The uncanny coincidence gave James a queer feeling in the pit of his stomach; he reached for his coffee and took another drink, wishing it were whisky instead. The photo was old. Judging from the youthful appearance of the Duke and his father it was twenty-five years old at least, maybe even thirty, yet Embries appeared not to have aged a whit in the intervening years.
James opened the accounts book to the page where he’d found the photo, and saw an entry from 17 October. It informed him that on a warm, partly sunny day with the wind gusting ten to twenty miles per hour out of the northwest, four deer and twenty-seven hare had been killed by six men: Sir Cameron Campbell; Sir Herbert Fitzroy; Dr. Stephen Harms; his father, John Stuart; Duke Robert himself; and one listed only as M. Embries.
Remembering the business card he had retrieved from the windscreen, he reached over and dug it out of the pocket of his jacket. He stared at the name… Embries. An unusual name — at least, unusual enough for there to be no mistaking that, appearances aside, the man he had met on the hilltop and the man in the photograph were one and the same.
Intrigued now, his senses quickened by an immediate adrenaline rush, he carefully put the accounts book to one side and placed the photo and card atop it. He dug into the box again and brought out another sheaf of bound documents, untied them, and spread them out. It was a jumble of bits and pieces the like of which petty officials everywhere revel in: an old tax notice; a quitclaim for a highway widening scheme; an application for a firearm permit; his father’s discharge papers from his old regiment, the King’s Own Royal Highlanders. Stapled to this last was a brittle, faded copy of a medical form filled out in John Stuart’s name, listing such things as eyesight, vaccinations, and blood type. James glanced quickly at the other documents, which contained equally mundane and uninteresting information, and impatiently swept them aside.
Two hours later, after turning up nothing more helpful than a copy of the Duke’s last driving license, James gave up and packed it in. He shoved back from the table in weary disappointment and glanced up at the clock above the stove. Damn! It was past two o’clock — much too late to call Jenny now. She’d have been asleep hours ago.
He stood, retrieved his one genuine find — the shooting party photo — and slipped it carefully back in its place inside the accounts book, put the book inside the box and closed the lid, then stumbled from the kitchen, pausing in the doorway long enough to snap off the light. He shuffled to his room at the back of the house, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed into bed.
The radio alarm roused James at six o’clock to a bleak, sleety morning black as midnight. Four hours of fretful thrashing on his pillow had done nothing to improve his increasingly edgy mood. He was tired and out of sorts; he could feel the nervous energy zinging through him, making him fidgety and anxious. The bizarre meeting on the hilltop had disturbed him more than he imagined. That, combined with the discovery of the photo, made for a restless night as his mind kept turning the thing over and over, revolving like a pinwheel and with as much purposeful resolution.
He lay in bed and listened to ice pellets spattering on the window, and then stirred himself. Entering the kitchen, he saw the untidy heap of documents on the table and, to one side, the box holding the accounts book with the photo and business card atop it. On a whim, he picked up the card and stepped to the phone hanging beside the refrigerator and dialed the number below the name.
The phone rang once, twice… before it occurred to him that it was only six in the morning, and Embries would not have had time to get back to London. He decided to hang up and try again that evening, but as he made to replace the receiver, a voice said, “Hello?”
Snatching the receiver back to his ear, James replied, “Hello — who is this?”
“James?” The voice on the other end sounded calm and in control.
“Is that Embries?”
The speaker did not respond to the question. Instead, he said, “I am glad you kept my card. Listen carefully; there is not much time. I want you to come to London. Will you do that?”
“Why?”
“Let us say that all your questions can be answered here more easily than anywhere else.”
“Not good enough,” James declared. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what you’re up to. Until I start getting some answers, I’m not going anywhere.”
Embries remained unfazed by this blunt refusal. “There is more to this affair than you know; however, I am not prepared to go into it over the phone.” He paused. “There is a direct train to King’s Cross from Pitlochry at 10:21 this morning. Can you make it?”
“I suppose so,” James replied hesitantly. “But I’d have to hear a better reason than what you’ve told me so far.”
“Come to London, James,” countered Embries quietly. “Two days. That’s all I ask. The rest will be up to you. I give you my word.”
For some reason, and against his better judgment, James believed him. Worn down, his natural resistance low from fighting the case on his own, perhaps the offer of help, from whatever quarter, seemed too good to reject out of hand. After all, he thought, what else did he have going for him? In that moment, James decided to take Embries at his word. “All right,” he agreed.
“Good. Now then, it would be best if you did not travel alone. You need a companion, someone you can trust. Do you have a friend who could come with you?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty short notice. I’ll try.”
“Yes, do try.” Embries paused. “It is important, James. Someone you can trust,” he repeated earnestly.
“I understand.”
“Tickets will be waiting for you at the station. When you disembark, go to the head of the platform and wait. I will have someone meet you there. Agreed?”
“If you say so.”
“Do not worry,” Embries reassured him. “You are doing the right thing. Good-bye, James.”
