A book lay beneath the stack of letters. She could see the edge of its brown cover. Something else was underneath that too. She had heard it jostling about at the bottom. Whatever else besides letters this box contained, however, and whatever secrets they possessed, they would have to wait. She set the stack of letters back inside.
Keeping out only the necklace for now, she closed and locked the box, then removed the tiny key from the lid.
Carrying several books and the locked letter box, with the necklace safely tucked inside a handkerchief in her pocket, she had left the barn and returned to her grandparents.
A flight attendant brought Loni’s thoughts back to the present.
“Miss Ford, is it?” she said.
Loni nodded.
“I have your vegetarian meal.”
“Oh . . . thank you.” Loni glanced down at her journal, put her pen away, and closed the book.
The letter box from the roll-top desk was in her carry-on. The few books she had brought from the desk were packed in her suitcase. She had looked at neither since leaving her grandparents. For now, books and box remained veiled treasures whose secrets awaited discovery.
Unconsciously her fingers went to the tiny key she had slipped onto a chain that now hung from her neck.
She was waiting for the right time to turn that key again in the tiny brass lock. When that day came, then she would delve more deeply into the secrets of the letter box. If the letters indeed held answers, she needed to read them in peace and quiet. If her heritage led to Scotland, then in Scotland she would explore what further revelations the box had to disclose.
The rest of the flight went quickly. The transfer in Amsterdam proved much easier than flying through Heathrow. Before Loni knew it, she was touching down in Aberdeen.
She had booked a room at one of the airport hotels. The sun was shining, the air crisp and bracing. She arrived shortly after noon. After checking into the hotel, Loni took a taxi into the city.
She found herself unexpectedly enchanted with Aberdeen’s energy, antiquity, architecture, and bustling modernity. She wandered about for hours, poking in and out of dozens of shops. She found a lovely light sea-green wool shawl, so soft and finely knit she had not been able to resist. The label read Whales Weave, Shetland.
Might as well get into the spirit of the Shetlands! she thought as she took it to the cashier.
Carrying her bag, she made her way to the end of Union Street, then down along Market Street, gazing at the variety of boats and ships large and small. She began to wonder if she had misjudged Scotland. Aberdeen—at least when the sun was shining—was magical!
70
Shetland at Last
LERWICK, SHETLAND ISLANDS
Loni was scheduled to meet solicitor Jason MacNaughton at his Lerwick office as soon as she arrived. Having unexpectedly enjoyed Aberdeen, she could not prevent a pang of anxiety to be leaving the mainland behind—with nothing but ocean and icebergs between her and the North Pole!
Wanting to appear professional yet suitably traditional for her appointment with the lawyer, she put on her favorite rose-colored dress. Finally, she slipped the mysterious necklace from the letter box that she had saved for this day around her neck, added the tiny key on its chain under the neckline of her dress, and with the shawl she had found yesterday around her shoulders, she set out for the Aberdeen airport.
Within minutes of taking off, the plane banked up over the North Sea. Scattered white clouds extended in all directions. The skies remained calm, the sea below a deep blue. After an evening at the hotel, a morning in the airport, and surrounded by it in the small plane, far from sounding boorish, the Scottish tongue began to get under her skin. The accent was rhythmic and musical. Suddenly the Queen’s English of London seemed stuffy, drab, and boring!
After a flight of about an hour in the fifty-seater, Loni found herself touching down at the Sumburgh airport on the southern tip of what they called mainland Shetland.
It wasn’t the wasteland Loni had expected. The airport was modern. Evidence of big oil was everywhere. Texas accents mingled dissonantly with whatever it was Shetlanders spoke. She judged the temperature perhaps in the mid-fifties. Mr. MacNaughton had arranged for her to be taken into the city.
The driver who met her at the gate, holding a paper neatly printed with Miss Ford, was all she could have imagined—short, stocky, red-faced, and with a three-day stubble of beard. She saw his sign, approached, and smiled.
