The Girl with the Phony Name

by Charles Mathes

  “I havna been telling you the truth, lass. I havna been telling you the truth at all.”

  “About what?”

  “Aboot things tha’ happened long ago. It’s a complicated tale, one I’m not proud of.”

  “We don’t seem to be going anywhere,” said Lucy, trying to smile reassuringly. MacLean began to speak, staring out over the sea with his single eye.

  “’Twas thairty years ago,” he said. “I was doin’ wha’ I be doin’ all the time since—sittin’ in the Fairy’s Egg, drinkin’ my whiskey, borin’ everyone with my stories.”

  “I don’t think your stories are boring, Angus,” said Lucy. MacLean seemed not to hear.

  “A stranger coom in,” he went on. “A huge, angry-lookin’ man, he was, an American by his accent. The lads wouldna ha’ naught to diu with him, but I stairts talking about local matters, chust like I done wi’ you. Well, we have a few whiskeys and after a while the man says he’s a collector of antiquities, Pictish brooches in particular.”

  “Pictish brooches!” exclaimed Lucy.

  “Aye,” nodded MacLean. “The man dinna look like no collector to me but I was eager to show off mi knowledge, so I says, ‘Diu ye know then the famous Fingon brooch tha’ be pairt of an ancient treasure?’”

  “‘Know it?’ he replies. ‘I’ve been tryin’ to buy it off Laird Fingon for years, only he willna sell. I’d pay five thousand pounds to the man who brought me the Fingon brooch. No questions asked.’

  “I almost fell out of mi chair. Five thousand pounds was a fortune thairty years ago, Lucy, and I ha’ dreams. I knew wha’ the man was suggestin’ and I knew tha’ such a opportunity would not coom my way again.

  “‘If the Fingon brooch was somehow to coom into my hands,’ I says to him, ‘where might I be able to find ye?’

  “‘I ha’ business in London,’ says he, ‘but I’ll be back one month from this day. Bring the Fingon brooch to me here and ye shall ha’ your money.’

  “The next day I paid a call on a friend of mine, Hugh Grimmon. Hugh was from Dumlagchtat and knew the ways of Fingon Castle. He was also more experienced in these matters than I was, having had several run-ins with the law afore. I told Hugh I’d split the five thousand pounds with him if he would help me break into the castle. I was dead serious. I even bought this billy for the caper.”

  MacLean reached into his pocket and took out the club he had threatened Fraser with that morning. Lucy shivered, astonished at the thought of this old, gentle soul concocting such a plan.

  “Hugh had a better idea,” continued MacLean. “He had heard that a friend of his, a groom at the estate, was lookin’ to raise some money so’s he could run away with Laird Geoffrey’s daughter.”

  “Robert MacAlpin?” said Lucy, intrigued.

  “Aye.” MacLean nodded. “So Hugh and me, we goes to MacAlpin’s wee cottage, the same place where we took Fraser t’other nicht, and we offer the lad five hundred pounds to persuade Barbara Fingon to get us the brooch.

  “‘I willna,’ MacAlpin says. ‘Isna honest,’ he says. We offer him a larger share, but still the lad refuses. Then he says, ‘Tha’ man from Nova Scotia put you oop to this, dinna he?’

  “‘Wha’ man?’ says I.

  “‘The one Barbara told me aboot,’ says MacAlpin. ‘The one who wrote Laird Geoffrey and offered ten thousand pounds for the brooch. Julius Fingon.’”

  “Julius Fingon!” said Lucy.

  “Aye.” MacLean nodded. “Julius Fingon. Suddenly everything made sense to me. It wasna an American I ha’ talked with, but a Canadian. And I knew why he wanted the brooch. Hugh understood, too, of course. Everyone on Lis has heard the stories about the Fingon treasure.

  “‘Dinna ye see, lad?’ Hugh says to MacAlpin. ‘We dinna have to settle for a few thousand pounds. Julius Fingon is after the Fingon treasure. The brooch must be the key to it—or else why would he be willin’ to pay so much? If we get him the brooch, then he’ll ha’ to give us a share of the treasure itself!’

  “‘Barbara is all the treasure I want,’ says the lad, gettin’ hot under the collar.

  “‘You still need money to take her away,’ says Hugh.

  “‘I already ha’ all the money I need. I dinna want any pairt of yer foul scheme. Now get out afore I call the sheriff constable on ye.’

