Loch: A Dane Maddock Adventure

by David Wood

  “Dagda,” Grizzly said.

  Isla flashed an angry look in his direction. It was one of the words she’d thought of. It’s not that she wasn’t going to tell Meikle; she simply wanted to be the one in charge. She sighed, knowing she was being childish.

  “Either Dagda or Nuada,” she said.

  Meikle pursed his lips, stared at her for five uncomfortable seconds. Finally, he turned back to his computer. “Where did you get this code, Isla?” Forced nonchalance filled his voice.

  “There’s not a simple answer to that. It’s the culmination of a lot of research and digging. You know…”

  “…the family tradition.” Meikle’s shoulders sagged. “You’re not just chasing legends this time. You’re after the treasure of the Tuatha de Dannan, aren’t you?” Before she could reply, he held up a hand. “I don’t want to know. But I would discourage you from this path if I could.”

  “Why is that?” Grizzly asked.

  “It’s a fool’s errand, and a dangerous one at that.”

  “If it’s truly a fool’s errand, then why is it so dangerous?” Grizzly persisted. “What’s so deadly about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

  “Because,” Meikle said, turning in his chair to once again face them, “there are other fools who also believe in leprechauns.”

  “Fair enough,” Grizzly said. “Did you decipher the code?”

  “I did. Nuada was the keyword.”

  Isla felt a flash of triumph that Grizzly’s offering had been incorrect. Stop being a child, she told herself. “What did you find?”

  An odd expression passed over Meikle’s face, as if he didn’t want to tell them. He flashed a look of trepidation at Isla, but the damage was already done. Over his shoulder, she could see the answer on his computer screen. She provided the answer for him.

  “Seek ye beneath Dun Monaidh.”

  Walter Meikle sat stock-still, smile firmly in place as Isla and her buffoon of a friend left his office. It was a shame, really. He’d known Isla’s parents for a long time. In some ways, Meikle probably knew them better than she did. For that reason, he hated what he was about to do, but he had no choice.

  “Should I have told her?” he whispered aloud. “Or would the knowledge put her in even greater danger?” He shook his head. He had no answer to either question, and it wasn’t his place to make that decision. Not unless he wanted to potentially put his head on the chopping block.

  He waited five heart-pounding minutes until he was certain the pair had gone. He couldn’t have them returning unannounced and overhearing any part of the call he was about to make.

  Hands trembling, he dug into the bottom of a desk drawer and took out an old address book. He flipped to the D’s and found the entry for Dominic’s Pizza. Both the name and the number had been struck through, but that was merely for show.

  He took a deep breath, took out his phone, and punched in the number. It rang once and then someone picked up. No one spoke.

  He cleared his throat and forced a hoarse “Hello?”

  No answer. Was that someone breathing on the other end? He might as well try the code word.

  “Tuatha,” he said, with more conviction than he felt.

  “Hold please.” So there was someone at the other end.

  Three rings and then someone picked up. More silence. Was common courtesy foreign to these people?

  “This is Walter Meikle.” Annoyance lent strength to his words.

  “Well?” the voice said.

  What was it with these dobbers? He’d been told, in no uncertain terms, to call this number if he should learn anything of value, and now they treated him as if he were an inconvenience.

  “There has been a breakthrough in regard to certain items of historical value. I was told to call this number.”

  “Tell me,” the speaker said in a clipped voice.

  Meikle gave a brief sketch of the meeting that had just ended. He didn’t mention Isla Mulheron by name, nor did he make mention of Smokey or whatever the American called himself. He kept it simple: the daughter of a former colleague had brought him information, a clue written in a cipher—a message which he’d managed to decrypt. He added a general description of the pair, enough that they could be recognized.

  “And we can rely on this source?”

  “Her father was reliable. This was a part of his papers.” Meikle swallowed hard. That was not precisely what Isla had said. In fact, she hadn’t said where she got the information, only that it related to her family’s research. Why had he lied? Perhaps he should correct himself. No. That would only lead to more problems.

  “Are you there?” the voice asked. “I said, I’m listening. What is this clue?”

  Meikle relaxed. “Dun Monaidh.”

