Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  Irene could not stop her smile. ‘I’ve never been called a rogue before.’

  ‘No? Well, you have now. Am I correct?’

  ‘Am I a rogue?’ Irene rolled the syllables around her tongue. She had thought of herself as a businesswoman, making her way as best she could, or a high-flier, but this new description was interesting, and not unpleasing. The name conjured up images of loveable characters from her childhood, people who danced on the edge of the law, rather than died-in-the-wool criminals, Johnnie Armstrong as opposed to Al Capone. ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘Well then, now that we have both admitted the fact, we can move on. I would like to get to know you even better.’

  Irene glanced toward the open bedroom door, where the sheets remained rumpled from the previous night. ‘You knew me quite well last night, I thought.’

  Drew smiled. ‘Parts of you, but that’s only physical; the real you is buried much deeper inside. As I said, I would like to know you better, but this thing is a barrier between us.’

  Shrugging, Irene shifted the position of the sceptre so it no longer bisected the table.

  ‘Exactly. If we can push it aside permanently, then the problem will disappear. So it is in my best interests to help you get rid of it.’

  ‘But you called me a rogue,’ Irene said. ‘Does it not concern you that I am a thief? And that I was involved in the death of six people?’

  Drew shook his head. ‘Not really. Did you kill any of them?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Irene shook her head.

  ‘And, just as important, did you arrange for any of their deaths?’

  Again Irene shook her head.

  ‘So then, why should a few stray deaths concern me? One man was a soldier; he died performing his duty. That was regrettable but every soldier knows that he might be killed. Death is part of a soldier’s contract. The others were all bad men and women. Your fellow thieves, I believe, although I suspect that they were less roguish and more pure bad than you.’

  Irene looked away. She thought of Patrick in happier times, and of Mary driving with great skill, of Desmond’s joy when he produced the false documents and of Bryan laughing over some foolish practical joke. She had never got to know Stefan, but he had not done her any harm.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘I do. Trust me.’ Drew sipped at his coffee. ‘In a way their deaths give you a decided advantage, because they were the only people who could identify you.’

  ‘Except you,’ Irene pointed out.

  ‘Except me,’ Drew agreed. ‘But I am no threat to you, so long as you are no threat to me. And I know that you do not carry a gun.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve been through your possessions,’ he told her frankly. ‘And I’ve seen you in action with these kids this morning. You were not particularly impressive, so I doubt you are a black belt in karate or anything. So, we are back to the first point. If we can get rid of the sceptre, we can get to know each other better.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to know you?’ Irene asked.

  ‘Then I have spent a few days of my life in the company of a beautiful woman.’ Drew smiled. ‘So can we agree to trust each other a little bit more?’

  Irene drew a deep breath. She glanced at the sceptre and thought of all that it represented to her life, then at Drew sitting opposite. She did not have many options. ‘I would love to trust you,’ she told him, truthfully. ‘But I am not very good at trust.’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ Drew took the coffee cups to the sink and washed them out. ‘If you do your best, I’m sure it will be enough. So, let’s get rid of this thing and take it from there.’

  Sunlight from the window glittered on the silver-gilt shaft of the sceptre and cast short shadows across the table. Irene looked closer, examining for the first time the beautiful figurines that decorated the filial. The Virgin and Child reminded her of the sceptre’s papal origins, while Gothic canopies sheltered Scotland’s Saint Andrew and a sombre looking Saint James. She shook her head, wondering at the small dolphins that frolicked in seeming mockery on either side of the saints.

  ‘It is very beautiful,’ Irene said.

  ‘And very dangerous. If it is to remain inside the UK there will not be too much of a problem,’ Drew returned with fresh coffee. ‘We can bundle it into the boot of the car and drive to wherever your destination may be. We’ll be home and dry within 24 hours, unless it’s going to one of the islands?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘I want to deliver it out of the country.’

  ‘More difficult,’ Drew mused. ‘The Customs are searching every bag and piece of baggage at every airport and ferry terminal. There are huge delays now, with planes held up and ferries running around 10 hours late. You’ve caused a great deal of trouble, Miss Rogue.’

