As he packed it carefully for the short drive to the National Gallery, he smiled thinking about how Ms. Stuart would react when she saw what he had created. Somehow, getting her approval was worth just as much as his five-thousand dollar fee.
ADEENA FELT GIDDY as she walked through the exhibit hall.
The clone of the Duncan Cello had turned out even better than she had expected. It was almost unreal. After Thomas had delivered it to her office yesterday, they compared the original to the copy, examining them side-by-side. She marvelling at the precision of Thomas’ work, he smiling and pointing out intricate details she had never noticed before.
Michael, her ‘boyfriend’ from Gallery security, had brought the real Duncan Cello up to her office one last time, before it was due to go on display that day. “When you’re done with it, Adeena, I need to take it downstairs. They’re setting up this afternoon for the new exhibit,” he explained after he delivered it to her.
Michael was a sweet kid, she thought. He had stood staring at her in the doorway and she finally gave him a hug and a heartfelt peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Michael,” she told him. His mouth dropped a bit before he finally turned and left, a huge grin covering his young face.
Now as she carried two large banker’s boxes of research files about the exhibit, Adeena knew the moment of truth was at hand. When Michael had returned to her office to pick-up the Duncan Cello, she had substituted Thomas Peeters’ lovingly crafted copy for the real instrument, which she discreetly placed in her own empty cello case.
Michael unknowingly delivered the replica to the exhibit. Now he stood by the instrument, in its padded case, as if some masked cello thief might suddenly appear from behind the imitation castle walls to snatch it. He scrutinized the assortment of Gallery staff to see who might pose the biggest threat to the precious cargo he guarded.
As Adeena set down her banker’s boxes, she felt a tinge of nerves at what she was doing. She saw Tara strolling up the outer walkway approaching the exhibit entrance.
Showtime, Adeena thought, trying to project a calm exterior.
“Dee, everything looks fantastic!” Tara beamed as she strode in with her assistant Pablo. “I love the changes you made with the candles and the women’s outfits.”
“Thanks, Tar,” Adeena smiled. “I wanted it as authentic as possible.”
“I think you’ve succeeded,” Tara said, looking at the paintings, the placards and the new scene around the podium that would hold the centrepiece of the show – the Duncan Cello.
Adeena had the idea to set-up a group of mannequin musicians, both male and female, who looked as if they were getting set to perform. The idea was to highlight the cello and recreate a setting where it would be used in performance. She dressed the two female musicians in black velvet blouses trimmed with gold lining and puffy elbow accents. Both wore white roses, the symbol of the Jacobite rebellion. One of the female mannequins held a cittern, the other was positioned as if she was looking up at the Duncan Cello, literally reaching for it. The men were dressed in the same fashion as those she had performed with at Kinnaird, wearing full flowing coats and white lacy shirts. They held the same instruments that Adeena had seen them use – viola and violin.
“Well, let’s get our star out and I’ll take some pictures. We’re posting these online and Pablo’s going to tweet them out,” Tara said, after she adjusted one of the mannequins ever so slightly. “Mike, would you get the Duncan Cello, please?”
Michael grinned at the request. He carefully opened the case, reverently lifting it up and bringing it forward. Adeena flinched as Michael carried the imposter towards Tara, who looked it over carefully. “It’s such a beautiful instrument,” Tara said. “Amazing that it’s over two hundred and seventy-years old. It’s in such good shape too. It looks like it was made last week!”
Adeena held her breath. Tara touched the cello, feeling the smooth varnish features. She gingerly touched one of the strings. “This is what they’re all coming to see.”
Michael handed the cello to the waiting technician. He took it and looped a nylon cord around the neck. It would be used to suspend it above the podium, designed to look like a section of the castle wall. The thin black wire would be invisible as it held the cello in mid-air so that visitors to the exhibit could walk around the instrument, examining it from all angles.
“I think this is going to work,” Adeena said as the two women watched the cello raised into place. When finally set-up, and the spotlights focused on it, the effect was stunning.
