The Interpretations

  ‘Why not.’

  They had reached a bench in the top terrace of the garden and had a view of the sea again. The Reverend McFarren’s room was behind and above them. They sat in silence for a short while until the minister said, ‘So, how’s the book coming along?’

  ‘Nearly done.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve only a few more pages to type up and then I’ll bring it in and you can check it over.’

  ‘Oh, is that really necessary?’

  ‘Certainly. As co-author it’s your responsibility.’

  ‘I see. How many pages in total?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty or thereabouts. In book form I’d say it’ll be about a hundred and seventy.’

  ‘Substantial.’

  ‘Weighty but not boring,’ Jim said.

  ‘Let’s hope not.’

  A few moments of silence followed and then Jim said, ‘Oh, by the way, do you remember that letter you found, written by General Wade?’

  ‘How could I forget it.’

  ‘Well, I decided to check it out.’

  ‘What do you mean, “check it out”?’

  ‘There was something about it. I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Its style, I suppose, mainly. You see, I read some other things by Wade – the usual stuff, reports to the king, official letters and so on – and they were very different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Extremely dull. Tedious. All stuffed with very boring detail. I mean, I realize that what you found was a personal letter . . .’

  ‘Well, exactly.’

  ‘. . . but it still didn’t ring true.’

  ‘You thought perhaps it wasn’t authentic? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why I decided to check it out.’

  ‘And?’

  The intensity of the minister’s interest was apparent. Jim could see that he was trembling slightly. ‘Well, I went to the library in Inverness,’ he said. ‘That’s where you got your copy, I think.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And they said that a couple of years ago they sent a lot of documents, including Wade’s letter, to Edinburgh for dating. It seems they weren’t happy themselves about some of these things. And there’s a unit in Edinburgh that specializes in dating documents very accurately.’

  ‘And how do they do that?’ the minister asked.

  ‘Oh, there’s various methods, I believe. I don’t really understand the technology. But it can be done, apparently. Anyway, they told me that Wade couldn’t possibly have written that letter. In this particular case it wasn’t too difficult to prove because the paper it was written on didn’t become available until the late 1790s, about fifty years after Wade died. It was probably written in the 1820s.’

  ‘You’re saying . . . that it’s a forgery?’ the minister asked slowly.

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘No,’ the minister said. ‘No, surely not.’ The look on his face was one of sudden irredeemable loss.

  ‘It’s very clever,’ Jim said, as if this point might serve to counter the Reverend McFarren’s obvious sense of hurt.

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘. . . and . . . and there certainly was someone called Caulfeild. He existed all right. But . . . well, it’s a forgery, I’m afraid. No question.’

  ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Money, I suppose. Even then there were collectors. Or maybe it was just a joke. I’m guessing.’

  ‘A joke? A joke?’ The minister’s tone betrayed his outrage.

  Jim said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Again there was silence until Jim went on, ‘I don’t think it really matters, you know.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Whoever wrote it, it’s a wonderful letter.’

  ‘But you’re saying it’s a fake.’

  ‘That’s right. But that doesn’t alter what it says. I mean the truth of what it says, whether Wade wrote it or not.’

  ‘But you’re saying he didn’t write it.’

  ‘I know that but . . . well, I think it’s an important document whoever wrote it.’

  ‘But if Wade didn’t write it then it’s just a pack of lies, isn’t it? It’s worthless, surely.’

  At this point it was clear that the argument was not worth pursuing. ‘Well,’ Jim said, ‘maybe you’re right.’

  A few moments later the Reverend McFarren stood up. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’d better go in now.’ And, arm in arm, they made their way slowly round the garden and back to the main entrance of Alltduie House.

  Twenty minutes later Jim Fisher was in his office at the Dalmore Herald. It was a small office with internal and external windows on adjacent walls. There was room for a desk on which sat an outdated computer. He also had two filing cabinets and a low table which housed a kettle and the ingredients for making strong sweet black coffee. Jim had covered nearly all of the internal window with graphs and charts in which he espoused great interest when challenged about them. But he, and everyone else, knew that they were there simply to stop anyone from the main office seeing in.

