The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

“One lump or two?” asked Catriona in a musical soprano.

  “Two,” croaked Lucy. She didn’t even like tea, but it would be lunacy not to go along with this for a while.

  “I’m so glad you came to see me,” said Catriona, passing the cup and saucer to Lucy, who grabbed them awkwardly. “I always felt very hurt that Barbara never wrote, but of course now I see there was an excellent reason. She was dead, of course. Tea cake?”

  Catriona indicated an assortment of cakes and cookies with a silver knife.

  “Yes, please,” said Lucy. She hadn’t had anything since the dry toast this morning at breakfast. Her hangover was a mere dissonance now, following her around like an afternoon shadow.

  “The Prince of Wales is particularly fond of my tea cake,” said Catriona. “When he comes to visit he always is sure to compliment me. But there I go again, dropping names. I’m such a silly chatterbox.”

  For ten minutes Catriona had gushed details about her ex-husband’s polo partners and her children’s exclusive schools. How strange, Lucy thought, that after all the years of searching for her family this silly woman could clear up everything in the time it took to have tea.

  “Do you make it yourself?” asked Lucy.

  “Beg pardon?” said Catriona pleasantly.

  “Do you make the tea cake yourself?”

  The woman looked genuinely puzzled.

  “How on earth would I do that?” She smiled.

  “Tell me about Bar … about my mother,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, she was quite the best person around.” Catriona giggled. “Rather wild, of course, but great fun. She had wonderful clothes, always a clever thing to say, a fabulous seat … .”

  “Seat?”

  “Horses, don’t you know? We used to do the shows together. She was famous for her riding tricks. Do you know she could pass her hands over her head from back to front without unclasping them?”

  Lucy nodded and gave up what few doubts she still harbored about her mother’s identity.

  “Yes, Barbara was a glorious girl,” said Catriona wistfully. “I miss her terribly. You look like her, you know.”

  “I do?”

  “Indeed. You have her coloring, those same marvelous blue eyes. It’s a shame you wear your hair so short. Still, sneaking into Britain disguised as a punk rocker—that’s what you’re supposed to be, isn’t it?—it’s quite the sort of mad thing Barbara would have done. Yes, you take after her strongly, indeed.”

  Lucy braced herself and asked what she had wanted to ask for the last ten minutes.

  “Do you know who my father was?”

  “You don’t know? Oh. Of course you don’t, you poor dear. His name was Robert MacAlpin.”

  Lucy felt no sudden pain, no sensation like her heart breaking. She just felt empty inside, sad, resigned. She had killed her own father, after all. Her own father had tried to kill her. And all for a treasure that was not there—for an empty hole in the ground.

  “Tell me about him,” Lucy said quietly.

  “Robbie was one of the grooms at Dumlagchtat Castle,” said Catriona, her eyes turning toward an ancient memory, a smile crossing her lips. “He was a very sweet boy, quite adorable, really.”

  “Grooms?”

  “For the horses, don’t you know? His people had been with the Fingons for generations, but they were all dead and Robbie was alone in the world. Barbara didn’t like to see the boy so lonely—that’s how it started. She used to sneak out at night to his cottage on the estate.”

  “A thatched cottage at the foot of the castle?” said Lucy with a start, wondering if the ruin where they had held Fraser had been the very place where she had been conceived.

  “Wasn’t it wicked?” Catriona nodded impishly. “Are you sure you want to hear everything?”

  “Please,” said Lucy, taking a sip of tea. It was sickeningly sweet.

  “Well,” said Catriona, leaning forward confidingly. “Barbara’s father, Lord Geoffrey, was furious about the relationship. Forbade Barbara to have anything to do with the boy. Barbara was a very headstrong girl, though, absolutely hated being told what to do. She not only kept seeing Robbie, but managed to get herself pregnant as well. Never one for halfway measures was Barbara. I say, I suppose that was you, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose,” said Lucy, unhappily.

  “Yes. Well, anyway. Barbara being Barbara, she announced she intended to marry Robbie. They were going to run off to New Zealand or some such godforsaken place. They even took out passports. I remember it all so clearly. It was quite the best scandal we had ever had on Lis.”