“Woah!” Tara whispered. “Perfect. Visitors can walk right around the whole set-up, as if they were one of the musicians about to perform. Nice work!”
Adeena nodded her head. Thomas had created a replica that somehow, looked more authentic than the real instrument. Tara stood staring at the display. She reached for her phone to take a picture, but she was too close. She took a few steps back but was still too close. She took a few more steps, and then knocked over both of the banker’s boxes stuffed with Adeena’s papers and notes.
“Oh shoot, sorry Dee,” Tara exclaimed, almost falling over herself. The boxes lay on the floor, with their contents spread all around – photos, papers, coloured index cards, files and assorted scraps of paper. “Those are your notes? For the exhibit?”
“Yeah,” Adeena responded. She bent over and started gathering the papers.
Tara bent down too. “Here, let me help you.” She grabbed some of the index cards, and notes and then picked up an invoice. It was from ‘Thomas Peeters, Luthier.’ She stood up, reading it and looked at Adeena curiously. “Five thousand dollars for ‘professional luthier services’?” she asked. “What’s a luthier? I should know that, but remind me.”
Damn! Adeena froze. Had she gone too far this time, even for Tara to keep her out of jail?
“Luthier? Uh, they fix and build, stringed instruments,” Adeena said, fumbling for an explanation. She looked at the mannequins and then back to Tara, still holding the invoice. “Thomas had instruments that I wanted to use, things he could adapt to be historically accurate.”
Tara looked at the mannequins, each with a different stringed instrument. “Oh, you mean for the display?”
“Yes, yes. Exactly! He makes copies of old instruments. He made the cittern that women’s holding,” Adeena said pointing to the mannequin with the pear-shaped guitar.
Tara looked at the invoice again. “Hmmm, this stuff doesn’t come cheap, does it?” She handed it to Adeena and walked towards the mannequin holding the cittern. “It’s a good thing you found someone who could make such authentic looking pieces. I thought for sure they were real.”
Adeena smiled weakly as Tara turned her gaze to the fake Duncan Cello and studied it carefully. Adeena’s blood pounded in her ears. It was deafening - she might need to shout to make herself heard. “Tar, now that the exhibit’s ready, I’m going to take some time off,” she called out, hoping no one would notice the thumping inside her chest.
Tara turned towards her, took one last look at the suspended cello, and walked towards Adeena. “Yeah, I figured that was coming. You do have another job now.”
“Another job?”
“The NAC Orchestra. Duh? You know that little gig you landed?” Tara smiled.
Adeena felt a sudden release of tension. “Oh yeah, that job.”
“You’ve started rehearsals, I guess?”
“Yes, had the first one two days ago.”
“How’d it go?”
Adeena looked at Tara, her childhood soul-mate, and still her closest friend. Why couldn’t she just tell her what was happening? Get advice from her, the kind she always gave whenever there was some crisis in Adeena’s life. But this was different. Tara would be about as much help as Philippe.
Tara was still waiting for a response.
“Oh, yeah, well, you know, it was pretty good,” Adeena finally managed.
“Pretty good? That’s it?” Tara laughed. “Dee, this is your chance gir
l. Don’t blow it! You need to put your heart and soul, and everything else you might have, into this. You need to nail it - completely. Otherwise, you’ll end up with me as your wicked boss until you’re an old lady.”
Adeena smiled. The Tara pep talk. Get it done. Get off your ass. Work hard. Focus!
“You’re right Tar, I wouldn’t want that, and neither would you,” Adeena laughed. “You know what? I’m going to go up to the lake for a while, stay at my parent’s place so I can really focus on the music and my technique. You’re right, I need to nail this!”
Tara leaned in and gave her a hug.
“Do it Dee. You are now a cellist with the National Arts Centre Symphony Orchestra. Make your dream a reality.”
PHILIPPE KNEW A thing or two about the ingredients of a good front-page story.
Greed. Deceit. Lust. Revenge.
When committed by a public figure, the deadly sins were irresistible to readers.