  Above Jim’s pc, stuck to the wall behind, was a single sheet of A4 paper on which was written, in felt-tip pen, ‘There is no shite I will not write.’

  Bloomingfield, Jim’s editor for the past four years, had once asked Jim to take this sign down but he had refused. The Dalmore Herald, he pointed out, was 90% shite and he, Jim Fisher, was very good indeed at writing it as he (Bloomingfield) knew perfectly well. So what was the problem?

  Jim was the longest serving member of staff but had never aspired to being editor. He felt that he knew what he was good at and, as luck would have it, he quite enjoyed doing it, whether it was producing the ninety percent that was shite or the ten percent that wasn’t. Over the years he had developed into a kind of journeyman journalist, able to turn out five hundred or a thousand words, or even six hundred and twenty-three words, on just about anything and deliver them within deadline. For this he acquired considerable respect although sometimes it was awarded grudgingly and with ill-humour. Some of the other staff members resented the fact that he had his own office now. At first, Jim thought of giving it up, of rejoining the group in the open-plan area on the other side of his graphs and charts. But then he realized that he didn’t really care what anyone thought of him. So he stayed where he was.

  Bloomingfield opened the office door just as Jim was sitting down. ‘Any chance of an obituary by half two?’

  ‘Why half two?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘OK. Well, it kind of depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Is he actually dead, this person? Or just poorly?’

  ‘Oh, dead,’ Bloomingfield said. ‘Definitely dead.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it. Who is it?’

  ‘Fred Leckie.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Oh, I beg to differ. In fact you wrote our first piece on him when he joined United.’

  ‘A footballer?’ Jim said, making his disgust quite clear. ‘Not me, no.’

  ‘Not a player, a manager. Took over at United fifteen or twenty years ago when they were still in the Highland League.’

  ‘Oh, wait a minute. Yes, I do remember him. Leckie. That’s right. So he’s dead, is he?’

  ‘As a doornail. We’re doing a half page with some pictures. Seven fifty words.’

  ‘OK. And the tone? I mean, they sacked him eventually, didn’t they?’

  ‘They sack everyone eventually. Anyway, make it hard-working, loyal servant rather than all-out hero. You know, steady progress rather than spectacular success. Passed on an excellent squad to his successor . . . etc . . . etc.’

  ‘I know what you want,’ Jim said.

  ‘Fine. It’s all in here.’ Bloomingfield placed a thickish brown file on Jim’s desk and then left.

  Jim leafed through the file a
nd selected half a dozen items for closer examination. Leckie. Yes, he remembered now. Managed the team for ten years in the Highland League. Got the sack, of course. Leckie’s successor, Munton, did better, especially after the team rose to the heights of the Scottish Third Division. The dream was to get into the Premiership. Quite amazing. People were actually talking about Dalmore United getting into Europe. Jim shook his head. It was just a daft game as far as he was concerned. Anyway . . .

  Within ten minutes he’d got started:

  ‘Considering the recent spectacular success of Dalmore United FC under the management of Brian Munton, it should not be forgotten that a great deal of the groundwork for this success was laid by his predecessor, Alfred Leckie, who has died at the age of 68.

  ‘As manager of the club from 1982 to 1992, Fred Leckie ensured that Dalmore United was ready to take the important step up from the Highland League into the Scottish Third Division. When this occurred, in the 1994-95 season, no one was more appreciative of Fred Leckie’s contribution than Brian Munton himself . . .’

  And so on. Tone: gracious but not too reverential; careful, factual, grateful. A piece of cake, really. Jim completed the obituary at 1.31, just before he went out for lunch. He returned at 2.25 and assured a worried Bloomingfield that it was almost ready. Then he sat quietly in his office for four minutes and filed the piece at exactly 2.29.

