by D C Macey
They were warmly welcomed at the front door by a neatly turned out woman in her early forties. Sam had spoken to Sarah MacPherson only once before, at a party to introduce MacPherson when he had been appointed as the new department head. Then they had exchanged a few words of polite conversation before she dutifully drifted away in the wake of her husband. Their paths did occasionally converge at graduation day ceremonies and such, but were only fleeting encounters, marked by just a nod and a smile. Sam had come to consider her a non-person, pretty much the self-effacing shadow of her husband.
Here at home, she was entirely different. Confident on her own territory. Sarah MacPherson greeted them with real warmth and a gushing enthusiasm. ‘Sam, come on in, so good to see you again. Come in, come in. You know, we’ve never really talked. We can put that right today.’ She stepped to one side and drew the door open wide, beckoning them in. Catching Helen’s eye as they entered she continued. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you at the university, have I?’
Helen gave a warm smile back and stretched out her right hand. ‘Helen Johnson. No, Sam doesn’t let me visit very often. I think he’s keeping me away from everyone at his work.’
‘Oh, Sam, that just won’t do,’ she said, letting Helen’s hand drop and shooing them through the grand entrance. ‘Straight ahead now, on you go!’ Directly in front of them stretched a broad hallway; coiling off it to the left was an impressive staircase leading away to the bedrooms on the upper floor.
‘MacPherson’s had to pop out, but he should be back in a while. He said you should wait.’
Sam was struggling to reconcile the warm and outgoing Sarah with his image of a timid mousey woman. ‘I hope we’re not inconveniencing you, Mrs MacPherson, we could always come back later,’ said Sam, aware that his boss liked to organise things to suit himself. If he was disrupting Mrs MacPherson’s day, it might not go well with her husband and he really needed MacPherson onside for this.
‘Sam, I insist you call me Sarah and it’s no bother at all. You spoke to him on the phone, he knows you’re coming,’ she waved them into a large lounge. It was furnished and kept by the hand of somebody who clearly cared about elegant living. ‘Now, the pair of you sit yourselves down while I organise us something to drink. I noticed you were driving, Sam, so you can have coffee, tea, or perhaps a fruit juice? Helen, you can have the same or perhaps a gin and tonic? A glass of rosé wine?’ She gave Helen a warm smile. ‘You could have a Scotch, but you don’t look like a whisky drinker to me.’
Helen thought for a moment. ‘Hmmm, it’s very tempting. You know what? Wine sounds really nice, but not if it means opening a bottle specially.’
Sarah rested a friendly hand on Helen’s forearm and squeezed gently. ‘My dear, trust me, in this house there’s never a special opening. Rosé’s always chilled and on tap,’ she laughed and Helen joined in.
‘Oh well, definitely a rosé for me then,’ said Helen as she sat down.
Sarah headed for the far end of the room where a discreet cocktail cabinet with integrated fridge had been blended into the general décor. ‘Sam, what do you want?’ she called over her shoulder.
‘Mine’s an orange juice please,’ said Sam, still standing. He was amazed at this different Sarah. Here she was a real livewire, such fun, how on earth did MacPherson capture her? He felt a gentle kick on his calf and glanced down.
‘Sit down Sam, you’re staring!’ Helen whispered at him as she patted the sofa beside her. While waiting for the drinks they admired a pair of beautiful bronze statuettes on a coffee table. Helen praised them when Sarah returned with the drinks. Their hostess glowed with pleasure and it was immediately clear that Helen had struck exactly the right chord.
Sarah’s passion was art and they learnt all about her work as a sculptress in metals. Well over an hour had passed before MacPherson’s car finally rolled into the driveway. In that time, all three had become firm friends.
Before MacPherson had even entered the room, she had his drink ready. He took the Scotch from her hand, kissed her cheek and thanked her in a single practiced movement. Sam watched with interest. Here was the grumpiest, most self-interested man he had ever had to work with behaving like a real civilised human being, and married to such a fascinating, enthralling woman too.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ said MacPherson. ‘I’ve been along at the Tun again. You know it? The BBC’s studios just up from the parliament. A chance popped up to get our find on the main Six O’Clock News. That’s a real step up from the local coverage I’d already got. It all helps, but this evening was a bit of a waste. I was shunted down the running order and then right off it. Some politician with a burning topic to shout about, and I was bumped out. Still, we’ve been featured on the radio a couple of times and I suppose that at least I managed to get on today’s lunchtime regional TV news. Did any of you see it?’ He gave a shrug in response to their shaking heads and paused to take a drink from his Scotch.
‘I half wonder why I bother. I took them a beautiful silver dagger and their time constraints, or more likely the world’s treasure fixation, means they only wanted to feature the gold chain and ring. Media barbarians, they understand nothing. They basically ignored the really important piece, the silver dagger. It got just a few words mention on the end of their extended gold drool.’
MacPherson checked his rant, gave an exasperated sigh and looked closely at his guests. ‘So what can I do for you that’s so urgent it can’t wait a day?’
Before they could answer, Sarah interrupted. ‘Look, we’ll be eating in a minute, MacPherson likes to eat early, why don’t you both stay and eat, and you can tell him what you want over dinner.’
