Stranger at Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “We know that, Mr. Macintyre,” said Joanna. “We need your service, pure and simple. It has been a struggle since Walter left us. As much as Fergie has a heart of gold, there are just too many things he doesn’t know yet. We understand that you did not come here intending to settle. But perhaps you could try it for a month or two, or at least long enough to teach Fergie some of what you know—”

  “Oh, my lady,” broke in Logan, “my reasons for coming here wouldn’t be a factor in my decision. This is a wonderful place and you are all very kind. It might be nice to be away from the rush of London for a time.” He took a long, thoughtful swallow of tea, and when he spoke again he sounded as if his decision were being made even as he spoke. “As I told you, I am more or less between assignments, and have no pressing date when I must be back, and . . .” Here he chuckled lightly as if an amusing thought had just occurred to him. “My mother would certainly be thrilled to hear that I was plannin’ t’ bide a wee in the muckle toon o’ my ain oncle Digory.”

  They both laughed at his attempt at the local dialect. “It sounds right fine on ye, lad!” said Alec.

  “Yes . . . this might be just what I’m looking for.”

  “Then ye’ll do it?” asked Alec, grinning.

  Logan paused just long enough for effect, then nodded. Both men shook hands while Joanna poured her new mechanic another cup of tea.

  Logan fell asleep that night feeling extremely satisfied with himself. Everything couldn’t have gone more smoothly if he had planned each minute detail. Here he was, an employee of Stonewycke. He could now freely roam about the estate, and even more importantly, he’d have opportunity to work his way closer to Lady Margaret.

  Suddenly a dark thought entered his mind. What if, as an employee, the family stood more aloof to him? It was only natural that they would keep their distance from the hired help. But, then, nothing thus far had indicated that these people did anything according to the book. Perhaps they treated their employees like family as well.

  No matter. He had come this far. He would manage any further obstacles that presented themselves. Things were going perfectly. Almost too perfectly. If he had been back on the streets of London, Skittles would probably tell him to watch his backside; when things went this well, it was time to suspect a setup.

  But Logan didn’t follow that train of thought even for another moment. There was no one here who could possibly be setting him up. No one even knew he had come. Who could possibly be interested in him? No, he was in the driver’s seat, and everything was moving just as he wanted it to. He lay back on the luxurious feather bed and smiled contentedly.

  23

  Another Stranger in Town

  Roy Hamilton was not accustomed to taking in boarders.

  His pub on New Town’s High Street was a drinking establishment, nothing else. He did have the spare room next to his living quarters upstairs. But he used it for storage and, to tell the truth, he’d just as soon have kept it that way. The minute you started letting in boarders, you had nothing but headaches. The profit was in drink, and that’s the way he intended to keep it.

  He rinsed off another dish and dropped it in the drainer. It wasn’t washing the extra dishes that was so bad. After all, he had to do that anyway, although it was mostly only glasses. But now he’d have to sweep out that room occasionally and maybe even change the sheets, not to mention cooking the man’s meals. Hamilton was a bachelor, a thin man who ate only slightly more often than he washed himself, which was not three times a day by the remotest stretch of anyone’s imagination. But then his customers did not expect cleanliness, only liquor, and a pretty poor grade of spirits it was that he served.

  He would have refused the man outright. Started to, in fact, with a wave of the hand before he had even completed his question. But then the stranger had unfolded a thick wad of banknotes, and Roy Hamilton would have been a fool to refuse them. Maybe he could reconsider, he had said. The man had begun to peel several notes off the stack and hand them across the counter, and the end of it all was that now he had a guest. A most peculiar guest, to be sure, a man who guarded his privacy and offered few words. About the only thing he had said was what almost sounded like a threat, that the innkeeper was to say nothing about either his presence or his bankroll. But for this man’s price, he could give him the room and keep his mouth shut.

