The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “My, but you certainly are well-versed on Stonewycke’s history,” Hilary found herself commenting.

  “I am so fascinated with it all,” replied Jo in her glowing and innocent voice. “I hang on Mother’s every word and am constantly nagging her to tell me more.”

  When no one spoke further, she resumed the dangling thread of the tour. “In this case here is a more recent find—architects’ prints dating to the sixteenth century when Stonewycke was first constructed. They bear Sir James Hamilton’s authenticated signature. He was King James V of Scotland’s own architect and personally supervised the building of Stonewycke.”

  She paused a moment to allow her audience to fan out through the room. Logan disengaged himself from her arm, and wandered aimlessly toward the far wall, focusing more on his own thoughts than on any of the items in the room, with every one of which he was intimately familiar.

  An odd mix of emotions rose in Hilary as she moved about—a strange mingling of detachment and reverence as she studied all the treasures in the room. Part of her felt like a member of a tour group walking through one of the great mansions of Surrey, viewing mere historical relics—antiquities from a time as far removed as ancient Rome or Babylonia. Yet in another corner of her heart, perhaps even her soul, a strange stirring was bubbling into life. She wondered if Jo felt the same way, that same sense of involvement, of personally belonging to this history. Maybe it all stemmed from nothing more than having read the journal. But no analysis could still the palpitating of her heart when she actually beheld with her own eyes Atlanta’s stitchery and Maggie’s handkerchief.

  They departed the heirloom room and continued on. Walking on ahead, Logan had grown uncharacteristically quiet, seeming distractedly to have left von Burchardt alone to the ladies.

  As Logan rounded a corner ahead of them, to her right Hilary glanced inside a door that stood partially ajar. It appeared to be a large open hall, but they passed by so quickly she could see few details.

  “What was that room?” she asked as they continued to walk.

  “That was the gallery,” Jo replied.

  “Might we stop for a moment?”

  “I’d love nothing more than to show it to you,” said Jo, “but it would take quite a while to do it justice, and I think we have already monopolized far too much of Emil’s time. It is almost two o’clock.”

  “I would not want to stand in the way of the lady’s wish,” said von Burchardt grandly.

  Jo’s eyebrow shot up almost imperceptibly; then she turned toward Hilary and smiled. “Let’s wait until we can do it properly, Hilary. It is a very special place, and I know you’ll want to be able to appreciate every painting fully.” Jo’s steps did not slow as she spoke.

  They followed Logan around the corner, and in a minute or two came to a stairway which they descended, soon arriving at the guest parlor. Jo swung the door wide open, the perfect hostess, and allowed her guests to enter. Logan was inside.

  “I have already seen to the preparation of tea,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable, Herr von Burchardt. Jo,” he said, turning toward her, “would you mind helping Flora with it? She’s in the kitchen.”

  Hesitating only momentarily, she turned and fluttered away. As soon as the door had closed, Logan said, “I hope you don’t mind if I excuse myself. It has been a pleasure having you.” He extended his hand to the viscount.

  “I appreciate your hospitality!”

  “I hope I have the opportunity to see you again,” said Logan. “But for the present I must leave you in the company of my two—lovely friends.”

  As Logan exited, von Burchardt took up a position standing by the marble mantel. Hilary seated herself on the rose-colored brocade divan.

  She was about to ask about his family when he first broke the silence with apparently the same idea in mind.

  “I am still rather confused about you two ladies,” he said. “Mr. Macintyre’s attempt to explain it all left me quite confounded. But perhaps I am prying.”

  “I think it is an honest curiosity,” said Hilary. “I would be surprised if you weren’t puzzled by it. I am still rather baffled myself.”

  “But you both have documents to prove your relations to the Macintyres?”

  “Actually, I have no such documents.”

  “But you have other, shall we say, evidence?”

  “I don’t know. That might even be too strong a term. I really have nothing at all now that the locket is missing.”

  The viscount’s face clouded over momentarily, but he apparently thought better of pursuing that line.

  “How does one sort out such a mix-up?”

  “I believe Mr. Macintyre is looking into it all.”

  “Incredible!”

  At that moment Jo returned carrying a tray of refreshments. She set them on the low table in front of the divan and began pouring out tea, quite naturally assuming the role of hostess in the absence of either Logan or Allison.

  Taking his tea and settling into a chair opposite the divan, von Burchardt spoke. “I was just commenting on what an interesting dilemma you both have found yourselves in.”

  “Very unfortunate,” replied Jo, sitting down next to Hilary. She laid her hand on Hilary’s as if to comfort her.

  Hilary cringed involuntarily at the chilly touch of Jo’s fingers. She glanced into her eyes as if to assure herself she would still find warmth in the other’s smile. It was there, but somehow did not reassure Hilary. It was the warmth of October, not of June.

  “Where will you be off to when you depart Port Strathy?” asked Hilary of von Burchardt, attempting to sound upbeat and move the conversation away from their family situation.

