The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  She’d toyed with the idea of calling ahead. But then, what would she have said? “Hi, I’m with The Berkshire Review, and I wondered if you’d be so kind as to grant me an interview?” She could hardly just blurt out, “I’m your daughter you thought was dead. Could I come for a visit?”

  There wasn’t going to be an easy way to do it. Walking up to the door unexpected didn’t seem altogether “right” either. But this was something that she had to do in person, as awkward as it would be.

  To her left the sea spread out to the horizon. The climb was brisk, and she stopped when she reached the top to look back down upon the village, then over Ramsey Head just ahead of her and off the bluff to her left. Then she continued on, leaving the road and turning inland toward the estate. A large iron gate stood open, to one side of which had been placed a large stone of granite, in which were chiseled the words: “Welcome to Stonewycke.” Hilary passed inside and continued on, through the wooded grounds of the castle. The wooden bridge over which Joanna had walked had long since been replaced by a sturdy, wide stone bridge able to accommodate automobiles and trucks. Every stone had been hauled to the site by Alec MacNeil and Walter Innes from the quarry on the Fraserburgh Road. The trees had grown older since Joanna’s day, but little else had changed. Only the distant sound of machinery, and perhaps a car climbing the hill out of Strathy every ten or fifteen minutes, would reveal that the year was 1971, not 1911.

  Hilary drank in the air as she walked, enjoying the sight of every oak, every birch, every mountain ash, as well as the green fields that extended out on both sides of her, up toward higher hills to the east, and downward toward the valley of Strathy to the west. This was such lovely country—so quiet, so peaceful, so green . . . so different than anything she had ever had the chance to enjoy in London.

  Well, she thought, whatever lies ahead for me will be found at the end of this long driveway. It can’t be much farther.

  ———

  The insistent ring of the phone sounded from across the room. For the first two rings he tried to ignore it. This was the fourth call of the day, and he hoped it wasn’t for him. Logan had gone to the sun-room to read, privately hoping to avoid further interruptions.

  Still the phone persisted. Then as the ringing stopped, realizing the housekeeper had no doubt answered it and would have to run up the three flights of stairs after him, Logan was invaded by a dutiful sense of guilt. He laid down his book and went out to meet her halfway.

  I probably should have instructed her to take messages, he thought. What good could he be to Allison during this difficult time if his responsibilities in London continued to hound him so? He had let his work separate them once before, and it was not an experience he wanted to repeat.

  When he had returned to Stonewycke immediately after the Commons session last week, they had both known he might be forced somewhat to divide his time. It was an involved month; he had many irons in the fire that would not cool just because he went north. And, of course, Allison understood. She was part of his work now. They considered themselves a team. Many of his associates had joked more than once that the Honorable Mrs. Macintyre had through the years garnered at least half his votes for him. Logan was proud of that fact—proud of her.

  The housekeeper met him as he came to the first-floor landing. She had only had to climb halfway up the bottom flight of stairs.

  “Telephone for ye, sir,” she said, showing her gratitude at being spared a longer trek.

  “Thank you, Flora; I’ll take it in the library.”

  Logan turned and strode down the corridor to the great double oak doors of the room that had served as Stonewycke’s library for over a hundred years. Allison had always insisted that the fragrance of musty, aging books was stimulating, both to the mind and the senses. Personally, he didn’t care much for it himself. She often teased him that he would no doubt prefer moving his office out to the room above the stables that had belonged to old Uncle Digory. Could he help it, he would joke back, if an uneducated bloke himself finds the fragrances there more invigorating?

  By the time he reached the desk and lifted the receiver, Logan was smiling at the comparison of the library with the stable.

  “Hello,” he said, “Logan Macintyre speaking.”

  A brief pause followed.

  “Ah, yes, George . . . of course, of course . . . certainly, I know you wouldn’t have called otherwise. What is it?”

  A lengthy interlude ensued in which Logan nodded, shook his head, and responded verbally at periodic intervals.

  “I see . . . yes, good work.”

  As he was gradually caught up in governmental matters, the smile faded from his face, replaced by a keen glow of enthusiasm, visible not on his lips at all, but rather in his eyes.

  “And so you’ve found five possible violators?” he asked at length. “Which companies are they?”

  He nodded his head, then let out a sharp breath. “Trans Global Enterprises? I had no idea our fishing expedition would land such a big catch! But as you say it’s still too soon to know. We have to remember we’re still in the speculating stages.”

  After listening for another moment, he added, “I agree, it’s a sticky situation, but we have never let money and power intimidate us before . . . yes, of course, discretion must be the byword. No coming on like gangbusters, as they say in America. But there are subtle approaches we can make use of.”

  He paused while the other spoke, then chuckled.

  “Thanks, George. I’ll take that as a compliment!”

  Another brief pause was followed by an outright laugh.