  Why he hadn’t gone to the Bluster ’N Blow where visitors usually stayed in Port Strathy, Hamilton did not know. He had asked at the first, but the man had been most uncommunicative on the subject. And he remained untalkative. Last night he had done his drinking off in a corner, alone. He hadn’t even been interested in giving the local folk a chance to relieve him of some of that cash he had stuffed in his pockets. At least that other stranger, the young fellow, had been free with his money—he lost a good deal the last time he was in Hamilton’s place, though the innkeeper heard he won a bundle at MacFarlane’s pub just down the street the other night.

  Hamilton washed up the remainder of the dishes, flicked a cockroach off the drainboard, then dried his hands on his grimy apron. Well, with times being so bad, maybe he ought to give some more thought to this taking in of boarders. The man hadn’t really been that much trouble. The room was just sitting there, and if it meant a little more work, it might be worth it if his guests paid him half as much as this Sprague bloke had.

  ———

  Ross Sprague puffed at his Cuban cigar, then downed the last drink of his rum-braced tea.

  It was not his habit to imbibe alcoholic beverages so early in the morning, but it was the only way to kill the taste of that garbage the innkeeper had called breakfast. He should have expected a hick town like this to have only one decent hotel. He had grown up in a town no bigger than Port Strathy. And his childhood in the dusty prairie town had taught him the limitations of little one-horse watering holes like this. That town had had only one hotel, run by Mae Wadell, whose reputation was none too sterling in Aldo, Oklahoma. He had learned a few things at Wadell’s, but the most valuable lesson learned was the quickest way out of Aldo. When he left at seventeen, he swore he’d never go back—and he never did. He had come a long way since the Aldo days and Mae Wadell’s wild place. Now he was forty-five, and liked fine cigars, expensive Scotch, and hotels that weren’t crawling with vermin, like this fleabag.

  Unfortunately, Macintyre had arrived first and procured the better establishment. Though when Sprague had looked in at the place called the Bluster ’N Blow upon arriving yesterday, it didn’t appear to be much of an improvement over this sleazy joint. He supposed he ought to consider himself lucky that Macintyre was still here. If he lost him, it would be his head! He hadn’t intended on giving Macintyre a four-day lead, but storms and a few other entanglements he’d just as soon forget had held him up. He hadn’t been too worried, however, for if this Macintyre was on some sort of a treasure hunt, it was bound to take him some time. He doubted the fellow had much to go on, and from what he had been able to learn of Macintyre’s activities since his arrival, he did not appear to have gotten much closer.

  What puzzled Sprague more than anything was why his boss had been so adamant about his sticking to Macintyre. Sprague rubbed a hand over his thinning gray-blonde hair. Why would a successful man like his boss want to waste time on some rumors about a ridiculous ancient treasure—no doubt entirely mythical? Pure greed, he supposed. The man had nearly lost everything in the Wall Street crash, and that had made him more conscious than ever of retaining his old wealth and power. But he was already making his way back to the top, with a classy flat in London’s West End and a business that boasted branches not only in London but also Paris and Berlin. He was never satisfied, and no doubt that’s what would make him a success again. But the whole thing still seemed peculiarly out of his line, and Sprague could not help but think there was something personal involved, something more than business—revenge, perhaps. Or did his boss know something more than he was telling?

  Sprague was
being paid well for his services, well enough not to ask questions. But things were beginning to get puzzling, and he could hardly keep from being curious. First, he was sent to Glasgow to make discreet—very discreet!—inquiries into various property owners, specifically of Scottish coastal property, and even more specifically into the holdings of what had formerly been the vast Duncan estate. He had been told to get the names of every property owner in the valley and along the coast. He figured his boss was looking to buy some country place with a view and wanted to make a killing by closing in on someone who had been particularly hard hit by the crash. It was logical. Everyone with a few bucks these days was scouting around for the chance to benefit by picking up the pieces.

  Then he was suddenly told to drop everything and follow this Macintyre fellow. Sure that this so-called treasure was supposed to be located on the Duncan property, Macintyre had come here. There was a connection. But why would an intelligent man like his boss fall for what could be no more than a con game by a petty, small-time crook?

