The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Exhaling a bewildered and frustrated sigh, she began once more to consider the possibility of sleep.

  Then without warning, again all her senses sprang to life! This time she was not struggling to disengage herself from sleep. She knew exactly what she saw.

  A figure was walking across the snow-covered lawn below! She shot a quick glance at her bedside clock; it was 11:30. Though she had not been able to catch a good look at the furtive hallway visitor of a few minutes ago, something in the walk told her this was the same person. It was certainly not Jo, she could now see, but a man.

  Immediately in her memory arose the vision of another night—only two nights ago—when she had seen Jo and an unknown stranger outside the gate together. Could this be the same man? The height seemed about right, though her view of Jo’s companion had been dark and incomplete.

  Whoever this was, what was he doing out at such an hour? What had he been doing in her hallway? Had he mistaken her room for Jo’s, and was now correcting his error? The walk was familiar . . . could it . . . yes! It reminded her of the viscount!

  Something about him had puzzled her from the first. He seemed too suave, too—

  But before she had time to finish her conjecture, all at once the man down on the snow stopped, then turned, glancing directly up at her window!

  Instinctively Hilary pulled away and ducked into a shadowed recess, hoping the small light in her room would not betray her face. It had almost been as if he had known she were there, and was looking for her. But whatever the cause of his sudden turn and probing of the night for her eyes, at least she now knew the identity of this night prowler. For in the split second following his turn before she had backed completely out of sight, the reflected moonlight had shown full on his face, and there could be no mistaking the man. It was not the Austrian.

  It was the professor from Oxford, Ashley Jameson!

  What could this new houseguest possibly be doing meandering about the house in the dead of night?

  After a moment she sneaked another glance out the window with one eye peering round the edge of the window frame. Jameson was nowhere to be seen, but his footsteps in the snow made a clear track to the door toward which he had been heading.

  Slowly she put away the journal and climbed into bed, the paradoxes and questions of the night’s happenings plaguing her until sleep at last swept her away.

  Throughout the following morning she could not shake a heaviness that seemed bent on weighing her down. If she had been uneasy around Jo before, now everything was magnified ten times. Every look, every chance word spoken, especially from the mouth of Jameson, seemed to hold multiple meanings. Added to this, to further blur Hilary’s perspective, was a call about eleven o’clock by the Viscount von Burchardt. Applying his charm both toward Jo and herself, in no time he had wrangled himself another invitation to luncheon, to which he heartily agreed.

  “One o’clock, then!” said Logan, once the arrangements had been confirmed. For the past half hour they had been gathered in one of the West Wing parlors. “Now I have to see my factor, Moryson, about some things.” He laughed. “I get up here so rarely that when I do, he tries to get me as much as he can so all his questions and problems can get cleared up. I’ll be back before long.”

  Hilary, too, excused herself. The viscount cornered Jo and plied her with his charm—an exercise to which she did not seem adverse—and meanwhile the mysterious Oxford don wandered outside alone. Allison had still not made an appearance all day.

  Hilary went straight to the library, where Logan had directed her when she had asked him about making a call. With the others occupied, she hoped there she would not be disturbed.

  She dialed the number and felt oddly relieved as she did so. It felt good to take some action, even if it was nothing more than making a simple phone call.

  “Hello, Murry,” she said when the magazine switchboard put her through to her associate. “How is everything?”

  “Smooth as glass,” he said, then chuckled. “Betty told me to say that no matter what, she doesn’t want you to worry about anything.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. Only the usual snags.” He paused, and she could tell even across hundreds of miles of phone line that his next statement would not be pleasant. “Well,” he went on, “there is talk of a printer’s strike—but I have already lined up some scabs.”

  “Scabs?”

  “Finks . . . strike-breakers, you know.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Right now they’re just blowing off hot air. The contracts aren’t up for renewal for a couple of weeks.”

  “It sounds as if you have everything under control.” She smiled to herself. Suddenly in the face of her personal concerns, even the news of an impending strike did not sound terribly earth-shattering.

  “By the way,” added Murry, “I’ve got to thank you for that antiquities assignment.”

  “Oh . . . ?”

  “Hanging around Oxford’s been very stimulating.”

  “You met a new girl?”

  “Don’t I wish! But no, I was speaking of a great new story my Oxford source put me onto.”

  “What is it?”

  “Too early even to tell you about. Let’s just say it’s either going to be a bomb or a bombshell!”

  “Well, then, since you’re hanging around Oxford, I have a bit of a favor to ask of you.”

  “Name it.”

  “Do you still keep in touch with that fellow from Scotland Yard?”

  “Once in a while. I have to keep my contacts greased, you know.”

  “Could you ask him to run a name through the Yard’s computers?”

  “Sure,” answered Murry, “but what does that have to do with Oxford? Say, what’s going on up there, anyway?”

  “I can’t go into it now, Murry. I’m not even sure I know.” She then gave him Jameson’s name and what little she knew of him. “You might check around next time you’re out at Oxford, a little street research to go along with the official report.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be going back soon. My guy’s flown the coop for a while. Insists his life’s in danger.”