“I got something,” he offered at the weekly story meeting, which included most of the Ottawa Citizen’s editors and senior reporters. “You know Friedrich Lang, the NAC conductor and music director?” he began. “Well, he is beginning rehearsals this week for a new work that he claims he composed himself.”
The arts and entertainment editor, Peter Smithson, looked up from his laptop. “Oh yeah. We just got a release on that from the NAC.” He clicked a few times on his track pad. “Here it is, ‘Voyages of Destiny, a new work by Friedrich Lang. World premiere, December 9, Southham Hall, Ottawa’.”
“Lang didn’t write a single note of it,” Philippe said. “The music was composed in the 18th Century. My girlfriend’s a cellist with the orchestra. Her grandmother found the score in a castle in Scotland and sent it to her. Lang stole it, note-for-note. And if she says anything, she’ll get fired.”
All eyes turned towards Philippe. This sounded like it had a bit of everything. Peter Smithson, entertainment editor, sensed the interest and saw an opportunity for an Arts story to get onto the front page – for an extended run.
“Will she talk about it? On the record?” Smithson asked, peering over his glasses from behind his laptop.
Philippe hesitated. “Hmmm, no. Probably not.”
“Okay. Well, it sounds like a great piece,” the Arts Editor said, looking back to his laptop. “Keep an eye on it, and let us know if you get something we can use.”
THE SHORT DRIVE from Mum’s cottage to the Angus archives, just outside the county town of Forfar, had given William and Jackie a much-needed change of scenery after their days of being cooped up in Mum’s little seaside dwelling. The archive housed historical records for all the tiny burghs of the county known for centuries as Forarshire, but now referred to as ‘Angus’ - familiar around the world for its prized black cattle.
After reading about the letters, photographs, military records, death warrants, journals and old census documents housed in the Angus archive, William knew he had to make a visit. With a little luck, it might help him make sense of the puzzle pieces that his daughter, mother and grandmother had thrown his way.
Pieces that so far didn’t add up.
He turned over the clues in his head as he and Jackie made their way through the Scottish countryside in companionable silence. They were content to simply admire the scenery and enjoy the serenity. The wide-open pastures shimmered a verdant green in the early September mist. The changing colours of the autumn leaves, the deep reds and brilliant oranges of the century-old trees lining the rural roads, framed the wide-open pastures to pastoral perfection.
They slowed down as they approached an imposing structure.
“You see that?” William asked, pointing to the impressive landmark beside them. Jackie looked across the open pasture at the square stone tower. The ancient looking three-storey structure was topped with an octagonal spire visible for miles in all directions.
“Yeah. Neat. What is it?” she asked.
“Restenneth,” he answered. The history professor in him had been dying for an audience. “Probably built by the Picts and converted in the 12th Century into an Augustinian priory.”
William stopped the car by the side of the road so they could get a better look. “It’s mostly just a stone shell now,” he continued and then paused, somewhat dramatically, “but, it is the last resting place of Prince John.”
Jackie strained her head around to see more of the structure. He had her hooked now. “Oh Professor, who was Prince John?” she sang out in a mocking tone, as if she was a starry-eyed first-year student in one of her husband’s medieval history classes. His lectures were not just full of facts. William made an effort to weave mystery and suspense into everything he taught. He wanted to inspire his students to be detectives. His aim was to capture hearts as well as imaginations.
“I thought you’d never ask! Prince John was one of only two of Robert the Bruce’s legitimate sons,” William began. “Unfortunately, John, beloved as he was by his father, maybe the greatest Scottish King of them all, died as an infant. But his twin brother David, succeeded his dad and became King of the Scots when he was only five - 1329, I believe.”
Jackie whistled. “I’m not sure what’s more impressive. The history lesson, or the fact that you remember all this.”
“I just read about this place yesterday, when I Googled how to get to the Angus Archives,” he replied. “I have a thing for dates and for Scottish kings.”
“You certainly do! Uh, Professor Stuart, I have one more question,” Jackie said playfully. “How many children did Mr. Robert the Bruce actually sire? Is that the way you say it?”
