by Michael Gill
Then the chief admiral, Winston Churchill, sent a note to the boss – proceed. One word with no good luck or what are you doing you bunch of cowards? No, his permission in a solitary word – proceed! How strange the crew all thought at the time. Off they went to Buenos Aires while their country went to the battlefields of Flanders. Very odd feeling that affected all the crew. The men would constantly debate their feelings. Word would reach them of the huge amount of casualties in the war. What are we doing here? They would constantly ask each other.
Maybe they were doomed from the start, he thought.
Chippy, got up, his bones aching, stretched and looked at the big tent that had been erected for the boss. He paced over, undid the flap and crouched in. The tent was immaculate and made the rest of the tents look like flea pits. He walked to the cabinet, the one he had made for the boss, and picked up a family photo. It had his wife and children in what looked like their dining room at Christmas. He threw it to the ground, stamping his right foot on it and smashing the glass. He regained his composure, looked around and found a casket with a large lock on the clasp.
He went back to the fire, poured a tea and took it to young McLeod.
“How are you doing lad?”
“Should have this done in an hour. Thanks for the tea.”
“And the crew are where again?” asked Chippy.
“Looking for a way out westerly route.”
“Right, stick at it. I’m having a break, my legs are acting up today. Give me an hour and I will be back. I will bring some seal blubber for the sealing.”
“Okay Chippy, don’t worry about me. Working hard on the repairs is keeping me warm.”
“That repair you are doing will need a good seal.” He hurried to his tools and found what he needed. He took a small thin piece of metal cord and placed it in his pocket.
“Back soon, I will bring another mug of tea back with me.”
“Thanks Chippy - it’s cold enough to freeze brass monkeys out here.”
Back at the tent, he had the chance to unlock Shackleton’s casket. He could pick a lock with his metal work expertise. Once inside he couldn’t believe his eyes. A bundle of stock certificates with names he had only read about in the paper. Friends of the king, Sirs, Lords and Barons. He read a mining, East India stock certificate, along with others he couldn’t understand. There was even a letter from the Queen tucked in a bible. He turned his attention to the two love letters from different woman, one he remembered to be an American actress who had appeared in plays in London, the other he didn’t recognise. He continued to look. He picked up a velvet bag that contained two pieces of jewellery. One was a type of diamond broach with emeralds and rubies. The other, a star with shiny diamonds and the same jewels as the broach. He stared at their beauty. The emeralds were in the shape of a shamrock and a crowned harp. The rubies were the shape of a cross. They looked to be expensive jewellery to him.
At the bottom of the casket were two wooden boxes made of rich mahogany wood. Chippy stroked them gently. Not a wood he got to work with, being so expensive. He unlatched each clasp and saw a bottle of whisky. One had the name Gerson 9 years old on the label, while the other was Old Pulteney 10, both looking rich and dark laid on velvet lining. He had never seen a Scotch whisky with a number on the label before.
Suddenly he heard voices in the distance coming towards him fast. It had to be the sled party returning. He read the letter hastily and placed the boxes back neatly, and put the letter and stock certificates back the way he remembered they had been. Finally he placed the lock back on the casket and closed it, praying it would lock, which it did.
He managed to run to the fire and squat over a hot mug of tea just as the crew came around the corner. He could hear young McLeod banging away at the boat, hoping no one had spotted him in the tent.
The men headed straight for the fire where they poured tea and made conversation on a possible new route to the west and they had found many seals. A hunting party would return in the morning to gather seals for their meat provisions.
“How are the boat repairs coming along?” asked the boss.
“Fine, we’ll have her ready in a few days. I was just taking a tea break,” said Chippy.
Shackleton went to his tent and returned several seconds later.
“Chippy, may I have a word in private?” he said, gritting his teeth. Chippy slowly made his way to the tent; the second he opened the flap the boss was on him.
“You have been in my tent. I know it was you,” he said pushing the broken picture into his face.
“I came to tell you what a …..” he hesitated, restrained himself from using profanity. “You are cold blooded murderer. How dare you have my cat killed?” He pushed back against the taller man’s chest. “I could have made my own decision on Mrs. Chippy. I would have shared my rations with him.”
“This is mutiny, I will have you shot! You can join your precious cat right now.”
“I actually don’t think it is mutiny. After all, we’re on land. You’re only my boss on the sea.”
The boss stormed to the rear of his tent. He rummaged in the cabinet, until he found the contract that all the crew had signed.
“Look at this article,” shouted Shackleton. Chippy read it.
“You are correct,” Chippy agreed reluctantly. “Have me shot. Let’s see who does all the repairs around here. The boats that need repairs for our hasty departure, once you work out how to get us out of this mess. Your mess by the way.”
“What would you have done differently?”
“Simple, waited until spring time.”
“I wasn’t to know Antarctica would have a winter start so early. Stop questioning my decisions. Do you realize who you are talking to?” He picked up a revolver and aimed it at Chippy’s head.