  Irene nodded. ‘I realise that.’ She was not proud of the impact she had made.

  ‘Good. Had you thought how to take it abroad?’

  ‘When the yacht idea failed, I was going to wrap it up and post it.’

  Drew shook his head. The Royal Mail is checking every parcel over a certain size, as are the private courier firms. So you are delaying the mail too; which is a criminal offence, by the way.’ He looked stern for a minute. ‘You rogue.’

  Irene met his smile. ‘The States,’ she said. ‘I want the sceptre to go to the States.’

  ‘Ah.’ Drew nodded. ‘I wondered about that, what with you being an American. Any particular part?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m not saying.’

  ‘OK.’ Drew did not press the point. He lifted the sceptre. ‘Heavy little bugger, isn’t it? Imagine; I’m holding part of the heritage of Scotland in my grubby little paws.’

  ‘Yes,’ Irene said. ‘And if you help me, you will be taking that heritage out of Scotland. Don’t you feel bad about that?’

  Drew shook his head. ‘Not even a little bit,’ he said. ‘You see, I’ve done my bit for my country. I was in the Guards. An officer, no less, and there was an incident in Iraq. The usual; there was a roadside bomb and one of my men was injured. He lost a leg. The next minute a mob of Iraqis gathered around and tried to drag him away. We rescued him and sent out a snatch squad that pulled in the ringleader, but another of my men went a bit far and kicked the bastard. He was captured by the TV cameras and hung out to dry.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Court martialled and sent to the Glasshouse, and that’s a living hell. I was defending officer, but they ordered me not to defend too vigorously. All PR you see, the British government bowing to international public opinion and let the poor squaddies suffer. As always.’

  Irene nodded. ‘And did you defend him?’

  ‘As best I could. Too well in fact, so I was told not to expect any promotion. Queen and country eh?’ For the first time in Irene’s experience, Drew dropped his expression of urbane civility.

  ‘I see.’ Irene shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Sent in my papers. Resigned. I was an officer, following the orders of the government, which is fair enough, but not at the expense of my own men. So if that government loses some of its treasure, why should I care?’ His smile was as infectious as that of Patrick, but with more depth. ‘Anyway, I fancy you more than I fancy the Prime Minister.’

  Irene nodded. ‘Well, that’s reassuring.’ Now that she had a handle on Drew, she could understand him a whole lot better; he would be easier to manage. ‘So you’re not just helping me because of my pretty face?’

  Drew smiled again. ‘Well, that is one factor, but there is more,’ he said, ‘but this is neither the time nor place. Let’s work out how to get this thing to wherever you want it to go.’

  ‘I’ve told you. America,’ Irene repeated, ‘and I’m not saying more than that.’

  Drew looked at her. ‘There’s no need. We can do America.’

  They both looked around when somebody knocked loudly at the door.

 
Chapter Twenty

  Edinburgh and East Lothian, July

  ‘Oh Lord,’ Irene stared at Drew. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘No idea,’ Drew shook his head. Lifting the sceptre, he thrust it behind the television. ‘Probably the man to read the electric meter.’ His grin was reassuring as he opened the door.

  ‘Andrew. Just thought I would pop by to see how things were.’ James Drummond walked in as if he owned the flat. He removed his cap as he spoke to Irene. ‘Good morning, my dear, I did not realise my son had company.’ He held out his hand. ‘How do you do?’

  Glancing toward the television, Irene rose and shook hands. She felt sick. ‘Very well, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Sir?’ Drummond raised his eyebrows as he studied Irene, taking in everything. ‘I haven’t been called that for a while.’ Indicating that Irene should sit, he nodded to Drew. ‘She’s far too good for you, Andrew. Put the kettle on for an old man, won’t you?’

  They sat around the table, with father and son drinking Earl Grey tea and Irene boosting her nerves with Kenyan coffee.

  ‘Are you not going to introduce us?’ Drummond asked, and Drew grinned.

  ‘Irene, this is my father, Dad, this is Irene Armstrong from America.’

  ‘South Carolina?’ Drummond asked, and nodded when Irene corrected him.

