At least, thought Logan dryly, he had holed up in worse places in London. He set the lamp on the table and walked about, coughing as his feet stirred up years of settled dust. Everything he touched was covered with a thin layer of gray. But of one thing he was certain—there were no personal items lying about that might have belonged to old Digory. Whoever had cleaned out this room had done a thorough job years ago. They appeared to have left nothing but dirt and dust. Still, he remained undaunted. He would clean away the dirt and see what might lie beneath.
Logan turned and bounded down the steps to fetch a broom. By now he had abandoned his cane and any pretense of a limp. When he saw Lord and Lady Duncan approach the stairway, he did not panic, only slowed to a gait which might be considered respectable for one so recently recovered from an injury such as his. He was pleased to see them, for he had feared his employment might slow up his interaction with Lady Margaret as he became more of a fixture around the place.
“We heard you were nearly done with the repairs to the stairs,” Lady Margaret said.
“Just nailed on the last board a moment ago,” replied Logan, grinning with enthusiasm.
“Lady Margaret has not rested since you began your work,” said Lord Duncan. As he spoke he glanced merrily at his wife and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze.
“Well, sir,” replied Logan, “the work on the stairs may be finished, and I believe the steps are sound enough for you to venture a trip on them. However, my lady, it is terribly dusty up there. I was, in fact, on my way to get a broom just now.”
“You seem to be getting along on your ankle quite well. A remarkably quick recovery,” said Dorey.
“Yes . . . I suppose it was,” said Logan. “It’s feeling almost back to normal now.”
“A little dust won’t hurt me,” said Margaret, not to be deterred from her mission. “And once you have cleaned up the place and moved in yourself, I wouldn’t dream of intruding upon your privacy.”
“That would hardly be a problem,” said Logan. “You may feel free to intrude upon me any time. But I can understand how you would want to see it as it is.”
Standing aside, Logan allowed them to proceed up the stairs; then he followed. Lady Margaret walked first through the open door, and soon all three were standing in the midst of the small main room. Turning around, Lady Margaret surveyed her surroundings, and a vague look of disappointment gradually came over her face.
“What is it, my dear?” asked Lord Duncan, closely in tune with his wife’s moods.
“I don’t know exactly what I expected,” she replied. “I should have realized that a room is nothing more than that—walls and a few sticks of furniture. Without even an article of his lying about, it’s almost lost all connection to him. I suppose I had hoped for some sweet memories to be rekindled. But there is nothing of Digory left here—it’s only a room.”
Then she turned expectantly toward Logan. “More than in these four walls, his memory resides in you, Logan. And that’s how it should be. The legacy a man or woman leaves is propagated through his descendants, not through his possessions; through the emotions and spiritual values he passes on, not through the things he owned. Digory had no children of his own. But somehow I think you are meant to be his progeny—the one to carry on his memory.”
Logan swallowed hard.
She made it sound like a great honor had been bestowed upon him—to sustain the memory and legacy of a great man, who was, in fact, nothing more than a common groom, a poor man who lived a life of comparative insignificance. Yet she indeed did see him as nothing less than great, a man worthy of all admiration and respect and honor.
Despite his efforts to harden his heart against intrusion, Logan could not keep from squirming under the responsibility her statement placed upon him. He found he could not easily brush aside her words. Then he thought of something.
“Wait here a moment,” he said, as he turned and hurried down again to the stable, where he had already deposited his carton of belongings.
When he returned a minute later he was carrying an ancient and worn black book—Digory’s Bible. Except for his removal of the letter, it was exactly as he had found it in Glasgow.
“Oh dear,” said Lady Margaret as she took it into her hands. Her lips trembled as she tried unsuccessfully to speak. At last, with effort, she said, “He would sit over there,” she pointed a hand toward the alcove, “at the table, the lamp sitting almost exactly where it sits now, with this book open before him. Dear Lord . . .” she closed her eyes and smiled. “I can almost hear his soft voice with its thick brogue as he would read to me when I was a child. I could hardly understand him.—But Digory . . . the words remained within my heart, and they grew and flowered, as you knew they would. I hope you can see the fruits of your undaunted faith . . .”
“He does, my dear Maggie . . . he does,” murmured Dorey.
There ensued a long silence among the three, each who had come for his own reasons to that bare room where had dwelt a simple man of faith. Even Logan was caught up in that moment of poignant reflection. He glimpsed old Digory for the man he was, the man he himself had tried so hard not to see. He could visualize him just as Lady Margaret had described, bent over his Bible, his wrinkled lips saying the words that were so precious to him, hoping that somehow he could touch others. But he probably would not have given himself credit to think that anything about his own life would have had a lasting impact on others so many years later. All at once it occurred to Logan that the old groom would hardly have relished the idea of one such as Logan being his only progeny. If Digory had been such a saint, the notion of a con man like him being his descendant hardly seemed right.