“Shoot me. Should be perfect for the crew’s morale,” said Chippy. He stormed out of the tent, not turning back.
Chapter 8
Raymond sat in the office which was a large extension of the house. He had bought two station buildings in Stamford right next to the station and railway line. All the station buildings had an air of Tudor about them, being influenced by Burghley House a few miles away. The house was originally built for William Cecil, the Lord Head Treasurer to Elizabeth the First. The second building was attached to the house and was used as a garage. Once Anne had moved in and consequently became his wife, he’d had a loft built on top of the garage and a door that led into the upstairs kitchen. The bedrooms were on the ground floor, much like many barn conversions. The station was busy, however the many small passenger trains were quiet, while the odd freight train would remind him of his love of steam trains. Not quite the same, but the power, the noise and vibrations causing the house to tremble ever so slightly would always make him smile and feel comfy. Anne on the other hand had not quite got used to his odd quirks in life. Just a matter of time he told himself often.
The last six months had been a total change in his life and after all those years alone, he was over the moon to have Anne by his side. He recalled how they had met again after twenty years on the Isle of Bute. After his best friend Gordon Reid’s funeral, he had announced to Louisa Gordon’s daughter that he and Anne were getting engaged. They had debated constantly where to live - Toronto or Stamford. Her reply was, “Toronto until you make an honest woman of me. I am not living with you in Stamford.”
“But you would if we were married?”
“Yes, bear in mind I would have to come and see my kids here in Canada regularly. Or they come see us in Stamford on university breaks.”
“So what are you saying? Will you marry me and move to Stamford?”
“Yes!” she had said, leaping into his arms.
He now sat looking at a bank of computers, going through the news on each of the company’s current projects.
He started the company – Heritage & More – three years ago after retiring from the only employer he’d known his entire career: the British Gove
rnment. He’d served Queen and country as an MI6 operative though they called him an ‘analyst’ in the London office. Some called him an unsung hero; he didn’t feel like a hero. Yes, it involved a bit of cloak and dagger, but mainly his job had been to break down the chatter on the networks. He had been sent on a few trips to exotic locations but usually he was sent to the armpits of the universe to do special recon and surveillance work. He’d been stuck in a small room with only a fan and a bank of computers to keep him company.
When he retired, a close friend asked him to complete a family tree research project. Raymond used his researching, computer, and writing skills to dig out the cold facts and then he set about embellishing their family story somewhat. He presented a 30,000-word novel-style book and, using a new software programme, he developed an eye-catching cover especially for the book. Raymond loved to spice up any and all romance angles. He’d been pleased when the teenage twin daughters of the family exclaimed their family story was truly amazing – that they had no idea their great-granddad had been such a stud.
Although somewhat satisfied by the genealogy research, there were many times Raymond still craved that rush he experienced working with M16. Finally, a few of Raymond’s contacts from the past began to ask him to check out certain details in sensitive areas of their corporate dealings – everything from background checks to internal security analysis, corporate espionage, and getting the dope on shady transactions.
His offices and cottage were part of the renovated station buildings. He’d loved trains as a kid, an interest he shared with his best friend, Gordon. Even now, trains and visiting train yards gave Raymond comfort and with people milling around him, it provided a kind of break from the isolation when he worked on the sensitive files that arrived on a regular basis.
He scanned more sites now looking for Masonic collars. They had them everywhere including Ebay. However, he couldn’t find one remotely like the description from Jeff. Wait a minute, how about my Dad? A Grand master and Knight which Raymond always found weird. Someone kneeling on one knee to my dad while he place the sword on each shoulder with words of wisdom. No idea what he said and his dad would never tell him unless he practised masonry and got to the 32 end degree level.
They had Skype as a feature at the new home. His dad was amazing on the computer for a senior of plus eighty five years old. He called anticipating his dad would take a few seconds to answer.
“Hello lad. Nice to see you,” said his dad instantly.
“I have a question right up your alley,” said Raymond.
“Good. I need some mental stimulation in this place,” he laughed.
“A good friend of mine was burgled. They took a rare whisky and a Masonic collar.”
“What an odd combination to steal.”
“I think the collar was an accident.”
“People are stealing whisky?”
“Yes dad, some of them are worth more than a quarter of a million pounds.”
“Bloody hell. What did he say about the collar?”
Raymond told him.
“Doesn’t sound like anything I have seen. You said harps. I think you should take Joe out for a drink. He loves his pints at lunch time.”
“I remember Joe. An Irishman who has lived in Yorkshire since I was a kid and he was in your lodge.”
“Yes. Retired now but a wealth of knowledge. I was thinking with harps maybe there is an Irish connection. You don’t often see harps on a mason’s collar. Tudor Roses are far more common.”
“Would you like me to call him? Text you back if he’s about.”
“Yes thanks, I’ll be there in a few hours.”
“Right, see you soon.”
“Who was that?” Anne came into the office.