  Chapter 11

  Maggie Dickson’s Pub, Edinburgh

  Drooping lavender flowers in window boxes and hanging baskets partially obscured the illuminated sign that marked Maggie Dickson’s Whisky and Ale House, a tiny pub on Grassmarket Square. This busy, yet picturesque section of Edinburgh’s Old Town featured pubs, shops, clubs, and hotels. Tourists mingled with locals going about their daily business. Here amidst buildings from the sixteenth century all the way up to recent vintage, Maddock felt the weight of history and truly appreciated how young his own country of origin was by comparison.

  “You can check out the architecture later,” Bones said, nudging Maddock with his elbow. “I need a drink.” Leaving the sunny, crowded street, they headed inside.

  The atmosphere inside the pub was exactly what Maddock expected—upbeat and noisy without being raucous. Chandeliers which hung from the painted ceiling shone down on dark wooden tables and darker wainscoting. Framed photos, neon signs, and football banners adorned the walls. Above the bar, a match played out on a widescreen television set.

  “I’m not a soccer fan, but this works for me,” Bones said. “Food smells good, too.”

  They paused to let a server pass by. The man carried two identical dishes—a coiled length of sausage atop mashed potatoes inside some sort of pastry.

  “Never mind,” Bones said. “That looks like a bowel movement. People really put that stuff in their mouths?”

  Maddock laughed. “Suit yourself. I haven’t eaten all day.”

  They made their way through the crowd and back to the area set aside for dining. Maddock immediately spotted a lanky, grey-haired man with thick glasses waving them over.

  “You must be Maddock and Bonebrake. I’m Alban Calderwood.” The man offered a liver-spotted hand to shake. Maddock took it and found Calderwood’s grip was firm.

  “Thank you for meeting us, Professor Calderwood,” Maddock said.

  “Any friend of Andrew Wainwright is a friend of mine. How is the old wankpuffin, anyway?”

  Bones snorted a laugh. “I don’t know what a wankpuffin is, but I’m stealing that one.”

  “It’s a name I was never permitted to call my students. At least, not to their faces.”

  Maddock grinned. “We haven’t visited Wainwright in a few years, but he sounded good on the phone.” A retired professor and a descendant of the famed explorer Percy Fawcett, Wainwright had once helped Maddock and Bones in their search for a lost city in the Amazon.

  “The telephone is the best way to experience Wainwright,” Calderwood said. “That way, you don’t have to look at his nose and ear hair, or risk being buried beneath a falling stack of books.”

  “I need to buy you a drink,” Bones said. “What’s good here? I saw a Guinness sign.”

  Calderwood’s mouth twisted as if he’d just sucked a lemon. “Trust me; you want an Innis and Gunn. Best drink on tap here.”

  Bones bought a round for the table, and they settled in. Maddock found the ale quite to his liking. A hint of bitterness when it touched his tongue, but a fruity aftertaste with a touch of caramel.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “It’s really got an oaky afterbirth.” Bones looked expectantly at his d
rinking companions, who exchanged puzzled looks. “It’s a line from…oh, never mind.” He took another swallow and looked around. “Tell me, who was Maggie Dickson? I saw a sign but didn’t read it.”

  Calderwood winced. “You remind me of my students. ‘Didn’t read the chapter, Sir. I figured you were going discuss it anyway, so why bother?’”

  “That’s me,” Bones agreed. “Except I’d have a chick read the chapter and give me the high points before class.”

  “Stop it.” Laughing, Calderwood raised his hand to silence Bones. “You’re bringing back unpleasant memories.” He drained his glass and set the empty mug on the table. “Back to your question. Among other things, Grassmarket Square was a place where executions were held. Maggie Dickson was accused of drowning her own baby and was sentenced to hang. Her sentence was carried out in the Grassmarket. She was pronounced dead, but on her way to be buried, the wagon driver heard a knocking on the wooden coffin.”

  Maddock raised his eyebrows. “Oops.”

  Calderwood nodded. “They removed the lid to find Maggie very much alive. According to the law of the day, it was God’s will that she live, so she was set free. The locals gave her the nickname Half Hangit’ Maggie.”

