“Find anything interesting, Mr. Macintyre?” asked the viscount as he deposited the two ladies back on the deck.
“I’m not much of a sailor, I admit, Burchardt,” answered Logan. “But you certainly seem to have nothing but state of the art equipment.”
“Where was she outfitted?” asked Jameson.
“Bremerhaven.”
“Everything?”
“Mostly. It is my home port. Actually I bought the vessel in Trieste.”
“Ever take her farther south . . . the south Atlantic . . . coast of Africa?”
“No, no,” laughed von Burchardt. “I’m no world traveler!”
Jameson nodded knowingly, but said nothing.
“We don’t want to let that tea get too cold,” said Logan. “Before we go, von Burchardt, won’t you explain your instrumentation? There are a good many I’ve never seen.”
“With pleasure!” replied the viscount with a broad smile. “Won’t you join us, ladies . . . Jameson?” he added, leading the way back toward the front cabin.
———
Fifteen minutes later the small party piled out of Logan’s car in front of the castle.
“Well, that was certainly a pleasant diversion,” said Logan. “Thank you, Burchardt, for the whirlwind tour!”
“Perhaps if the weather turns for a bit, I might take you out, say a run up to the Orkneys for a day or two?”
“You are staying around then?”
“Oh, not much longer, but making plans that are too definite always makes me feel tied down. I merely have to return to the Continent before Christmas.”
When they were seated in the drawing room and Flora had served tea along with some oatcakes and a tray of shortbread, Jameson picked up the thread of conversation.
“So you’re headed back toward Germany then, Herr von Burchardt?” he asked.
The viscount nodded as he sipped at the hot tea. “And then by train down to Vienna,” he added. “But tell me, Macintyre,” he went quickly on, “I’m intrigued by this whole situation of your mother-in-law’s journal. Seems that such a document would shed a great deal of light upon your present dilemma, especially if she documented her contacts and associations, which, as I understand it, turned up different, shall we say, ‘evidence’ than your own?”
“You’re right, I daresay,” replied Logan. “But the journal itself, the main part of it, that is, which Hilary received from Lady Joanna and still has in her possession”—as he said the words all eyes involuntarily glanced in Hilary’s direction then back to Logan—“is not of particular significance.”
A questioning look on the viscount’s face invited further explanation.
“Perhaps you would like to explain what I mean, Hilary. You have read it more recently.”
“Most of what Lady Joanna recorded was family history, detailed lives of her ancestors and a recounting of her own life and coming to Scotland,” said Hilary. “There is no mention of recent events.”
“That’s because the ending is missing,” put in Jo. “Can you believe it? Isn’t it mysterious?”
“Missing pages!” von Burchardt exclaimed. “And you’ve no idea where they might be?”
He seemed to direct the question to Hilary, but then turned back and focused his innocently inquisitive gaze toward Logan.
“Such a pity,” he added quickly, “that such a precious family heirloom should be lost or left incomplete.”
All at once Logan realized he had given the ending to Joanna’s journal no more than passing consideration. Suddenly the truth dawned upon him that she well may have documented her final thoughts and travels in a most revealing way.
“Might we have a look at what you do have, Hilary?” said Logan.
Hesitating awkwardly, Hilary replied, “I really would rather not, right now. This just doesn’t seem like . . . the proper time.”
Slightly annoyed at her rebuff of his request, Logan nevertheless kept his reaction to himself, thought for a moment, then rose. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’m going to dash up and see how Allison is feeling.”
He returned in only two or three minutes, Allison with him.
“I have asked Allison about the journal,” began Logan as they entered the room, “but she has no more idea about the pages than the rest of us.”
“They could be anywhere,” said Allison. “But I have never known Mother to be careless, especially where her journal was concerned. Whatever she did with the final entries, I’m sure it was well-thought out.”
“There would be hundreds of places around here where she might have hidden them,” said Jo.