“Hello, I am Loni Ford,” she said.
“Aye—pleased tae make yer acquaintance, Miss Ford,” he said eagerly. He removed his wool cap briefly as he stared up at her tall form, then replaced the cap on his head and took her suitcase. “Gien ye’ll jist follow me, Miss Ford.”
He led the way out of the terminal while speaking amiably in what, to Loni’s ears, might as well have been Greek, Norwegian, or ancient Gaelic. Until she managed to convey that she needed him to speak more slowly, she understood not a syllable.
The man chatted away as if they were old friends. Loni punctuated his monologue with nods and smiles and an occasional “Uh-huh.” He was giving her what she gradually gathered to be some of the history and lore of the Shetlands. All she understood for certain was that the discovery of oil had changed everything for these remote islands.
The man continued to talk during the twenty-mile drive into the city. As they came into Lerwick, with ships and tankers and huge warehouses and refineries wherever she looked, the influence of North Sea Oil was inescapable. Her driver then embarked on the twenty-five-cent guided tour of Shetland’s largest city. Loni was surprised at how modern and bustling it was.
They pulled to a stop alongside one of the city’s tallest buildings.
“Here ye be, Miss Ford,” announced her driver.
He jumped out, retrieved her suitcase, and opened her door. Loni stepped onto the sidewalk and began to open her purse.
“Nae, nae, Miss Ford—none o’ that,” he said. “’Tis a’ taken care o’, ye ken. Ye’ll be owin’ me nae so much as a farthing. Jist go in. Mr. MacNaughton’s on the third floor.”
“Thank you very much,” said Loni with a smile.
“Nae bother, Miss Ford. Ye jist gae on yer way an’ enjoy Shetland.”
Pulling her suitcase behind her, Loni walked inside and found the elevator. A few minutes later, she found herself face-to-face with the author of the fateful letter that had turned her life topsy-turvy.
Jason MacNaughton greeted her warmly. “I cannot believe my eyes, Miss Ford, to actually see you at last. I apologize,” he quickly added. “I call you Miss . . . but perhaps you are married.”
“No, I am unmarried,” Loni replied.
“I see . . . well, I must say, you have been a mystery lady. No one even knew you existed until a short time ago.”
“I still don’t quite understand all this,” said Loni as he led her into his office and offered her a chair. “I am uncertain how you found me. I knew nothing about my family connections to Scotland. I also was surprised that you addressed me with a middle name, one that actually is not my middle name.”
“Right. Once we were able to confirm your identity from the birth records, we became aware of that,” said Mr. MacNaughton, “We only used the Tulloch because it was your mother’s maiden name and the thread leading to you.”
“It is not a name I know much about.”
“Yes, I understand your parents were killed not long after you were born. I am sorry. I suppose that has been the nub of the difficulty in locating you—that the family lines had been hidden and needed to be searched out.”
Loni nodded.
“But you are here at last . . . so tell me, what do you know about the name Tulloch?”
“Only that I had a grandfather of that name whom I never met. He died when I was thirteen. My Ford grandparents were notified and saw to his effects.”
“Well then you should know that if you took all the Smiths and Joneses in America and put
them together, you would get some idea of the name Tulloch in the Shetlands. There are dozens of septs and clans and families by the name of Tulloch.”
“I’m sorry—what is a sept?”
“A smaller branch of a clan. Sort of a clan within a clan, you might say. And the point is that unraveling a complex inheritance where there is no will can be truly a mess. Another thing you may not know is the strong ties of many Shetlanders to Scandinavia. The Shetlands were once part of Norway, not Britain. You will notice linguistic similarities to the old Norse tongue, and a unique form of English that is part Norse, part Germanic, as well as hints of ancient Anglo-Saxon. Throw in some Doric and it can be quite daunting.”
“I’ve noticed. I have enough trouble understanding mainland Scots!” laughed Loni. “The man who drove me from the airport—I hardly understood a word he said.”