  “Either someone botched the execution or she had quite a strong neck,” Maddock said.

  “Some believe she used her feminine wiles to manipulate the gaoler, who saw to it that the hangman engineered a weaker noose, but who can say for certain?”

  “Leave it to Maddock to take a perfectly good story and analyze it to death,” Bones said.

  When their meals were ready, they dug in with gusto. Maddock enjoyed steak and ale pie, while Bones went with the Monster Burger—a tower of beef, cheese, bread, and onion rings. As they dined, Maddock finally revealed the reason he’d reached out to Calderwood. He filled the professor in on the sunken U-boat, the journal, and the artifacts they’d recovered.

  “I know this is a longshot, but might you have any idea what this came from?” he asked, handing over the chunk of stone recovered from the strongbox.

  Calderwood put on a pair of reading glasses and examined the black rock at length. While he continued his inspection, Maddock bought everyone another round. Lost in thought, Calderwood sipped at his ale. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “You’re certain your translation of the journal entry is correct?”

  “Pretty sure,” Bones said.

  “It said ‘they have been sitting on a false throne?’ You’re certain of that?”

  “We are,” Maddock said.

  “In that case, there’s only one thing it can be.” Calderwood looked around, then lowered his voice. “The Stone of Destiny.”

  Bones sat up straighter. “Hold on. That’s the stone that Scottish kings were crowned on, right?”

  Calderwood nodded. “It is also known as the Stone of Scone. The English call it the Coronation Stone.” He grimaced and took a swig of ale, as if to wash the words from his mouth.

  “Time for the million dollar question,” Bones said. “Do you think it’s an alien artifact, the stone Jacob used for a pillow in the Bible story, or just a meteorite?”

  Calderwood managed a tight smile. “Many far-fetched legends surround the stone—its origins, its composition, where it has been kept, whether or not it has powers. We could spend all day discussing them.”

  Bones smiled. “I’m down for that as long as the ale keeps flowing.”

  “So, this stone is lost?” Maddock asked.

  Calderwood gave a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Calderwood’s face grew stern, and he adopted a lecturing tone. “In 1296, Edward the First annexed Scotland and took the stone from Scone Abbey, where it was being kept at the time, and carried it back to Westminster Abbey. There it sat for centuries, to Scotland’s shame. It was finally returned in 1996 and is now kept along with the crown jewels as Scotland’s greatest treasures.”

  “So it’s not lost,” Maddock began, but Calderwood waved him into silence.

  “Rumors persist that the stone that sits in the Crown Room is not the actual stone. Some say that the stone that came to Scone was not the genuine article; others say a false stone was substituted for it just ahead of the arrival of the English troops. What’s more, the stone that is in the Crown’s possession, the one that sat at Westminster Abbey and upon which English monarchs were crowned, is made of red sandstone, which has been definitively proved to be quarried near Scone. The problem is, the legends agree the stone was brought to Scone from elsewhere. And perhaps most important of all, though known only to a few scholars, the very oldest accounts describe the Stone of Destiny as being black and covered with markings.” He held up the black chunk of rock for emphasis.

  “That would explain the ‘false throne’ comment,” Bones said. “The Kaiser would get a good laugh out of British royalty being crowned on a fake rock.”

  Maddock took a moment to digest this new information. “Let’s assume a German spy did, in fact, break this stone off of the actual, authentic Stone of Destiny. Where should we begin looking?”

  “Records show the stone was previously kept in an old fortress in Argyll and Bute in western Scotland. It’s now the site of Dunstaffnage Castle. The legends I consider most reliable hold that the real stone never left there.”

  “Is Dunstaffnage near the water?” Maddock asked.

  “Yes. In fact, what remains of it stands on a promontory near the coast, at Ardmucknish Bay, at the confluence of Loch Etive, Loch Linne, and the sea.”

  “It’s not exactly close to where we found the sub, but if the Germans were hugging the coast, headed south…” Bones said.

  “If you’re on the trail of the true stone,” Calderwood said, “Dunstaffnage is where I’d begin.”

