The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  To Arnie, Logan merely laughed. But inside the suggestion took root. He struggled with the possibility for a long while. He no longer cared to submit to his “natural” instincts, whatever they might be. A wise priest had once told him: “Certain things are truly natural because they come from God. Others are not natural because they originate in our so-called ‘natural’ man.”

  He had prayed a long while, over the course of many months, right here in Digory’s old room, before he gradually became certain that God did indeed desire him to embark on this new career. And after that first election, which had been a battle worthy of the name, he first understood what Jean Pierre had meant when he spoke of giving oneself wholly to what one is called to do. Becoming a member of Parliament had indeed provided direction in his life. And more, it gave meaning—something he had not found in any of his previous natural endeavors.

  Yes, Logan had come to this stable loft in the wake of many crises, and to face many difficult decisions. And thus he had come today, even if it had been a year since the last time. The problem facing him this day was unlike anything he had ever confronted, and was a question filled with many complications.

  A heavy oppression had grown upon him these last two days since Hilary’s arrival. It only made his confusion of late greater. He knew the source of the pressure—it came from the host of unpleasant questions that had been bombarding him. It was not hard, therefore, to associate the oppression with Hilary herself and her arrival.

  But when he went deep down inside himself, he had to admit that it had begun even prior to her coming. He had not been able to pinpoint it. Then she had come, and his disquietude took on wider dimensions. Yet somehow he viewed Hilary more as a victim than an instigator. Still, her presence in and of itself raised even more questions. It had come to a head just moments ago in the parlor. Seeing the two young women together, alone, both of them in a frightfully awkward position toward one another—at that moment he had known he had to do something—and soon.

  But what? Ultimately, it all seemed to come back to Lady Joanna.

  Why had she gone to see Hilary? And without mentioning a whisper of her intent to anyone? It seemed too far-fetched a story for Hilary to have fabricated. And how else could she have gotten hold of the journal? Joanna had admittedly become quieter than usual about two weeks after Jo’s arrival. But if she’d had questions, why had she kept them to herself? If only he knew what she had known, whom she’d talked to, what she’d learned and where, maybe some of his own questions would have come into focus. But it was too late to find such things out. She was gone, and her secrets with her.

  He and Allison had hoped that by inviting Hilary to Stonewycke, their own instincts and discernment would have the chance to get at the truth; that somehow seeing the two women together for an extended period of time might reveal which one was truly their daughter. But each bore distinctive family characteristics, and after this afternoon he realized he had to take some greater form of decisive action.

  He was sure the whole mix-up would in the end be explained by some clerical blunder—either by Jo’s Glasgow lawyers and investigators, or by Lady Joanna in her oddly timed quest that had landed her in Hilary’s London office. On one side or the other, there had to be an easily explained error.

  Yet another terrible suspicion nagged relentlessly at him. And down inside perhaps this was the crux of his recent anxieties. It was so unthinkable he had not even mentioned it to Allison. But if he was going to get to the bottom of this it had to be considered. Was it possible that one of these women could purposely be attempting to deceive them?

  The very thought made him tremble. For if it were true, then the level of such duplicity was incredible. Logan was well known for his ability to read a man’s face—one of his attributes as an ex-gambler that served him well. But in this present dilemma he could not venture so much as a wild guess who the impostor might be. If there was indeed hypocrisy, there must be evil genius behind it. Which was why he could not bring himself to believe such a thing. It was too fantastic for even him to swallow.

  Perhaps his talent for probing the depths to discern hidden motives did not extend to women’s faces. Or was he just too personally involved to be properly objective?

  He did not dwell on that train of thought for long. He remained convinced that somewhere an enormous mistake had been committed. But in any case—foul-up or fraud, innocence or deceit—he had to do what he could, and take what precautions lay open to him.

  He walked into the alcove where the table and chair Digory had used still sat. He eased himself down into the chair, propping his elbows on the table, then bowed his head in prayer.

  28

  Help From a Friend

  When Logan descended the steps from the old loft some thirty minutes later, at least some of the peace he had been seeking had come to him. While he didn’t have a complete answer to his dilemma, he did know what action he must take next.

  He breathed deeply of the homely, wholesome, earthy animal smells around him. Though he didn’t ride, he was glad they still kept a few horses. It was part of Stonewycke’s heritage. This would always be Digory’s stable, he supposed, though many grooms, mechanics, and handymen had come and gone since his great-great-uncle’s time. Logan reminded himself that Digory’s peace had not come because the stable was a quiet place where the anxieties of the world seemed far away. His peace came from a higher Source, and so did Logan’s. Because he felt God had spoken to him just now, he walked with a lighter gait and a ray of hope in his eyes.

  Logan briskly crossed the back grounds and gardens, entering the house by way of the kitchen. The cook was slicing two cold steamed chickens for a late tea; dinner that day had been served at one in the afternoon; Hilary had been with the MacKenzies at the time. The cook threw Logan a cursory greeting, mumbling something about the impossibility of preparing a proper menu with unexpected guests appearing every other day, and with the grocery order being late.