“Hidden them?” repeated Logan. “I wonder if we’re getting a bit carried away. It may be but an oversight of some kind.” His voice was wary.
“Perhaps we might have a look about the place, split into groups . . . we would want to start with the most likely places frequented by Lady Joanna,” said the viscount enthusiastically.
“I appreciate your concern,” replied Logan coolly, “but this is a matter for my wife and me to resolve. Hilary was right, this isn’t the proper time.”
“Of course! Please forgive me,” said von Burchardt. “I’ve rather gotten carried away with myself, haven’t I?” He chuckled softly. “I suppose I cannot resist a good mystery.”
Jo seemed disappointed at the chilly turn of the conversation away from the pages. Hilary was relieved. Logan’s forehead showed unexpressed thought and concern. Allison looked tired, and Jameson was saying nothing.
“So, do you read mysteries too, Emil?” asked Hilary after a few moments had passed, “or merely try to solve them?”
He laughed. “I’m a doer not a reader,” he replied.
“And you think the two mutually exclusive?” asked Jameson, rising slightly out of his chair. This sounded like the beginning of a discussion more to his liking.
From there the conversation strayed innocuously off into a discussion of Sherlock Holmes, Agatha Christie, and the newest British creator of mystery, Lady Hargreave.
When Hilary ascended to her room later that evening, she found she was very tired. It had been a full day, and the time outside, probably the cold, had sapped her energy. Reflecting upon the day’s events, what remained most vividly in her mind were the two conversations she had had with the two visitors, Ashley Jameson and Emil von Burchardt. Both were fascinating men, although as different as the very worlds they represented—Emil with his polished savoir-faire and striking good looks, Jameson with his unassuming refinement and casual manner. Both were capable of catching one off guard—the viscount with the direct, cheerful, upbeat approach, the professor by the many subtleties which seemed to quietly radiate out of his character.
Why compare them at all? Hilary asked herself. If for no other reason than they both seemed up to something. Why would they show up at the same time, and then hang around incessantly, always asking questions? Something felt peculiar, and she was right in the middle of it!
She sat down on the edge of her bed, thought for a moment, then rose and went to the suitcase, stuffed under the bed, where she still kept the journal. She pulled out the case, reached to the bottom, and pulled out Joanna’s manuscript. She had been meaning to give the book to Allison, but somehow had continued to avoid doing so, even at the risk of appearing possessive of it. She knew her insistence on keeping it seemed peculiar to others in the family, yet somehow she felt it important she not relinquish it just yet. There remained much to resolve, and—who could tell? She might yet be called upon to play an important role in the unfolding of events.
The missing pages . . . Joanna’s final words—they seemed to be the key. But where could they be? Again Hilary thumbed to the last page of the manuscript. Nothing had changed. Again she began to read, realizing as she did that she had never really read Joanna’s final entry, never really perceived what Joanna was trying to say. As she continued her eyes widened. Yet Lady Joanna’s words, if anything, served only to deepen the mystery:
; August 27, 1971—Today and for the last several days it has been stormy like I have seldom seen on this north coast. Perhaps that explains my mood. I usually love these wild Highland blasts. But not today. I am chilled to the bone, and we cannot even keep a fire in the hearth. But what I feel goes beyond mere climatic conditions. It is a heaviness that has come over me, almost a sense of foreboding, as if some evil presence were incarnate in the storm itself. It is a feeling I have had only on rare occasions in my life, and the memories are too unpleasant to recall. Suffice it to say that I recognize the feeling and to this day am repelled by it.
I am not one to give heed to such ethereal notions, but can it be that the Lord is trying to tell me something? Warning me? Perhaps the hour of my death is near. With that in mind I have spent the last hour in prayer, and though no specific answer has come, I do sense a peace invading my heavy spirit, as though the evil may be present in the storm, but His almighty presence IS in and throughout the storm. Indeed, He made the storm and rules over it yet, and even now is preparing His messenger to combat the forces that would destroy what He has built. A Scripture continues to come to my mind which I know is from Him, but I do not yet understand its significance: “The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” Perhaps I do not need to understand just now—it is enough to know that He is indeed with me, and that He will lead me to—
And there the final entry of the journal broke off.
