The Inheritance

by Michael Phillips

  “I played but a minor role in it, believe me,” said David. “The breed is called the Scottish Dunface. It is what is termed an unimproved breed. In other words, it is an original and ancient breed. That made its survival all the more important. Besides which is the fact that, along with that of some of the other native breeds, its wool is highly prized. Our own factory is the only place on the earth where the Dunface wool is converted from the backs of the sheep to finished product. It was mostly my uncle Macgregor and his gamekeeper Dougal Erskine, with the help of our esteemed Alexander Innes, who did the important work with the Dunface twenty or more years ago.”

  “I was very sorry to hear about your uncle,” said Yates. “His death has apparently placed you in something of a predicament,” he added carefully.

  “Not really,” said David.

  “I understood that things were going against you in the matter of his inheritance,” the minister said.

  “My uncle left no will, if that’s what you mean. That fact has complicated the inheritance, to be sure. His estate is in the hands of the courts. The fact that everyone expected me automatically to inherit has created a bit of a stir. But I am not worried about the outcome.”

  “A sizable inheritance plus the lairdship . . . they mean nothing to you?”

  “A fair question,” said David. He paused thoughtfully, then added, “I suppose all my life it has been assumed that one day I would become laird. It was one of those things one takes for granted. It turns out that such may not be the case. But it won’t change who I am or what I want in life.”

  “An admirable attitude.”

  “Things happen for a reason. I never cared about being a man of means or property. Whatever comes, I will make the best of it. I hope I will meet it with a cheerful heart. My greatest concern is for the welfare of the people of the island. I take my chieftainship as a more sacred obligation than the lairdship. If not receiving the inheritance also renders me unable to do good for them as their chief, then I will be very sorry.”

  David and the minister arrived at the area that had been roped off for livestock. Twenty or thirty men were gathered inside the makeshift pens while a dozen or so sheep attached to their tethers nibbled at a scattering of hay at their feet.

  Reverend Yates stood outside and continued to observe. David bent down, stepped through the rope, and walked inside. One by one the men turned, saw his approach, and greeted him. Handshakes went all around.

  50

  Sheep and Fishermen

  Hardy Tulloch had been busy most of the day on his boat, having gone out with three of his men early and returning about noon. The weekend’s affair was not the sort of spectacle for which he normally would give a brass farthing. He’d not attended the event in years, preferring to spend the time on the sea where fish could be caught and profits made.

  But everything had changed now. He would soon be in possession of a sizable fortune. This would be his island. When that time came, he would reestablish the Norse tradition on Whales Reef, disposing of kilts and soppy dancing and folk music once and for all.

  Wherever he went today, eyes would be following his every move. What ego could resist such attention? Certainly not Hardy’s. What better than to make a grand entrance into the pub with a beauty from the mainland on each arm? He would show Audney Kerr she wasn’t the only fish in the sea.

  Hardy waited until late on Friday afternoon, then made his way toward the site of the day’s festivities. He walked with head high and chest out, as if he already owned the land beneath his feet and every house he passed. Heads nodded with deference as he walked toward the animal pens.

  Brushing past Reverend Yates and the elderly Innes without a word, he stepped inside the corral and strode brusquely into the center of the gathering.

  “So, Erskine,” he said loudly, “ye’ll be my gamekeeper afore long. Hae ye sold any o’ my ponies today?”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Hardy,” replied Dougal, one of the few men on the island besides David not cowed by Hardy’s swagger, “they’re no yer ponies yet. If an’ when ye do inherit—which I doobt—the ponies’ll be stayin’ wi me.”

  “Everything ’o the auld man’s will be mine, Erskine,” Hardy shot back, “including his livestock.”

  “I’d like tae see ye convince the ponies an’ the sheep o’ that,” said Dougal with obvious contempt. “What ye ken aboot either wouldna fit on the head o’ a pin! Nae, the lads an’ lassies’ll be stayin’ wi’ me.”

