The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  A whistle escaped Ashley’s lips.

  “What is it?” asked Logan.

  “I was just telling Hilary this morning that von Burchardt’s yacht was not from the Continent at all, but bore an Argentine registration. It had a Buenos Aires port of entry emblem just below the registration.”

  “Most observant of you,” said Logan, impressed.

  “He is rather remarkable, isn’t he?” added Hilary coyly. “I think I shall have Murry put his name in the police computer after all.”

  “The results will be quite boring, I assure you!” rejoined Ashley.

  “I doubt that!” said Hilary. “But I wouldn’t doubt that the implication of your discovery regarding the yacht is correct. Emil has indeed spent a great deal of time in South America. But—and I can’t imagine how Murry got this; I’m afraid to ask—the Israeli Mossad has tried to trace Emil to possible war criminals, but have come up consistently empty. Nevertheless, it does make one wonder.”

  “War criminals,” mused Logan. “Will it never end?”

  “The old Nazis are dying off,” said Hilary. “But I suppose their progeny must be accounted for.”

  “The sins of the fathers, and all that,” said Ashley. “But it would be blind on our part to fall into such a trap.”

  “I fully agree,” said Hilary. “On the other hand, it would be unwise to become lethargic as long as even a remote possibility exists. In Emil’s case, however, there is no such direct evidence. He is doubtless a liar and a deceiver, apparently even an accomplice to an attempted murder. But that does not make him a Nazi, too.”

  “What does it make him?” asked Logan pointedly.

  “That is the substance of my chat with Murry,” answered Hilary. “Murry has been involved in his own investigation of a seemingly unrelated matter. Now all of a sudden the paths of these two sets of circumstances have intersected in a most interesting fashion—intersected at the common point of our friend the viscount.”

  “What is Fitts’s story about?” asked Ashley.

  “A contact of his—a man, I might add, who is running for his life, supposedly because of this very information he possesses—came to him with an incredible story that connects one of Europe’s most influential international companies, Trans Global Enterprises, with syndicated crime.”

  “Logan, that’s the company you told me about after Ringersfeld’s call,” said Allison, who had been paying closer attention to the course of the conversation than her scant contributions would have indicated.

  “Yes . . . I know,” said Logan soberly. He gave a thoughtful nod, still pondering the implications of what he had just heard. “It appears perhaps there are more intersecting paths here than any of us realized. My staff has recently begun its own investigation of that company. But go on, Hilary.”

  “Have you heard of an underworld figure known as ‘The General’?”

  “Seems to ring a faint bell,” said Logan. “Like something I heard when I was talking to a chap from Interpol.”

  Ashley shook his head. “I probably should know the name. But I’m sadly out of touch with things—you know, the cloistered Oxford lifestyle.”

  “Not as much as you think, Ashley,” said Hilary. “Murry’s contact is an ex-Oxford don himself, an art expert who now deals extensively on the black market, high-stakes stuff. Murry didn’t take the time to tell me how all this relates, if he even knows yet himself. But this General is an enigmatic figure whom Interpol and other intelligence agencies have been after for years. No one knows who he really is, where he operates from, or exactly what he’s into. But he’s suspected of racketeering in everything from drugs to weapons to diamond smuggling—you name it. So then all of a sudden this Oxford fellow of Murry’s quite by accident stumbled upon a connection between the General and Trans Global—a connection which, if true, is front-page stuff that would have a thunderous impact on the stock market, government contracts, and all kinds of economic implications.”

  Logan sat as one transfixed. As recent Minister of Economics, he was intimately familiar with the effect news such as this could have, and could not believe what he was hearing.

  “So Murry has been burrowing his way into the maze of that company,” Hilary went on, “as quietly as possible, to say the least. And in so doing he chanced upon the piece of news that concerns us—our very own Emil von Burchardt, it seems, is a product consultant for that organization, actually a vice-president in charge of international marketing, or some such title. Of course, that could mean just about anything.”

  “An impressive, though shady, dossier to have come up with in such a short time. Your man Murry must be quite a guy.”

  “He’s a workhorse. I couldn’t run the magazine without him,” said Hilary.

  “Considering von Burchardt’s record,” suggested Logan, “it’s entirely possible that his so-called position could be little more than a front that allows him free movement all over the world.”

  “Exactly!” said Hilary.

  “And that yacht of his is the perfect cover,” added Ashley. “Who knows what he might be carrying in that thing?”

  “He could easily be a liaison between the General and the more legitimate side of the operation,” said Logan, thinking aloud.

  “Which, as farfetched as it sounds, could be Trans Global,” said Ashley.

  “A big assumption, I realize,” admitted Hilary. “But what a journalistic coup if it is true. Can you imagine the story?” Her eyes glistened with the thought.

  “And you’d like to be there with Murry when it comes off the presses?” laughed Logan.

  “I have a feeling my thirst for adventure will be sufficiently fulfilled right here.”

  “Where does Jo fit into all this?” asked Ashley.