  The best move, he thought, would be to stop Macintyre before he clued anyone in about the treasure—pay him off, do whatever it took. If there was any validity to the treasure fairy tale, and the Duncans were tipped off, it would put the lid on any possible sale. As it was, it seemed that the Duncan clan was in bad enough shape financially that they might be more than willing to sell if the price was right. Why didn’t his boss just put Macintyre on ice for a while, move in smoothly and make the Duncans an offer they couldn’t refuse? Then he could find the treasure later, without any need to hide a thing. If there was no treasure, then at least he had his beach house—or castle, rather.

  But his boss was just that—the boss. If he wanted him to tail Macintyre till doomsday, Sprague would do it. But he personally felt they were wasting their time.

  Sprague inhaled the smoke from his cigar two or three more times. No, they sure didn’t have smokes like this in Aldo. Maybe in Muskogee, but even if they’d had them there, he hadn’t had the money in those days to buy them. Thanks to a generous boss, he now possessed an unlimited supply—so who was he to question the man’s judgment?

  Stick to Macintyre. Keep a low profile.

  Those were his orders. And Ross Sprague followed orders. That’s how he got to where he was today. And he’d keep following orders until eventually he was the one giving the orders.

  24

  Visitors

  Logan was restless.

  Now that he didn’t need this injured ankle, he was stuck with it. He couldn’t very well hop out of bed and proclaim a miracle. The doctor had said two days off his feet, and that meant he couldn’t get up until tomorrow. Even then, he’d have to remember to limp somewhat for a week or so.

  Out of sheer boredom he picked up one of the three books Lady MacNeil had brought up to him. After all, he thought, the last time I started flipping through books, I stumbled onto Digory’s letter. Maybe he’d find a further clue to the location of the treasure here, perhaps even a hint of what the treasure actually was. Who could tell? The events of his life seemed somehow ordered since he had arrived here. He would hardly be surprised at this point if a clue jumped right off the page.

  Mrs. MacNeil had offered to have him carried down to the library or a sunlit dayroom where he might see better. But pretending an injury for business was one thing; letting people carry him around was quite another. He would just brave it out right here. He had taken the books, not having the heart to tell her he had no interest in reading.

  But interested or not, he was going crazy just lying there. Not knowing his preferences, she said, she had brought a variety. Dickens’ Great Expectations, however apropos the title, he quickly tossed aside. He remembered teachers trying to force it down him. A hasty flipping through the book revealed no notes or letters, and that was that. Next was Scott’s Guy Mannering. Who could possibly plow through the small print, and all those anachronisms? He turned it upside down and let the pages hang as he gave it a shake or two. No clues there either. Of course the whole thing was absurd! What was he thinking, that right under her nose the proprietress of the estate was going to tell him where the treasure was so he could steal it from them?

  He laughed aloud. The isolation had already made him come unhinged!

  Finally he reached for the third book, a volume of poems by George MacDonald. Although the name sounded vaguely familiar, Logan couldn’t quite place him—a Scot, he thought, perhaps nineteenth century. He wasn’t sure. He had never been much on poetry, but these were short and uncluttered and at least looked more palatable than the other two books. He opened the book to the middle. One of the nice things about books like this was that you didn’t have to start at the beginning and read to the end. And when someone asked you how you liked the book, you could spout off a few things about a poem—maybe the only one you read—and they’d never be the wiser.

  Skimming the page, he noticed a reference to boats, and thinking this as good a place as any to start, he sought the beginning of the verse:

  Master, thou workest with such common things—

  Low souls, weak hearts, I mean—and hast to use,

  Therefore, such common means and rescuings,

  That hard we find it, as we sit and muse,

  To think thou workest in us verily:

  Bad sea-boats, we and manned with wretched crews—

  That doubt the captain, watch the storm-spray flee.

  Thou art hampered in thy natural working then

  When beings designed on freedom’s holy plan

  Will not be free: with thy poor, foolish men,

  Thou therefore hast to work just like a man.

  But when, tangling thyself in their sore need,

  Thou hast to freedom fashioned them indeed,

  Then wilt thou grandly move, and godlike speed.