  Logan chuckled to himself. Three months ago she had been complaining about how quiet the place had become. I might not be able to give her warning about our next guest either, he thought. Not just yet, anyway.

  He mounted the stairs to the first floor, turned purposefully down the hall, and came to the library. He opened the door, stepped inside, and glanced about carefully before closing the doors behind him. Certain that he would not be disturbed, he went to the phone on the desk and picked up the receiver.

  “Long distance,” he said when the operator came on.

  He gave her the number, then waited while the connection was made.

  In a few minutes another feminine voice answered. He identified with whom he wanted to speak.

  “May I say who is calling?” she asked in an efficient receptionist’s tone.

  “Logan Macintyre.”

  “One moment, please.”

  There followed a brief pause. Then she came back on the line. “He’s just finishing with an appointment. Can you hold a moment?”

  “Yes,” answered Logan, “I’ll wait.”

  He took the interval to move around the desk to the chair, where he sat down and took some papers from a drawer that needed attending to. He had barely looked at the first one when he heard a masculine voice in his ear.

  “Logan, what a pleasant surprise!” it said. “I’m sorry for having to make you wait.”

  “I know the rigors of a public life,” laughed Logan. “Always busy. But I would appreciate it if I could steal a few minutes of your time.”

  “Of course!”

  “This one’s personal.”

  “Go on. What can I do for you?”

  “I have rather an unusual problem,” Logan replied. He laughed again. “Actually, that’s an enormous understatement, as you’ll see. It’s an extremely delicate matter, and I need some outside input.”

  “From me?”

  “I need someone I can trust, my friend,” said Logan earnestly. “So on that count you are my top choic
e. But I need your keen analytical mind as well. Along with your other, shall we say, non-erudite pursuits—about which you are so closemouthed that even a friend such as myself can’t uncover what you are up to!—don’t you have a chum in Scotland Yard to whom you’ve lent your wisdom upon occasion?”

  Now it was his friend’s turn to laugh. “You make me sound like a genuine mystery man! All from one unguarded comment I made four years ago. I tell you, Logan, you’re imagining the whole thing. I’m just what I appear to be, nothing but an innocent—”

  “I know, I know!” interrupted Logan. “Always the same answer! And you’ve got the credentials to back up what you say. But someday, believe me, I’m going to find out what the deuce you are up to!”

  “A pointless sleuthing exercise where the object is nothing more than the boring chap he appears to be.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment. But tell me, isn’t what I said about your having a friend at the Yard true?”

  “Yes, but my only contributions have been for the sake of mental calisthenics. He’s made me privy to a few of their cases, and sometimes by sheer luck, he solves one when I happen to be around. It is a rather stimulating breather from my boring routine, if nothing else.”

  “Quite, quite! As is this snow job you insist on shoveling my way. Well, perhaps I can propose another ‘breather’ for you, if you are interested.”

  “Proceed. You have my curiosity aroused.”

  Logan briefly outlined his situation, then went on to explain what he hoped his friend might do for him.

  “I’m afraid,” said Logan, “that I have become incapable of being objective. I must be missing something—perhaps the very thing Lady Joanna saw but kept so silent about. Thus, I thought it might be helpful if someone neutral could observe the situation. An outsider, so to speak, sifting through the evidence, helping me to see what perhaps my own eyes are unable to.”

  “There’s no fault with the credentials?”

  “No, none on either side. Everything on the complete up and up. I’ve had everything double, even triple checked. I verified that Lady Joanna did indeed visit the offices of The Berkshire Review at the specified time. And the Edwards girl does indeed possess the journal; the only way she could have obtained it is directly from Joanna. If there is deception involved in any way on her end, it would extend all the way back to my mother-in-law’s being fed spurious information. Yet if that is the case, I can hardly believe the girl herself knows about it. She seems to have been genuinely moved by her encounter with Lady Joanna. All indications point toward complete innocence.”

  “And the other—what did you say her name was?”

  “Jo, after Joanna. That was our daughter’s name.”

  “Yes . . . and what about her?”

  “Nothing much to say. Everything checks out. She seems innocent enough, too. Allison’s been quite taken with her.”

  “Hmm,” mused Logan’s friend, “you do indeed have a puzzle on your hands. Have you consulted the police?”

  “Heavens no,” replied Logan. “No crime has been committed, for one thing. It has to be a muff somewhere down the line. But even more than that—and this is the crux of the matter, after all—one of those women is apparently my own daughter. That alone necessitates treading somewhat lightly.”

  “I see . . . and you would like me to—”

  “Just get to know them, even just socially at first, see what your instincts tell you about the two of them.”

  “That should be an enjoyable exercise! Tell me, what do they look like?”

  “Both beautiful,” replied Logan laughing. “But you would need to come up north for a few days. I know your schedule is—”

  “Nonsense! A vacation will be a welcome diversion. I need to get away!”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll have to clear a few things up, but I’m sure I can manage it. At this point, I’m too curious not to.”