  “I don’t know about legendary. But there have always been those to make more of my reputation than reality would justify. In the meantime, we had better do our homework thoroughly. I’d like complete profiles on each company—”

  He stopped, clearly interrupted, nodded, then continued. “Good man, George! I should have known you’d already have started. Terrific! I want to be well-armed if this thing proves out and I take it to Ted Heath. . . . When will I be returning . . . ?”

  The question required more consideration than he had time for on this long-distance call. Nor was George Ringersfeld the one with whom to discuss what to Logan were complex alternatives. He and Allison had talked and prayed, but both were reluctant to make any definite moves just yet. Neither could deny anticipating their return to the activity of the city. But the peace and tranquillity of Stonewycke, not to mention the sudden turn-about of family considerations, had been more a soothing balm to their spirits on this particular occasion than for many years. Especially with Joanna now gone, they were more strongly torn in the two directions that pulled at their loyalties, as they knew they always would be.

  “I don’t know, George,” Logan said at length. “In a few days, perhaps. Probably a week at the outside. Keep me posted if you turn up anything startling. All right, then . . . thanks for the news . . . goodbye.”

  Logan hung up the phone, then leaned against the edge of the desk in thought. What a time for this to come up! He should be in London to direct the investigation. Yet he knew he belonged here—for right now, at any rate.

  He had begun investigating allegations of illegal practices at the corporate level a year ago during his tenure as Minister of Economic Affairs under Wilson. The change in administrations when Edward Heath’s Conservatives had ousted Labour from power had abruptly forestalled his work until the new Prime Minister had suggested to his own Minister that he work with Logan on the problem. Then the furor over the Common Market vote had interrupted progress again, though a month ago renewed murmurings had encouraged him to reopen his investigations. He had never expected that he might have to do battle with a giant like Trans Global.

  The fight itself did not worry him. He had taken many an unpopular stance on the Parliamentary floor through the years. He could almost relish the thought of a good clash where the issues of right and wrong were clearly defined. At any other time, he would have welcomed
the challenge. But Joanna’s death, coupled with the rift in the party and, unavoidably, in his friendship with Wilson, as well as family uncertainties—it had all taken a toll on his emotional reservoir.

  A soft knock on the door called a halt to his reverie. Allison opened the door a crack and poked in her head. “We were just going to have some tea downstairs. Would you like to join us, or am I interrupting something?”

  “Not at all. I can use a pleasant diversion.”

  “Troubles?” she asked as she came into the room.

  “Just the usual,” answered Logan. “I only wish they weren’t all happening at once.”

  “What’s the newest?”

  “You know that corporate investigation?”

  Allison nodded.

  “It seems Ringersfeld may have uncovered some shady dealings within our borders, in one of our largest and most respected companies.”

  “Isn’t that more a matter for Scotland Yard, or perhaps Interpol?”

  “If it develops into something truly illegal, maybe so. In the meantime I have to decide whether to stir up that kind of fallout. If I do, this particular company is powerful enough to put up a real battle. They could make life miserable for me . . . for us all. It could jeopardize my reputation; they might even move to unseat me. Yet if I don’t move on it, you can believe my other convictions are going to be called into question when the press gets hold of it. You know I’m just a stooge for big business and such rot.”

  “Anyone with an ounce of sense would never believe such a charge!”

  “You know the fickle public mind,” he said.

  She laid her hand lovingly on his shoulder. “You’ll do the right thing,” she said. “I know you will. You know you’ve never been one to put your reputation ahead of doing what your convictions tell you.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “I suppose what I have to do is clear. I only hope we turn up something that will put the odds a little more in our favor. You can’t try to uncover the skeletons in the closets of a multi-billion dollar company without some pretty heavy artillery.”

  “The answers will come, Logan. I don’t know where you’ll find them, but you will.”

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. They linked arms and were just exiting the library when the echoing of the front door chime met their ears from downstairs.

  20

  A Long-Awaited Meeting

  The high stone walls of the huge gray edifice rose suddenly before Hilary as she rounded a curve in the road.

  A tight grove of trees, mostly larches, and the steep incline of the hillside around which the road bent, had obscured it from view on this particular approach. Majestically visible for miles around from nearly any vantage point, the magnificent yet sobering citadel known for centuries as Stonewycke remained, until the last possible moment, hidden to visitors making their approach along this main access road.

  What startled Hilary most, however, was not the suddenness of its appearance, but rather the sight itself. This was indeed an ancient castle! All of Joanna’s descriptions could not have fully prepared her for what now met her gaze. Rising at least four or five stories in the air, with wings attached spreading on either direction from the main structure, replete with towers, turrets, and various stone-carved ornamentations, the imposing stronghold was certainly something out of Macbeth or Camelot. She couldn’t quite tell, at first glance, whether the castle’s grimness or its mystical allure was more dominant. Probably the legends surrounding it were due to a healthy dose of both.

  Another iron gate stood before her, this time stretching across the road.

  One final wave of reluctance swept through her. But Hilary was determined not to turn back now. She walked forward to the wrought-iron barrier, hesitated merely a moment, reached out, and lifted the latch. The gate opened to her touch. She slipped inside, then closed it behind her. Nothing would divert her from the path she knew was hers to follow.