  17

  Forbes McElwin’s office was much as Jim Fisher had expected it to be. It was big enough to hold a large leather-inlaid knee-hole desk and, to one side, a two-seater sofa and an easy chair, both upholstered in dark brown leather. Law books and other documents filled the glazed bookcases that lined the walls. The one wall space not occupied by books or window or door displayed a large print, in a heavy ornate gilt frame, of ‘The Fifer’ by Manet.

  There were no personal touches here – no family photograph on the desk, no houseplant, no silly gaudy gift from a grandchild. This place was strictly for business.

  McElwin himself was in his mid-sixties and portly, his figure flattered by the expensive cut of his dark grey three-piece suit. He was sitting at his desk when Jim came in. He rose to offer his hand. ‘Please, take a seat,’ he said.

  Jim sat opposite him, the desk between them.

  ‘I’m being over-cautious, of course,’ McElwin said, ‘but have you got the letter of authority from Mike Delvan?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ Jim took a white envelope from his inside pocket and passed it over to the solicitor.

  ‘In these cases,’ McElwin explained, ‘I have to stick closely to the law.’ He smiled. ‘You’d be surprised if I did otherwise, I’m sure.’ Then he opened the envelope, which was unsealed, and took out the single sheet of paper it contained. He looked at it carefully for nearly half a minute and then set it to one side. ‘That seems to be in order . . .’

  ‘Well,’ Jim offered, ‘you wouldn’t want to hand over a fortune to the wrong guy, would you?’

  ‘Well, quite. Anyway . . .’ He reached down and pulled open a drawer in his desk, low to his right. He took out a large padded envelope which clearly had some kind of fat object inside it. ‘This is what I have for you,’ he said, placing the envelope on the desk. ‘I have a feeling there’s probably no fortune involved.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know what’s inside it then?’ Jim asked.

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘So . . .’ Jim picked up the envelope and weighed it in his hand. Despite its size it was quite light. ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘It was left for your friend Mike Delvan by a Detective Inspector McCall.’

  ‘McCall?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I imagine it’s the same man. Based in Dalmore?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But didn’t he . . . I mean, didn’t he die about ten years ago?’

  ‘Nine,’ McElwin said. ‘Yes. Lung cancer, I seem to remember.’

  ‘I wrote his obituary,’ Jim said.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘More than likely. But it was a long time ago. Which prompts the question . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why didn’t Mike get this when McCall died?’

  ‘Ah well, there were precise instructions, you see,’ McElwin explained. ‘Very precise. The package was left with me on the strict understanding that it wouldn’t be passed on to Mike Delvan until after the death of someone called Archibald Gilfedder.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jim took a few moments to absorb this information. Then he said, ‘You know, I sort of half-guessed Archie was involved in this in some way.’

  ‘You knew him, then?’

  ‘I knew of him.’

  ‘Extraordinary that he should die in the same accident that landed Mike Delvan in hospital.’

  ‘A bizarre coincidence or the result of some perverse plan?’ Jim asked.

  ‘I’m not very fond of conspiracy theories,’ McElwin said.

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘But remind me,’ McElwin went on, ‘was Archie the brother of Donald Gilfedder?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The one that was involved in that business at WattWays?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nineteen eighty-two. I remember I got back from holiday that summer and found that all sorts of dreadful things had happened, all those people died – Donald Gilfedder, your friend Tom Kingsmill and the Tulloch girl – what was her name again?’

  ‘Eileen.’

  ‘Eileen, that’s it.’

  Jim said, ‘Don’t forget her boyfriend as well.’

  ‘Oh, right. Of course, of course. What an appalling time it was.’ McElwin sat back in his chair.

  After a few moments Jim said, ‘Do you know why Inspector McCall asked you to wait till Archie died before handing this over?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He didn’t discuss it with me at all.’

  ‘And what about . . . what would have happened if Mike died first? After all, he and Archie were about the same age.’