  “They got married?” Lucy asked hopefully.

  “No, actually they didn’t,” said Catriona, looking a little embarrassed for the first time since she had begun her story. “You see, Lord Geoffrey promptly disinherited her. He was always rewriting his will to keep people in line. Barbara was only nineteen and didn’t have any money of her own, so she had to stay on at the castle.”

  “Nineteen!” exclaimed Lucy, her eyes welling with tears. “She was only nineteen?”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful to be young,” sighed Catriona. “I suppose Barbara thought she could wear the old boy down sooner or later. Then two terrible things happened.”

  “What happened?” said Lucy, her resolve not to care shattered beyond repair. Catriona daintily took a sliver of tea cake between two perfectly manicured fingers and slipped it into her mouth. Lucy took her elbows off the table self-consciously.

  “First Robbie ran away,” said the woman after a moment of suspense and a sip of tea. “One night Barbara went down to his cottage, but instead of Robbie she found one of his friends, who told her that Robbie had changed his mind about them and had left the country. Barbara was certain her father had something to do with Robbie’s disappearance—had bribed him or even had him kidnapped, can you imagine?”

  Lucy could imagine, but didn’t say so. Catriona continued blithely.

  “Well, Barbara promptly confronted Lord Geoffrey. He denied everything. There was a terrible row. Barbara was so upset she came to stay with us. Father had his friends at the foreign office look into things and they discovered that a Robert MacAlpin had indeed been passed through customs in America. As if this weren’t enough of a heartbreak for Barbara, Lord Geoffrey suffered a massive stroke the very next day. Out of guilt, I expect.”

  Catriona shook her head and continued in a more sober voice.

  “Barbara returned home and cared for her father for several months, but he never regained his senses. I think she expected him to come around long enough to put her back into his will, but he never did. The irony was that the estate turned out to be bankrupt. There would have been nothing left for Barbara to inherit even if she had been in the will. Everything had to be sold to satisfy the death taxes. Some distant relative of Lord Geoffrey’s, a Canadian lumberman, bought the castle and all the lands.”

  “Julius Fingon,” said Lucy quietly.

  “Yes, that’s right. In fact Julius Fingon was the reason that Barbara went off to America.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you see, Julius Fingon had written Lord Geoffrey about wanting to buy an old family heirloom called the Fingon brooch.”

  “The Fingon brooch,” repeated Lucy, afraid to breathe.

  “The whole affair was very irregular,” said Catriona. “I mean, no one had ever even heard of this man until he writes from out of the blue offering ten thousand pounds for the brooch. Of course Lord Geoffrey sensed that something was up and wouldn’t part with it. So when her father died and left her nothing, Barbara decided to go to Nova Scotia and sell Julius Fingon the brooch.”

  “I thought you said she didn’t inherit anything,” said Lucy.

  “Well, the Fingon brooch didn’t count,” said Catriona indignantly. “It had been in her family for centuries. Barbara just took it. I remember she was wearing it when I took her down to Southampton to board the Queen Elizabeth for New York—aeroplanes were the only thin
gs on this earth she was afraid of. That was the last I saw of her.”

  “I think I finally understand,” marveled Lucy. “Bar … my mother … must have hired a car and been on her way from New York to Nova Scotia when she was killed.”

  “I suppose it was a silly plan.” Catriona sighed. “But Barbara was most unhappy and it was all she could think to do, you see. She had no home of her own, no money, no husband. And she was quite pregnant.”

  “Then I wasn’t born here?”

  “No, it must have happened in the States.”

  Lucy bit her lip.

  “I guess that makes me a U.S. citizen, after all.”

  “Yes, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t know. Until now, I mean. I guess I thought I might have been born in Scotland. Then maybe I could have gotten a British passport to get back to New York with.”

  “I’ll be happy to have father speak with one of his friends about it, if you like.”

  “I don’t know what they could do.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. You’re the granddaughter of a peer. Surely that still counts for something.”

  “I don’t even know what she named me.”