  “There is one last thing I ought to mention,” said Logan. “It might be best if we kept a low profile on your reasons for being here. No need to cause undue tensions. The women will be more open if they are unaware of our connection, and you’ve never met my wife. So I think it would be best if your coming was made to appear purely accidental, and if you and I keep our past association in the background.”

  “Yes . . . I see what you mean. Any suggestions?”

  “You are a clever fellow. You’ll figure something out.”

  “Surprise you, eh?”

  “Right! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this, old chap!”

  “Then don’t. Wait to see if our efforts bear fruit.”

  After solidifying a few more arrangements, Logan bid his friend goodbye and replaced the phone in its cradle. He laced his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

  For some reason he felt relieved. Probably because he had finally taken some action, done something concrete. A solution seemed much closer now than it had several hours ago.

  29

  Postponed Interview

  Hilary had not slept well since her arrival at Stonewycke.

  Part of her temporary insomnia was definitely due to the tension surrounding her visit. It was augmented by the intense quiet of the place once darkness descended. She could hear it now—the sounds of absolute stillness . . . nothing. No night wind was blowing. They were too far from the sea to detect any sound from the shore. The horses in the stable were still. Everyone in the house was in bed. The tranquillity was not broken by so much as the occasional chirping of a cricket, for the cold had driven the creatures into hiding.

  Hilary was accustomed to being lulled asleep to the constant accompaniment of sirens, blasting horns, and the screeching brakes of London’s taxi system. Her city-acclimated mind could not allow the peacefulness of the country to penetrate beyond her surface senses.

  But when she crawled into bed an hour ago, she thought she would have little trouble drifting off to sleep. For the first time in days she felt some release from the burden of confusion that had been weighing her down. For that she could thank Allison.

  Shortly after dinner, following two more rather tedious days at the castle, during which time the temperature had dropped even further, Hilary had ventured up to Lady Macintyre’s room. Allison was still recuperating from her fall, though she had been out and about some today. The doctor had been in, and upon examining the swelling and discolored ankle had remanded her to bed for a minimum of twenty-four hours, prescribing elevation and ice. Jo had been most diligent in tending Allison and bringing in cold packs ever since. She had, in fact, been in almost constant attendance upon Allison, which was the primary reason Hilary had waited so long to visit the patient. But at the first break in Jo’s ministrations, she took the opportunity to pay her own respects.

  “I would have come sooner,” explained Hilary, “but I didn’t want to get in the way. I do hope you’re feeling better.”

  “Much, thank you,” replied Allison. “But I have absolutely no patience with being laid up. I’m more frustrated than anything. I’m no good at all with the helpless woman role.”

  “I understand that,” said Hilary. “Activity is certainly part of my profession.”

  “That’s right, you’re a career woman.”

  “I suppose that’s as appropriate a term as any.”

  “I’m sure all my activity drives everyone crazy at times. My poor mother, as tolerant as she could be, was often scandalized at my outspoken participation in Logan’s campaigns and work. But it just doesn’t pay to try to be something one is not.”

  She paused and shifted her position in bed. “Please, sit down a minute.”

  “Don’t let me wear you out.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I feel fine. Better, in fact, than I have for two weeks—if it just weren’t for my ankle. But I haven’t had a chance to talk with you since your arrival. Perhaps the Lord brought about this accident to force me to be still a while.”


  Hilary pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down.

  “I must admit,” Allison was saying, “that something inside me has been avoiding this conversation. I had no idea what I would say. In fact, I still don’t. The whole situation is filled with so many emotions, many that I have yet to identify within myself. I want to get to know you. But at the same time I have to admit to some fear, for I’ve become very attached to Jo these last two months. She’s become, well . . . if not a daughter to me, then certainly like one. Now suddenly . . . your coming—it’s all very befuddling. I feel like pulling back from everything, from both of you, but I know that won’t solve anything, either.”

  “I understand,” replied Hilary. “I would like nothing better than to run back to my own secure little world. Believe me, I resisted coming back that night Logan met me at the inn. The only reason I decided to stay was that I had already invested so much of myself in my decision to come to Stonewycke in the first place. I couldn’t walk away from it. Besides, after my initial hesitation, I have come to believe quite strongly in everything Lady Joanna told me.”

  “Logan says you have read my mother’s journal.”

  “Yes, and that journal, and the portrait she paints of your family through the years, played a significant part in my decision.”

  “It does seem peculiar that she sent it to you. . . .” Allison seemed to muse over the thought before continuing.

  “I asked her several times if Jo could read it,” she went on. “She agreed whenever I brought it up, but it was always, ‘Let me finish this one section,’ or, ‘I’d like to polish up a few paragraphs first.’ So she never got around to it. She died so suddenly.”

  “She possessed great wisdom, and a wonderful way of expressing herself. The people she wrote about, even you and Mr. Macintyre, are all very real on the pages. I feel as if I know you all.”

  “She is the one who comes through more than anyone else.”