  ‘Then I was to give the package to you.’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘Yes, but with the same proviso: not until Archie Gilfedder died.’

  ‘And if Mike and I both died before Archie?’

  ‘Then I was to destroy the package.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Mike examined the envelope again. It was identified only by a stick-on label with the figure 310849 on it. ‘Can I open it now?’ he asked.

  ‘Certainly. In fact, I’m duty bound to insist on it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, in case it contains an item that has legal implications.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Something that might reasonably be regarded as belonging not to Mike Delvan but to the main beneficiaries of Inspector McCall’s will.’

  Jim shrugged.

  ‘Unlikely, I know,’ McElwin said. ‘But I’d like to be sure.’

  ‘No problem. Let’s see . . .’ Jim looked at one end of the bulging envelope. It had been sealed with several strips of heavy brown tape.

  ‘Try these,’ McElwin said, taking a pair of scissors from one of his desk drawers and passing them over.

  When he had cut the envelope open, Jim pulled out the single object it contained.

  It was a running shoe. Just the one. A right shoe. Size ten. Clean and new.

  Jim put the envelope to one side and placed the running shoe in the middle of the desk. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  McElwin shook his head. ‘I’m totally perplexed,’ he said. ‘A running shoe. Quite extraordinary. Some kind of joke, perhaps. But is there anything else?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Inside the envelope. A message?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Jim picked up the envelope again. He peered inside then turned it upside down and shook it. Something else did fall out.

  A postcard.

  ‘Well . . .’

  Jim picked it up and looked at the picture: the Puerta del Sol, Mad
rid. Then he turned it over. It was addressed to Inspector McCall but to a private address in Dalmore, not the police station. The message was short: ‘Many thanks for all you have done. Forever in your debt.’ It was signed: ‘Peter Clinghurst.’

  The name meant nothing to him.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know who Peter Clinghurst is, do you?’ he asked as he passed the postcard over to McElwin.

  ‘Can’t say I do, no,’ McElwin said. ‘But then it’s probably a very old postcard. Let’s see . . . Yes, the postmark’s clear . . . well, nearly. Looks like . . . the sixteenth of abril . . . April . . . nineteen eighty-two.’

  He was back in his office at the Herald by one thirty. As he picked through the mail on his desk he received a visit from Bloomingfield.

  ‘Well, good of you to drop by,’ the editor said. ‘Staying long by any chance?’

  ‘Probably not.’ He picked up one letter, thought of opening it, changed his mind and dropped it onto the desk again.

  ‘Oh, that is unfortunate. Only there’s the little matter of another obituary.’

  ‘So, I’m on obituaries now, am I?’

  ‘Only as long as people keep dying.’

  ‘Ah, well, they will do that, won’t they. It’s a most annoying habit. Anyway, can it wait till I’ve had lunch?’

  ‘How long’s lunch?’

  ‘Oh, the usual three hours. Could make it a bit shorter though, if you ask nicely.’

  ‘McMurty,’ Bloomingfield said, throwing a file down on Jim’s desk. ‘Manager of Cullicudden Wanderers . . .’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, not another football manager, please . . .’

  ‘Word’s got out,’ Bloomingfield said. ‘You’re just so good at them. They’re queuing up to die so you can write about them. It’s your innate love of the game.’

  ‘Like hell.’

  ‘Take the full twelve and a half minutes for lunch if you like, but I need this by three.’

  He no longer had lunch at Miss Petty’s Tearooms. This was mainly because Miss Petty’s Tearooms no longer existed. The building was still there and it was still a restaurant but any connection with the genteel world of Miss Petty had long disappeared. There had been several changes of ownership since the days, twenty years before, when he’d had lunch regularly with the almost silent Miss Comlyn. Miss Comlyn had died fifteen years ago. None of the elderly lady diners from that time was still alive. In fact there weren’t so many old people around in Dalmore. Of course, there were a few, like the Reverend McFarren in Alltduie House, but Dalmore had changed.