Maybe it was too much for an art broker to take upon himself. The thought made him realize anew how bitterly he resented being known as nothing but a common fence by some of his seedier clients. He had left the university in order to involve himself more directly in his true first love—objets d’art. And through the years he had built up a clientele that included some of the richest men in the world. His name would never show up in a National Geographic article. But if people in the know wanted information about what was “available,” what was hot and what was not, or how to acquire a given piece and how much it was likely to run on the black market, they knew he was the man to ask. In fact, he had been interviewed a time or two, though his name had never appeared in print.
At least one Sheik’s gallery in Arabia, a collection of Egyptian relics in Amsterdam, and a truly historic display of priceless firearms in Sweden had been put together almost entirely with his help. He was not adverse to an occasional plebeian assignment of moving a cache of stolen rifles, or perhaps jewels—drug-related jobs, however, he refused to touch. It kept his bank account at the comfortable level of liquidity he liked.
But it was the sophisticated and rare objects of artistic magnificence and even perhaps what he might call historical value, which gave him the greatest satisfaction. It had given him the chance to lay his eyes and hands on beautiful treasures he would otherwise never have been able to see. At the same time, he managed to build up a rather nice collection of his own. And he felt a bit of pride at the fact that a time or two his own former colleagues at the university had contacted him with a thorny historic art puzzler they hadn’t been able to decipher.
He hadn’t acquired the handle Professor only as a nickname designating his one-time profession. He still ran his business, as he chose to think of it, in a studious manner. If he was going to charge his clients the fees he did—he never liked to think of them as crooks on the one side and black market buyers on the other—he had to know everything he could about them, and about the merchandise they brought him to move or asked him to locate. It kept him in the know . . . and out of trouble. No sudden surprises. He liked it that way.
Now all of a sudden Stonecroft was dead. And it wouldn’t be hard to trace him back and link them together. Everyone on the streets of Oxford knew the Professor and Stonecroft were close friends. Though he had been part of this world long enough to know how to blend into the intelligentsia around here, Stonecroft stood out like a sore thumb. There’d never been much reason to hide it before, and their relationship went back fifteen years, before either had gotten involved in this business. But now, suddenly, his connection to Stonecroft had become a lethal liability.
His friend was dead! He could still hardly believe it! No wonder he hadn’t been able to locate him for the past forty-eight hours. Now he was likely to be next! He had to get back home. He had to sit down, behind double-locked doors, and think! Perhaps have one last pleasurable gaze over his treasures.
This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen at Oxford. This was supposed to be a quiet little town. That’s why he’d remained here.
He’d known those two bumbling idiots Tex and Mex were flunky underlings the moment they’d contacted him. “Your contact’s a Mr. Smythe at the Shrewsbury office of Trans Global,” the Texan had said in his annoying drawl. “Anything comes up, Mac, and you need to get in touch with us, you just call them up and ask for Mr. Smythe with a y. You gotta say it like that, ‘Let me talk to Mr. Smythe with a y,’ and they’ll know what you mean. You got that, Mac?”
What a positively irritating chap! Why they’d sent a mismatched pair like that, he could never understand. He couldn’t imagine a respected company like Trans Global employing such nincompoops. Sure, a company of Trans Global’s repute might have a division in its operation financing an archaeological dig someplace. It would be good PR for them. And they might well come to him to evaluate their find. But surely the people involved would be of a higher caliber than those two buffoons!
That’s why he’d put Stonecroft right on them. He had to know who was really behind this thing. If Trans Global, then who in Trans Global . . . and why? It was obvious from the first that the assignment was far bigger than the little tokens they’d brought him to evaluate. But he never dreamed who his friend would turn up.
Stonecroft had called from London two afternoons ago with the startling news that Tex and Mex had turned the goods back over to none other than Pingel.
Pingel! He hadn’t heard of him for years. This truly was turning into an international operation! And if he was involved, unless there had been some dramatic upscale change in Pingel’s loyalties, it meant that none other than the General was behind it all, funding and directing the strings of whatever was going on.
He’d never dealt with the man directly. And he didn’t want to start now. But his reputation in the nefarious circles in which the Professor often had to circulate was vast.
The General connected to Trans Global Enterprises, one of Europe’s most prestigious firms . . . it was incredible! Just last month he had read that the Prime Minister had cited the chairman and directors of Trans Global as particularly to be commended for their valiant fight against pollution, calling Trans Global “a company that sets a standard for integrity in this changing industrial age, of which the nation is proud.” Edward Heath did not dish out such compliments lightly.
This was not only unbelievable . . . it was a dangerous piece of information to possess! If Interpol got wind the General was involved with Trans Global, it would seriously damage the company’s prestige. Especially if—but no, that was too fantastic a notion even to consider . . . that the General was actually running Trans Global behind the scenes!
The General was not the sort of man you tangled with. The minute he’d hung up the phone he’d known what he must do. He had to get out of this transaction altogether. The General was known for dusting off people who crossed him. Pingel was the man who usually enforced that policy.
