The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  The voice of her companion interrupted her momentary reverie. “What are you thinking?” he said. “The oddest look just came over your face.”

  “Oh, forgive me.” She gave a light, though hollow chuckle. “I was thinking again about this family. As you said, they grow more and more remarkable.”

  “But surely you have noticed how down-to-earth they are.”

  “That doesn’t alter what they are.”

  “On the contrary,” he rejoined, “I believe it is what they are. The other—the position, the titles, the notoriety, the public spotlight—that’s all peripheral to what these people really are. I do believe they could walk away from all that and not change an iota.”

  “Yes, I suppose I have seen that,” she remarked quietly, thoughtfully. “Mr. Macintyre is a different sort of politician than most I encounter. There is a reality to him even I find refreshing. But you must understand that I grew up on the East End in nothing much better than a tenement. My father worked hard for a living—twelve, fourteen hours a day—to put bread on the table and a little besides—for me. I was an oddity on my street when I went away to the university. True, in recent years I’ve rubbed shoulders with some important people, and traveled to places my parents would never have dreamed going. But it doesn’t matter a great deal where I was actually born. I don’t even know that. Whether it was here, or in London, the roots of my being, the person I have become, still spring from simple folk. That’s my point of reference to life. I can’t change that. I don’t think I even want to.”

  “But what if those London experiences aren’t your roots? What if you were transplanted there? Don’t you want to know from what stock the taproot of your life truly comes, independent of the sort of tree you may have been grafted onto before you can even remember?”

  Hilary was silent a while. “You have a very good point, Mr. Jameson,” she finally said.

  “Ashley . . . please.”

  “Nevertheless, that was very deftly put. You do have a way with logic, I must say. I suppose I didn’t want to examine that taproot in my own life at first. I was content with who I was and didn’t want to discover that in reality I was someone different.”

  “Doesn’t truth dictate that you have to find out?”

  “Truth, Ashley?”

  “Yes. If something is true, aren’t we bound to find out, to learn whether it is, and to order our lives by it?”

  “Bound by whom, by what?”

  “By . . . integrity . . . by truth itself! To refuse to seek after, and know, and live by truth would be complete and total inconsistency. To me truth must be the guiding principle no matter what your other philosophical leanings.”

  “Strong words.”

  “But true words. Truth is the foundation stone for life, for rational thought, even for emotions. To deny truth, in even a small area of your life, is to deny your own personhood, and thus become a nonbeing. Truth—seeking first to know it, and then to live by what you have discovered—is the essence of life. There’s no such thing as what you said earlier—ignoring who you really are so you can keep being someone you’re not. Don’t you see? That’s nonpersonhood, nonbeing. The opposite of truth isn’t falsehood, as the theologians and philosophers would have said a century ago. Neither is it different truth for you and me, as the modern theologian and philosopher quacks would say today. No, the opposite of truth is emptiness, nonbeing . . . ceasing altogether to have meaning.”

  “You are very convincing. What you say makes sense. I see I have not thought this through nearly enough.” She paused; an odd flicker passed through her eyes, then she added, “I do want to live by truth, Ashley, however it may appear to the contrary.”

  “I believe you.”

  “If my taproot, as you say, comes from elsewhere than I had anticipated, even from such an unlikely source as the nobility of northern Scotland, then I will have to deal with that. You are quite right, it is not a fact I have the option of ignoring.”

  “Perhaps you won’t have to make that decision. It may well turn out that Jo is the daughter, anyway, leaving you content with your East End upbringing.”

  Hilary peered over the rim of her raised cup at this peculiar professor. Was he mocking her with this sudden twist to a serious discussion? Or was he—consistent with what he had just been saying—merely speaking the truth without malice or motive?

  From his passive expression, she couldn’t tell.

  But she did suddenly realize one thing. She had intended on grilling him for information, yet somehow he had turned the tables and she had been the one on the receiving end. The same thing had happened this morning.

  She really shouldn’t talk so freely—at least not until she had figured out just what he was up to.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said at length; “my worry may all be much ado about nothing, as they say.”

  After ten more minutes of inconsequential conversation, Hilary yawned and declared herself ready for bed.

  “I think I might have another cup, myself,” replied Jameson. “But I’d be happy to walk you back to your room.”

  “Oh no, don’t bother,” said Hilary, rising. “I can find my way. What harm could be afoot on a peaceful night like this when everyone else in the place is asleep?”

  “No doubt you’re right,” he laughed. “Thank you for joining me. Good-night.”

  On her way upstairs, Hilary reflected on their talk. He was on the mark, of course. She might not be Logan and Allison’s daughter after all. As emotion-charged as had been her time with Lady Joanna, and notwithstanding the locket and the journal, the lady’s visit could have been nothing but a misguided mistake. If so, it would not be long before her life would get back to normal. She would continue on as Hilary Edwards. Then she would have to face no major changes, no emotional upheavals in coming to grips with her identity—just as she had wanted in the first place.