  “Wherever a fair wind blows, Fraulein,” laughed the viscount. “But seriously, my journeyings are drawing to a close. After a stop in Aberdeen, we shall make as straight a route as possible for Bremerhaven. I gave my family my word I would be home for Christmas.”

  “Your wife and children?”

  “No, no,” replied von Burchardt with an amused chuckle. “My parents and two brothers. I have no wife at present, and certainly no children. I’m afraid I’ve never been the sort to settle down. There is too much of the wide world to see.”

  “I’ve always been rather a homebody myself,” said Jo.

  “And you,” he said, turning toward Hilary, “perhaps in the spring you would join me on my yacht? Have you been to Buenos Aires?”

  Before Hilary had a chance to respond, Jo’s cup suddenly rattled in its saucer.

  “Oh, clumsy me!” she exclaimed, brushing away the spill from her riding habit. Hilary whisked a serviette from the refreshment tray and tried to help her blot up the stain.

  “I’d better take care of this right away,” said Jo, rising, “or it will never come out.”

  Von Burchardt stood also. “It is time for me to be on my way as well. There are some repairs to my boat I must oversee.”

  “You are welcome to visit us anytime for as long as you are in Port Strathy,” said Jo, momentarily forgetting her mishap.

  “Thank you very much. It will prove a most pleasant diversion, I am sure.” He took Jo’s hand, bowed slightly, and kissed it. Then he turned toward Hilary. As she stood he took her hand also, but she noted that he seemed to linger a bit longer than was necessary as his lips brushed her hand.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, my dear ladies,” he said.

  “Let me walk you to the door, Emil,” said Jo. “I have to go that way myself.”

  Hilary watched as they took their leave, then sat back down and finished her tea, pondering the intriguing interchanges of the afternoon.

  Emil von Burchardt . . . a captivating fellow! she thought. Full of mystery, and—who could deny it?—romance.

  She could not restrain a slight smile at the notion of falling in love with a courageous horseman who had rescued her from disaster.

  Good thing I am no romantic, thought Hilary. I’ve got to keep a level head on my shoulders. Besides, I ha
ve too many other complications in my life right now to add the confusion of love to it. Not to mention the man’s noble blood! Even if I’m going to turn out to have blue blood in my veins, that certainly doesn’t mean I have to fall in love with a nobleman, too!

  She stood and began gathering up the tea things, thinking how appropriate it was that Jo should play the part of the hostess while she acted the servant.

  33

  Stadium Appointment

  These Britons did love their football—though ex-patriate American Murry Fitts would never get used to calling soccer football. It had its exciting moments, he had to admit, though the game itself could never compare to watching the passionate crowds thronging the stands. The stoic English gave all for their game.

  Much as Murry would have liked to concentrate on the rousing action on the turf below, he had come here on other business. The call he had received this morning had been tantalizing as only a journalist could appreciate.

  “Meet me this afternoon if you want the biggest story of your career . . .” had come the enigmatic voice on the other end of the line.

  What reporter could pass up a hook like that?

  He’d met the caller once before, only a few days ago, one of the blokes he had interviewed at Oxford for his antiquities article. That’s where the sensational call began to lose some of its credibility. Why else would he be calling except as a follow-up to their earlier conversation, and what could be so earth-shattering about a bunch of clay shards or ancient swords?

  Now the fellow was fifteen minutes late and Murry was beginning to wonder if he’d been stood up. Glancing down at his watch again, he was trying to decide how much longer to give him when a nervous man passed in front of him.

  “I say, is that seat next to you taken?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is,” replied Murry.

  “Are you quite certain?” persisted the man, looking squarely at Murry, then sitting down in it nevertheless.

  All at once recognition dawned. If the man’s canvas sport hat and dark glasses were intended as a disguise, they had been quite effective. The noise of the crowd made it nearly impossible to be heard. A nice setup, Murry mused. Even if someone was sitting three feet away, he could never tell what we’re talking about.

  “I’m sorry to be late,” the man was saying. “Had to be sure I wasn’t followed—as much for your sake as mine.”

  “What’s this all about, Professor?” asked Murry. “Surely not archaeological finds or ruins of ancient cities?”

  “No, no!” cut in the Professor sharply, as if he had no time for tedious explanations. “It has nothing to do with any of that. This is, as you reporters say, hard news. This involves crime in the highest corporate echelons.”

  “Why don’t you go to Scotland Yard?”

  “Because there are certain . . . aspects of my life the Yard might call into question. I don’t want to end up in prison myself.”

  “You, Professor?” said Murry, with a semi-gleam in his eye.

  “I don’t have time for your foolish banter,” snapped the other, shifting nervously in his seat. “Do you want the story or don’t you?”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “I hope it will save my life.”

  “Explain. Why have you come to me?”

  “I came to you because you were convenient. I had just seen you. I knew how to reach you. I could go elsewhere, but it would take time. That much I will say. But I will explain nothing until I have your answer.”