  “That is interesting. Your guy leaves Oxford just as my guy arrives in Scotland from Oxford!”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I don’t know. Find out for me, Murry, will you?”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “And, throw the name Emil von Burchardt into that police computer while you’re at it. He’s an Austrian viscount.”

  “You are meeting some interesting chaps up there!”

  “Let’s put it this way—the one says he’s an Oxford professor, and the other claims to be a viscount. And when you call, Murry, don’t leave me any messages. Talk directly with me.”

  “Gotcha. It might take a couple of days.”

  “Put a priority on it. Thanks, Murry!”

  Hilary slowly put the receiver down.

  She sat back in her chair, reflecting briefly on what she had asked Murry to do and wondering if her suspicions were totally unfounded. Deciding that his efforts would be worthwhile regardless, even if she only discovered through them that everyone was on the up and up, Hilary rose and walked toward the library door.

  As she opened the door toward her, Hilary’s entire mental focus remained intent on what she had just done. As she swung into the hallway, she found her loose hand taken and then pulled upward in a familiar grasp.

  36

  Hidden Complexities

  “Ah, Fraulein Edwards . . . what a pleasure it is to see you again!” said Viscount von Burchardt, kissing her hand.

  “Emil!” replied Hilary, “I did not know you were so nearby.”

  “I’m afraid I startled you. Forgive me. Actually, I was on my way to see you. I had a feeling you might be in the library.”

  “I thought you and Jo were deeply engrossed in something.”

  “A mere facade, I assure you. I was watching you
out of the corner of my eye.”

  “Should I be flattered?” said Hilary, regaining her poise.

  “Take it any way you wish,” replied von Burchardt. “But I would be less than truthful if I told you anything but that I returned today particularly in hopes of finding you alone.”

  “For whatever reason?” asked Hilary coyly.

  “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that I am the first man to seek you out?” said Emil, a gleam of mischief in his eye.

  “The first viscount,” countered Hilary.

  “So then,” said von Burchardt, offering his arm and starting down the hall as Hilary took it, though lightly, and followed, “tell me more about this intriguing situation here. You and Jo, both vying for the loyalties and fortunes of the Macintyre domain, is that it?”

  “A bit crudely put. And perhaps that captures the gist of it. But I would not say we are ‘vying’ for anything. The truth about our relative status within the family is merely unknown. It’s really quite simple.”

  “Simple, quoth she,” said Emil with a grin. “Don’t you know that simplicity is but a surface manifestation of hidden complexities?”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “I’m afraid not. Von Burchardt, actually.”

  Now it was Hilary’s turn to laugh. This man was too straightforward to be other than he seemed!

  “You laugh as if in scorn,” he added lightly. “You do not agree?”

  “About simplicity hiding complexity? I don’t know. What do you say to trying out your theory on Jo? What do you know of her?”

  “Your temporary sister, as it were?” said Emil. “I know nothing about her.”

  “I thought, perhaps, that you knew her from somewhere else?” probed Hilary with pretended innocence. As she spoke she gazed deeply into the viscount’s eyes.

  “Me? I’ve never been here before in my life! But now let’s take you, Hilary,” he said. “You seem soft-spoken enough. Perfectly without motive. Yet something tells me there is much more to you than meets the eye at first glance.”

  “Merely an illusion,” she answered off-handedly.

  “I doubt that sincerely. No, you are more intricate a young woman than you would like people to think. I’ve watched you as you sit back and observe the rest of us, sizing up the other players in this knotty little scenario. You do not say much, Hilary—unlike Jo, who is constantly talking in that carefree voice of hers. But you are always thinking. I can see it in your eyes. And how dearly I would love to know what is going on inside that brain of yours.”

  Hilary’s only response was a half-smile, which said that now she had to give consideration to his remarks.

  “You see! There you are again—trying to size me up on the basis of what I’ve just said! There’s no denying it! I am right about you!”

  “Perhaps, Herr von Burchardt,” replied Hilary, still smiling. “But if what you say is true, you would be one of the last persons I would tell what was going on inside my brain. After all, I know nothing whatsoever about you.”

  “Except that I saved you from a nasty spill off your horse.”

  “Yes, of course. And that is no small thing. I am grateful. But that still tells me nothing about you—who you really are.”

  “Ah, but that is the beauty of it! I am nothing more than I seem!”

  “An Austrian viscount touring the coast of Scotland?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And how are the repairs coming to your yacht?” asked Hilary.

  “Repairs?”

  “You mentioned having to weather here in Port Strathy on account of some repairs.”

  “Ah, the repairs—of course! Quite well . . . almost completed. Shipshape of a crew I have!”

  “And you’ve never met Mr. Macintyre either?” queried Hilary.

  “Never. Why would you ask? I told you, my coming here is purely happenstance,” replied von Burchardt.

  By now they had reached the parlor where they had previously been. As no one was there, and as the sun had come out over the winter’s landscape, they slowly made their way to one of the outside doors.

  “So tell me,” said the viscount, seeking again to divert the attention off himself, “how did you come to be here? I find the whole thing terribly fascinating. You were visited by Macintyre’s mother-in-law in London, was that it? And I understand there is a journal someplace which sheds light on all this.”