  As she approached the courtyard, Hilary was greeted by the perennial view of the rearing horse in the center of a free-flowing fountain. The splashing water was the only sound to be heard in the tranquil setting. No person was visible on the grounds, no barking dog greeted her as she walked.

  She paused a moment to study the regal statue, muscles flexed powerfully across the equine shoulders. The nostrils at the end of the stately head flared, the full mane flying back as if the creature had been caught by Medusa’s gaze, captured in full flight rather than carved in stone.

  The sight brought to Hilary’s mind the horses she had so recently read about in the journal, those marvelous creatures that had been such a vital part of young Maggie’s life. At the same time it reminded her how unsuited she was to step into the life this august place represented. Her very attire spoke of how out of place she was for the country life, much less that of a country lady. She had ridden a horse only once in her life!

  Nevertheless, after her brief stop, she proceeded around the tiled pool of the fountain and drew near the front doors of the castle—doors containing more inherent grandeur than any she had ever seen.

  Swallowing hard, she took a deep breath, then reached up toward the bell.

  ———

  Logan glanced instinctively at his wristwatch at the sound of the chimes. After four telephone interruptions, a caller at the door, whatever the hour, seemed only appropriate as befitting this day.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” he asked as they walked toward the stairs.

  “No. I can’t imagine who it might be.”

  As they descended, Flora appeared at the bottom of the stairway.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Macintyre,” she said, “there’s a caller for ye.”

  “Who is it?” asked Logan.

  “A stranger, sir. She said her name is Hilary Edwards.”

  “Edwards . . .” mused Logan, trying to place the familiar sound of the name. “Is she a reporter?”

  “She didna say, sir.”

  “Thank you, Flora. I’ll be right there.”

  Logan turned toward the front door, while Allison headed back toward the kitchen where she had been preparing the tea herself.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon,” Flora added, “but she asked for the both o’ ye. Right insistent aboot it, too, I might add.”

  Allison glanced back toward Logan with a puzzled expression, then turned to follow him. “I suppose the tea will keep for a few minutes.”

  “She’s in the drawing room,” Flora added before taking her leave.

  Allison took Logan’s arm and together they walked toward the drawing room.

  “I think I know what this might be about,” said Logan. “I’ll take care of it quickly. Then maybe we can sit down and talk over that pot of tea. It’s time we began thinking about some of the decisions we have to make.”

  Wondering about the tenacity, not to mention impertinence, of a reporter tracking him all the way to Scotland, Logan opened the doors of the drawing room.

  He at once recognized the woman seated on the brocade divan as a journalist he had encountered a time or two, most recently at a press conference prior to the Common Market vote, if he remembered correctly. Now that he thought about the incident, he seemed to recall that she had been rather persistent in her style of questioning. But when she looked up at him, he saw none of such qualities. Instead, he perceived a vulnerability. The instant their eyes met, he knew beyond all doubt that she had not come here to grill him. His posture toward her immediately softened.

  “Miss Edwards, I believe,” said Logan warmly, extending his hand toward her.

  Hilary rose and shook his hand.

  “Mr. Macintyre,” she said, “thank you for seeing me.”

  “This is my wife, Allison.”

  As the two women shook hands, Logan could not take his gaze from the eyes of the newcomer. As she looked into Allison’s face, the young woman’s blue eyes filled with tears that seemed about to overflow down her cheeks.

  “You’ve come rather a long way for a s
tory, haven’t you, Miss Edwards?” asked Logan after a moment.

  “Actually,” began Hilary, turning back toward him, “I haven’t come to get a story at all, but rather to tell one.” Her voice seemed to gain strength as she spoke. “My mission, if such it could be called, is more of a personal nature. And my name isn’t exactly Miss Edwards—that’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

  “You have my curiosity thoroughly aroused,” said Logan good-naturedly. “Please go on.”

  “The story I’m going to tell you you may find difficult—even impossible—to believe. I didn’t believe it at first myself.”

  “Try us. We’re good listeners.”

  “About three weeks ago, I received a visit from your mother,” Hilary began. As she spoke she turned toward Allison. At the words a puzzled expression spread over Allison’s features.

  “She told me of the loss of your daughter during the war,” Hilary continued, “and of her own recent search to locate her granddaughter when she suddenly became convinced the girl was alive.”

  Here Logan and Allison looked at one another in surprise.

  “We knew of no such search,” said Logan.

  “Yes, Lady Joanna told me she had said nothing to either of you.”

  Hilary paused, struggling with previously unfelt emotions rising from within her.

  “Oh, how I wish she were still here!” she said. “But I promised her I would come to you, and . . . as difficult as it is to say such words, I must tell you . . . I must try to explain as best I can the incredible story that Lady Joanna told to me.”

  Again she stopped. By now Logan’s jocular expression had turned deadly serious, as both he and Allison listened in rapt attention.