Even before he’d had the chance to figure out how he was going to do it—a man like the General didn’t like cowards either, or fences who reneged on deals—Stonecroft had called again, this time from Heathrow. He was watching him right now, he said. He’d learned his destination from a ticket agent he’d slipped a few quid. The name of the city confirmed everything! Hardly surprising, said Stonecroft. It’s where all those guys went. He’d see him safely onto the plane, then hustle back to Oxford with a full report.
That was the last time he’d heard from his friend.
Now suddenly, just minutes ago, he’d learned that his body had turned up at the airport, out behind a pile of carts near a deserted hangar.
The moment he’d heard, a cold terror had seized him. The only question that still remained was whether Pingel had gotten on the plane. Probably by now the General himself knew the Professor had put Stonecroft onto his men. The General wouldn’t like that.
He had to get home, and then to safety. Maybe to Dublin, Scotland . . . even the Continent. Pingel had never taken that flight. He was here . . . somewhere. He knew it.
He could feel his presence . . . stalking him!
I’ve got to get out of here . . . away from Oxford! thought the Professor one more time to himself. Then he flew out of his temporary hiding place. He did not stop again until he was safely inside his flat, doors securely locked behind him.
Nervously he made his way to every window to make sure all the shades were pulled. Then he cautiously turned on but one small lamp, and at last, all precautions taken, collapsed on his bed in exhaustion.
24
An Accident
Timidly Hilary opened the door of her room.
For so long she had been used to being in charge. She had had to make her way in life by a determined self-reliance that did not cower in the face of opposition. When she walked through the doors of The Berkshire Review, eyes turned toward her in expectation. She was the center of focus, the one who set the magazine’s momentum.<
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Now here she was feeling like a thirteen-year-old suddenly thrust into a new boarding school where she was a stranger amid long-time friends. She was reluctant to so much as walk downstairs alone. She had never felt so out of place in her life.
She stepped out into the corridor, glanced in both directions, then turned to her left. That much at least she was certain of, though it would take some time to familiarize herself with the maze of hallways, rooms, courtyards, parlors, and staircases that comprised the great castle of Stonewycke. She had been fortunate enough to sleep past breakfast, though Logan had come to her room in midmorning and had taken her out and shown her around. They had seen none of the rest of the family. Allison, he said, had remained in bed too, with a severe headache. She would join them for lunch later in the dining room. Now, Hilary only hoped she could remember his directions of an hour and a half earlier.
Her footsteps echoed ominously as she walked. Around any corner she half expected to encounter Lady Macbeth or some Dickensian ghost from a past generation.
At least she did not feel entirely alone in this respect. It seemed that Allison and Logan Macintyre, as little as she had seen of them, seemed a bit out of place as well. Perhaps it was only because they were so much a part of the contemporary world. At the same time, Logan had appeared completely at ease this morning as he showed her several ancient paintings in various corridors, and a five-hundred-year-old vase probably worth tens of thousands of pounds. He seemed comfortable in both worlds, the old and the new, maintaining a kind of casualness toward the house, mingled with not a little respect as well. Actually, the only one who seemed entirely in keeping with the surroundings was Jo, who, with her demure refinement, looked more the part of a Victorian heroine than a Baltimore debutante.
Hilary reached the first-floor landing, hesitated a moment to check her bearings, then started down to the ground floor. There she turned to the right, walked past the family parlor, and arrived at last at the door of the dining room.
Well, she thought, this is it. Time to make my first “appearance” with the family.
She reached out, turned the latch, pushed open the door, and walked inside.
“Ah, Hilary,” said Logan cheerfully as he rose and walked toward her with a smile. “I see you’ve found your way.”
“Your directions were very clear,” she replied.
“Well, I know the hazards of being a stranger in this place,” he went on. “I’m not too old to remember my first days here, and I can tell you it was an intimidating experience, even for a streetwise youngster like I was.”
Hilary quickly took in her surroundings. Besides Logan, only Jo was in the room, seated at Logan’s left hand. She smiled warmly in acknowledgment of Hilary’s arrival, but neither spoke to the other.
“Please, Hilary, sit down,” said Logan. “My wife will be here soon. She felt better an hour ago and decided to take her morning walk.”
Hilary moved around the table to a chair opposite Jo’s. “Come now, Mr. Macintyre,” she said lightly as she seated herself, “I can hardly picture you intimidated, even by a centuries-old castle.”
Logan laughed, but before he had a chance to respond, Jo spoke up. “Just wait till you know my father better, Hilary,” she said. “He’s full of surprises.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the next moment.
Logan cleared his throat. “And that, I’m afraid,” he said as his face turned serious, “pinpoints, as it were, our present awkwardness.” He took a deep breath before going on. “I don’t know how to make this pleasant, for either of you,” he paused, glancing in turn toward each of the women. “But the fact of the matter is clear enough: my wife and I had but one daughter. And now, after all these years, it seems suddenly we have two! We’re going to do all we can to resolve this confusion as quickly and painlessly as we can. We’re going to have everything checked and re-checked. I’ve already contacted your solicitors in Glasgow”—here he turned and looked in Jo’s direction, then glanced around toward Hilary—“and we’re going to have to do what we can to trace Lady Joanna’s last weeks to see if we can verify what she apparently turned up.”