  “Unfortunately, that’s all Murry has at the moment—just this connection between Emil and Trans Global. He’s trying to find some other names that tie in. Whether we’ll get a line on Jo and who she is and what part she plays, I don’t know. He promised to call back the minute he has something more.”

  The small group fell silent.

  “I don’t know how all these fragments of information are going to tie together,” said Logan at last. “But I have the strong sense that we are only beginning to unravel them. Where they will lead us in the end, only the Lord knows at present.”

  “Well, I need some air,” announced Ashley. “Hilary . . . how about a stroll outside?”

  “I have an even better idea,” she replied.

  56

  A Ride

  “Why won’t you tell me where we’re going?” asked Ashley.

  “You’ll find out, all in good time! It’s a mystery—you should enjoy being kept in the dark!”

  At Hilary’s insistence, she and Ashley had taken two horses out and were now crossing the desolate heath south of the castle. Jake had carefully saddled the two animals, checking their blankets twice for any foreign materials.

  “I dinna want to see nae runaway creatures for the twa o’ ye, Leddy Hilary,” he said.

  “The last time I took out one of the horses,” she explained to Ashley, “I nearly broke my neck. Someone had put a thorn under my saddle when I left the horse for a few minutes. At least I do owe that much to Emil. He saved me from a horrible spill.”

  “Do you think they planned the whole thing?”

  “Who knows? I’m now convinced she knew he was coming. It had to be the two of them I saw together in the woods. Then the next day he showed up just in time to rescue me and begin trying to charm me. Whether the thorn and the rescue were part of the scheme, or just a spur-of-the moment nicety on Jo’s part, I don’t know.”

  “They sure didn’t let on they were acquainted. I’d never have guessed it at first, though as time went on and I watched them both more closely, I began to wonder about some things.”

  “Almost as secretive as you and my . . . father.”

  Ashley looked over at her. “It has a nice ring to it, Hilary,” he said. “
I truly am happy for you.”

  She reached across, took his outstretched hand, gave it a squeeze, then smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You know, what Jake said a while ago is true—you are a ‘lady’ now. How does it feel?”

  Hilary did not respond for some time. The only sound to be heard was the rhythmic clip-clop of their horses’ hooves over the damp earth.

  “It’s scary,” she said at length. “Everything I resisted for so long is suddenly a part of me . . . who I am. It’s not just the nobility itself, it’s everything this family is, all it stands for—there’s such a spiritual heritage. Scary . . . but I have to admit there’s an excitement to it, too! What might God have in store for me as . . . as a Macintyre, a Duncan, a member of the Ramsey clan! Oh, that reminds me—I have to call Suzanne! She won’t believe all this!”

  “Suzanne?”

  “Suzanne Heywood—a friend of mine. Daughter of a lord. You might have known him. She lives down in Brighton. But to answer your question, I don’t really feel a lot different. But this will take a lot of sinking in. It’s going to alter the way I view my job, my writing, my perspective on the country—everything!”

  “You have time to get used to it,” said Ashley comfortingly. “You’ve been through a great emotional upheaval.”

  Again they fell silent.

  “You know,” said Hilary at length, “you sit that horse pretty well. If I didn’t know better, I would think you’ve spent some time in the saddle.”

  “Us renaissance men, who double as mystery writers, like to indulge in a wide range of experiences—grist for the mill, I believe it’s called. Like riding horses and attending fashion shows.”

  “Will you ever cease amazing me? Well, I’m no horsewoman, I can tell you that. But I had such a good time the other day—before the thorn, that is. And the horses were always such an intrinsic part of Stonewycke. I thought it fitting that we go out for a ride.”

  “Then how about a little canter!” As he spoke Ashley urged his mare forward into a gentle trot. Hilary’s mount followed.

  “Ohhhhh!” she yelled, hanging on to the horn as if for dear life.

  Within another thirty minutes, with some perceptive pointers from Ashley, Hilary was becoming comfortable with the old-fashioned mode of transportation. They had traversed through the outlying farmlands southeast of the castle and were now circling south onto the bluff where only sparse vegetation was visible.

  “Your question about my adaptation to life as a lady has other implications than just my life at Stonewycke,” said Hilary as they rode along. “It also adds to my puzzlement of what I am to do with you in my thinking.”

  “Because you are a lady?”

  “No. Because you are a lord.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “I don’t like the aristocracy, remember?”

  “Rather a difficult position to maintain now, I would think.”

  “Just because I have to accept myself as of noble birth doesn’t mean I have to automatically change all my associations.”

  “I see. So you are going to continue holding my birth against me, even though I had no hand in planning it, but as for your case, you will allow yourself to be absolved completely?”

  “I see nothing so unreasonable about that.”

  “Spoken with the logic of a woman,” said Ashley, who then broke into a good-natured laugh.

  “Ashley Jameson, you are determined to infuriate me!”

  “Hilary, be reasonable. Jesus went about with the poor, with the middle class, and with the wealthy. Just as He did not hold poverty against a man, neither did He hold riches. How can we do any differently? God looks at every man’s and every woman’s heart, be they poor or rich. To discriminate against the nobility in attitude is as unacceptable to God as the rich keeping the poor downtrodden under their feet. Both are errors of extreme.”