  ‘Not far off, one state north.’ She smiled, immediately liking this genial old man.

  ‘My apologies. So what brings you to Scotland?’ Drummond held her eyes. ‘And don’t tell me that you came solely to see this reprobate.’

  ‘She’s on holiday,’ Drew replied for her. ‘But she was caught up in that nonsense in the High Street.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Drummond nodded. ‘Nasty business, yon. You weren’t hurt, were you?’

  ‘Only shaken up a bit,’ Irene could see the end of the sceptre protruding from behind the television and shifted slightly to block Drummond’s view.

  ‘Not the best introduction to Scotland,’ Drummond said. ‘Well, I won’t keep you two apart for long. I just wanted to ask Andrew if he has considered my offer.’

  Drew shook his head. ‘No, Dad, regretfully, I must decline.’

  Finishing his tea, Drummond rose quickly from the chair. ‘As you wish. But if you reconsider…’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know.’ Drew assured him. He escorted his father to the door, watched him descend the stairs and blew a sigh of relief.

  ‘That could have been nasty,’ Irene said.

  ‘It could have been much worse than you realise,’ Drew told her. ‘The sooner we have your sceptre away the better.’

  * * *

  ‘How are things?’ Drummond swung his driver, eying the fairway to check for any unexpected folds of ground.

  ‘Going steadily.’ Meigle sounded more confident than he looked. ‘We have narrowed the possible buyers down to two; an Indian financial wizard and an American tycoon. I have people checking them out even as we speak.’ He enjoyed bringing Drummond to unfamiliar courses just to see him fret. Drummond was a man who hated to be defeated in anything, even a game of golf. Maybe that was the secret of his constant success.

  Drummond thrust the tee into the ground and placed the ball on top. He looked to his left, where Firth of Forth provided a beautiful backdrop to the course. ‘I hate playing on East Lothian links. There’s always that damned wind.’

  ‘That’s why I took you here,’ Meigle told him. ‘Think of it as a challenge.’ He watched as Drummond swung. There was a neat click and the ball travelled dead straight for two hundred yards, before kicking onto the rough. ‘Nasty little eddy there. I should have warned you.’ He swung in turn; aiming to the left so the wind carried his ball directly to the edge of the green.

  Both men walked along the fairway in silence. Not until Drummond had found his ball and prepared for his second shot did Meigle speak again. ‘It’s a pity that Andrew declined to join us. A man like him would have been a major asset.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Drummond selected a four iron and addressed the ball.

  ‘I’m not sure what to do about him.’

  ‘I think it will be all right.’ Drummond hit the ball neatly so it rose high and dropped onto the green, but rather than stop, it continued to roll, finding sanctuary in an ugly sand bunker.

  ‘I hope so. Oh, bad luck with that lie. I meant to warn you about the camber of this green.’ Meigle strolled casually to his own ball. Kneeling beside it, he measured the distance to the hole. ‘How was he when he told you?’

  ‘Busy with his new girlfriend. Irene Armstrong, her name.’ Drummond said.

  Meigle stood up and gripped his putter. ‘Armstrong, eh? Is that the Irene Armstrong?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Meigle swung smoothly and the ball eased across the smooth grass, to stop at the very lip of the hole.

  They walked to the bunker and contemplated Drummond’s ball, which was wedged under the near lip.

  ‘Awkward shot,’ Meigle said. ‘You could take it out and drop a stroke.’

  ‘Rather not.’ Drummond contemplated his ball, stepped into the bunker to the bunker and selected a sand wedge. ‘I’ll try my best.’ He met Meigle’s eye. ‘They have the sceptre there.’

  ‘Good show.’ Meigle watched as Drummond hacked at the ball. It flew straight up into the air, hovered for a second and returned, further back in the bunker. ‘Pity. It was a nice try.’ Walking forward, he removed the pin, stood over his ball and tapped it into the hole. ‘Are you sure about the sceptre?’ He looked up suddenly. ‘Is the Powerstone safe?’