  Hilary nodded noncommittally, wondering where he had heard about Joanna’s journal. Wracking her brain to recall whether it had been part of any conversation to which he’d been privy, in the distance all at once they saw Logan enter the grounds through a gate in the hedge.

  “Ah . . . our host!” exclaimed von Burchardt. “Will you excuse me? He promised to let me have a look at the horses!”

  “Of course,” replied Hilary.

  “We will have to continue this discussion later,” said the viscount, walking away. “I must know more of what is inside that beautiful head of yours . . . and what brought you here.”

  37

  Of Ovid and Aristocrats

  Throughout luncheon von Burchardt, strategically placed between the two, managed to keep up a steady and inquisitive conversation with both Jo and Hilary. On the opposite side of the table, Professor Jameson observed the proceedings with what was now an amused twinkle, now a look of concern in his eye, following the flow of dialogue from one, then to the other. He and Logan lapsed occasionally into discourse of their own, but it seemed stilted and was broken by long silences. They both appeared content to let the viscount carry the ball, and gained what entertainment was possible from his probing. The Austrian appeared intent on unraveling the mystery of “the two daughters,” as he termed it, on the basis of asking question after question, then carefully scrutinizing the faces as they responded.

  When the meal was nearly over, the door opened and Allison made an appearance. Logan jumped up from his chair and went to meet her.

  “You look much less pale, my dear,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better . . . much better. At least I was able to pull myself out of that horrid bed for a while.”

  “Won’t you join us, Frau Macintyre,” said von Burchardt, rising and going to meet her.

  “Thank you, but nothing to eat for me. I just didn’t want to be a completely negligent hostess.”

  When they had finished eating, Hilary excused herself, Jameson went outside, Jo said she was going to the drawing room, the viscount, continuing to make himself engaging, went with her, and Logan followed, with Allison on his arm, at some distance.

  The sun had come out, and, notwithstanding the cold, the day was an inviting one, made all the more so by the thin layer of snow that covered the land, though paths and roads were by now appearing through it. Hilary, determined not to remain cooped up in her room the entire afternoon, went upstairs and changed into the warmest clothes she could find—a white wool Norwegian sweater, blue jeans, a royal blue down parka she’d borrowed from Allison, thick wool socks, and leather boots—and then made immediately for the main front door of the house. It would be good to get out, she thought. The landscape was so lovely, and even the cold would feel good on her face. She needed something invigorating to snap her back into life.

  She had hardly taken two steps after closing the door behind her, when around the wall walked the professor, nearly knocking her over.

  “Why, Mr. Jameson!” she exclaimed.

  “Hello, Miss Edwards,” he replied in the easy tone that seemed characteristic of him. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying much attention. I didn’t expect to find anyone else out braving the elements.”

  “I couldn’t resist the sun shining on the snow.”

  “Well, I was myself just off for a bit of a stroll about the grounds. Perhaps you would like to join me?”

  Hilary hesitated but momentarily, then nodded an affirmative smile, and the two headed around toward the garden in the direction Jameson had been walking. He was dressed
in a heavy plaid wool coat, casual corduroy trousers, and heavy walking boots.

  He led across the snow-covered lawn, then struck out across the footbridge on which Allison had fallen a few days earlier, and which Jake had since repaired.

  “Careful here,” he said, “these wooden planks might be rather slippery.”

  Hilary negotiated the bridge easily, and within ten minutes they had left the castle’s immediate grounds and were making their way across the wide, untouched landscape—expansive common, dotted with bracken, rocks, and what would have been browning grass except for the snow—east of the house.

  “How long have you been here, Miss Edwards?” Jameson asked casually after some minutes of silence—noticeable, though not awkward.

  “Only a few days.”

  “Has it been enjoyable for you?”

  “That’s not exactly the word I would have chosen to describe it,” replied Hilary. “It’s beautiful . . . peaceful—of course. But the circumstances are awkward.”

  “Yes . . . I can see they must be.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Jameson,” said Hilary, turning the conversation around and assuming the initiative, “I would have thought you’d be back on your way south by now, busy man that you must be, since your plans have fallen through.”

  “The Macintyres invited me to stay on—just for a day or two more. And since I haven’t had a holiday in some time. . . .”

  He let his tone finish the sentence.

  “That is the only reason?”

  “Yes . . . why? What do you mean?”

  “I thought perhaps . . . I don’t know what put the notion into my head exactly,” said Hilary, trying to sound her most innocent, “but somehow I had the idea that you might have known Jo prior to coming here.”

  “What . . . Jo? No, I’ve never seen her before yesterday,” he replied quickly, sending an uncertain glance in Hilary’s direction. “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know. Just my reporter’s inquisitive mind, I suppose,” replied Hilary with a laugh.

  “An over-inquisitive mind, I would say.”

  “That’s the only kind of mind a writer can have—that is, if he’s worth his salt as a writer. You should know that. You’re an author, though; perhaps it’s different when you’re writing history.” She paused, waiting for him to take up from her lead. But he seemed willing to let the subject drop.