“Yes we do. Although in Britain, ‘to sire’ is usually associated more with horses,” he responded. “Well Miss, Robert the Bruce was a busy King, but he did find time to ‘sire’ eleven children - five boys and six girls. And of the kids, six of them were as they say, ‘bastards’ from unknown mothers.”
“I guess he travelled a lot on business?” she giggled. “But why did he bury his son John, here at . . .” she paused, trying to remember the first part of the lesson. “What was it?”
“Restenneth. And that’s a very good question. Unfortunately, I don’t know. But, maybe we’ll find out in about two minutes.”
He put the car in gear and they slowly rolled the remaining few yards ahead on the road to the adjacent Hunter Library, home of the Angus Archive.
WILLIAM PULLED THE car up to the flat-looking entrance of the building. Inside the unassuming structure, forgotten stories of knights, princes, ladies, villains and plain ordinary folk, awaited discovery by local historians and visitors from around the world that came here to trace their Scottish roots.
The archive was housed in a simple one-story flat-roofed brick structure trimmed with wooden beams stained dark brown. Rectangular windows placed just below the roofline, provided natural light on most days.
Inside the archive, William headed for the search room. He was mindful to turn off his mobile phone, as per the regulations he read on the archive’s website. Jackie lingered at the front desk, talking to the imposing looking grey-haired woman, apparently the librarian on duty. Jackie wanted to know more about Prince John, buried nearby and why his father, Robert the Bruce, had chosen Restenneth as his infant son’s final resting spot.
William was hoping the archive would help him unlock the mystery of Katharine Carnegie. He had been unable to find any reference to her online. There was plenty of information about the Captain, Sir James Carnegie and his brother George. But nothing on their sister Katharine.
He glanced at the signs describing the types of resources available in the search room including parish registers, a collection of gravestone photographs with monumental inscriptions, and online databases such as one dedicated to Angus burial records.
Just as he started looking through the gravestone photographs, Jackie appeared with the librarian, an old battleship of a woman wearing thick glasses. She didn’t look like she ever had much fun, on or off the job. Her stern face
that would make a junkyard dog whimper.
“Your wife says ye search for a local Carnegie lass?” the woman said, her friendly tone in sharp contrast to her threatening demeanour.
“Yes, that’s right,” William replied. “She apparently was the sister of Sir James Carnegie of Pittarrow. She must have been born around 1720 I think, possibly around Kincardineshire.”
“Why do ye have such an interest in her, if I may be so bold as to ask?” the librarian inquired. “Is she an ancestor? Are ye workin’ on a family history?”
William looked at Jackie. They both smiled and nodded their heads, almost in unison. “Yes, it’s sort of a family history I guess. I think this woman might be some kind of distant relation. I know she spent some time at Kinnaird with her two brothers,” William said.
“Our not so famous castle,” the librarian said, squinting as she considering the research task at hand. She made some notes and went to check something on a computer terminal, under a hand-lettered sign that read ‘Archive Indexes’.
William got up to follow her, but Jackie stopped him. She pointed to the journal that sat on the desk beside him.
“Is that the journal Mum took from Kinnaird?” she whispered.
“Yeah. What about it?”
Jackie looked around and saw the librarian was completely engrossed on her computer. “You might not want to let her see that,” she said quietly, tilting her head in the direction of the librarian sitting at the desk in the corner. Jackie pointed to the journal. “She might wonder how you ended up with it – or think it’s part of their collection.”
William studied the journal lying on the table. She was right. He should probably keep it in his backpack for now. He was about to put it away, when Jackie reached for it.
“Wait, can I see that entry you read to me the other day?” she asked him as she opened the journal. “What was that date again?”
As Jackie flipped through the pages, William tried to recall the entry. He had so many dates in his head. He sifted through his mind, like a computer trying to access the right sector of a hard drive. “Uhhhhh, oh, yeah. 6. . 6, August, 1745.”
Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I Page 15