At length Logan sat down on a small stone. Once more he glanced all about him. On both sides of him stood the granite pillars. In front of him was a sunken little hollow, seemingly which once might have been large enough to walk into but was now all overgrown with brush. He’d looked everywhere obvious, and now had no idea what to do next. Perhaps this seeming lead out to Braenock meant nothing, was no more than a red herring in his search. Yet somehow inside he sensed that this place had something to do with the treasure, or at least had at one time. Had the Picts truly buried their gold somewhere here, only to have it discovered centuries later? And where was it now? What were you trying to tell Maggie, Uncle Digory? thought Logan. She said you loved horses. And in your letter you even mentioned riding. And a cliff . . . and some path. If you moved it, then it must not be here. It must have something to do with the horses, thought Logan; somewhere Maggie rode, or you and she rode together. But if not here, then where?
Finally Logan rose with a sigh.
There was nothing more he could do here. He just didn’t know enough yet.
Striking out in a different direction than the way he had come, Logan walked south from the pillars several hundred yards farther, then began to descend the ridge westward, hoping to pick up the road by which he had come at a more southerly point than where he had left it. As he tramped along with no path now to guide him, he spied in the distance what looked like a broken-down house. He continued on toward it, and coming closer saw that at one time indeed it must have been one of the crofters’ cottages Fergie had told him about. Fences had at one time enclosed a small garden and no doubt a modest stockade of household animals. A couple of dry stone dikes ran away from the house, standing, despite their antiquity, nearly to their original height. The house itself, like all those abandoned hovels throughout the highlands and lowlands of Scotland, was roofless but still displayed four stout, stone walls, impervious to wind, weather, and time. It was a sad and melancholy reminder of a time gone by when the land, however poor, had been able to sustain the life of those poor tenant crofters who worked it with the sweat of their brow and the love of their hands.
Could this place be where Jesse Cameron’s father was born and raised? wondered Logan. She said it was out here. And if it was, Lady Margaret had been here, too. “She must have been well acquainted with the whole valley and the hills that surrounded it,” murmured Logan. “No wonder she is so fond of horses; she must have ridden here, and all about, by the hours.” Raven and Maukin, he remembered, the horses she mentioned. And Digory spoke of a horse named Cinder. If the treasure has something to do with where she rode, it could be anywhere!
Arriving no closer to a conclusion than when he had begun his afternoon’s outing, Logan left the abandoned cottage, made for the valley road, and thence back toward Port Strathy.
30
Telegram from the Fox
So, Macintyre had entrenched himself in the old castle!
Ross Sprague made a hasty departure from the Bluster ’N Blow where he had gleaned this nugget of information from the talkative innkeeper. Well, the kid is a smooth operator, indeed, thought Sprague as he ambled down the cobbled sidewalk of Strathy’s main street. He would never have thought that Macintyre could have managed to get that close to the town’s resident nobility. He wondered how he had done it, and if it meant he was any closer to the treasure.
It had been only a few days since Sprague’s arrival in Port Strathy, and nothing of great import had occurred. He had managed to keep tabs on his young quarry mostly by listening in on the village gossip and occasionally asking a few innocuous-sounding questions. It seemed Macintyre had been making quite a name for himself around the card tables, and despite the fact that he had recently fleeced several of the locals, he appeared to be held in rather high regard. He had become a regular mascot on one of the fishing boats and now was setting up housekeeping with the town highbrows.
Well, Logan Macintyre, thought Sprague as he turned into the mercantile, enjoy it while you can—it won’t last.
Sprague got no particular thrill out of hurting people. When it came time for him to walk in and ruin all of Logan’s hard-wrought labors and plans, he would feel no sense of elation or particular pleasure. In fact, he would probably not feel a thing. He never became emotionally caught up in his work, and was thus considered by some as downright cold-blooded. But a man didn’t get ahead by allowing his emotions to rule him, he reasoned. And that’s exactly what Sprague’s goal was—to get ahead. He would do whatever was necessary to achieve that end. Tailing a kid from London was nothing compared to what one of his particular calling was usually asked to do. He expected his boss would have him let Macintyre find the treasure, and then Sprague would jump in at that moment and take possession. It was a pretty standard plan that should work, especially with a man like Sprague in command. He was neither greedy, nor angry, nor vengeful—emotions that usually fouled up even the best-planned scheme.