  Hilary thought for several moments.

  “I should know better than to expose my quirks to you, Ashley. How can you be so reasonable . . . and so right?”

  “I’ve thought about these things.”

  “Do you think everything through?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “Why? Don’t you ever just react spontaneously?”

  “Of course I do. But even then, I think about my actions, even after the fact. It’s part of my stewardship as a Christian. To me, every detail of life is to be submitted to Christ’s lordship. Therefore, I have to think through the details of life so I can be aware of those areas where I need to focus my prayers more intently.”

  “I would not have known that about you just by looking.”

  “You once said you could tell I was a Christian by seeing how I did things. I’m glad of that. But at the same time, my faith is something I don’t go spreading about all the time.”

  “Is that why you said nothing to me about it for so long?”

  “I’ve always felt that matters of belief, heart attitudes, are an intensely personal thing. I’m not comfortable sharing on that level until I genuinely know someone, and they know me. Very few of my colleagues at Oxford know that I pray for them as I walk in their midst across campus, or that I start every day with prayer, or that my tiniest actions I hold up to scrutiny against the commands of the Bible. Those are personal things. It’s not that I think any of them would laugh or consider me a kook. That hardly concerns me. It’s simply that my priority in life is to live by what Jesus taught, to model my life after His, rather than to talk about spiritual truths. In other words, I want to live my faith first, talk about it second.”

  Again Hilary was silent. It was some time before she spoke again.

  “Being with you is showing me many things about myself,” she said quietly. “I’ve been a Christian for years. I take my faith seriously too. But I think I have never really weighed the necessity for taking my belief into the tiniest details of life, as you said. There has always been within me a—I don’t know . . . a feeling, I guess, that God was in complete control of my life and everything in it.”

  “That’s faith too. A wonderful, strong sense of His hand undergirding all of life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Yet perhaps God does want more from me. More of that daily, moment-by-moment, detailed sort of awareness of what really comprises godly behavior—in every interaction, every attitude, every decision.”

  “I think He wants that from us all. That’s why I do think through my actions and attitudes—as unspontaneous as it may seem! Because I think God is worthy of my dedication to Him at the deepest levels of everything I say and do and think.”

  “Ashley, you are something!” sighed Hilary. “I think I could very easily become attached to you!”

  “I’m not sure how to take that,” replied Ashley. “As I recall, you were rather taken with von Burchardt, and look at what he turned out to be.”

  “That’s not fair! I wasn’t taken by him for a minute! I couldn’t stand the fellow. I was only trying to see what you would do.”

  Ashley threw his head back and laughed. “There’s that woman’s memory to go along with your woman’s logic! Think now, Hilary. You couldn’t stand me!”

  “Well . . . maybe just for a while there I was a bit confused.” She threw him a coy grin. “Oh, but look!” she exclaimed. “We’re here!”

  “Where are we?”

  “This is where I wanted to bring you.”

  “All I see is a deserted hillside with nothing visible for miles.”

  “But that’s the beauty of this place. Come this way. There’s something I want to show you. As a historian, I’m sure you’ll appreciate it.”

  “I still see nothing.”

  “The stones are obscure from this distance. They blend right in with the rest. But when we get closer, you’ll be able to pick the ruins out easily.”

  “Ruins? I’m intrigued already!”

  “Just wait till I tell you the story!”

  57

 
Lady Joanna’s Quest

  Logan had been watching impatiently for the return of the two riders. While they were still in the stable turning over their steeds to Jake, he rushed out to them.

  “We have found the missing pages to the journal!” he said as he ran up. “I could hardly wait until you got here to read them!”

  “Where . . . what do they say?” said Hilary all in a rush.

  “I don’t yet know what they say,” answered Logan. “We decided to wait until we could all be together. Come . . . I’ll answer your other questions on the way inside.”

  He led the way as the three crossed the lawn, entered at the kitchen door, and proceeded upstairs to the drawing room.

  “It was Allison who unraveled this particular mystery,” he said. “She was lying in bed, her mind idly wandering about over all the family stories. She wasn’t even thinking about the journal at the time. She had been reflecting on her mother’s coming to Scotland and the difficulties she had faced. Suddenly it came to her: Both Atlanta and Maggie had hidden very important items in the framing and backing of a favorite picture, actually a stitchery Maggie had done as a girl. Where else would Joanna have hidden something special in her life?”

  “In Maggie’s stitchery of the family tree!” exclaimed Hilary. “Of course! But where is it? I don’t remember ever seeing it . . . though come to think of it there were some stitcheries in the heirloom room.”

  “Those are different ones. The family tree was hanging in Joanna’s own room.”

  Logan chuckled. “Dear Joanna was a sly one!” he said. “A place so obvious, yet it was the last place we thought to look. I even had Ashley right there hunting in her secretary when what we sought was hanging on the wall just a few feet away all the while.”