  Chapter 12

  Dunstaffnage Castle

  Dunstaffnage Castle stood on a promontory overlooking Loch Etive to the north at the point where it met Loch Linne. Surrounded on three sides by water, the fourteenth-century fortress loomed dark and lonely in the seemingly perpetual mist. Isla and Grizzly strolled across the manicured lawn, the lush green carpet beneath their feet appearing unnaturally bright in contrast to the castle’s dark gray walls.

  As they approached, Isla took the time to admire the rugged beauty of the sturdy fortress. Unlike the ornate palaces of fairy tales, Dunstaffnage was built for a single purpose—defense. The quadrangular structure boasted rounded towers at three corners. In its heyday, it guarded the entrance to the Loch, and the Pass of Brander beyond.

  “It’s not as big as I imagined,” Grizzly said. “The longest wall can’t be much more than a hundred feet across, can it?”

  “It’s as large as it needed to be,” Isla said, feeling defensive of one of her native country’s landmarks.

  “I wasn’t criticizing,” Grizzly said. “Just making an observation.”

  “Sorry. I’m on edge.”

  The truth was, Isla was embarrassed. Of the two of them, she’d considered herself the expert on the Tuatha treasure. Grizzly was a necessary annoyance, brought along so he wouldn’t dog her trail with a film crew in tow. He’d surprised her the previous day when, after leaving Meikle’s office, he’d suggested they head to Dunstaffnage. Isla’s reminder that the clue had said “beneath Dun Monaidh,” not “beneath Dunstaffnage,” had led to a patronizing lecture about the history of the old castle.

  This castle was built atop the ruins of Dun Monaidh, a stronghold of the Gaelic kingdom of Dál Riata, supposedly founded by the legendary king Fergus the Great in the fifth century. Encompassing portions of present-day Ireland and Scotland, the Dál Riatan connection fit with the legend of the Tuatha and their Irish-Scottish link. Considering her family’s background, Isla felt she should have already known that.

  It wasn’t that Grizzly knew something she didn’t that bothered Isla. It was the superior attitude he’d adopted since that moment. He seemed to believe himself th
e leader and seized upon any opportunity to share useless information or to give orders.

  “The Dunstaffnage Chapel is about five hundred feet that way,” he said, pointing to the southwest. “There’s not a whole lot left of it these days.”

  “You mean that ruined structure standing in plain sight? Thanks for pointing that out.” She didn’t try to temper her acerbic tone.

  For his part, Grizzly seemed blissfully unaware of his effect on her. A permanent grin painted his face as they approached the castle.

  “I do have to wonder,” he said, “if this place hasn’t been thoroughly excavated after all these years. If there was something beneath it, shouldn’t it have been found by now?”

  “We aren’t necessarily expecting to locate the treasure here. We might only be looking for a clue. Something small or innocuous enough to have escaped notice.”

  Grizzly rubbed his chin and adopted a thoughtful expression ruined by his vacant stare. “Any ideas what that might be?”

  Isla took out her phone and punched up a set of photographs. “As we discussed, the four symbols of the Tuatha are the spear, stone, sword, and cauldron.” She swiped through, showing him images of each. “And then there’s the goddess Danu. Any of these images might be an indicator of the presence of Tuatha, but wouldn’t cause the average archaeologist or historian to bat an eye.”

  Grizzly nodded. “And since we’re supposed to be looking ‘beneath Dun Monaidh’ I guess we should also look for trapdoors and hidden passageways.”

  Isla doubted archaeologists would have missed any secret doors, but she was growing tired of bickering with the man. She forced a smile, more like a grimace, and nodded. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

  They spent the next two hours thoroughly inspecting the partially ruined fortress.

  They examined every wall, poked around the foundations of the ruined east and west ranges, and scrutinized the corner towers. Nothing but big, gray blocks and lots of rubble. Grizzly had high hopes for the well, thinking it might afford passage to an area down below, but it had been filled in centuries ago. The gatehouse was a more recent addition and had been remodeled over the years, but they explored it too, paying particular attention to the basement. Still nothing. Hope fading, they climbed to the battlement level and followed the parapet walk around, looking down upon the grassy inner ward and the exterior from above.