  “Hugh grabs MacAlpin by the shirt and stairts shouting at him. MacAlpin pushes him away. Hugh strikes the lad with his fist. MacAlpin falls backwards. It happened so quick, Lucy, chust a matter or seconds. Hugh is standin’ over MacAlpin, yellin’, but the lad doesna move. He ha’ hit his head on the hearthstone. He was dead. It was an accident, lass. I swear.”

  Lucy stared, unable to speak. MacLean was telling her that he and his friend had killed her father thirty years ago. Thirty years ago! MacLean continued, his eyes moist.

  “We dragged the body oot back behind the cottage and dug a hole to hide wha’ we ha’ done. Then Hugh remembered wha’ the lad had said about havin’ all the money he needed to run away with Barbara Fingon.

  “‘It must be in the cottage,’ says Hugh. ‘Let’s go look for it.’

  “I refused. I was sick from wha’ we done already. Hugh shrugged and went inside to find what he could steal. I’m coverin’ the lad with earth when I hear voices. I put down my shovel and go to the window to see wha’s happenin’. There in the cottage with Hugh is a young lass, a young lass that looked chust like you, Lucy.”

  “Barbara Fingon?” asked Lucy, numb.

  “Aye,” replied MacLean. “I couldna make out all the words, but she was sayin’ something like, ‘Nae, it’s not true! I dinna believe you!’ and Hugh is answerin’, ‘I swear, Miss Fingon. Robbie changed his mind. He couldna face ye. Tha’s why he ha’ me come here to tell ye.’

  “‘My faether had something to do with this, dinna he?’ says the girl. ‘Did Laird Geoffrey pay Robbie to go away?’

  “I can see that Hugh dinna ken what to do, tha’ he’s makin’ it all oop as he went along. He chust stands there silent.

  “‘Tell me! Tell me!’ she shrieks, and then she slaps him across the face.

  “‘You Fingons aire all alike,’ Hugh says back, and I was feared he would kill her, too. But suddenly she storms oot of the cottage and runs back toward the castle.

  “‘What will we diu now?’ says I, rushin’ in.

  “‘We make it all come true,’ says Hugh, cool as can be, and shows me Robbie MacAlpin’s strongbox.”

  “What was in it?” said Lucy evenly. Hugh Grimmon’s accusation—You Fingons are all alike!—was still ringing in her ears.

  “Three hundred eighty pounds,” said MacLean. “And Robbie MacAlpin’s passport. Hugh was the same height and build as MacAlpin. He said he’d take the money and the passport and leave the country. Said I ha’ to help him, or he’d swear I struck the blow. Said everyone would think the lad ran away. And tha’s wha’ happened.”

  “Then the man who tried to kill me in New York was the same man who killed my father,” said Lucy softly.

  “Tha’s right,” said MacLean, nervously rubbing the short billy club still in his fist. “It was Hugh Grimmon.”

  Lucy sat dumbfounded.

  “The way I figure,” MacLean went on sadly, “when Hugh heard tha’ you ha’ found a Celtic brooch with the word Dumlagchtat tha’ had been missing for thirty years, he guessed it wa’ the Fingon brooch. He probably couldna believe his luck. If it wa’ genuine, then he knew where to sell it.”

  “To Julius Fingon of Nova Scotia.”

  “Aye.”

  “And he knew that if I went to Lis I might turn up the truth and destroy the life he had built for himself as Robert MacAlpin.”

  “But it was the brooch he wanted,” said MacLean. The brooch and the Fingon treasure.”

  “Did Julius Fingon know of this?” said Lucy. “Of what happened to Robbie MacAlpin?”

  “Nae,” MacLean shook his head, unable to meet Lucy’s eyes. “When the month ha’ passed, Julius Fing
on come back to the Fairy’s Egg like he promised.

  “‘Have you got the brooch for me?’ says he.

  “‘No, Mr. Julius Fingon,’ says I.

  “‘How did ye ken my name?’ says he.

  “‘It doesna matter,’ says I. ‘But I think perhaps ye should pay me something anyhow, to insure I willna tell Laird Geoffrey wha’ ye were oop to.’

  “‘Come wi’ me back to mi hotel,’ says he.

  “When I follow him outside, he throws me into an alleyway. He was a giant man, Lucy. I couldna break free. He holds me against a wall and with his thumb, he scoops out my eye.”