Sprague suspected his boss’s interest in this whole affair had roots in the nonreasonable—revenge was the most likely candidate. Probably something had happened years ago and he felt he had some score to settle. But that was hardly Sprague’s concern. He was a man who could do his job. He’d walk in, cool as you please, and take what he came for. He’d do whatever he had to. If it meant not only retrieving the treasure but also getting rid of Macintyre, well, so be it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sprague was not squeamish. This Macintyre kid was not a bad sort. Sprague had known a lot worse in his business. But that would not prevent Sprague from successfully completing his assignment.
And he was ready to find out exactly what that assignment was going to be. He didn’t like working in the dark, as his boss was forcing him to do on this case. With this sudden change in Macintyre’s living situation, things could start happening pretty fast, and Sprague wanted to be prepared.
He walked up to the cluttered counter. The woman behind it was about his own age, although her rough appearance made her appear older. She was seated in an old captain’s chair thumbing through a catalog of boats and fishing equipment.
“Mornin’ t’ ye,” said Jesse Cameron, filling in while Olive Sinclair stepped out for a moment.
“Hello,” said Sprague in a tone not unpleasant, but nonetheless laced with a certain arrogance. “I was told you have a telegraph here.”
“Aye we do.” She laid aside her catalog and rose, motioning him to follow. “Olive put it back here,” she added as they entered a small back room crowded with a roll-top desk, stacks of cartons, and a narrow table which held the telegraph equipment. “It doesna get too much use in these parts, but the auld laird had t’ hae one.” Jesse blew away a layer of dust to punctuate her point. “Jist fix yer message doon on this,” she went on, handing him a small piece of paper.
Sprague cleared a space on the corner of the desk in order to find room to write, then he chewed at the end of his pencil for a moment while he clarified in his mind the code he and his boss had settled upon. Finally he scribbled several lines on the paper and handed it back to Jesse.
“Noo, let me read it back t’ ye, so’s I know I hae e’ery word aright.” She cleared her throat and began in an oratorical tone: “‘To Hawk: The pigeon is in nest. The robins are blind. The worm remains hidden. When and how will fox strike? Signed T.H.E. Fox.’”
Jesse paused and cast a puzzled glance at her customer. “That’s what ye’re wantin’ sent, Mr. Fox?” she asked, trying with little success to subdue the incredulity of her voice.
“Birdwatchers,” Sprague offered by way of explanation. “My employer is one of those—what’s the fancy name?—ornithologist, that’s it! And a bit eccentric, too.”
“Oh . . . I see.” But the way Jesse drew out the words seemed to indicate that she did not see at all, but was willing to let the matter drop. “Noo,” she went on more briskly, “Olive will send it soon’s she gets back.”
“But this is urgent.”
“Weel, I canna run
the machine, but Olive’ll be back directly.”
“I expect it to go out today.”
“Dinna ye worry aboot that.” Jesse impaled the telegram decorously on the outgoing spindle. “I’ll make sure Olive checks this first thing.”
“And I’ll be expecting an answer. Deliver it to Roy Hamilton’s place.”
Sprague turned smartly and strode from the store, leaving Jesse shaking her baffled head and wondering just what the world was coming to.
Sprague glanced at his watch. Well, if the telegraph was par with the rest of the service in this little village, he’d better not expect an answer until tomorrow. That would mean another whole day of sitting around this hick town. He’d end up going crazy before he had any real work to do. That wire might spur his boss to some action. But what could he do before Macintyre located the treasure?
Actually, Sprague hoped the telegram from London would tell him to abort the whole crazy mission. There couldn’t be any treasure. And even if there was, there were certainly easier ways of earning that kind of money.
Whatever the reply to his wire, he’d have to figure out a more foolproof way to keep track of Macintyre now that he was situated at Stonewycke. He couldn’t very well hang about the place without attracting attention.
Sprague decided to spend the rest of the day assessing the castle’s staff. There must be at least one person out there whom he could buy, someone who could deliver regular communiques about Macintyre’s activities, and especially someone who wasn’t apt to run off at the mouth.