Sam and Helen started to protest, but Sarah brushed their objections aside. ‘It’s in the oven and I’m serving up any moment now so it would be convenient for MacPherson to listen to you over his meal.’ Then she continued in a theatrical whisper that MacPherson could clearly hear. ‘The old boy’s got a bit set in his ways. He likes to eat dinner at his dinnertime. I know you haven’t eaten yet, so join us, please?’
MacPherson waved his now empty glass. ‘Yes, stay, I’ll get us all top ups while Sarah gets the food.’
It was nearly ten by the time Sam had his car edging out of MacPherson’s drive. Liberal helpings of alcohol had definitely put Helen and the MacPhersons on the merrier side of jolly. As designated driver he remained sober, but a very happy sober. Incredibly, MacPherson had the dagger and jewellery with him. They had been travelling around in his briefcase since he had returned from the dunes. It was handy if a media opportunity arose.
Over dinner, the dagger had done the rounds and Sam had completely revised his view of MacPherson. Here at home, away from the demands of leading a university department and the constant pressure to attract money and publicity, he was actually good company; they all got along famously. When Helen told MacPherson of the other dagger at the museum, he seemed as excited as they were. Better still, he was a personal friend of the relevant curator there. They had studied together years before. He would telephone the man first thing in the morning and make arrangements for Sam to get access.
The only dark spot came when MacPherson remained adamant he would not let the dunes dagger out of his possession. Once they had all admired it over the dinner table, it had been spirited away to some secret hiding spot. Sam still had a problem, no matter how helpful the museum was, they would never release an artefact to go wandering off around the city, and with MacPherson keeping tight hold of the dunes dagger it was going to make comparisons between the two difficult. Sarah had given Helen a wink as they left and told her not to worry, to leave the problem with her, promising she would see what she could do about getting them access to the dagger.
The ever-lengthening summer evenings meant that it was still twilight as Sam’s car rolled through the city streets. The cityscape did not register with Sam who was thinking intensely about daggers. Helen brought him back to the present by gently running her hand down his arm
and letting it slide onto his thigh, rubbing it gently. ‘Well, that went well I think. What does my resident archaeologist think?’
‘I think we want to know a lot more about those daggers.’
‘And I think you got the MacPhersons all wrong. She’s lovely, and away from the department, he’s an okay guy too. Anyway, it’s too late to be doing anything more tonight; I reckon it’s home time.’
Sam smiled and as he drove along, he stretched his hand out to stroke her cheek. She turned her lips just in time to kiss his hand before it returned to the steering wheel.
CHAPTER 10 - TUESDAY 4th JUNE
MacPherson had made the promised early morning phone call to his curator friend at the museum. It had triggered an almost instant response from Suzie Dignan, the curator’s assistant. She had contacted Sam and readily agreed to help sort out anything possible for him. They were to meet at 10.00 inside the museum’s main entrance.
It was shortly after nine in the morning when Sam drew his car to a halt in the driveway of John Dearly’s manse. Helen leant over from the passenger seat to kiss him briefly. ‘Have a good morning and see if you can finally solve the dagger mystery. Come back round when you’ve finished, I’ll be here.’
‘No problem and I’ll keep you posted if I’m going to run beyond lunch,’ Sam replied.
They both got out. Sam left his car and set off for a brisk walk to the Old Town, aiming for Chambers Street and the museum. Helen walked up to the front door, rang the manse’s doorbell then pushed the door open, let herself in and made for the kitchen.
John Dearly sat in his favourite place at the manse’s kitchen table. He was focusing intently on the letter in his hand. It was from the Church. From James Curry, the presbytery clerk. On the table was his copy of The Scotsman, trumpeting a new government drive to expose and stop people abusing charitable status for their personal benefit. Helen entered the room unacknowledged. The newspaper article did not catch her interest; however, she noted almost absently that John seemed to be cross-referring between the article and letter.
He glanced up to greet her, but his slightly preoccupied expression remained. ‘Ah, there you are. Coffee’s made, help yourself,’ he waved towards a steaming pot before taking a final glance at the letter and folding it away carefully into its envelope. He placed it on the table beside him.
Helen poured a coffee and joined him at the table. She paused for a moment, not quite sure where to start. He seemed hesitant too. John was reluctant to break the news that she would not be given the opportunity to stay on once her exchange period was up. The commitment had only ever been for one year, but he could tell Helen had gradually come to hope for a longer stay.
Before he could deliver his news, Helen started. ‘I’ve been speaking to my father on the phone, and you know he’s really upset. Pop always enjoyed his visits to Scotland and he said Archie had always made him feel so welcome.’ She searched John’s eyes for a response. He nodded wistfully and then gave a thin smile, thinking fondly of his old friend Peter Johnson and of less stressed times.
‘Pop sends his best wishes. They’ve been remembering Archie in the Sunday services back home and thinking of you as well. He’s sorry he can’t come over, but you know he’s not so mobile anymore. Mom sends her love too.’ Helen stopped for a moment to drink coffee.