But Logan shook himself free from the spell. He could not let himself be influenced by the lady’s tender memories. He forced his mind back onto his ignoble course, realizing even as he did so that such an action was becoming harder and harder. The more caught up he became in the personalities of Digory and Lady Margaret, and the more the whole aura of this stable and these people and the whole of Stonewycke itself settled around him, the less easily he could shake off faint hints of something speaking to him that he had ignored all his life—the voice of his conscience. Was this place getting to him? No! He would not admit that. He had his job to do, and this was just one more obstacle to be overcome. If the problem were his conscience, he could deal with it as he had with Chase Morgan.
Yet . . . these people were not easy to dismiss—the ghostly image of Digory MacNab, no less real and compelling at this eerie moment than the Lady Duncan who stood right before him. But he had to dispel these thoughts, these feelings of fidelity and honor and respect for the dead. There was too much at stake. And as he tried to convince himself to remain on course with his original purpose, he did not wonder that he could be so greedy, nor did he even attach to his attitude that heinous label. But despite his resistance, the low, soft, persistant voice of his conscience and the One who created the conscience were moving closer and closer to the heart of Logan Macintyre.
The next words he spoke came from his lips with great difficulty, as if he knew the deceit that was in them, spoken as from a man who was trying desperately to pull his mind out of a deep trance.
“I wish I had your memories to draw from,” he said, his voice feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. But an opportunity like this might not come again, and he had to find out all he could before this window to the past closed up and was gone.
“And I wish there were a better way for me to share them with you,” said the lady. “He so loved his horses, as well as his Bible,” she went on in a dreamy tone. “I remember how he pampered our two horses, Raven and Maukin. Do you remember them, Ian?”
The old man nodded, tears standing in his eyes. “Remember? How could I forget what those two horses meant to the two of us?”
“I think that’s why they were so special to Digory. I think he took pride in those two above all the others because of you and me, dear.”
“No doubt you’re right,” said her husband.
“But in a way, the horses were his whole life in those later years,” continued Margaret. “I hardly remember him leaving the stable.”
“Never?” said Logan in surprise.
“At least not often. He was so old, even when I was a girl. He cared for the horses, but there were younger men to do the driving and riding. He was so arthritic. There was one time, however . . .”
Suddenly she retreated, as if an exposed nerve had been touched, a memory too painful to speak of casually.
But Logan felt instinctively that these were the very words he must hear. He might hate himself for it later, but he had to press on. “What happened?”
She glanced at her husband. Logan could not read the look that passed between them, but Lord Duncan’s brow knit tightly together.
“We rode out to the granite pillars of Braenock Ridge,” she answered, as if she were making herself answer because she did not want to be ruled by dark memories. “I should never have made him go, but . . . I needed his help . . . I couldn’t do it alone. I . . . think that’s why he became ill later. It was an awful night.”
The old man reached out and touched her arm tenderly. The sense that she had caused his sickness had obviously been a pain she had borne a long time.
“Braenock Ridge?” queried Logan. “Is that around here?”
“A few miles to the south,” answered Lady Margaret, composing herself.
“Not a nice place,” put in Lord Duncan grimly. “It grows only gorse and wiry heather and that only on the bit of soil between the rocks. The rest is dreary peat moor intermingled with treacherous bogs.”
Margaret smiled at her husband, seeming to have overcome her temporary melancholy. “Spoken like a true lover of flowers and forest,” she said. “But the moor has its merits. It was Digory, in fact, who instilled an appreciation for Braenock in me. He thought it might hold a particularly tender place in God’s heart because it was so tenacious. You could find an occasional primrose there, but there weren’t many. If you did find one, it was hardier than the ones in the valley. It did not give up because of the ugliness of its surroundings, but became even more precious because of them.”
“Oh, lass,” laughed Lord Duncan playfully, “I shall have to take a walk and have another look at this veritable Garden of Eden of yours!”
“Yes, I should like to see it again also,” replied Margaret. Then turning to Logan, she apologized. “Mr. Macintyre, I’m afraid we’ve taken up too much of your time with our old folks’ meanderings.”
“I’ve enjoyed every minute,” replied Logan. “I should like to talk again sometime.”
“By all means. And thank you for allowing us to visit your new quarters.”
Logan saw them safely down the steps, then he hurried off in his own direction. He knew he had pressed the woman enough on the subject of Braenock Ridge for one day. But he had to discover more. There had been something in her tone, in the way her voice had faltered, that made him feel it imperative to explore this place which Digory had apparently thought so much of.
29
Braenock Ridge
For one inexperienced on horseback, the best way to reach Braenock was on foot. At least that was Fergie’s opinion.
“What do ye want t’ be goin’ oot there fer, lad?” asked the factor. “Nothin’ there but rocks an’ shrubs an’ bogs fer yer horse t’ break his leg on.”
“Just curious,” replied Logan vaguely. “Sounds like an interesting place.”
“The ruin’s all growed o’er.”
“Ruin?”
“Aye. ’Tis what all the foreigner’s be wantin’ t’ see oot there. A thousand years ago, maybe more, there was some Pict village there, oot by the boulders.”
“Really?” said Logan, trying to appear interested in what looked to be the prelude of a boring history lecture. All he wanted to know was how to get there.