  Yet even as she tried to convince herself that maybe such a turn would be for the best, she realized that now she wasn’t so sure she wanted it that way anymore.

  She entered her room and sat down on the bed, still deep in thought. She really ought to return the journal. There had been so much discussion surrounding it, everyone had wanted to see it, she should give it safely back into Allison and Logan’s hands.

  Hilary stood again, walked around to the other side of the bed, knelt down beside the suitcase, and almost without conscious thought reached for the journal.

  It was not there!

  A quick panic seized her. Hastily she rummaged her hand through the few items on top of which she had set the manuscript, but Joanna’s pages were not in the suitcase!

  She jumped up and frantically scurried about the small room until she suddenly spied the manuscript lying on top of the dressing table. She grabbed it up with both hands and held it to her breast, exhaling a long sigh of relief.

  With the journal still clasped to her, she sat down in her chair as one suddenly delivered from a nightmare, leaned back, and closed her eyes. The locket was bad enough; she could not lose this journal! It was too precious, and as if to assure herself once more of its reality, Hilary opened her eyes and gazed once more on the handwritten signature on the cover, and the words she had grown so familiar with: Stonewycke Journal.

  She sat for some minutes, quietly rocking, still holding the book to her, reflecting on her visit with Lady Joanna. But as the initial alarm subsided and she was thinking more clearly, she began to question just what the journal was doing on the table. Hadn’t she placed it in the suitcase on the floor just before Ashley had knocked on her door?

  Yes, she was sure of it! But then that could only mean—

  Was it possible someone had been in her room?

  The idea seemed incredible, yet as Hilary stood and began to walk slowly about, there was one of the drawers not quite closed. She never left drawers like that. Alarm coming over her again, she rushed to the wardrobe in which she had placed her few clothes.

  Every
thing seemed in order. Yet they did appear shoved more to one side than she remembered. Had someone been through her very clothes, actually snooping through her pockets? She shivered with the thought.

  Retracing her steps, she returned to the dresser, opening one drawer at a time, now bringing all her reporter’s instincts to bear on a thorough examination of each, struggling to recall precisely where every item had been placed when last she had used each drawer. As she methodically made her way from one drawer to the next, a resolute look of confirmation gradually came over her.

  Yes, there could be no doubt. Someone definitely had been in her room! Everything had been carefully put back in order, but not until it had been ransacked first. Someone had been looking for something, and then tried to make the room look just as it had been.

  Had it not been for the misplaced journal, Hilary would never have known!

  Who could it have been? The thought plagued her, although the choices were extremely limited. The viscount had left the house hours ago, and she was with Ashley. That left only Logan, Allison, and Jo . . . or one of the maids, or Jake. No one seemed a very likely suspect. If they had wanted to read the journal, why hadn’t they simply asked?

  But no, she thought suddenly. If it had been the journal the interloper was seeking, then why had he left it? And why had the rest of the room been disturbed when the journal was clearly visible?

  Whoever it was had clearly been after something else! What could it possibly be?

  But even with the question, immediately Hilary knew the answer.

  Of course . . . the missing pages! The ending to Lady Joanna’s manuscript!

  No doubt the intruder had glanced quickly through the journal itself first to see if she had been telling the truth about the ending. Then, not finding any substantive information there, he had laid it down and quickly gone through the remainder of the room, forgetting to replace the manuscript in the suitcase.

  Suddenly for the first time came the question: How had her unwelcome guest known she would be gone from her room?

  And in the same moment came the frightening thought that perhaps the culprit had merely waited, somewhere close by but out of sight, until an accomplice succeeded in getting her out of the way for twenty or thirty minutes! Perhaps with an invitation to tea!

  So—perhaps those around her were not as transparent as they seemed!

  Sitting down again, the journal still clutched in her hands, Hilary resolved anew to be on her guard.

  ———

  Professor Ashley Jameson waited ten minutes after Hilary left the kitchen.

  He rose slowly, cleaned up the few tea things, then exited himself. He moved quietly along the darkened corridors, came to the main staircase, which he ascended, being careful not to make a sound. But instead of continuing up to the third floor where his room was located, he paused and turned to his right. He passed stealthily through two long hallways, around a corner, and came finally to two large oak doors at the end of the hallway.

  Here he paused, glancing both ways, then pulled out a large old-fashioned iron key. He inserted it into the lock and turned the latch. The door opened with only the hint of a creak, and Jameson walked inside.

  It was pitch dark. He groped about carefully for several moments before his hands found the lamp he had been seeking, nearly knocking it over before his fingers were able to switch it on.

  The light flooding the chamber revealed a spacious sitting room, decidedly distinct in its French provincial decor from the heavier, Elizabethan furnishings in the rest of the castle. In daytime hours the room must have been light and airy with abundant sunlight streaming in through the French doors that opened onto an outdoor veranda. But the damp, chilly atmosphere of the place indicated that it had probably not been opened up in months, perhaps years.