  “Well, there must be a record somewhere. We’ll see what we can find. This is such fun. Like a detective mystery.”

  “What happened to Dumlagchtat Castle?” asked Lucy, wanting to change the subject, ashamed of being alive. “Did Julius Fingon live in it at all?”

  “Gracious, no. None of us ever saw hide nor hair of Julius Fingon, though father corresponded with him on business matters. Still does, I believe. The man owns half of Lis. Everyone thinks he’s a terrible scoundrel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what he did to Dumlagchtat Castle, of course. Father wanted him to turn it into a hotel. The Scottish Historical Trust offered to make it into some sort of horrid museum. But Julius Fingon had the castle stripped and the entire contents auctioned. He sold the glass in the windows, the lead on the roof, even the copper plumbing. Left the place a complete ruin. Just disgraceful, don’t you think?”

  “Of course,” murmured Lucy. How could a Fingon be anything but disgraceful?

  “Now,” said Catriona, pouring them each another cup of tea. “I want to hear more about you.”

  “There’s not much else to tell,” said Lucy. “I grew up in foster homes. I never knew I was a Fingon.”

  “But how did you find your way here, then?”

  Lucy dug the brooch out of her purse and passed it to Catriona.

  “It was on the blanket around me when my mother was killed in the car crash I told you about.”

  “The Fingon brooch,” whispered Catriona, turning the heavy silver ring over in her hand.

  “It only came into my possession recently.”

  “Barbara always thought the brooch had some special meaning to her destiny,” said Catriona. “It was one of the reasons that she got involved with Robbie. He was the only MacAlpin she had ever met, you see, and the name macAlpin appears on the brooch. Twice, in fact.”

  “Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine was always written on the brooch?”

  “Yes, though we never knew what it meant. Why?”

  “Nothing,” said Lucy.

  “So how did the brooch lead you here?” said Catriona breathlessly, handing it back to Lucy. “This is so mysterious.”

  “I ran into Robert MacAlpin in New York.”

  Catriona’s eyes opened very wide. “You did?” she whispered. “You found Robbie? Why did he run away? Did he tell you?”

  “No,” said Lucy. “He said that my mother was the one who ran away.”

  “Nonsense,” sputtered Catriona. “Why would he tell such a lie? He certainly wasn’t the boy we thought he was. Did Barbara find him when she was in New York, I wonder?”

  “It would have been difficult. He was living in New Jersey.”

  “New Jersey,” said Catriona pensively. “That’s near Chicago, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “But don’t keep me in suspense. What was Robbie doing in America?”

  “Selling insurance.”

  Catriona burst into laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Lucy, annoyed.

  “It’s just so hard to picture Robbie selling anything. He was so tongue-tied, so shy. Is he still so handsome?”

  “He’s dead,” said Lucy.

  “Oh, dear,” said Catriona.

  Lucy took the obituary clipping out of her wallet and handed it to the woman.

  “You can see he was very successful,” said Lucy bitterly. “He was a member of the Golden Circle. I guess that meant he sold a lot of insurance.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “I suppose I should be proud of him,” said Lucy, nibbling a cookie.

  “Yes,” said Catriona, handing back the clipping. “Only there’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?” said Lucy.

  “This isn’t Robert MacAlpin.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “What happened to Mr. Wharrie?” asked Lucy, looking at the peaceful figure snoring softly in the backseat of the long, black sedan.

  “I’m afraid our laddie finally discovered his tolerance level for fine whiskey,” chuckled Angus MacLean, pushing his cap up on his head and cranking at the unfamiliar gearshift.

  Lucy had returned from MacDonald Castle an hour before and had taken a hot bath and changed, but now it looked like their dinner plans would have to be postponed. Lucy didn’t really mind. After what she had learned from Catriona MacDonald, she didn’t feel much like celebrating anyway.

  “Is he all right?” asked Lucy, concerned. Wharrie let out a snort.

  “Nothin’ that a night’s sleep and a kipper in the mornin’ willna fix,” said MacLean. “Get in and we’ll take him home. If I can get this infernal contraption to work, tha’ is.”