  Now it was Murry’s turn to shuffle uncomfortably. He wanted no part of an attempt merely to air some personal grievance. Yet if this guy were on the level, with a legitimate story of such magnitude, perhaps involving the underworld, then it might well be of the importance he claimed. It would also mean his fears were on the level too, and that if Murry listened he might be implicating himself in the danger as well. At length he sucked in a deep breath.

  “Okay, let me have it,” he said resolutely. “What kind of reporter would I be if I weren’t willing to take a risk? But I reserve the right to bug out if it gets too heavy.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The Professor glanced surreptitiously about before beginning again. “I can’t give you many details or facts because I don’t have them all myself. But if you look in the right places, you will find all you need. The other day I found out something, and now my life is not worth a farthing. I know running is useless; he will find me no matter what rock I hide under. Nevertheless, once this interview is over, I am gone. It will be pointless to try to look for me. My only hope is to get to him before he gets to me. That’s where you come in.”

  “You’re talking about killing someone?” asked Murry incredulously, half rising. “You’ve got the wrong guy to help you there, pal!”

  The Professor laughed humorlessly. “No one could get close enough—I doubt the entire Queen’s army could get near him—to kill him. The only way to get to him is to expose him. Bring the structure he represents down on top of him. An exposé of the highest order, do you understand? That’s why I need a reporter.”

  “You want me to get the goods on him, then make it public, is that it?”

  “Right on target! But you must hurry. I cannot stay out of his clutches interminably.”

  “So who is the bloke?” asked Murry.

  “Have you ever heard of the General?”

  “What general?”

  “The General,” snapped the Oxford man irritably.

  Murry shook his head.

  “He keeps hidden, extremely low profile,” the Professor went on. “No one really knows who he is. It’s probable a fourth or a fifth of the world’s big underground racket deals—gun smuggling, narcotics—pass through him at some stage. He controls multiple billions of dollars in underworld activities. That’s a conservative estimate.”

  “And he fronts it all with a legitimate operation?” queried Murry.

  “Putting it mildly,” mused the Professor almost to himself. “His legal enterprises are clean beyond reproach. Very respected, very profitable. And until a short time ago no one knew of the connection. As far as I’m aware, I may be the only one at this moment who does.”

  “What connection?”

  “The connection between—are you ready for this?—the General and . . . Trans Global Enterprises!”

  Murry let out a long, incredulous whistle.

  “The Trans Global?”

  “The very same!”

  “How did you find out?”

  “That’s not important. Let’s just say they hired me for a job and I found out more than I was supposed to. And lost a friend in the process.”

  “That’s a rather remarkable accusation,” said Murry. “T.G.E. is right up there with Lockheed and Dow and all the other multi-national corporations. You’re talking about tangling with some powerful boys.”

  “Do you want to back out? I can find someone else.”

  Slowly Murry shook his head. “But how can I touch them, knowing as little as we do?”

  “Sometimes it takes a David to bring down a Goliath,” replied the Professor.

  “That’s easy to say when you’re not the David and don’t intend to stick around for the battle.”

  “If I could help you, I would. But now it is I who must keep a low profile—an extended vacation, as it were. Far away. Besides, you Americans are better at this sort of thing than we are.”

  “What do you expect me to do now?” asked Murry.

  “You’re the investigator. Investigate! You must have friends. Sources, don’t you call them? I tell you, Interpol has a file on the General as thick as your wrist. I don’t know what you should do. If you turn over enough of Trans Global’s rocks, under one of them you’re going to find a scorpion. But watch out—his sting is lethal.”

  “Do I thank you or curse you for this perilous assignment?”

  “Time will tell. Now I must go,” the Professor said hurriedly, already rising. “I’ve already been he
re too long, I fear. If you pull this off and I live to tell about it, I’ll repay you for your efforts.”

  “I’m not doing it for you, Professor.”

  “Ah yes, that American independence and forthrightness again! Well, I hope you get a good story out of it—the Pulitzer Prize and all those other accolades you writers so admire!”

  With those parting words, the Professor turned and squeezed his way along the aisle and soon faded out of sight in the mob of spectators.

  Murry sat back in his seat and exhaled a long sigh, hardly aware of the noise or the game. What have I fallen into? he wondered.

  Pulitzer Prize, indeed! He silently remonstrated himself. I’ll be lucky if I just get out of this without ending up at the bottom of the Thames in a cement overcoat.

  But imagine. What if it could be pulled off? If Hilary were in town, he’d talk to her right away. But she wasn’t, and—danger be hanged!

  He smiled to himself, and knew immediately he was caught!

  34

  Another Arrival

  Snow fell again during the night. Though she slept soundly, when she rose the following morning, however, Hilary felt unrefreshed. It had been five days since she had come to Stonewycke, and there were as yet no signs of a resolution.

  As she dressed, she determined it was time to speak to Logan in a more straightforward manner. Murry was doing a good job filling in for her, but the Review remained her responsibility. I can’t keep my life on hold forever, she thought as she tugged her sweater over her head, for what is beginning to seem nothing more than an illusion—if for no other reason than that I am so frightfully short of clothes! She hadn’t planned to stay more than a day or two and, at that, her packing had been hasty.