  Well, he thought to himself, there may or may not be anything in her room—I will have to find that out later. He still had to look through the library more thoroughly, as well as in the other places Allison’s mother would have been likely to frequent. But here possibly he would find something to at least point him in the right direction.

  Whether Jameson realized the historical significance of the room he had just entered was doubtful. For he had just entered Lady Atlanta Duncan’s own personal sitting room.

  He walked directly to the French provincial desk situated near the French doors, sat down at the chair still there, and immediately went to work.

  40

  Hostilities

  The next morning Hilary was late coming down for breakfast. When she arrived in the dining room she found it empty, although platters and covered bowls still sat on the sideboard. Ambling to them, she lifted a lid or two, but found the contents lukewarm and unappealing. Suddenly she wasn’t very hungry anyway.

  Trying to decide whether to have a cup of coffee at least, she turned to see the cook walk in.

  “’Tis all cold by noo,” she said in a slightly remonstrative tone. “But I can be warmin’ it up for ye, dearie.”

  “Thank you, no. I don’t think I’m going to have anything after all.”

  “’Tisna guid t’ be goin’ wi’oot yer breakfast, ye ken.”

  “I’ll be fine. But where is everyone, Mrs. Gibson?”

  “Here an’ aboot. I heard talk o’ a drive to toon later.”

  Opting to go without coffee, Hilary wandered out, just in time to see Logan walk by.

  “Good morning, Hilary!” he said cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you. Once I got to sleep.”

  “Mice in the walls?” he asked with a laugh.

  “Actually, more like persons unknown in the halls,” she replied.

  “Oh?”

  “I think I had an uninvited visitor in my room last night.”

  “You think?”

  “While I was gone from my room for a few minutes.”

  Logan grew grave. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused, appearing deep in thought, then said, “Who else knows of this?”

  “No one,” Hilary replied. “I’ve seen no one since. I only just now came down.” As she spoke, her journalistic instincts scrutinized Logan’s eyes—after all, he was one of the persons who would have had a strong motive for unearthing the end of Joanna’s journal.

  “I’m on my way to the library, Hilary,” he went on. “Won’t you walk with me?”

  She nodded, and they continued down the corridor. For some time neither spoke. Then at last Logan began.

  “I’ve wanted to talk with you, Hilary,” he said. “I realize the awkwardness of this situation, and there are times I repent of having twisted your arm to come. I worry that I may have done you an injustice.”

  “No harm has come to me yet,” said Hilary lightly.

  “Nevertheless, I feel bad that we—perhaps I should say I, for my wife is quite unlike herself these past few days—have been so lacking in hospitality and have left you more or less to fend for yourself. It has not been intentional, I assure you. But with Allison’s sickness, which continues to grow worse and baffles the doctor, and with these other guests, not to mention ongoing business I have to tend to, I’m afraid I’ve just been rather swamped. I’m on my way to return a call to London right now.”

  “I understand. I know you’re busy.”

  “In any case, please accept my apologies. It was my hope we could get to know one another better. Unfortunately that has not exactly happened. And there is of course the uncertainty of it all as well, which I had hoped my inquiries would have cleared up long before now. But alas, that has not happened either, and we appear no further toward a solution than before.”

  “I take it then that you did not send someone to my room?” Hilary said with a laugh, intended to sound humorous while still getting at the truth.

  “That’s a good one!” chuckled Logan. “But if I’d have wanted to find something, I’d have just come and asked you.”

  She knew he was right. That is exactly what a straightforw
ard man like Logan Macintyre would have done. How could she doubt him?

  “How is Mrs. Macintyre?” asked Hilary in a new vein.

  “Not good,” he replied with a serious expression. “She is up today, and even talking about driving to town with Jo. But she is pale, and I am worried. I can’t imagine what is the problem.”

  “Her ankle?”

  “No, no, it can’t be something that small. She’s had little injuries of that kind before, but nothing to knock her so out of sorts.”

  From what Hilary had read in the journal, Allison Macintyre did not seem the sickly sort. On the contrary, she came across as having inherited a full dose of the family spunk. Perhaps the fall had taken more of a toll than anyone—including her husband—realized.

  “Well, here we are at the library,” said Logan, “if you’ll excuse me. But we’ll talk again . . . and soon. I promise to make your stay here more pleasant than it has been. In the meantime, please make yourself at home. Go anywhere you like. Not only do I want to know you better, I want you to know Stonewycke.”

  With that he disappeared inside.

  Hilary continued on, wandering aimlessly through the deserted corridors. It came into her mind to have a look inside the portrait gallery past which they had gone the other day. She stopped, tried to get her bearings, and then set off in the direction of what she hoped was the East Wing. That should get me close to the gallery, she thought. In fact, maybe I’ll have a peek at some of the mysteriously unused rooms down in that section, too. Everywhere she turned this ancient castle held fascination!