“Yes,” said MacNaughton, “Dickie Sinclair—a colorful man indeed. Not much to look at, I’m afraid, but he has a heart of gold. He’s a good friend. He and I grew up together, and I would trust him with my life. Believe it or not, in addition to his taxi and limousine business, he is a part-time minister.”
“I would never have guessed that!”
“In some circles he is known as Dr. Richard Sinclair. I fall back on the privilege of boyhood, but I doubt many others would call him Dickie.”
“Does he shave before taking the pulpit?”
MacNaughton laughed. “Honestly I couldn’t say. I’ve never heard him preach. Though come to think of it, I did attend a funeral he officiated, and he was very nicely turned out—clean-shaven and impeccably attired in suit and ministerial collar.”
71
The Complex Estate of Macgregor Tulloch
“Who is this Macgregor Tulloch whose death is the reason for my being here?” asked Loni.
“He was the cousin of your grandfather, Grant Tulloch,” answered the lawyer.
“So the inheritance, if I am indeed the legal heir, is a distant one? He would be . . . what, my great-uncle or something?”
“More distant even than that,” MacNaughton replied. “As I have plotted out your genealogy, you would be Macgregor Tulloch’s first cousin, twice removed. In other words, you are two generations down the line from your grandfather Grant Tulloch, who was his first cousin.”
“Your letter alluded to other potential heirs. What is their connection to Mr. Tulloch?”
“Exactly the same as yours—first cousins, twice removed. There are two men on the island—third cousins to one another, and to you as well—who stand in the same relation to Macgregor Tulloch as yourself. They called him ‘uncle,’ but he was also their distant cousin.”
“Then why me rather than one of them?”
“Because you are descended from the Auld Tulloch’s eldest son.”
“What is an Auld Tulloch?”
“Auld is old,” said MacNaughton. “That is simply the term by which Ernest Tulloch is known. He was the last Tulloch who was both laird and chief on the island. He would have been your great-great-grandfather. He is the common ancestor to all three of you.”
“When did he live?” asked Loni.
“He was born in the nineteenth century. He died in 1953. By then your great-grandparents were already in the States.”
“Was there a family split or something?” Even as the question left Loni’s lips, she recalled her own father’s breach with her grandparents.
“I don’t really know,” answered the lawyer. “All we know is that, for reasons not passed down, your great-grandfather Brogan Tulloch, Ernest’s firstborn, left Scotland for the United States. Subsequent to that, Ernest divided the lairdship and chieftainship between his two younger sons, though it remains a mystery why he did so. That was a long time ago. The Great Depression, the Second World War—those were times when people moved about a good deal and lost track of each other. I know no details, and apparently neither does anyone else in the family.”
Loni took in the information thoughtfully. “It sounds like either of the others you mentioned—my, uh, cousins—would have a claim to the inheritance equal to mine. I cannot imagine anyone being thrilled about an American showing up at the last minute. It doesn’t seem right. I suppose everything you’ve said confirms what I have been thinking of doing since hearing of this.”
“What is that?”
“To sell the property or turn it over to the next rightful heir. You would know how to handle it legally. I really have no interest in a property in the Shetlands.”
“I took it from your decision to come to Shetland that you intended to take possession.”
“You were under the impression that I planned to move here, take up residence?” asked Loni.
“It’s not every day one inherits a significant property. I suppose I merely assumed you would.”
“Good heavens, no!” said Loni with a laugh.
Quickly she recovered herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to make light of it. I know there is a great deal at stake and that it is a serious decision. Perhaps you could explain what you mean by a significant property? In your letter you called it a cottage.”