  “An’ if I turn ye oot o’ yer lodgin’s at the Cottage that auld Macgregor let ye hae rent free—what then, Erskine? I’m a fisherman after a’. I dinna ken what I need a gamekeeper for. I may jist fire ye.”

  He glanced around with a grin, obviously trying to get a rise out of the older man.

  “Ye canna fire me, ye big blowhard!” retorted Dougal. “An’ if ye should try—”

  Anxious to avoid a scene in front of their visiting guests, David stepped forward.

  “If you no longer find need for his services,” he said good-naturedly, “he shall come work for me! He’ll take a room in the Auld Hoose and be my gamekeeper.”

  “I might sell all the livestock,” snapped Hardy. “Where will the old fool be then?”

  “Tut, tut, Hardy,” interposed David quietly. “It doesn’t do to speak ill of your elders. And whatever you may think, Dougal knows more about Shetland ponies and sheep in his little finger than you and I do combined. These men here have come all the way from Dumfries and Galloway to pick his brain. Our humble Dougal Erskine is considered quite an authority in some circles. Gentlemen,” he added to the newcomers, anxious to hold the floor of conversation until the ruffled feathers had settled, “let me present to you my cousin Hardy Tulloch. Shake his hand and introduce yourselves. But keep on his good side—Hardy may shortly be the new laird of Whales Reef!”

  Several of the visitors came forward enthusiastically. Having successfully deflated Hardy’s anger by placing him at the center of attention, David retreated into the background. Unobtrusively he pulled Dougal aside.

  “Let Hardy be, Dougal,” he said. “It accomplishes nothing to anger him. This will all be settled soon enough.”

  “The blackguard stirs my Celtic blude, David. I canna weel help mysel’.”

  “Please, Dougal . . . for my sake. Let us keep the peace a while longer.”

  “I’ll try, David. Did ye mean what ye said, that if Hardy turns me oot, ye’d bring me tae the Auld Hoose wi’ ye?”

  “Of course, Dougal. You’ve been taking care of my flock along with Uncle Macgregor’s all this time. Whatever Hardy may do or not do, I shall need you to see to my animals. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “An’ the ponies?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll not let Hardy sell them. We have too much invested in both the wee horses and the sheep for him to undo our work. The breeds will be secure. Your chief isn’t completely powerless yet.”

  The two had not noticed Macgregor’s butler standing apart from the others, outside the pens yet close enough to hear most of their private conversation. Like the Englishman Lamont, he was bedecked in a full suit, though one of considerably older vintage. He likewise appeared out of place at a sheep pen beside farmers, shepherds, and fishermen in dungarees, boots, and work shirts.

  Matheson now sought out the ear of the young nephew of his former employer. “If I might have a word, Mr. David,” he said in a subdued tone.

  “Of course, Saxe,” replied David.

  “My sister and I are appreciative that you’ve kept us on and allowed us to live in the Cottage since the laird’s passing.”

  “You served my uncle faithfully,” said David. “It is the least I can do. I only wish I had the means to keep paying you your full salaries.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Mr. David. Mr. Macgregor took good care of us, and we’ve been able to put some aside for a rainy day, as they say. As long as we’ve a roof over our heads, we’re wanting for nothing.”r />
  “It is no more than you deserve. And our solicitors want you and your sister, along with Dougal and me, to look after the place during probate, even if it is for Hardy that we’re doing so.”

  “That’s just it, you see,” Matheson went on. “I couldn’t help overhearing you speaking with Dougal just now, and what Mr. Hardy said about no longer needing a gamekeeper. I’m thinking that if he’s not needing a gamekeeper, he’s not the kind who’s likely to be needing my services either, or my sister’s.”

  “We don’t want to jump to conclusions yet, Saxe.”

  “But the handwriting’s on the wall, isn’t it, Mr. David? That’s what folks are saying. What’s to become of us if it’s true and Mr. Hardy’s becomes laird? He’s sure to turn us out. We’re too old to find positions in service. You know how it is, ’tis younger folk that are wanted these days.”

  “Who is saying these things that are worrying you, Saxe?” asked David.