  “Maybe I better drive,” Lucy said. License or not, she trusted her driving more than MacLean’s. He looked sober enough but had the same white flecks in the corners of his eye that he had had yesterday at the Fairy’s Egg.

  “Dinna ye relish a wee drive over mountain roads with a droonken one-eyed man at the wheel?”

  Lucy smiled.

  “Suit yourself,” MacLean shrugged, moving out of the driver’s seat.

  Lucy hadn’t driven a car with a manual transmission for years, and it felt strange having the steering wheel on the right side of the car. Finally she succeeded in engaging the gears and pulled out of the Manor Lodge driveway onto the road toward Dumlagchtat.

  “We’ll have our wee celebration tomorrow,” said MacLean lazily. “You’ll be stayin’ tha’ long, won’t ye?”

  “Sure.”

  At least she wasn’t hungry, having eaten two slices of Catriona MacDonald’s tea cake and several cookies. After this morning’s hangover, Lucy was surprised her appetite had returned at all.

  MacLean shut his eye and seemed to doze off. Lucy tried to enjoy the drive, memorizing the stark countryside, the crumbling stone fences, the tall grass, the endless sky. Driving on the wrong side of the road didn’t turn out to be much of a problem, since the road was virtually one lane. It was past seven o’clock in the evening, but the sun wouldn’t go down for hours. It had been a very long day.

  Though Catriona MacDonald’s story left no room for doubt that Lucy was Barbara Fingon’s daughter, it had left many questions unanswered. If the man Lucy had killed in New York wasn’t Robert MacAlpin, then who was he? Was her father still alive after all? Why had he deserted Barbara Fingon?

  The Canadian, Julius Fingon, troubled Lucy as well. Why had he wanted to buy the Fingon brooch? How had he even heard of it? Why did he destroy Dumlagchtat Castle?

  “Take that steep road there, next to the sea,” said MacLean, apparently not asleep after all. Lucy followed his directions.

  “I finally talked with the MacDonalds this afternoon,” she said as the road began to climb.

  “Yes, I know,” said MacLean.
r />   “You do?” she said, surprised.

  “Well, I know ye went to the castle. Ranald found yer room key on the seat and dinna want ye to worry. We called. Desk clerk said Lord MacDonald’s car ha’ picked ye oop.”

  MacLean dug into his pocket and produced the key.

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, relieved. MacLean tucked the key into her pocket. The drive was getting steeper and there was no guardrail. The cliff seemed only inches away from the road. Lucy’s hands were beginning to ache from gripping the wheel. The car had no power steering.

  “So,” said MacLean, “did ye learn anything from the MacDonalds?”

  “I did, in fact,” said Lucy and briefly outlined the revelations concerning Robert MacAlpin.

  “Verra curious, indeed,” said MacLean when she had finished.

  “Do you remember Dr. Fraser mentioning a Canadian named Julius Fingon who owns Dumlagchtat Castle?” said Lucy.

  “Aye.”

  “Well, Julius Fingon once tried to buy the Fingon brooch.”

  “Lord MacDonald knew this?”

  “His daughter Catriona told me. She was best friends with my mother.”

  “So what do you intend to do, then?” said MacLean quietly. The cliffs were very high up now. The ocean breakers were barely audible against the rocks far below.

  Lucy shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to see this Julius Fingon after all. I don’t know if there’s any connection between him and the real Robert MacAlpin, but …”

  “Pull over to the side, Lucy,” said MacLean.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Please, chust pull over.”

  Lucy pressed down on the brake. The car came to a gentle stop on the deserted road. MacLean reached over, switched off the ignition, and removed the key.

  “Ye canna see Julius Fingon, Lucy,” he said.

  “Why not?” said Lucy. “Why did we stop?”

  “Ye chust canna, tha’s all.”

  Lucy stared at the man. His face was ashen. His hand was trembling.

  “It’s nae good,” MacLean mumbled. “There’s nae point to it anymore.”

  “What’s wrong, Angus?” said Lucy, concerned. “Please tell me what’s bothering you.”

  He looked up and spoke in a low voice.