A puzzled expression flitted across Jo’s face, but it passed quickly and she said nothing.
“But,” he went on, “as much as I am concerned for each of you, the point remains that somewhere a most distressing mistake has been made. I just hope in the end we will all be mature enough to handle the outcome in a Godly manner.”
“Are you certain I ought to remain here?” asked Hilary, finally voicing the question that had been haunting her all day. “It might be easier for you all if I just stayed at the inn, or even perhaps if you just notified me in London once it is resolved.”
“We had this same conversation last night, as I recall,” answered Logan. “Believe me, Hilary, we do want you here.” As he emphasized the word, Hilary thought she detected a hint of sternness, a side of himself Logan Macintyre had not shown her before. “Besides,” he added more jovially, “there is no reason we cannot be hospitable. However this turns out, think of yourself as our guest. After all,” he added with the old gleam in his eye, “you and I both have to return to London and, if not exactly work together, at least coexist on opposite sides of the press-Parliament debate. For that reason alone we ought to be friends!”
“You are very persuasive,” said Hilary.
“Come, both of you,” he said as he rose and took a coffeepot from the sideboard, “let’s have a cup of coffee while we wait for Allison. I can’t imagine what’s keeping her.
“Hilary,” said Logan as he filled their cups with coffee, “I was wondering one more thing about your conversation with my mother-in-law. This morning you told me—”
But the sudden look that passed over Hilary’s face arrested him in mid-thought. “What is it?” he asked.
“I’d completely forgotten!” replied Hilary in an animated expression. “I can’t imagine why it slipped my mind. But when you mentioned Lady Joanna again, it all came back!”
“What came back?”
“The locket . . . she and I talked about the locket!”
“What locket?” asked Jo.
“A locket I’ve had since before I can remember,” said Hilary. “The instant Lady Joanna saw it, the strangest look came into her eyes. She said . . .”
As Hilary took a breath, the silence in the room was deep.
“ . . . she said it used to belong to her, and that she’d passed it down to your wife.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Logan as his hand crashed down onto the table to the resounding sound of tinkling china and silver. “That could be the solution to this whole thing! Do you still have it?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Where? Are you wearing it?”
“It’s in my room. I don’t think I ever took it out of my overnight case.” She laid her linen serviette on the table. “I’ll get it right away.”
“By all means!” said Logan enthusiastically. “We’ll have Allison in here to take a look and once and for all—”
Before he could finish, the sound of a commotion outside in the hallway met their ears.
“What in blazes?” said Logan as he hurried to the door and out into the corridor. Hilary and Jo followed him.
A knot of household employees was making their way toward the dining room from the direction of the kitchen. The cook and housekeeper hovered about, while Jake the stableman walked up, carrying Allison in his arms. Logan rushed forward, concern evident throughout his features.
“I’m all right,” said Allison as he approached. “I took a bad fall and Jake insisted on carrying me.”
“Bad canna be the word for it, sir,” said Jake. “My leddy’s lucky to be alive. Ye must fetch the doctor here sure. It wouldna surprise me if her ankle be broke.”
“Posh, Jake!” insisted Allison. “I’m fine, I tell you. Set me down.”
Begrudgingly Jake complied. Allison took Logan’s arm.
“Will
one of you please tell me what happened?” said Logan, his stern voice now showing through clearly.
“I slipped on the footbridge,” said Allison.
“Slipped ye didna, my leddy,” argued Jake. “The bridge gave way, an’ ’tis only the grace o’ God that ye’re no lyin’ at the bottom o’ the creek right noo.”
“I was out there just yesterday,” said Allison, “and it was perfectly sound.”
“Ye go oot there every day,” insisted Jake, “and I doobt ye’d be fallin’—”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” asked Logan.
“Yes, it will be fine,” Allison replied. “But I’ve interrupted luncheon.”
“Don’t worry about that; we hadn’t even begun.”
“I shall go call the doctor,” said Jo.
She turned and hurried away, while Jake ambled off in the direction from which he had come, muttering something indistinct about not being able to keep pace with the deterioration of a place this size, while the cook and housekeeper made their way back toward the kitchen with heads together buzzing.
Logan led Allison, limping, into the dining room, where he gently set her down upon the settee.
“Perhaps a drink of water, my dear?” said Logan. Allison nodded and took the glass he offered. Only after a long swallow did Allison first seem to notice Hilary where she stood about ten feet away. She smiled up at her.
“Hilary,” she said, “I haven’t had the chance to see you since you came back with Logan last night. Welcome—once again—to Stonewycke.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
Hilary had taken in the whole scene like the reporter she was, as if her eye had been the lens of a camera, objectively observing the passage of events, followed by the reactions of the principal characters involved. She could hardly help the unconscious attempt to locate the proper angle for an article. It would no doubt fall into the category of human interest, focusing perhaps on the love she had read in Logan’s eyes, or the genuine concern and devotion of the employees for their mistress. Colorfully intriguing was Jake’s gruff insistence that seemed to imply some sinister motive afoot, quickly dismissed by the more level-headed master of the house, leaving the disgruntled handyman walking off alone with no one to grouse at but himself.
The Treasure of Stonewycke Page 18