Before James could ask about the photo, there came a click and the receiver went dead. He thought of dialing again but decided against it. Clearly, Embries was working some sort of angle, and was not likely to give away anything important over the phone. James busied himself with making coffee, and while the stout dark liquid brewed, he went to the bathroom for a shower and a shave.
He emerged somewhat refreshed, dressed quickly, and headed back to the kitchen for breakfast. While waiting for the antique toaster to spit out two thick pieces of toast, he decided to see if he could catch Calum before he left for the day’s shooting. James dialed the number and let it ring, but there was no answer. He hung up, thinking he’d left it too long, and Cal was already out on the moors with his high-tipping lawyers from London.
The toast popped up, and he ate leaning against the counter. Then, pouring another mug of coffee, he sat down at the table for a final perusal of the odds and ends before returning the box to the solicitors. Reaching for the shooting diary, he slipped the photo from between the pages and gazed into the face of M. Embries. How old must he be now? he wondered. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he didn’t appear to have aged a day since the photo was taken; in fact, he didn’t seem to have changed at all: tall, regally slender, his white hair brushed back, pale eyes gazing out with intensity and intelligence. James’ father was standing beside him — how young he looked.
He walked into the living room and took the portrait of his parents from the mantel. It was a good photo — taken on the day James had received his officer’s commission. It was May. His father was wearing the same dark suit he always wore at anything requiring formality; his mother, on the other hand, was absolutely radiant in a pale pink dress she had bought especially for the occasion; she wore white gloves and had his dress tunic over her arm, casually displaying the new gold rank insignia on the sleeve. It had been a warm day, he recalled, and he had just taken off his tunic; she had chided him for crumpling it, and took it from him while he snapped the picture. The smile she wore had much of a mother’s pride in it, mingled with joy at se
eing her son honored.
His father, in contrast, appeared almost sorrowful. There was something diffident and wistful about his expression — as if he were intruding, and knew it, but trying to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. But then, as James recalled, Jack Stuart had never been much for social gatherings of any kind; he found the inanity and superficiality maddening, and endured rather than enjoyed any function he was forced to attend. This, James had always considered, explained his father’s woebegone smile.
The phone’s chirp broke into his reverie just then. He walked back to the kitchen and picked it up. “Hello?”
“James, man, you’re there —”
“Cal?”
“Did you ring me just now?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. How’d you know?”
“You’re the only one who ever rings me before seven, actually.”
“I figured you were out for the day with your clients.”
“They left,” Cal told him. “Got a call last night. Urgent business in London, apparently. They paid up for the week and hightailed it back to the city. So I’m free as a bird. I thought we could take the ponies out. It’s been a while since I hunted on horseback. What do you say?”
“Funny you should ask. I was going to try to persuade you to come with me.”
“Where to?”
“London. Your legal friends aren’t the only ones with urgent business in the city.”
“Is this anything to do with the estate?”
“As it happens, yes.”
“Good news or bad?”
“Too early to tell. But I’m going.”
Cal hesitated. “Umm… I don’t know. I should probably give it a miss. There’s a lot to do around here. Thanks all the same.”
“Look, Cal,” James said, “I wouldn’t ask only it’s kind of important. A couple days is all. And it might make a difference. How about it?”
“Well, the thing is, see…”
“I need someone with me,” James insisted. “I need you, Cal.”
“Since you put it that way, when do we leave?”
After arranging a time and place to meet, James returned to the bedroom, threw some clothes into a duffel bag, along with his dress shoes and a blazer, bunged in his toothbrush and shaving kit, zipped up the lot, and tossed the bag into the back of the Land Rover. He went back inside, secured the house, and scooped up the various documents from the kitchen table and replaced them in the box. Then, tucking the box under his arm, he grabbed his hunting jacket from the back of the chair, turned off the coffee pot, and locked the house. He was halfway to the solicitor’s office in Braemar when he remembered that he’d meant to call Jenny.
Four
The cramped, untidy offices of Gilpin and Hobbs, Solicitors, were open by the time James arrived. Malcolm Hobbs was standing behind his desk, scratching his head. “Morning, James,” he said. “Just put it over there in the corner somewhere — anywhere.” Indicating the box, he asked, “Any luck?”
“A few interesting items for the family scrapbook. Odds and ends mostly, but no — nothing much,” James answered.
“I was afraid you would be disappointed,” Malcolm sympathized. “I did try to tell you. They went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. If Old Howard had anything tucked away anywhere, they would have found it.”
Old Howard was H. Gilpin, the Duke’s solicitor, who had retired a few years ago, and who could still be seen whacking golf balls at the Ballater course of an afternoon.
“Well,” James allowed, “I had to see for myself. You know how it is.”
“Sure.” Malcolm glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, I have another client coming in any minute” — he smiled apologetically — “so if there is nothing else I can do for you…?” He moved around the side of his desk to lead his visitor out.