  “Mrs. MacNeill at the bakery, Mr. David. She asked me just yesterday what Isobel and I were planning to do.”

  David shook his head and tried to hide his annoyance. “She had no business asking such a question, Saxe,” he said. “The estate is not settled yet. Don’t you and Isobel worry about a thing. If need be, you’ll move into the Auld Hoose too. The offer I made to Dougal goes for both of you as well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. David. I know that will ease poor Isobel’s mind.”

  The two shook hands once more, and David left Saxe Matheson and walked toward the village.

  As he went, David was unaware that the gaze of an expensively appointed stranger was following him down the hill. When he was out of sight, the man drifted away from potential eavesdroppers, then pulled out a mobile phone, punched in the first of its automatic numbers, and waited.

  “Yes, I’m here, Mr. McLeod,” he said quietly after several seconds. “A quaint and rather interesting place.” A smile crept over his lips as he listened. “I understand,” he replied. “As much as you might have enjoyed it, however, I think you might have drawn just a little too much attention—”

  The laugh that sounded in his ear was too loud for comfort.

  “That’s right . . . yes, I believe high profile would exactly describe the situation had you come yourself . . . no, not at all . . . I am managing to blend in nicely . . . no one has the slightest idea who I am. What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your eyes on those two cousins,” said the booming voice on the phone. “Learn what you can, keep your ear to the ground, listen to the locals jabber. You never know when you’ll overhear a tidbit we can use.”

  “I understand, Mr. McLeod.”

  51

  Of Lairds and Gossips

  As David walked down the incline toward the village, he was accompanied by a steady stream making their way home for evening tea. Ahead of him he saw Odara Innes ambling down the road with a spry step.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Innes,” he said, falling in beside her. “You look like you could use a strong man beside you for the rest of the way down the hill.”

  “Bless ye, laddie!” she said. “Ye’re looking right fine in yer kilt!” she added as she looked David up and down with a smile.

  “I scarcely get half a dozen chances to wear it every year,” laughed David. “On banquet nights of my tours, you know. Tourists love to see it. But since I rarely do so on the island, I have to make the most of these opportunities.”

  She took his arm, and they continued slowly along.

  “I saw your father up with the sheep,” said David.

  “Ye ken my daddy—always wi’ the animals.”

  “Is it true he speaks to them . . . and they to him?”

  “I wouldna be one tae dispute it. I hae seen mair in my lifetime that canna be explained any ither way. The man’s a marvel, e’en if it is his daughter sayin’ it.”

  “How is his health these days?”

  “Oh, jist fine. When he and I go walkin’, ’tis me who can hardly keep up!”

  It was silent a moment.

  “Ye’re no the only one who’ll be missin’ yer uncle, ye ken, laddie,” said Odara at length. Her voice was soft and reflective.

  “I do know that, Odara.”

  “I wish there hadna been sae many tales told o’ him. Most of them werena true, ye ken. He was a good man.”

  “I know that well,” said David. “If only more people of the village had known it like you do. But in a way, it was his own fault.”

  “Why say ye that, laddie?”

  “My uncle kept to himself far too much. I think it hurt him deeply what people thought. He kept to himself because he didn’t want to face their scorn.”

  “Aye,” Odara said with a nod.

  Neither spoke for a minute or two. It was David who next broke the silence.

  “You caused quite a stir when you placed that rose on his coffin,” he said, glancing over at her.

  Odara smiled mischievously. “Give the auld wives somethin’ tae gossip over, nae doobt.”

  A great laugh of delight sounded from David’s lips. “You’re right about that! Half of them say you did it out of spite. The others still don’t know what to make of it.”

  “An’ they ne’er will. But ye suspect the truth yersel’, dinna ye, laddie?”

  David smiled. “My uncle spoke most fondly of you, though he told me if I ever breathed a word of it, he would level me.”

  “He loved ye too much tae be sayin’ sich things. But do ye think there’s a will someplace, laddie, that’s jist nae been found yet?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He told me he would leave me somethin’ special in his will.”