Unexpectedly tears welled up in Hilary’s eyes. “Oh, Grandmother!” she whispered to herself, not even considering that it might not be so. She felt Lady Joanna’s spirit with her, and remembered the lady’s loving embrace. She had felt the love emanating from the dear lady! But was that enough to make her Hilary’s grandmother?
Again she glanced at the date of the passage. I wonder what might have happened that day to put her in such a dark mood? Hilary asked herself. I should question Mrs. Macintyre about it.
She laid the journal back on top of the other things in the open suitcase on the floor, then sat down in the chair next to the window. Tonight there was no light, and although it was still relatively early, only nine o’clock, outside it was pitch black. The moon was still several hours away.
She was so tired—she had to get to bed. Yet she was too keyed up to sleep. The castle seemed unnaturally quiet, as if some mischief were abroad, awaiting the stroke of midnight to unveil itself. She could not keep from imagining noises, first outside, then above her, as though someone were walking softly in a room directly overhead, and then in the hallway outside her door.
With each imagined sound, she strained to hear more and each time was met with only a deeper silence.
For a long time she was undisturbed, and gradually drowsiness began to overtake her. Indeed, the unknown guest in a small sitting room—not above her room directly, but on the next floor and across the hall—was making no more stealthy noise in his stocking feet. The Viscount von Burchardt, whom everyone had bid goodbye about six o’clock, at that moment lay reclining on a sofa, having been let back into the house at a side entrance by his secret accomplice, awaiting the deeper slumber of the occupants of the castle that he might be about the real business for which he had been summoned to Port Strathy.
All remained still. Hilary had just lapsed into semiconsciousness when suddenly a loud knock sounded on the solid wood door of her room.
With a jolt she sat up in her chair, the fear of sudden waking upon her face.
39
Late Tea
“Pardon me, Miss Edwards, for disturbing you so late . . .” came the voice when Hilary opened the door.
In disbelief she found herself staring at Ashley Jameson.
“ . . . but I couldn’t sleep, and I wondered if you would care to join me for a cup of tea?”
“But it’s . . . it’s . . .”
Still disoriented, Hilary glanced down and tried to focus the hands of her watch.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock. I apologize again. I only thought—but if it’s not convenient—”
“No, it’s not that,” Hilary interrupted. “You startled me, that’s all.” Coming to herself, she added, “Yes, I’d enjoy some tea. Just let me put on a sweater.”
In another minute she was back in the hallway, closed her door, and they walked toward the main stairway, speaking softly as they went, as if their very presence in the quiet corridors indicated some sinister intent.
The hallway was chilly and dark except for dim nightlights at each end. As they padded down the deserted passage, Hilary began to have second thoughts about her decision. To her knowledge she was the only one quartered in this particular wing. Jo’s room was around several corners. Logan and Allison occupied the master bedroom not far from Atlanta’s dayroom. She did not know where Jameson’s room was or from which direction he had approached. As they passed closed doors she felt an eerie sensation, as if from the darkness at any moment might spring wild images of wraiths. Hilary was flooded with relief when they turned the corner of the lengthy passageway and saw the stairway at hand. She glanced down in the direction toward Jo’s room, but all was quiet and the lights were out.
Neither spoke as they flitted down the staircase, as if by common consent they knew the night air did not want to be disturbed. Jameson led the way to the kitchen, and upon entering Hilary saw that the lights had already been switched on and a teakettle was already on the stove.
“I see you are already prepared,” she said.
“I hoped you would join me,” he replied, “but I must confess I had my heart set on some tea regardless.”