  Lucy recoiled in horror. MacLean reached up and touched his patch, the thirty-year-old pain still fresh in his face.

  “‘If ye get me the brooch I’ll make ye rich, MacLean,’ says Julius Fingon. ‘If ye tell anyone about me, I’ll be back for your other eye.’

  “He leaves me bleeding in the dirt, Lucy. The irony of it was tha’ Laird Geoffrey had been stricken and never was conscious again. I had no one to tell.”

  Lucy shook her head. MacLean stared out over the sea.

  “Ye dinna kill Hugh Grimmon, Lucy,” said MacLean. “It was the hand of justice that struck him down, as sure as it was the hand of justice that took my eye. I spent the last thirty years hopin’ tha’ the brooch would come back to me so I could dangle it in front of Julius Fingon and make him pay for wha’ he done to me. To show him justice.”

  “I don’t think that anyone will find justice here,” Lucy said sadly.

  “I should chust stand aside, then, and let you go to him, I suppose?” said MacLean. “Let two Fingons split the treasure and leave me with nothing to show for my life?”

  “But Angus …” began Lucy, reaching out a hand, the anger she had been feeling turning toward pity.

  “Give me the brooch, lass,” he said quietly. “I know ye ha’ it with ye.”

  Lucy stopped, surprised, hurt.

  “Is that what this was all about? Was everything you’ve done and said just to get that brooch?”

  “It cost me my eye. I will ha’ the brooch, Lucy.”

  “It’s back at the hotel,” she said.

  MacLean lips curled into a grim smile.

  “Never trust a hotel, isna tha’ what you said yesterday? Of course, I took tha’ key from ye and searched your room when you were at MacDonald Castle, chust to be sure.”

  “Why didn’t you just keep the brooch after you took it from Fraser?” said Lucy, stalling, trying to figure out what to do. “You had it in your pocket.”

  “I could hairdly do that with an unpredictable lad like Ranald standin’ over me with a shotgun,” he said, smiling sadly. “And besides, it seemed better to wait and take the whole Fingon treasure if we happened to find it.”

  “But we didn’t.”

  MacLean said nothing. Lucy felt the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “I thought you were my friend, Angus,” she said, her teeth clenched.

  MacLean’s smile abruptly vanished.

  “GIVE ME THE BROOCH!” he shouted and slammed the club into the dash in front of her, denting the metal, producing a fearful noise.

  Lucy’s hand scrambled into her pocket and held out the Fingon brooch. MacLean tore it from her fingers, not taking his eyes off her.

  “Now put your hands in your lap in front of you,” he commanded.

  Lucy put her hands in her lap. MacLean glanced briefly at the silver ring in his hand, then tucked it into his front pocket, not lowering the club.

  “I’m sorry, lass. Now turn around. I’ll hit ye once on the back of the head. You’ll nae feel a thing. When they find the car, the accident will speak for itself. Wharrie had a bit too much to drink. He took ye for a ride in the mountains, lost control of the car. Case closed.”

  Lucy looked desperately behind her.

  “Ranald can’t help you, I’m afraid,” said MacLean humorlessly. “I put enough chloral hydrate in his whiskey to knock out a elk. Turn around, Lucy.”

  MacLean was perspiring freely, clearly building up his nerve. Lucy tried to think of something to do, but nothing came to mind. The man was old, but still a lot bigger than she was. And he had the club.

  “Turn around,” he rasped.

  “So you don’t have to look at me when you do it?”

  “Aye,” he whispered. “It’s a bonnie face, Lucy. I dinna want to …”

  His voice trailed off.

  “If you think I’m going to make this easy for you,” said Lucy angrily, “you’re nuts.”

  The man wet his lips and swallowed. He lowered the club marginally.

  “You can still stop, Angus. You haven’t killed anybody yet.”

  “Nae.”

  “Then put down the club.”

  “I canna. Dinna ye see?”

  “If it was the hand of justice that killed Hugh Grimmon,” she said desperately, “then what will happen to you if you do this now?”

  “Turn around, Lucy.”

  “Please, Angus.”

  “Turn around!”

  “No!”

  “Turn around, damn you!”

  MacLean raised the club over his head, grazing the car’s upholstered ceiling. Lucy’s hands involuntarily went up in front of her face and she grabbed his hand as it descended, deflecting the blow. The club crashed into the dashboard. Lucy tried to hold on to MacLean’s hand, but he was too strong. The club rose again.

