie had served in the trenches in the First World War, and was entitled to be called Major Gray if he wanted, which he didn’t. Bill and I had served towards the end of the Second World War, he as a conscript, I as a volunteer. The King didn’t have a monopoly on loyalty, but he represented a lot that was valuable to the two countries. This was before his daughter alienated so many Scots by taking the very English title Elizabeth II. There had been no first Elizabeth of Scotland, so her title reeked of an arrogant attempt to assert a prior overlordship. If you’re going to have the symbolism of monarchy you must get the title right. We wanted a dual monarchy, not a republic, so it was time to make some public statement about our aims.

  Before that we had another engagement. A newsreel crew was keen to make a film of the reactions of the people in the streets of Glasgow to the removal of the Stone from London. Councillor Gray had been invited to attend as a man in the street, and he was anxious that I should accompany him. I was not loath. The opportunity for the criminal to watch the filming of the reactions to his crime is one not lightly to be missed. There was no reason why I should not be present. I was a minor official in the Covenant Association, the assistant editor of its journal, The New Covenanter, and in that capacity my interest in the proceedings was obvious. Indeed, that night, in my own journalistic capacity, I did some pretty deadpan interviewing of the people present. Irony is a Scottish vice. We overindulge in it with as much joy as we overindulge in drink, and we enjoy it even more. The filming was something of an anticlimax. In order to strike a balance, the producer sought people to condemn the outrage. In the crowded studio he could find none. I thought for a moment of taking up the minority view, ever a position in which I’m at home, but I was still nervous of unnecessary risks. I am now sorry I missed that opportunity. It is the temptations you don’t succumb to that you regret later on. In the end Bertie roundly condemned us all, but anonymously so that his face did not appear on screen. A day or two later we watched the result in the cinema with great amusement.

  It was the first of many such interviews. Television was then in its infancy. Only London had it, but there were the foreign crews as well. They came from all over the world, and as I was now acting as a sort of private secretary to John MacCormick I attended many of these filmings. They afforded me much quiet amusement. They also made me despair. It was such a foreign way of life to me and it still is. To spectate rather than to do is a sort of death. Who wants to watch other peoples’ lives, when their own is there to be lived? Yet to stand behind the camera, hearing events solemnly discussed, and knowing that I was the author of these events, gave me a feeling of insufferable superiority, which I suffered very easily. It was outrageously smug, but it was also very satisfying. I should have been garrotted with one of the many leads and cables which snaked across John’s drawing room, and probably would have been, had the crews had any suspicion. They never did. Not one of these television personalities ever took me aside to ask precisely what I was doing there. It is the only television role I want to play.

  It was probably the best camouflage we could adopt. As happy, talkative, frank supporters of our Lord Rector we were living one life, and our double bluff threw much suspicion from us. As people not averse to taking risks, we lived another life no less real than the first. We were careful to leave no pathway from one identity to the other. People are a strange creation, and on meeting each other we touch only at the furthest frontiers of our being. One person knows hardly anything about another. We guarded our frontiers and no one knew that there was a totally different person behind the one that was on show. It was a happy time, far happier than when the dreadful spotlight of fame shone on us a few months later. That was miserable beyond belief. But for the moment we could enjoy playing out the ploy in anonymity.

  The next part of the ploy was decided in John MacCormick’s flat at midnight of that first night we were back home. Bill, John, Bertie and myself met to decide what to do next. We decided that we had to issue some sort of press statement, although, in my view, the action spoke far louder than any words. The press, with the melancholy exception of the Glasgow Herald, had been favourable. The Glasgow Herald was then edited by Attila the Hun; the woman’s page by Attila the Hen. The prevailing opinion among us was that something should be said. As yet no one knew whether the Stone had been taken by Anarchists, Communists, or honest souvenir hunters. In addition, His Majesty was distressed. It was our plain duty to reaffirm our loyalty and make it clear that we meant no treason nor disrespect. That was my elders’ view and I went along with it. At the same time we wished to let the King know that we had no respect for his advisers, who were misruling Scotland, and against whom all our actions were directed.