“Perhaps you are under a misapprehension about the term cottage,” said MacNaughton. “The word is not always a designation of size. Some of Scotland’s great manor houses were called cottages. In this case, the reality is not so grandiose as that. The late Macgregor Tulloch’s Cottage, as it is known, is a modest dwelling of two floors, approximately six thousand square feet, nine bedrooms, five bathrooms, if I’m not mistaken, several sitting rooms of varying sizes, a great room, and a large stone fireplace that is quite wonderful.”
“It sounds enormous!”
“By the standards of the rest of the island, it is a very large dwelling indeed.”
“And one man lived in it . . . alone?”
“In a manner of speaking. He had a butler and housekeeper, as well as a gamekeeper who had an apartment attached to the barn.”
“A butler!” Loni shook her head in disbelief. “Remarkable.”
“There is one additional room that is something of a mystery—a locked study. No one has been inside the room for years.”
“Why is that?”
“Apparently the key disappeared years ago. It seems the late Mr. Tulloch refused to have it opened. The story got around that the door would not again be opened until the key reappeared on the island.”
“So where is the key?”
“No one knows. There are other stories too, considerably more sinister. Old wives’ tales, no doubt.”
“What sinister stories?” asked Loni.
“I don’t know that it is my place to spread—”
“Please, Mr. MacNaughton, I want to get any unwelcome news out on the table. The place isn’t haunted, is it?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Then what is the sinister secret about the locked room?”
“Only a rumor that it contains the dead body of Macgregor Tulloch’s wife, a Norwegian woman whom he married as a young man but who disappeared and was never seen on the island again.”
Loni shuddered. “Maybe I will leave it locked!”
“It is all nonsense, I assure you,” said MacNaughton. “Villagers are great for strange stories and gossip. Gives them something to talk about. All in all, however, it is a marvelous home, the locked room notwithstanding. I think you will be quite taken with it. It’s not a castle by any means, but more than adequate for any humble aristocrat of the previous century. It was originally the residence of the laird and chief when the two titles rested with the same man—the last of whom, as I said, was your great-great-grandfather Ernest Tulloch.”
“When you say chief, what exactly is that . . . like an Indian chief?”
MacNaughton smiled. “Not exactly.” If he was offended by Loni’s ignorance concerning all things Scottish, he gave no sign of it. “It is a term designating head of the clan. Times have changed, of course, and things are much differ
ent now. The two titles laird and chief are now separate. This sort of feudal system, for lack of a better term, is not really part of Shetland life. But Whales Reef has deep ties to the Highlands of the Scottish mainland. Their lairds have preserved that tradition to a large degree. Whales Reef, you might say, marches to a different drum than most of Shetland. Anachronistic, perhaps. But its people have been well provided for by their lairds for generations. The chief, whose role is more that of a spiritual figurehead, lives in the other large dwelling on the island, the Old House it is called. You, as the heir, will be the new laird.”
“I’m sorry again . . . what exactly is it you mean by laird, if I am saying it correctly?”
“The traditional Scottish term for Lord. Landlord, if you will. You will basically own the majority of the island. You will be landlord of most of its houses and buildings. Their tenants pay you rent. The only properties excluded from that are the church and the chief’s residence and land.”
Loni shook her head in bewilderment. “As I told you, Mr. MacNaughton,” she said after a moment, “it is probably a moot point anyway. It is not my intention to take possession.”
“I suppose that is your prerogative, though I must say it is most unusual.”
“Why? If it is mine, would it not be mine to do with as I please?”
“Technically. But that is a very modern and, if you will forgive me, also a selfish way of looking at it.”
“How would it be selfish for me to offer to let someone else have it?”
“What about your duty, Miss Ford?”
“My duty . . . to what, to whom?”
“To the people, to the island, to your heritage, to the family, to your ancestors and their legacy. Inheritances are accompanied with duties and obligations to those who have gone before. Don’t they teach you these things in the United States?”
Loni did not reply. She was reminded of her grandparents and the heritage of their Quaker past. They had so badly wanted her to embrace that heritage and carry it on. Would they too have considered it her duty to do so?
The Inheritance Page 30