“Aye. But the village was wiped oot by maraudin’ Vikings. In a single bloody massacre, so ’tis said, every man, woman, an’ bairn was killed. Jist because the Vikings thought the Picts had gold . . .”
At the word Logan’s interest suddenly came alive.
“Gold, you say?”
“Personally, I think the gold was jist added t’ the story t’ liven it up a bit. If ye ask me, ’twas all done fer a crust o’ bread. That’s what they did in them days.”
“How would I get there?” asked Logan. “Is there a road?”
“Weel, there’s a road o’ sorts fer a ways. After that ye got no more’n an auld shepherd’s trail, an’ that’s mostly growed o’er too. There be little traffic oot there these days. No one lives oot there anymore.”
“You mean someone used to?”
“Jesse Cameron’s daddy lived oot there when he were a lad, an’ the Grants, an’ the MacColls, but they moved clean oot o’ the valley noo. That were years ago. No one’s lived there in my time. Jist canna support life on a bog that’s either too arid or too wet.”
After further effort, Logan at length was able to extract sufficiently specific directions from the factor, continually interspersed with odd bits of local memorabilia. But it was late afternoon before Logan could get away from his duties to make his solitary trek to the moor.
A gray sky loomed overhead and a chilly south wind blew down from the mountains. A gust threatened his checkered cap and he reached quickly for it, planting it more firmly down upon his head. With the motion came a thought of Skittles. The pain of his death had seemed to grow distant, as had thoughts of Molly and old Billy. He wondered what they were doing. And for the first time in a long while a fleeting picture of Chase Morgan’s face came into his mind. He shivered and gave a violent kick to a pebble at his feet. His revenge over the gangster had availed him absolutely nothing, after all. Even his anger had not been appeased. He knew that if he ever saw Morgan, he’d give him no better treatment than that pebble. So what good had it all done? Molly had some money to get her through a tough time. But as Billy had warned, it had not brought Skittles back. Instead, it had only separated Logan from those he cared for.
Funny, thought Logan as he walked along, how such an insignificant act as touching a hat could produce so many memories. He had been here less than two weeks. But his memories of London seemed as far removed as Lady Margaret’s memories of Digory. Would he never see his friends again, as Lady Margaret had never seen Digory again after she left Scotland nearly sixty years ago? It seemed inconceivable that he would never return to London. But then, perhaps she had felt the same way.
Lady Margaret . . .
His thoughts always seemed to come back to her. Why had she left Scotland so suddenly, as she told him? What did it have to do with the treasure? Or was it completely unrelated? He remembered that Digory had stated in his letter that the treasure had wrought so much evil. Yes, Digory would have thought it evil indeed that his dear little Maggie would have been forced to leave Stonewycke. But people such as Digory—poor, and filled with religious fancies—always saw things in black and white, always considered money evil, and blamed the ills of the world on “filthy lucre” and “mammon,” as they called it. But it did not have to be that way. If Logan found the treasure, he was certain it would be different. He would make it different.
Logan was relieved of his thoughts for a time as the road steepened and he had to focus his complete attention on his steps. He left the road as Fergie had described and struck off on the shepherd’s trail. The rock-strewn path crept like a beaten cur through a gray blanket of dormant heather, most of it overtaken completely by the spindly shrubbery. It was hard to imagine that in summer this whole hillside would break out into a vivid purple, like a royal robe spread out over the neglected patch of isolated ground. Now it lay grim and dank, more like a shroud than a king’s mantle, and the wind whistled a lonely tune over the silent earth. Logan had to agree with Lord Duncan—it was, indeed, a dreary and inhospitable place. Beyond the abundance of heat
her, he could see large patches of bracken, the inevitable result of hundreds of years of overgrazing. No wonder this place was now deserted of human life, for even the poor sustenance sheepherding had provided was removed—perhaps forever.
As Logan’s gaze swept the horizon, it finally rested on a misshapen heap of granite boulders jutting up from the moor about a half mile off. He veered off the path and struck a line through the heather directly toward the rocks. The spot where a band of cut-throat Vikings had murdered an entire village was an ominous place to begin his own modern-day treasure hunt, but it was the most logical one, and Logan would not be cowed by some ancient legend.
In ten minutes he had come to the foot of the granite mounds that loomed a good twenty feet above him. He looked them up and down like a mountain climber studying a new challenge. But Logan was no mountain man, and he dearly hoped he’d not be called upon to climb these, for their sides had been worn smooth by the weather. Smooth, that is, on their exposed surfaces. But they were still jagged and treacherous at the points where the huge rocks leaned upon one another in apparently random fashion. Five or six major stones stood out from the rest, none looking more inviting than any of the others.
It took him twenty minutes to circle the entire area, exploring, poking, and prodding around the overgrown heather and bracken at the bases of the silent towers. He had no idea what he might be looking for, guided only by Lady Margaret’s painful memory of a day she and her groom had come out to this very place. She had said she “made” him go. What could have been the mission that had drawn her out to this desolate corner of the estate?
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 24