The room was furnished with modern conveniences—two refrigerators, an electric stove, a long wide tile counter with two spacious sinks at either end, and several other appliances. The cook still burned a wood fire in the brick hearth, however, now chiefly for heat, though at one time that same hearth had been used for huge pots of water and boiling oatmeal and potatoes. At the moment the fire was banked for the night, but still emitted a pleasurably warm radiance.
Hilary found a teapot and the tea. Jameson tended the water, and in about ten minutes they were seated at the rustic thick pine table, each with a warm cup in hand.
“So I take it you were not suffering from insomnia tonight, Miss Edwards?” he began.
“It started out so,” she answered. “I had just drifted off when you knocked on the door. However, it would appear the affliction still plagues you?”
He smiled in that easy, unaffected smile she did not yet know how to interpret. “So it would appear.”
As Hilary sipped the strong black brew, she determined to find out once and for all what this fellow was about, even if it meant she had to relinquish some of her own privacy and aloofness to do so. She had to sort out these people and their motives. Chances are she would learn nothing conclusive from Murry, in which case she was on her own. This story, if there was a story to come out of her sojourn to Stonewycke, would be hers and hers alone to write.
“I enjoyed our conversation of earlier,” she said. “I have missed that level of mental stimulation since coming here. Some of what you said forced me to think.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t cornered Logan—I should say, Mr. Macintyre. I would think with your political interests and leanings, and his position, you could strike up quite a rousing discussion with him.” He smiled wryly.
“The situation hasn’t quite been conducive to that sort of dialogue.” She paused and shook her head thoughtfully, almost regretfully. “I would have liked that though, to really talk to him.”
“Perhaps you may still have the opportunity.” He stirred cream and sugar into his tea.
“I’m beginning to doubt it. I don’t think it will be long before I pack up and return to London.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“Crazy, isn’t it? For someone who didn’t want to come here in the first place, you’d think I’d be glad to go.” She raised her cup to her lips. “There is s
omething about this . . . place. The quiet, the stillness, the openness of the landscape . . . and the people. You should meet this lovely family I’ve become acquainted with down in the valley!”
“Perhaps you can introduce me.”
“Maybe one day we can do that,” said Hilary almost wistfully. “But as I was saying, there is something about this place that grows on you, gets under your skin. Part of me doesn’t want to leave. It has nothing to do with whether I’m a member of this family or not. It’s . . . it’s something bigger than that! At the same time, there is something about this family too . . .”
“Yes, it is a truly incredible family.”
“I thought you had only just met them.” Suddenly Hilary was on the alert again.
“But naturally I have heard things—through Ian, you know.”
“Yes, I’d forgotten. Have you known him long?”
“We’ve been associated at the university for years. He was my professor when I was a student.”
“When was that?”
“I first came to Oxford in 1955. I completed my post-graduate work in 1962.”
Hilary made a mental note of the dates. She’d have Murry do some double-checking next time she spoke with him.
“Then it must be quite a thrill now to collaborate with your former mentor,” she said, as if she were baiting him.
“An honor, to be exact.” The look of admiration in Jameson’s eyes seemed genuine enough. “The man is highly renowned in his field. I don’t know how much of your . . . what should I call it, your ‘potential’ family, you know about. But Lady Allison’s brother Ian is responsible for several important archaeological finds.”
Hilary again found herself aware of the prestige of this clan. In addition to a famous politician, it appeared the noble blood had produced a noted scholar as well. Hardly a surprise, though, she thought. Every one of them, if Joanna’s journal was a correct mirror of character, seemed to have been bestowed with some inexplicable measure of . . . what was it? Godliness, character, integrity . . . ? What was the ingredient that set apart the people she had read about? She had sometimes felt as if she were reading the lives of a family of Old Testament patriarchs . . . or matriarchs, in many cases. Lady Joanna would no doubt have attributed it to the blessings of God, the result of prayers directed heavenward on behalf of future generations. Hilary could not help wondering what more she would continue to discover.
The Treasure of Stonewycke Page 27