“Not at the moment, I guess.”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as we receive the filing notice from the Aussies.”
James thanked him again for his trouble, and returned to his car, slid the key into the ignition, and felt his breakfast surge up into his throat when a hand knocked on the window beside his face. “Malcolm!”
“Sorry to startle you, James,” he said, bending his head to see in.
James cranked the window down a few inches. “What’s up?”
“I just was thinking, why not go see Old Howard?” Malcolm shivered in the cold. “Just to satisfy yourself we haven’t overlooked anything.”
“Leave no stone unturned. Yes, I might do that.”
“He’s got a place in town, you know. If he’s not there you can always find him on the town course. Old Howard likes his golf.” Malcolm began shuffling in place to keep warm. “Never misses a day.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. You’d best get inside before you catch pneumonia.”
“Right. Ta, James,” he said, and scurried back to his office. James glanced at his watch: it was twenty to nine. He had just enough time to find a phone and give Jenny a ring — although, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure what he’d say to her. He tossed this over in his mind as he drove to the petrol station down the street and dialed her studio from the pay phone on the wall.
“James, it’s you!” Jenny’s mother always sounded surprised and pleased whenever he rang up.
“How are you, Agnes?” he asked. “Over that cold?”
“Och!” she protested. “It was nothing — a wee chill only, I swear. Some folk around here made far too much of it. I’m right as rain now.”
“Glad to hear it. I was hoping to speak to Jenny a moment — is she there?”
“Alas, no, no.” She sounded heartbroken. “She just dashed out to make a delivery.” Jenny owned a pottery business that shipped pieces all over the world, as well as supplying the local shops and hotels with better-quality tourist items. “I’m sorry,” Agnes said. “Could I have her ring you?”
“That won’t be necessary. If you could just tell her I’ve been called away to London on business for a few days. I’ll try to ring her when I get back.”
“I’ll surely tell her,” promised Agnes. “Why don’t you come to dinner on Sunday? It’s Mildred’s birthday — eighty-seven, she is. You’re more than welcome, James.”
He thanked her for the invitation, and said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, but duty calls. You know how it is.”
“That’s a shame. Well, take care of yourself in the big city. Come round when you get back.”
“You can count on it,” James promised, said good-bye and hung up, disappointed.
He filled up with petrol and drove to the Invercauld Arms parking lot where Cal was waiting in his forever muddy green Ford Escort.
“ ’Lo, James,” he said as he stepped out, pulling a soft-sided black bag from the seat beside him. He locked his car, tossed the bag into the backseat, and climbed in.
Turning onto the highway, James rejoined the sparse morning traffic through town, and headed for Pitlochry. The drive through Glen Shee was one he usually enjoyed. This time, however, he hardly noticed the scenery. Cal slumped down in his seat and closed his eyes, while James, his mind churning, dissected the events of the last few months. He thought about his recent troubles, and how so much turmoil could have been avoided if the old Duke had simply left a proper will. He found himself thinking about his parents, and how worried they had been when the Australians began filling the post box with all their heavy-handed legal letters. James was still in the service at the time, but there was not much he could have done in any case. It took years off their lives, no doubt.
He thought about his mother: bright and enthusiastic, with a wonderfully fanciful sense of humor. She liked nothing more than those newspaper competitions which ask the reader to supply amusing captions for peculiar photos, and routinely had her entries published. She was unfailingly cheerful, and her manifold kindnesses won her lasting and loyal friends. In her day, she had been a knockout. James had seen pictures of her that would
have done credit to a fashion model’s portfolio. Indeed, she was still a handsome woman when she died. The end came so quickly for her that she did not wither or waste away like so many older women do when their men go. The doctors said it was her heart, but James suspected she just couldn’t stand to live without her husband.
He thought about his father. A good, honest man, hard-working but not ambitious, he had taught James the value of a job well done and the enjoyment of life’s simple pleasures. Moreover, he instilled in his son a knowledge of his Creator. It was from his father that James had learned that this life was inextricably bound with the next. A frustrated vicar, John Stuart had studied for the ministry, but had left theological college after only a year or so. Why, James never learned; his father did not speak of it.
Next, his thoughts turned inexorably to Embries, and the odd way he had chosen to make his introduction. While it had seemed mysterious and full of portent at the time, in the cold light of day, it all seemed slightly silly. Melodramatic. Much ado about nothing, really. James felt foolish for having been gulled by such obvious flimflam.
Yet, here he was, rushing across country to make a train to London, and all because of a few whispered words down a phone line. How, he wondered, did the old boy fit in with his parents? What did he know that could help save Blair Morven? Who was he anyway?
Outside Pitlochry, James joined the long, slow queue of Friday shoppers coming into town. Consequently, they arrived at the station with only minutes to spare and dashed to collect the tickets. Presenting himself at the ticket booth, the clerk said, “Middle initial?”
“What? Oh, A — James A. Stuart.”
“Your destination?”
“London — King’s Cross.”