John shifted in his seat a little and looked out of the window. ‘It seems the whole world misses Archie. I just can’t come to terms with what happened to him. Why it happened to him,’ he looked back across the table towards Helen. The controlled front he managed to put up to the world seemed to waver in Helen’s presence. Somehow he did not feel the need to pretend in front of this young woman. ‘I’m struggling to reconcile it all. It just seems so black, so evil. How could this have happened to such a good man?’
Helen tried to console him. ‘It must have been the act of a madman, a psychopath. No sane person would, could, ever do such a thing.’
John Dearly looked at her, his eyes almost resigned to despair. ‘Yet the police are no nearer catching the man,’ he sighed. ‘They have no idea who is involved. If it really were a madman, there would be a medical records trail to follow, a track record, something. They’d have him by now. I don’t think they have a clue what to do. I don’t think they are any nearer finding Archie’s killer than the day it happened.’ He paused for a moment. ‘But if he’s not a madman, then what is he? And why Archie?’
The conversation was moving into deep waters and Helen tried to steer it back. ‘Come on John, all this stuff’s beyond us. Let’s leave it to the professionals, they’ll get their man soon enough,’ she said, then stood and picked up the now empty mugs. ‘Let’s get more coffee, what do you say?’ John nodded absently at her as she stepped over to the pot.
‘They’re coming again tomorrow morning, you know?’ said John.
‘Who’s coming?’ Helen’s voice tried to strike a cheery note, attempting to lift the mood.
‘The police. That senior man. Wallace, DCI Wallace. We’ve already spoken three times. I really don’t know what extra light I can shed on things for him.’
‘No, but at least it shows they are being thorough. And that’s good, yeah?’
‘I suppose so. It would be even better if they could just track the killer down.’
Helen paused from pouring coffee to fix John with a supportive look. ‘Would you like me to be here when he comes? It’s no problem for me.’
John gave a weary nod. ‘Would you mind? I am starting to feel a bit worn down by it all. I just can’t put what was done to Archie behind me. You won’t need to say anything, your just being here would be a support.’
‘No prob’,’ said Helen returning to the kitchen table.
He wondered again at the confusion of events. Archie’s awful death, the police investigation, and now this letter from the Church had arrived. It was just about the worst possible timing, but the new presbytery clerk wanted to call in for a fact-finding meeting. The presbytery clerk suggested a meeting in the church itself so he could get a feel for the place at the same time. It was a polite request but one that could not reasonably be denied. He knew from Elaine’s recent grumblings that the man had the parish in his sights, and had no interest in or respect for local difference. John’s previous meetings with James Curry had been uncomfortable. It was clear he was not the type to tolerate any variation or local colour on his patch; it would not be an easy meeting. To top it all, he had to tell Helen that her stay could not be extended. And what would his old friend Peter Johnson make of that?
He should have told her before now, but other than the Moderator’s Reception, they had hardly had a moment to speak together since Archie’s death. And the reception had certainly not been the right occasion. He sighed again as Helen sat back down with the fresh coffees.
Biting the bullet, John broke the bad news, stressed how much good she was doing, how the congregation loved her, how he valued her good work, loved her vivacity and how it challenged so many of the old conventions. But for all that, they could not extend her stay in the parish. He was letting her know now so she had plenty of time to make other arrangements. If things were otherwise, he would have wanted her to stay, but that is how it was.
Helen was devastated by the news. She knew the post was only for a year, had no right to expect more, but she had come to harbour hopes of an extension. She felt at home here. It was just not what she had expected, though with everything else that had been happening she had really not been giving her future any thought. All she could do was lamely ask for confirmation that she could see her year out. She felt limp, deflated. In the past few months she had finally found an environment where she fitted in, mostly, and then there was Sam: this news was a disaster.
Helen looked at John, he was visibly agitated at having caused her distress; she had to accept his decision but didn’t want him to suffer for it. She made an effort to change the subject. ‘John, you know the strangest thing happened when we were i
n Fife. Sam and the students found a body.’
John looked slightly puzzled, then alarmed. ‘What, another body? What happened over there?’ He started to sound concerned for her.
‘No, no, John, an old dead body, a skeleton, buried beneath the dunes. I don’t know, hundreds of years old.’ She felt flattered and a little guilty that poor John should find time to worry about her amidst his own shock and persistent grief for Archie.
He looked relieved and politely forced himself to focus on her story, to ask her for details. Helen told the story - the mystery Templar Knight, the signet ring on a golden chain, and the beautiful, inexplicable dagger. As John Dearly heard the story, his worries seemed to slide aside and he came to focus intently on her every word. He started asking questions, suddenly fully engaged, eventually leading the storytelling through ever tighter and more detailed questioning.
Helen was delighted that John was so interested, and then she became a little concerned. He was buzzing, pacing to and fro across the kitchen. His persistent questioning dragged every bit of information out of her. Finally, he needed to see the dagger. It was urgent, he must see it; could Sam let him see it? Helen told him the dagger was being kept at MacPherson’s home, unofficially, but she would see what could be done. John nodded acceptance and suddenly excused himself. There were some parish papers he needed to review. Would she make sure the front door was locked on her way out? And he was gone, flying from the kitchen without a backward glance.
