The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Logan spun around. His eyes sought Ashley’s, and in another moment the professor was on his way outside to check the car garage.

  Slowly Logan took Allison in his arms. “Well, my dear,” he said with a smile, “let’s get those hands of yours cleaned up, and then put you to bed.”

  Just as they reached the hallway outside the room, Ashley returned.

  “I don’t know which car it was that drove away a minute ago,” he said. “But there’s only one missing from the garage . . . Jo’s. Do you want me to go after them?”

  Logan pondered for a moment.

  “No,” he said at length. “They’re long gone by now. Once they’re on Burchardt’s yacht, we’d never be able to stop them. We’ll have to find some other way.”

  52

  Faraway Alliance

  In the late morning quiet of what had once been the proud command post of a high-placed generalissimo, now only one of a dozen such run-down villas stretching between the capital and Punta Norte, a man sat stirring his morning cup of coffee.

  The weather here is downright fine, he thought to himself. Even after all this time he was still not tired of the sunshine and the 80-degree mornings, though he could not for the life of him acclimate himself to the inverted seasons. Summer in November and December—the thing was ridiculous! But he’d learned to live with everything else in this backward, rat-infested place—why not the seasons?

  He paused in his reflections to sip the strong brew the servant had brought him.

  “Fine weather,” he muttered, “but these blasted provincials still can’t make a decent cup of coffee! Crying shame, too—this close to where they grow the cursed beans, it ought to be better!”

  He took another sip, grimaced, glanced at his watch, looked around, then added: “Where is that confounded idiot with the mail?” As if any of these foreigners could understand him anyway!

  This sedentary life hardly suited him, though he had long ago managed to accustom himself to the inevitable. For one who had thrived on exercising his power over others, such a transition had not come easily. However, seated in the east garden of the villa, with servants at his beck and call—he would have been pleased to know that they at least still trembled at his command—he did manage to maintain a remote suggestion of the appearance of a retired country caballero surveying his range. But his expensive white linen suit was draped over an emaciated, almost wasted frame, and the rakish white straw hat shaded mottled, wrinkled skin from the searing sun. His mind these days was more occupied with reliving past glories, not to mention fomenting of past hatreds, than with the contentedness that should instead have come with old age.

  With a bony hand, yet remarkably steady, he poured more cream into his cup, followed by one more cube of sugar, as if thinking to mask the bitterness of the concoction. It was a ritual he amused himself with every morning, realizing its futility all the while, yet choosing to play out the diversion as one of the few ruses left with which an old conniver could indulge himself.

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a servant, also attired from head to foot in white, but whose three-day growth of beard revealed that he was not a valet or house steward by profession. He, too, had once trained for what he regarded as better things. But in these days, with the Fatherland so Americanized, one had to go where one would be safe, and do what one could to get by. Such a strategy of pragmatism bound the inhabitants of Villa del Heimat together in an amalgamation of loose symbiotic relationships of convenience, seclusion, and survival.

  “Die Post ist here,” he said. “Shall I bring it to you, mein Herr?”

  “Yes, of course, you fool!” exclaimed the other. “I’m expecting an important letter from—never mind from where! Just bring it here!”

  Three minutes later he grabbed away from the hand that delivered it a single letter addressed in the handwriting he had been hoping to see, a flowing hand with which he was intimately familiar. Yet as he ripped open the envelope, the distinctive fire in his eyes reflected venom rather than love.

  Hastily he scanned the two onionskin sheets. This was no time for dilly-dallying with familial pleasantries; he wanted news, even if the letter was dated a week earlier!

  At length he put the letter down and gazed into the distance. The confounded new arrivals at the place had certainly thrown a kink into their plans. But it would all be over soon, and he would have what he had so long coveted. “So,” he mused half articulately, “in the end it is I who remain.” The hint of a smile crept over his aging lips. “And in the end it will be I who achieve this one final conquest. Not this time will you—”

  His dark thoughts were interrupted by the crisp step of an approaching visitor. Glancing up, his face displayed immediate recognition.

  “Ah, Herr Gunther.”

  “Mein lieber Kommandant!” replied the new arrival with a faint grin.

  “I’ve told you not to call me that,” croaked the other with as much visible anger as he could summon. “You know my title! Word must not leak out about my past identity.”

  Gunther laughed.

  “You and your eccentric notions!” he said. “No one down here stands on protocol. No one cares about us. The world has forgotten, don’t you know?”

  “But I have not forgotten! I will never forget. And I will have my revenge!”

  “Yes, yes, and I will do your bidding and help you keep fighting your private little war. But at least I suffer from no false delusions. Even your own company goes on without us.”

  “They do nothing without my consent!” squawked the old man, leaning forward in his chair as if he would wring the neck of his right-hand man for such an impertinent suggestion. “They will yet pay for humiliating me! I will make them pay!”

  “Ah, General, look around,” said Gunther in a highly uncharacteristic moment of philosophy. “This is a time to enjoy the fruits of our labors. It’s not such a bad life. Better at least than that sardine can of a sub where—”

  “You don’t need to remind me of the past—I remember every bitter minute of this wretched existence I’m supposed to call life.”

  “You were glad enough for that existence thirty years ago when you stole the Reich’s U-boat and made your escape.”

  “I well remember the incident!”

  “Then you should know that you are fortunate to still be alive. Many of our comrades have not been so lucky. You know what happened to our friend—”

  “I don’t pay you to preach to me!”

  With a sigh, which indicated that he knew how things were, and that he would continue to wield the General’s gun and carry out his designs of treachery despite his words about pausing to enjoy life, Gunther pulled a yellow envelope out of his pocket. “I have been to the village,” he said. “There was an important communique there for you—an urgent telegram.”

  “Give it to me!” demanded the old man, his shrieking voice cracking with the effort of the words.

  The moment the paper was extended toward him, he snatched it away with a swiftness that contradicted the feebleness of his body, reminding the onlooker of the lightning-quick stroke of a frog’s tongue snatching a fly out of midair. The old man ripped open the Western Union envelope and held its contents up before his rheumy eyes. Then he swore angrily, dropped the letter in his lap, and began groping on the table, knocking over the pitcher of cream in his exasperation.

  “Where are those absurd spectacles?” he shouted.

  The younger, albeit graying, man stepped forward and quickly located them on the table, then handed them to his employer.

  The old man shoved them on his face, then grabbed up the telegram again. His lips moved, ruminating silently on the words his aged eyes beheld:

  IGNORE PREVIOUS LETTER STOP PLAN EXPLODED STOP IDENTITIES IN DANGER STOP HAVE FLOWN COOP STOP FULL REPORT UPON ARRIVAL STOP.

  His face flushed, his eyes bulged with incensed wrath.

  “They cannot beat me again!” he screamed, his entire body no
w shaking with the culmination of his passion as he threw the telegram from him.

  “Calm yourself, General,” said Gunther, concern etched on his hardened sinister features.

  “Shut up! I will never be calm! I will never rest! Not until they pay for this!”

  He bent over in an attempt to retrieve the telegram, but lost his balance, and would have toppled from his chair had Gunther not been there to steady his emaciated frame.

  For thanks the old man spat a barrage of profanity at the man—who now had been with him twenty years—and continued in a steady stream even as another paroxysm of coughing possessed him, his heated face growing red from mingled anger and exertion.

  Gunther turned and walked into the house, leaving the once mighty leader gasping for breath. He sent the servant for the doctor, then left the villa, wondering how much longer the old man could cheat death out of its due.

  53

  Time of Reunion

  Three people in Stonewycke’s family sitting room enjoying tea together was not an unusual scene.

  Two women shared the divan, while the acknowledged head of the family stood in front of the sideboard on which he had just placed the pot from which he had poured tea.

  A familiar setting, an afternoon chat in the sitting room, it was indeed. But never before in the lives of these three had there been a gathering quite like this one. And never would there be again.

  Allison had been in bed since the evening of the party, and had only a short time ago come down for the first time. She was still frail, but a smile had returned to her lips, a hint of the real Allison already beginning to re-emerge.

  Since that fateful night, Logan had spoken to Hilary only briefly, and more casually than he would have liked. It was clear from the upbeat mood about the place that everything had suddenly changed at Stonewycke, and he had looked for an opportunity to bring it out into the open. However, he had driven to Aberdeen the following day in order to set investigations in motion. In addition, he felt it fitting that he await his wife’s recovery for this emotion-filled moment.

  Logan turned and cleared his throat.

  “I don’t really know what to say . . .” he began.

  The two women chuckled and glanced at each other, a nervous release for all the feelings pent up inside.

  “That’s a switch, isn’t it?” he added. “Logan Macintyre at a loss for words!”

  Now they laughed outright, and Logan could not help joining them.

  “I don’t know what to say, Hilary,” he went on more seriously. “I’m sorry I was away yesterday. But maybe it’s better this way, since now that Allison is feeling better we can all have our first tea together.”

  “I couldn’t help keeping to myself yesterday either,” said Hilary, staring down into the cup she held in her lap. “I had a lot to think about, and I almost found myself avoiding this moment. It’s all so new to me. I didn’t know what to do at first. I felt like a shy schoolgirl on her first date.”

  “Well . . . here we are at last,” said Logan. “And I’ve not been able to avoid the feeling that some sort of more formal—I don’t know . . . apology, perhaps, was called for on the part of Allison and myself—”

  “Please,” interrupted Hilary, “you know that’s not necessary.”

  “It is necessary,” he repeated. “At least it’s necessary for us. We did not behave to you when you came as we now wish we had.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” protested Hilary.

  “Nevertheless, we are sorry it was difficult for you. Needless to say, we grieve over the years since you were . . . lost to us . . . that we did not do more—somehow . . .” He stopped, took a deep breath, and struggled to continue. His voice was gruff and uncertain.

  “ . . . that we did not do more . . . to confirm the reports . . . of your death—though we exhausted what resources we knew of.”

  Still Hilary gazed into her cup, her thoughts far away. Her eyes were clouding over with tears.

  “Thankfully,” said Logan, laboring to keep his voice intact, “those long years and these last uncertain months are now behind us. As frivolous as it may sound after all we have just been through, we mean it with all our hearts when we say we want to welcome you back into your family.”

  “Thank you,” Hilary whispered. A lump rose in her throat. “I . . . I don’t know what to say either,” she half laughed.

  Allison’s hand reached toward her. Hilary clasped it and held tight. Even as she did so she lifted her eyes, and they met those of the man she now knew she loved, not merely as a statesman or a friend . . . but as a father.

  Logan set down his cup of tea and slowly approached his wife and daughter. Suddenly, Hilary was out of her seat and in his arms. Without restraint, her tears of thirty years flowed out onto Logan’s chest, while his strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her tightly to him.

  For a moment they stood—silent . . . weeping. Allison rose and walked toward them. Without words, Logan gently loosened himself from Hilary’s embrace so that mother and daughter might join their hearts as well.

  Hilary turned. There stood Allison gazing upon her, her recently beleaguered countenance now overspread with a radiant smile, tracks of tears falling down her pale cheeks.

  “Oh, Mother!” exclaimed Hilary, rushing forward to embrace her.

  “I’m so sorry I doubted you!”

  “It’s over now, Mother,” breathed Hilary softly.

  “Oh, but I feel like such a fool,” wept Allison, “being taken in like that when my own daughter . . . shouting at you like I did . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  She could not continue, but broke down, her shoulders convulsing with sobs.

  Hilary held her close, while Logan now stretched his arms about the two women, his own tears flowing freely.

  “We all have to live with the pain of our regrets,” he said softly. “How deeply I wish I had been a better father when you were with us thirty years ago!”

  “I weep in my heart to think that I nearly rejected what Lady Joanna told me,” said Hilary. “I almost did . . . I didn’t want to see my life turned upside-down.”

  “All our lives have certainly changed . . . and will change,” said Logan. “And though perhaps all three of us will have to bear these pains yet a while longer, they will be healed. Our Father will use them to strengthen the bonds of our love which we are only beginning to discover.”

  Gradually the tears began to lessen and they resumed their seats around the fire.

  “I want you to know,” said Hilary after a moment, “that I no longer have any doubts. I’m . . . I’m glad you are my parents.”

  “We love you, Hilary,” said Allison.

  “Thank you . . . Mother,” replied Hilary, tears rising in her eyes afresh. But she brushed them back and tried to laugh.

  “I don’t even know what to call you,” she said to Logan.

  “Call me whatever you are comfortable with . . . Logan suits me fine.”

  “Then I’ll call you Logan,” said Hilary with a smile, “until the word Father comes a little more naturally.”

  “And what do we call you?” asked Allison. “I must admit it’s going to be difficult to think of you as Jo or Joanna now. But I love the name Hilary too; that’s why we chose it for you.”

  Hilary laughed. “It’s served me well for many years!”

  “I think our daughter will always be Hilary to me from now on,” said Logan. “Hilary—one who brings joy! I can’t think of anything more suitable. It was as Hilary we came to know you. But tell me . . . Hilary,” he went on, “when did you first know? I mean really know . . . that is, after you arrived here?”

  “In the gallery. But I haven’t yet told you what happened the night of the party, have I?”

  “No. Tell us, please,” insisted Allison.

  “Oh, but we’ve got to be there! It can’t really be told at all. What I experienced that night has to be seen!”

  “By all means then,” said L
ogan enthusiastically. “Let’s go to the gallery!”

  “We’ll have to go by way of my room,” said Hilary, “so that I can slip into another dress.”

  “Whatever you say!”

  Logan led the way to the door, opened it for the two ladies, then, with his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other, escorted them down the corridor and to the stairway.

  Only the daughter was prepared for what awaited them. Indeed, had the husband and wife been aware of the astounding revelation which was shortly to greet their eyes, they would much earlier have realized in whom the legacy of young Maggie Duncan had flowered.

  54

  Confirmation of Intent

  “The local doctor has kindly given me permission to use the small laboratory in his surgery,” Ashley said to Hilary when he knocked at her door the following morning. “Would you care to join me for a drive into Port Strathy?”

  “Sure,” answered Hilary. “What do you need a lab for?”

  “The packet. Thus far I have only speculated on the contents of what I found in Jo’s room. It’s imperative not only for the police investigation but also for Allison’s continued treatment that we identify it precisely. I want to run some tests.”

  Hilary grabbed up her coat and a hat, then joined Ashley in the corridor.

  “Can’t the police do all that?” she asked as they made their way downstairs.

  “Logan is still uncertain how far to bring the authorities into this. He’s made some discreet inquiries of his own, but he wants to know more before it turns into a full-blown public investigation.”

  “And you’re his sleuth, eh?”

  “No comment,” said Ashley, a boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Let’s just call it my little hobby.”

  Hilary threw him a sidelong glance as they walked down the stairs, finding it difficult to keep her curiosity in check.

  Once out in the open air by a side door, they walked around to the front of the house where Ashley’s car awaited them. Ashley opened the passenger door of the BMW for Hilary and saw her comfortably seated, then went around to the driver’s side and slid in.