  “Did he now?” said David thoughtfully.

  “Aye he did. I told him it wouldna matter then what folks said o’ us, an’ that he needna bother on account o’ the fact that he was boun’ tae outlive me anyway. But he said I’d live tae be a hundred if I was a day, but that he wasna so sure o’ himself.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?” asked David.

  “Oh, naethin’ tae speak o’, jist that he was occasionally worried aboot them oilmen who kep’ houndin’ him, said they couldna be trusted an’ that there was nae sayin’ jist what they might do.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I dinna ken, laddie. But he was feared o’ them, ’tis a’ I ken.”

  “You don’t think . . . was he actually afraid for his life?”

  “I dinna ken, laddie.”

  They reached the village and made their way into the maze of streets, lanes, and alleyways that made up Whales Reef. David accompanied the daughter of the enigmatic Sandy Innes to her destination. She let go of his arm, then turned and looked up into the face of her young chief.

  “If ye breathe a word o’ what I told ye aboot yer uncle an’ me tae another livin’ soul, yoong David,” she said, like most of the women of the village not above assuming the role of mother to the chief, “I’ll deny every word o’ it.”

  David laughed, bent down, and kissed her warmly on the cheek. She turned and went inside.

  With much to think about, David returned to the main street and continued toward the center of town. A minute later he walked into the bakery.

  Fortuitously, both women he wanted to speak with were present. They were engaged in low conversation over Coira MacNeill’s counter. Their voices broke off the moment David entered.

  “Hello, Coira . . . Auntie!” he said. “I didna see ye leave the Mill, Auntie.”

  “I’d been spinnin’ since two. I was ready for tea. My Fergus’ll be wantin’ his as weel. I’ll be at it all day on the morn’s morn.”

  “Did ye hae a good day o’ sellin’ yer sweeties, Coira?” he asked the shopkeeper.

  “Fair tae middlin’,” she answered. “I’ll hae a table up tae the fair tomorrow wi’ young Rob Munro sellin’ my biscuits, buns, an’ pasties.”

  “I’ve just been speaking with old Saxe Matheson,” David we
nt on. “He tells me the two of you have been spreading a report that Hardy’s as good as laird already. The poor man and his sister are beside themselves about what’s to become of them.”

  “What tales hae that auld pigeon an’ his goose o’ a sister been spreadin’?” said Rinda irritably.

  “Hold your tongue, Auntie. That’s no way to speak about an honest man and woman. You should be ashamed.”

  In truth, Rinda Gunn had felt a pang of conscience the moment she saw David. The two had been discussing David’s future and what was to become of him after Hardy inherited the estate. She now reproached herself for expressing her view that David had enjoyed too easy a life, berating her departed sister for turning him into an intellectual rather than a fisherman.

  “I want the two of you to hold your tongues until the matter is settled properly,” said David, looking back and forth between them. “If Hardy becomes laird, then that’s as it will be. But there is no call to raise anxieties and fears. Honestly, sometimes the two of you spread more gossip about this village than any ten people should have to give account for when we are called to explain every idle word that has passed our lips. I want talk about the lairdship to stop.”

  “How dare ye speak tae us that way, David,” said his aunt heatedly. The brief pang of conscience from a moment earlier was not strong enough to master her tongue. “I’ve said naethin’ but what a’body kens for themsel’s.”

  “What folks may be thinkin’s one thing, Auntie,” David replied in Scots as his own blood ran a little hotter than usual. “But ye needna add fuel tae the fires o’ gossip yersel’. Gossip’s a sin, ye ken.”

  “Says who?”

  “If ye dinna ken that, it winna do nae good for me tae tell ye. What aboot yersel’, Coira,” said David. She no more relished being scolded by the young scamp, whatever people called him, than did his red-faced aunt. “Will ye promise tae haud yer tongue?”

  “I’ll haud naethin’ for ye, yoong David, but the door as ye find yer way oot o’ my shop if ye’re goin’ tae be insulting both me an’ my customers!”