  After much discussion we drew up the following petition:

  The Petition of certain of His Majesty’s most loyal and obedient subjects to His Majesty King George the Sixth humbly sheweth:

  That His Majesty’s Petitioners are the persons who removed the Stone of Destiny from Westminster Abbey:

  That in removing the Stone of Destiny they have no desire to injure His Majesty’s property nor to pay disrespect to the Church of which he is temporal head:

  That the Stone of Destiny is, however, the most ancient symbol of Scottish nationality and, having been removed from Scotland by force and retained in England in breach of the pledge of His Majesty’s predecessor, King Edward III of England, its proper place of retention is among His Majesty’s Scottish people, who, above all, hold this symbol dear:

  That therefore His Majesty’s petitioners will most readily return the Stone to the safe keeping of His Majesty’s officers if His Majesty will but graciously assure them that in all time coming the Stone will remain in Scotland in such of His Majesty’s properties or otherwise as shall be deemed fitting by him:

  That such an assurance will in no way preclude the use of the Stone in any coronation of any of his Majesty’s successors whether in England or in Scotland:

  That His Majesty’s humble petitioners are prepared to submit to His Majesty’s Minister or representatives proof that they are the people able, willing and eager to restore the Stone of Destiny to the keeping of His Majesty’s officers:

  That His Majesty’s petitioners who have served him in peril and in peace, pledge again their loyalty to him, saving always their right and duty to protest against the actions of his Ministers if such actions are contrary to the wishes or the spirit of His Majesty’s Scottish people.

  In witness of the good faith of His Majesty’s petitioners the following information concerning a watch left in Westminster Abbey on December 25th 1950 is appended – (1) the main spring of the watch was recently repaired; (2) the bar holding the right-hand wrist strap to the watch had recently been broken and soldered.

  This information is given in lieu of signature by His Majesty’s petitioners being in fear of apprehension.

  And so we started to play games. The wording of that petition still makes me grue, but I suppose there was nothing else we could do. The King was much loved as a wartime monarch. When he let his concern be known publicly, we had to go warily. His concern was not only for what he regarded as the loss of royal property. Certainly he wanted
this part of the Regalia back but there may have been more to it than that. People who live by tradition may ever be fearful that the tradition will die and they take things like coronations very seriously. For 650 years his predecessors had been crowned on the Stone; his predecessors, not his ancestors, for the latter are German. It may have seemed to him an essential part of the mumbo-jumbo of royalty. That this was so we learned privately. He had a superstitious fear that the loss portended the end of his dynasty. All this was so much nonsense, but we had to watch public opinion.

  On this matter even the Scots were divided. There was jubilation at the return of the Stone, and vexation that the King was vexed, so I suppose that we had to do something to keep public opinion with us. Also we had to let it be known that it was in safe hands and would one day ‘turn up’ somewhere. You can spend your life looking for the Holy Grail but if you are unlucky enough to find it you’re faced with the problem of what to do with it. Behind the formal, indeed grandiloquent wording of the petition there lay a perfectly reasonable statement of our position. Keep the Stone in Scotland, and we will hand it back. We had to make our position public, and a letter to the King seemed the best way.

  Best way or not, it nearly chokes me to quote the petition. From John MacCormick’s point of view it was useful. It kept the Home Rule movement at the top of the agenda. The publicity pot boiled over yet again. The press loved it. The Glasgow Herald had a first leader on it, in which they managed to say that it was the product of a mature legal brain, and the effusion of mealy-mouthed romantics. I’ve never quite forgiven the Glasgow Herald for that last remark. It was too near the truth.

  And yet and yet, I wonder if I am truly reporting what I then felt for things in general and for the monarchy in particular. That old gentleman, King George VI, had led us, Scotland as well as England, through one of the most dangerous times in our history. There was great respect and affection for him. He personally symbolised us all, not Churchill, who was a political figure, not universally loved. People needed a universal symbol who was above politics, or at least appeared to be. It was the King who was one with the nation. By a curious inversion it is the sovereign who leads the common people, and sometimes speaks for us. I can still recite verbatim the closing quotation of his address to the nation, broadcast live on Christmas Day 1940, when we were alone and the days were indeed dark. Imagine it spoken in that curious hesitant monotone voice he had been forced bravely to adopt to overcome his nervous stammer so that he could speak live to his people. None knows who wrote his speech but this is how it ended: