The Treasure of Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Encircling the outside of the box were several lengths of heavy chain, obviously a new addition, probably Channing’s fitting legacy. A padlock held the chain links together and it required another search of Channing’s ring to locate the proper key. Ashley handed it to Allison, who inserted it easily into the lock. It must have been kept in good repair, for it snapped open readily. They pulled away the chain; then Allison took hold of the bar, unlatched the hooks binding the portions of the lid to each other, slid out the bar, and slowly spread back the sides of the lid and opened the box.

  Inside, it was lined with the same thin enameled metal. Two large woolen blankets took up a good amount of the space, though they were mostly decayed with age. They had apparently been used to pad the other items. They seemed newer than the relics they had been used to protect, but by the look of the plaids they were probably not put there by Channing. Perhaps Digory had added them, suggested Logan.

  ———

  Carefully Allison unfolded the blankets. There were a dozen or so items of some size, as well as miscellaneous small trinkets, a few coins, spoons, knives, two penannular brooches, some scraps of silver, and several smooth polished round stones almost resembling marbles. Of the larger items, several were of obvious value, and others appeared purely commonplace. Most were of ornamented silver alloy, including four bowls, a gilt pommel, one chape, three silver chalices, a pair of heavy candlesticks, two sword hilts, and an odd-looking piece of fine silverwork that resembled a sword hilt but was at the same time quite distinct. This last caught Ashley’s attention and he lifted it out.

  “This is marvelous!” he breathed in awe. “Positively unbelievable! At last the pieces of this ancient mystery begin to fit together!”

  “I could see the gears of your brain turning furiously as you eyed the outside of the box,” chuckled Logan. “Can you regale us with your expertise? But please, we are mere laymen. Keep it simple.”

  “Look at these engravings,” he said, pointing to the exterior of the box and tracing his finger along the lines of the filigree. “I had a suspicion when I first saw it, but the reproduction is not of the best. You see here”—he pointed with his finger—“you can tell that the box itself has been plated with what we see. If we could see the original underneath, I’m certain the engravings would be much more detailed. Nevertheless, you can see here what looks like a chi-rho monogram. The greek letters chi and rho are known as the Chrisma, a symbol used by early Christians in the period of about the fourth to the sixth centuries. This box is very similar, almost a replica, of one I’ve seen at the Scottish Museum of Antiquities. It would not surprise me to learn they had the same origin. That one is the Monymusk Reliquary in which King Kenneth MacAlpin carried the personal belongings—perhaps even the remains—of St. Columba from Iona to Dunkeld.”

  “The patron saint of Scotland,” said Hilary.

  “I believe that title more officially belongs to St. Andrew,” said Ashley. “But Columba was one of the major forces in bringing Christianity to Scotland and is certainly revered to this day.”

  “Ashley,” said Logan, “are you saying this box is somehow linked to the spread of Christianity through early Scotland?”

  “An old wine cellar in an Argentine villa is hardly the place to make such pronouncements,” said Ashley. “But I would stake a heavy possibility on it. The items inside are quite indicative. This”—he held out the odd-looking item—“looks like the top from a pastoral staff. And some of this other silverwork could be vestments from some early church. I don’t know about the sword hilts. They look of Pictish make. The rest, these smaller items, could be nothing more than some family’s belongings, even a child’s treasures. I don’t know. It will take a great deal of time for someone more knowledgeable in these matters than I to go through and analyze each one. But I cannot help but be reminded of the discovery beneath the floor of the little church on St. Ninian’s Isle in, let’s see, when was it?”

  “In 1958, I believe,” said Logan.

  “That’s right. Well, some of this bears a striking resemblance to that find at St. Ninian’s. So I would assume Pictish origins for much of it, probably in connection with some early monastery or Christian hermitage, perhaps along the northern coast there, or even upon what were once Stonewycke lands.”

  “What you said about the engravings . . . and the connection to the Picts—” Hilary’s voice was breathless with excitement. “Do you mean it’s possible this box could date from as early as the fifth or sixth century?”

  Ashley nodded. “I would say no later than the eighth. Perhaps earlier.”

  “It’s older than any of us ever thought,” said Allison.

  “Were there any old churches, monasteries, or the like, along the coast, say between Lossiemouth and Fraserburgh?” asked Ashley.

  “There are stories of a St. Aiden,” replied Allison, “who traveled in northern Scotland, a disciple of Columba who was sent out from Iona to establish churches. Nothing much is known of him. But as a child I remember hearing tales of ruins someplace. Whether it was a monastery or church of some kind, I don’t know. Nothing had ever been seen. But even Ramsey Head and the Old Rossachs Kyle were mentioned in connection with it.”

  “Hmm,” reflected Ashley. “Churches in those days were often repositories for treasures of many kinds. But then that made them all the more subject to Viking raids. That could explain how the box found its way inland—to escape, perhaps, an impending Viking attack that would have come from the sea, and for which there would have been at least some advance warning. It will take a great deal more research, not to mention excavation, to get to the bottom of the history of this reliquary.”

  “If the casket in the museum,” Hilary asked, “once held the remains of Columba, could this have been put to a similar use? Perhaps for a different saint?”

  “It’s very possible,” answered Ashley. “That could explain the sword hilts. In days long ago such relics as these, especially relics with any religious significance, were held in great esteem. There were those who even attributed supernatural powers to them. Often they were carried into battle as a talisman. If it contained a possession of a particularly favored saint, all the better. Some were indeed reported to carry bones or ashes of saints long after their death. I can’t wait to get home. There I’ll be able to compare both the box and the contents with known museum pieces, and perhaps even to ancient descriptions we have of relics that have been lost.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” said Allison, “that this box, this so-called ‘treasure,’ should be linked to the very roots of Christianity in Scotland? A box full of gold and jewels could hardly be so meaningful!”

  As they spoke, Ashley had been slowly rubbing his hand over the engraved exterior of the reliquary.

  “Hullo!” he exclaimed all of a sudden, “what’s this!”

  He bent down, then lifted up one end of the box.

  “Logan,” he said, “hold that up there for a minute, would you?”

  Logan complied.

  With his finger Ashley continued to probe at one of the corners. “There seems to be a small edge of the plating material peeling away,” he said; “just a tiny little piece. The corners seemed to have borne the worst of the wear and tear, although I’m simply amazed at how well the thing has weathered.”

  He continued to pick at the bit of torn metal, then bent close and squinted in the dim light. Finally he stood back up and let out a long sigh.

  “You can set it down now, Logan,” he said. “Well, Allison,” he went on, a broad smile spreading across his face, “you may have spoken more prophetically than you realized just now.”

  “Why . . . what did I say?”

  “Bend down there . . . look at that corner.”

  Allison did so. Hilary and Logan bent down as well.

  “Why, it looks like—!” exclaimed Logan.

  Allison was still looking intently. “It’s a different color underneath,” she said slowly. “Bright, yellowish.�
�

  Suddenly the truth dawned on her. She spun around. “Ashley! You don’t mean—?”

  He nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “Gold!”

  They all looked at one another, stunned.

  “The whole box!” asked Hilary in disbelief.

  “I would guess,” Ashley replied, “that would account for the weight.”

  “What would it be worth?” asked Allison.

  “Oh, not much, really—as pure gold, that is. Let’s see, sixty, maybe seventy pounds . . . perhaps a thousand ounces . . . that’s—I don’t know, three, maybe three-hundred-fifty thousand pounds. A lot of money, to be sure, but nothing alongside the priceless historical value of a find such as this. One of the original owners of the box no doubt had it plated in order to cover the gold and hide its wealth.”

  “I wonder if Channing knew?”

  “I doubt it,” said Logan. “He would have melted it down long ago.”

  “I wonder who made it . . . and why?” sighed Hilary, “and how it came to rest under the Braenock stones?”

  “There is probably much we will never know about the history of this remarkable container,” sighed Ashley. “But it makes one hungry to travel back in time . . . to explore that early era, and try to discover where things like this had their roots.”

  “We always thought,” said Allison, “that the treasure belonged to the Pict village that had been wiped out in the eighth or ninth century—or at least so the old stories go.”

  “It probably was hidden at that time.”

  “It is possible the beginnings of its history go back much further, even two or three hundred years earlier than that! Oh, the journeys it must have taken in that time, the hands that must have held it, the stories it could tell about our country’s beginnings, maybe even Stonewycke’s beginnings! All before it came to be buried for its long rest under the stones of Braenock Ridge. My mind simply reels!” exclaimed Allison. “Look at all its travels in the mere speck of time since Maggie’s days!”

  “George Falkirk, wasn’t it,” said Logan, “who first dug it up?”

  “With his henchman Martin Forbes,” Allison replied. “But both men were cut out of the same cloth as Channing, became greedy, and that was their undoing. I wonder if either of them discovered about the gold underneath the thin layer of plating? In the end, Forbes killed Falkirk, and then he himself met his end falling from the rocky cliffs of Ramsey Head.”

  “All the intrigue surrounding that murder nearly destroyed Lady Margaret and Lord Ian,” said Hilary, remembering clearly what she had read in Joanna’s journal.

  “Then dear old Digory, after he and young Maggie somehow were able to lug this thing out of the ground and load it on the back of a horse and bring it to the garden at the estate—”

  “Maggie told me once,” broke in Allison, “in one of her rare moments of talking about the treasure—I’d completely forgotten this until now!—that they took out all the contents and put them in two bags, thinking to more evenly distribute the weight. But then the box weighed just as much empty as it did full.”

  “It’s a wonder they managed it!” remarked Ashley. “What were you saying, Logan?”

  “I had just been thinking of Digory’s loyalty to the family he loved, how, thinking to spare them, he dug it up from the garden where he and Maggie had hidden it and then buried it again in a place no one knew.”

  “Where was that?” asked Ashley.

  “At the top of Ramsey Head,” answered Logan. “I’ll not soon forget that! I too was afflicted with the disease—the desire for the kind of fulfillment I mistakenly thought riches would bring.”

  “There were no riches of that kind here anyway!”

  “But your quest, however misguided, did bring you to God,” said Allison. Then she added with a smile. “And to me.” She paused, recalling the special time when she and Logan had met. “All this makes me think that perhaps our concept of this treasure has been incomplete all along. Digory meant well when he tried to hide it. But I think we’re mistaken when we attribute intrinsic evil to the treasure itself.

  “From its very beginnings it was intended for some good—no doubt to glorify God, and even draw a heathen nation closer to His Son. What a wonderful heritage that is! No wonder it refused to stay hidden—from its burial on Braenock, to the garden, to Ramsey Head, even to the bottom of the sea where Channing somehow located it, and finally to an old unused dungeon of a wine cellar in Argentina! But always it comes back to light, just like the light of God’s truth! Though it has been connected with violence, corruption, and greed, it has also acted as a catalyst to lead people to the Lord.”

  They all stood silent for some time, reflecting on Allison’s words. Each one, in his or her own way, felt as if he had personally traveled with the box over its many miles and centuries of journeys. Within each of the four hearts beat the elation of fulfillment and completion, as if the quest of the treasure for a peaceful and final resting place was nearly at hand.

  But they could tarry no more, at least for the moment, reflecting on the still-to-be-revealed mysteries of the antiquities before them or the current implications of their find. They were trapped in an armed villa, whose master was now dead, but who still wielded power over his servants.

  It was time to think about getting out.

  73

  Escape

  Logan and Ashley re-secured the lid and bar to the box.

  “I think we should put it back into the barrel,” suggested Logan. “As heavy and bulky as that will be, it’s our only chance of getting it out of here.”

  “You’re probably right. You and I ought to be able to handle it.”

  “But I’m afraid, once we get out there in the vicinity of the guards,” answered Logan, “we’re going to have to have Hilary’s assistance with the barrel, even though the weight could be a problem.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Hilary.

  “And me?” Ashley shot a puzzled glance at Logan.

  “I have something else in mind for you, my friend.”

  “How will we get it past the guards?” asked Allison.

  “That’s the plan,” said Logan. “Ashley, you will have to use your pistol again and once more don the role you earlier pulled off with such finesse.”

  Ashley took the .38 from his pocket and looked down at it distastefully. “I will be glad to return this to the Inspector,” he said.

  “Soon enough,” said Logan sympathetically. “In the meantime, we will become your prisoners again. Oh yes, and you’ll need that charming moustache too.”

  Ashley pasted the thin moustache back in place.

  “You make a better viscount than Emil!” laughed Hilary.

  “Ah, Fraulein! At your service!” Ashley clicked his heels and flashed a toothy grin.

  “Are we ready then?” asked Logan.

  The underground passages seemed much quieter. Perhaps it was from the knowledge that Channing’s body now lay in its temporary repose—or the awareness that unexpected danger might lie around any corner. Logan had always known that getting into Channing’s fortress would be far easier than getting out again.

  In ten minutes they had reached the narrow flight of stairs which would take them back out into the sunlight. Here Logan paused.

  “As soon as we get it to the top,” he said, “you and I are going to have to manage the wine cask, Hilary. Ashley, you cover us from the rear. Remember, the secret to a good con is confidence. That’s what the word means. So walk steadily, and you especially, Ashley, have to look as if you know what you’re about. Don’t let any of the servants or guards cow you. You’re about Channing’s business, which is to take us out the main gate, and you’re unconcerned about any of them.”

  “Got it.”

  “I suggest that instead of going back into the house itself, we just move through the compound, around the house, and to the gate. The way will be more direct, and from what I’ve seen, we’ll run into fewer people. I’ll lead, but,
Ashley, you’ve got to make it look as though you’re calling the shots.”

  Logan and Ashley carried the bulky wine cask up the stairs and set it down at the door.

  “Okay . . . places, everyone,” said Logan. “Here we go!”

  He and Hilary hoisted up the barrel. Logan shoved the door with his foot, and into the compound they slowly walked. At first the sun was blinding, but not a soul was to be seen as they made their way slowly along. Outside the kitchen a few servants came and went, but beyond an initial glance or two, seemed to pay little attention to the unusual entourage. No cars were to be seen within the precincts of the house itself, thus their most likely means of escape would be Ashley’s rented automobile, which still sat where he had parked it at the front gate.

  At the door to the servants’ quarters, Logan spotted one of the Argentines who had been with Channing a time or two. The man eyed them carefully as they passed, said nothing, but seemed to stare with particular interest at Ashley’s gun. As they approached, Ashley gave Allison an irritated shove with his left hand for good measure. She winced in apparent pain, carrying out her share of the ruse to annoyed perfection, and stumbled forward.

  As they went, something began to nag at the back of Logan’s brain, a feeling he couldn’t pinpoint as if something important had been forgotten, overlooked. But as often as he replayed the events of the last two hours over in his mind, he could fix upon nothing.

  They were by now approaching the outside corner where the two wings of the villa’s L-shape joined. Once around it, they would be only some seventy-five feet from the gate, and in plain view of Ashley’s car. Hilary’s arms were tiring, but she bravely held on, the only sign of her fatigue being large beads of perspiration on her forehead.

  Logan was fixing in his mind what to say to the guards at the gate when, just as they rounded the corner, a figure came striding briskly toward them. His appearance was so unexpected that the four escapees were brought up short. All of a sudden Logan was brought face-to-face with the unknown loose end he had forgotten to reckon with in his escape plan.