  Logan stopped reading.

  These were nothing but religious poems. There was no treasure here—just old-fashioned notions of piety! He should have known!

  Actually, Logan had nothing personal against religion. His mother had been religious on and off, and went through bouts of dragging him to church when he hadn’t made his escape fast enough on Sunday mornings. But never in his life had he felt any particular need for religion.

  Bad sea-boats, we and manned with wretched crews. . . . Yes, he supposed that described him. At least he had been told as much on those few Sundays when he had ventured into church. “Ye’re a bad apple, Logan Macintyre. Settle doon afore ye wind up in hell!”

  No thanks, he thought. He had no use for such fanatical pessimism. If they wanted to be prisoners of that kind of fear, that was their choice. But he didn’t need it. He was free. With the thought, the words came back into his mind, and he looked back onto the page to see exactly what the poet had said. Thou art hampered in thy natural working then when beings designed on freedom’s holy plan will not be free. . . .

  What did the man mean? What a strange thing to say?

  He was free, wasn’t he? He prided himself on that fact. Footloose and fancy free; he had always taken pleasure in being just that sort of man. Whatever freedom this old-fashioned writer was talking about, he certainly wasn’t referring to someone like himself. Logan Macintyre was free, was on the track of a treasure which was going to put him on easy street, and nothing was going to stop him.

  He closed the book just as a sharp knock came at the door, jerking him out of his momentary reverie.

  It would be a relief to have some company. He had never been a deep thinker and had no intention of starting now. No old dead poet was going to start filling his mind with foolish fancies. Somehow he was sure it was the kind of thing Lady Margaret would know all about. The poem almost reminded him of that peculiar look in her eyes. It wouldn’t surprise him if she knew the old bloke who wrote it.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The door opened and Allison ushered in an entourage that appeared as out of place within the grand walls of Stonewycke as she h
ad on the streets of New Town. With her were Jesse Cameron, Buckie Buchannan, and Jimmy MacMillan.

  “It looks like ye’re na havin’ a run o’ much luck here in Strathy,” said Jesse, taking his hand and shaking it heartily.

  “Ha!” laughed Jimmy who had been involved in the poker game at MacFarlane’s. “Dinna be talkin’ t’ this bloke aboot luck. He’s got plenty o’ it!”

  “Aye,” added Buckie with a friendly grin. “He’s got enough Port Strathy siller in his pockets t’ stay in bed a month.”

  “What a surprise!” said Logan, laughing with the banter.

  “Ye dinna think oor best crew member would get laid up an’ rate no visit from his mates?” said Jesse with mock astonishment.

  “If you don’t mind,” came Allison’s cool voice, noticeably out of concert with the other congenial tones, “I’ll be leaving you to your . . . visitors, Mr. Macintyre.” Then turning toward Jesse, “I trust you can find your own way out when you are through?”

  “Yes, mem,” replied Jesse, with the quiet respect of one who knew her place when she was put in it. “Thank ye, m’leddy.”

  Favoring those in the room with one final aloof glance, which left Logan with the impression that she was appraising how they would handle their temptation to carry out the family silver, Allison turned crisply and exited.

  “Pull up some chairs,” he said to his guests. When he saw Buckie glancing all about and then giving a soft whistle, he added, “Some digs, huh?”

  “Who says the bloke ain’t lucky!” said Jimmy as he straddled a delicate Queen Anne chair.

  Jesse and Buckie took two other chairs, launching immediately into a conversation about the weather, fishing prospects, and the latest repairs being undertaken aboard the Little Stevie. A week earlier such topics would have held no meaning whatsoever for Logan, but now he found himself interested in even the most trivial details. From firsthand experience he now knew how vitally important the weather was to the fishermen, and since his “voyage,” he had now and then found his eyes straying toward the sky with a concern he would never have felt before. Would those clouds bring rain? From which direction was the wind coming? Could the Little Stevie take another gale? Thus Logan found himself listening with more attentiveness than he could have thought possible.