  ‘I saw the sceptre myself, but I didn’t see the stone. They tried to hide the thing behind the television. Shall I get it back?’ Drummond’s next shot chipped the ball out of the bunker. It hovered in the air for a second and fell right beside the hole. ‘Your decision, but I don’t want Andrew hurt.’

  Meigle nodded. ‘Afraid we can’t guarantee that,’ he said. ‘What with the situation being what it is.’

  ‘I understand.’ Drummond prepared to lift the ball. ‘Will you take it that I can’t miss from here?’

  ‘Take your shot,’ Meigle insisted. ‘Try your best.’

  Drummond straddled the ball and pushed it into the hole. ‘I won’t help you with Andrew, you know.’

  ‘Didn’t think that you would,’ Meigle said, replacing the pin. ‘I quite understand, of course.’

  ‘I’d prefer to keep the Clach-bhuai under observation. Make sure it’s safe, and see where it’s headed.’

  ‘That might be possible,’ Meigle agreed.

  They walked to the edge of the second fairway and dropped their balls. Meigle smiled as Drummond tested the wind. The graceful cone of Berwick Law rose behind them. Two people stood at the summit, gazing at the view. ‘I could send somebody to follow them.’

  ‘You’ll need a good man.’ Drummond teed up and cracked a shot that slewed into the worst of the rough.

  Meigle shook his head in sympathy. ‘Two good men. Iain Hardy and young Kenny Mossman.’ He drove his shot a straight two hundred yards down the fairway. ‘You know, ten years ago I could beat three hundred yards. Now I’m pleased if I top two-fifty.’

  ‘That’s just old age, Sandy,’ Drummond said, ‘Iain Hardy I can understand; handy enough, but only a foot soldier. I’m not sure that I would send Mossman. Is he not a bit valuable to lose? Andrew was a guardsman, remember.’

  ‘Mossman’s not irreplaceable.’ Meigle said.

  Drummond nodded. ‘Nobody is.’

  Meigle began the long walk up the fairway. Suddenly he felt very old. ‘I wouldn’t like us to fall out over this, Jamie. Not after so long.’

  Drummond nodded. ‘No. We shouldn’t fall out.’

  ‘No. So we’ll just watch and follow. But if the Clach-bhuai is in danger, then I’m afraid it could get nasty.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Sandy.’ He scanned the rough for his ball. ‘Next time that I’m on this blasted course I will hire a caddy
.’

  ‘Maybe you should; the wind is a bit tricky, coming straight off the sea here.’ Meigle waited until Drummond located his ball. ‘Bad lie, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Bad lie altogether, Sandy. I won’t be pleased if Andrew gets hurt.’ Drummond lined up his shot and chipped onto the fairway.

  ‘The Society is more important than any of us.’ Meigle said. ‘You know how it is.’

  Drummond nodded, watching as Meigle knocked his ball into the centre of the green. ‘We could be opposed then.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Drummond hit the ball too hard, so it overshot the green by ten yards, bounced and rolled off to the side. ‘Damn. Can’t get the feel of this course at all.’

  ‘You have to watch for the wind, Jamie.’ Meigle shook his head. ‘You can’t go against it, you see.’

  ‘Maybe I have to.’ Drummond waited until Meigle removed the pin and holed his shot. ‘Two up already, eh? Good playing; it’s awkward when family and duty clash.’

  ‘We might still get Andrew back.’ Meigle glanced over to Drummond and smiled. ‘That American woman’s not that damned attractive.’

  When Drummond looked up there was no humour at all in his face. ‘I don’t think he’s only involved for tits and bits, Sandy. Young Andrew’s smitten this time.’

  ‘Ah,’ Meigle measured the length of the next fairway before dropping his ball. ‘I’d better warn Kenny and Iain then. Maybe they’d better leave Andrew and get rid of the girl.’

  Drummond teed up and addressed the ball. ‘That might be best.’ He hit his drive straight onto the green.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sutherland, August

  Irene did not immediately feel secure among the granite hills and sudden sea lochs of Sutherland. Even at the height of summer, with scores of visitors thronging even the smallest of the villages, she was aware of an atmosphere of watchfulness, as if these dark mountains were suspicious of her presence.