  MacLean’s teeth were clenched, his face strained. Lucy heard a shrill scream, realized it was hers. Time seemed to slow down as she watched the club descending forever toward her face.

  In the instant before it struck, she seemed to see a shadow passing overhead like the angel of death. She involuntarily closed her eyes, waiting for the impact.

  It never came.

  Instead she heard a terrible sound, the sound she thought would have been made when the club struck her flesh. When she opened her eyes, however, she saw that it had been the sound of Wharrie’s boot smashing into the side of MacLean’s head.

  The big Scot struggled to right himself, pulling his foot back from the unconscious form of MacLean. Then he boosted himself up in the backseat and, ignoring Lucy’s cowering figure, he stared at the shattered dashboard in disbelief.

  “Look wha’ tha’ daft coof’s doon to my caire!” he groaned.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was three days later. The entire Lis police force, all four officers, augmented by a dozen volunteers, had been digging for the past few hours in the hard ground outside the cottage at the foot of Dumlagchtat Castle. A few locals had gotten wind of the grim activity and stood under umbrellas, watching the constables.

  Lucy sat, sheltered from the light drizzle, in the backseat of the single island police car. With her was Catriona MacDonald. Tak Wing sat in the front next to Chief Constable Gordon Livingstone, a large Britisher with a lined, gray face.

  “ … but our department doesn’t run sophisticated tests on accident victims,” Chief Constable Livingstone was saying. “There would have been no reason to suspect foul play if MacLean had been able to carry out his plan. It was certainly lucky that Mr. Wharrie came around.”

  “Wharrie turn out to be okay guy,” marveled Wing. “Save Rucy even though drugged, pick Wing up at airstrip—even apologize for World War II. What come over him, Rucy, you think?”

  “You were the one who told me to expect miracles,” said Lucy, turning away from the window. She had been eyeing the crowd, hoping to see Michael Fraser, but there was no reason to believe Mike would even hear about this search, let alone still be on the island. What would she say to him, anyhow?

  “Well, it’s all too morbid even to think about,” said Catriona MacDonald. “It’s simply unbelievable that these horrible men could get away with Robbie MacAlpin’s murder for thirty years.”

  “No one would have even known there was any murder,” said Livingstone sadly, “had not Miss Fingon looked into things.”

  Lucy winced. She
still hadn’t adjusted to being called Fingon. It wasn’t a name she was proud of.

  “The thing that surprises me about this whole affair,” the chief constable continued, looking down at his notebook, “is that this … Hugh Grimmon … was able to sneak through customs using another person’s passport. That still strikes me as very hard to believe.”

  Lucy swallowed hard. Tak Wing grinned.

  There was a tap at the window. Lucy looked up and saw Lord MacDonald. He was accompanied by one of the constables, whose blue uniform was covered by a wet slicker.

  “Afternoon, m’lord,” said Livingstone, opening the door and tipping his hat.

  “Livingstone,” said Lord MacDonald.

  “Well, I should get over and see how the lads are doing,” said the chief constable, departing the sedan. Lord MacDonald brushed the rain off his coat and plopped down in the empty seat next to Tak Wing.

  “I say, bit damp out there. Don’t think I know you,” he said, staring at Wing.

  “Tak Wing,” twinkled the little man, bowing as well as he could manage from a seated position. “American entrepreneur.”

  “That so? I’m a bit of an entrepreneur myself.”

  Catriona patted Lucy’s hand.

  “We’re all frightfully sorry about this, Lucy,” she chattered. “Poor Robbie. He was such a sweet boy. All these years we had thought so ill of him, when all along he was …”

  “Bit rough for you, eh wot?” said MacDonald heartily, turning around in his seat to face Lucy. “You don’t have to be here, you know. They’ll send word if they find anything, I’m sure.”

  “No,” sighed Lucy. “It’s all right. I feel relieved it’s over. I really do.”

  “You poor dear,” said Catriona. “You must come stay with us until this whole dreadful mess is settled.”

  “No, thanks,” said Lucy. “I have to get back to New York and help Mr. Wing with some financing.”

  As nice as the MacDonalds were being now, Lucy knew they wouldn’t give her the time of day if her name weren’t Fingon. Friends like that she could live without.

  “Do a bit of finance, too, Mr. Wing?” said MacDonald.

  “Wing very experienced in art of deal,” said Wing with a very strange expression on his face. “Can see that you involved with big deal right now.”