“My dad.” His wife stood beside him looking at the computer screen, while sipping on a mug of coffee. He looked at her admiringly. Wearing a house coat, her hair all over the place, she was a stunning woman regardless of her attire. Saying that, he wouldn’t pay her a compliment. Not at least until he engaged his brain before opening his mouth.
Last week he had said how much she reminded him of Kim Cattrall. They were watching an old film she was in with Ewan McGregor. “In what way?”
“Your looks are similar, tall with a great figure.”
“What exactly does great figure mean?”
Oh shit he had thought. We will have to watch all the sex in the city films.
“Do you have a thing for her?” Of course you nit, I think she looks like my wife, he thought but said nothing. He was doomed!
“I tried to wake you last night,” offered Raymond.
“I vaguely remember and told you to get lost.”
“Never assume.”
“What?”
“I know it was late, but I wasn’t waking you for the reason you were thinking. I found some information after you had gone to bed.”
“If you would like an intelligent conversation with me in bed after midnight kindly leave your clothes on.”
Raymond looked vacant. “Slow on the uptake this morning are we? So what happened last night at Jeff’s hotel?”
“That’s why I tried to wake you up.”
“Likely story. Well?”
He brought her up to speed. “You were saying this whisky theft business is becoming popular.”
“Yes, and probably the same person.”
“No clues at all?”
“None. They never leave any evidence or forced entrance. Somehow they get a duplicate key. I have Jeff sending me where he went, what he did over the last few weeks. In the meantime, I don’t fancy going to New Jersey nosing around in the good old US of A. I am working on what could be a clue.”
“Which is?”
“The Masonic collar that was in the whisky box. Taken probably by accident.”
“What else did the thief take?”
“Some jewellery.”
“Expensive?”
“Yes, and all precious stones. No diamonds.”
“Is this the pattern of other whisky thefts?”
“Identical.”
Raymond looked at his phone. The text message read: Joe is looking forward to a pub lunch.
“Right, I’m off to Yorkshire. Dad’s friend may have an answer on this Masonic collar.”
“I have lots to do today. What time will you be back?”
“Early evening at the latest.”
“I hope you find some information on the collar. I’ll make a nice meal and we can go over what you find.” Anne gave him a kiss, while he gathered up his files, found his car keys, exiting quickly to the garage.
Chapter 9
Raymond arrived at the retirement home. It was an old Victorian house with beautiful gardens. His mother had gone into Alzheimer’s stage three, hardly recognising any family or friends. She liked gardening and Raymond had made sure her surroundings would include gardens. They also had a potting class once a week. He found them both by a bay window in the main lounge. He held his mother’s hand and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“How are you Mum?”
“Look at those birds, they’re so fat,” she smiled.
“Wood pigeons. You always did feed them at the house.” She continued to stare past the window into the garden.
“Joe will be expecting you. I called him.” his Dad said.
“Did you describe the collar to him?”
“No lad. At his time of life he needs surprises, things to keep his mind sharp. I will leave that for you. I looked through all my regalia. Nothing even remotely like it. I do tend to think it will be a Knight’s Order rather than a Masonic Lodge by the description.”
Raymond and his dad chatted for thirty minutes while his mum sat contentedly looking out of the window.
He gave them both a hug and was gone from Keighley through the busy town centre, driving towards the moors en route to the village of Cullingworth. It was a nice village with one long main street with shops on either side. Joe’s house wa
s half a mile off the main street. He found the house, walked up the drive and was about to tap on the door. Joe came out with his coat on.
“Hello young fella, let’s go. I’m dying for a pint. Do you mind a bit of a drive?”
“No, why? Where are we going?”
“The Old Silent.”
“Excellent choice. It’s been years since I went in there.”
“They have the best meat and potato pies in Yorkshire. That with mashed potatoes and peas, all washed down with a couple of pints of Taylor’s Landlord.”
“Sounds delicious and one of my favourite breweries,” agreed Raymond.
They drove out of Cullingworth on top of the moors, down through Haworth and arrived at the village of Stanbury.
“Do they still have plenty of ghost sightings?”
“Yes lad, especially the dog.”
“The large white one?”
“Yes, there are sightings almost every month.”
“What about the pub?”
“The American tourists swear they see something in their rooms,” he laughed. More like they can’t handle our ale.”
They walked into the pub. A warm fire was the central point of the bar area. “Don’t see that often in the middle of spring.”
“It’s always cold in here. The ghosts you know.”
The Old Silent Inn felt like a step back in time. Raymond admired the walls full of horse brass and paintings of the moors close by. There were a huge amount of tables and chairs for a small pub, all polished brightly giving a scent of lemon Pledge. It was early and the cleaners had probably just finished. The ceiling was low with the oak beams seeming to almost touch Raymond’s head.
“Where shall we sit?” Joe asked, moving to a small round table by the fire.
“Let’s order - I’m starving. They ordered the pies, mashed potatoes and gravy along with two pints of Landlord ale. I am going to eat first then ask me any questions you have. I came from a strict upbringing with no chatter at the table. Old habits die hard.”