Glad for the prospect of some activity, Sprague turned into Hamilton’s pub in much better spirits than when he had left an hour ago.
31
An Unexpected Invitation
Allison saw him in the kitchen.
But standing as he was in the dim glow of the banked fire in the hearth, with eerie shadows reflecting off his face, he looked so much like a thief in the night that she was at first timid to approach.
In the two days since their fiery conversation, she had given Logan Macintyre a great deal of thought. She had not been able to help herself. How could a man make her so angry, and yet so fascinate her all at the same time? Perhaps that accounted for some of her present timidity.
But she couldn’t let this opportunity pass. She couldn’t tolerate a situation in which she had no leverage, no control. Thus, something had to be done to reestablish her supremacy over him. She had been looking for him for the last twenty-four hours, always just missing him. Or at times, as now, she would come upon him unobserved, but, losing her resolve, would quickly depart.
Shyness could never be accounted to Allison MacNeil as one of her faults. Had there been a morsel of it in her personality, it would have been considered, in her case, a virtue. But shyness was not what had held Allison back, it was more a case of stubbornness and pride. It galled her to make up to him—he was such an incorrigible cad. He should be crawling to her, not the other way around. And yet the very fact that she knew he would never do such a thing almost compelled her to make the first move. She had never met anyone quite so . . . so impossibly aloof from what she considered the strength of her own personality. He could not have cared less what she thought of him. She hated him for it, of course! And yet, at the same time, she couldn’t help feeling . . .
Well, she didn’t know what she felt!
She just had to remind herself that there was a purpose behind her decision. She would turn the tables on him, put her feminine wiles to work, and in the end—well, whether she made sure the arrogant Mr. Logan Macintyre received his just desserts, or whether she granted him mercy . . . that would remain to be seen.
Amid such a jumble of emotions, Allison cleared her throat to announce her presence, and stepped boldly into the room as if, indeed, he were a thief and she were about to apprehend him. But when he turned to face her, she instantly softened her expression, remembering that she planned to try out a new tack on him this time.
“Good evening, Mr. Macintyre,” she said sweetly. “May I be of assistance?”
“Hello, Miss MacNeil,” he replied, not showing that he had been disturbed by the sudden intrusion, nor displaying his surprise at her congenial tone. “I hope my fumbling about hasn’t dragged you all the way down here?”
“Not at all,” she answered in her most pleasant manner. “The sounds of the kitchen hardly penetrate to the next room, much less into the rest of the house. I was simply in the mood for a cup of tea.”
“I can’t seem to locate the light switch,” he went on, asking himself even as he said the words what she could possibly be up to by being so friendly. “The cook said I might avail myself of the kitchen if I should ever miss a meal. I’m afraid I worked up a healthy appetite today.”
“It’s quite a walk out to Braenock Ridge.” As Allison spoke she laid her hand on the elusive light switch. The bulb flashed on as the last word escaped her lips, and the illumination revealed her dismay at having said something she would have just as well kept quiet.
“I didn’t know you kept such careful track of the activities of your hired help.”
“Well, I . . .”—the last thing she wanted him to know was that she had been asking after him—“I had need of the car and wasn’t sure it was in working order.” The lie was too obvious but she couldn’t help that now. She probably should have come right out and told the truth at that point, but she was so unused to such honesty that it simply did not occur to her. “We had kidney pie tonight,” she changed the subject adroitly. “The cook’s is every bit as good cold as it is hot.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
Logan crossed the room to the stove, where he found a covered crock. He decided to let the slip about Braenock pass, for she was obviously flustered enough without his adding to it. What was on her mind, anyway? And why was she so nervous . . . and so friendly all at once? It was rather interesting to think that the grand Lady Allison had been asking about him. The whole thing intrigued him, and since he could find no threat in her actions, he decided to play along.
“Kidney pie!” he announced, lifting the lid of the bowl. “Shall I also put on a kettle for tea?”
“That’s woman’s work,” she replied, bustling up to the stove as if she were actually accustomed to standing there. She checked the waterline of the kettle, then turned on the burner.
Resisting a strange urge to comment sarcastically on her uncharacteristic words, he, instead, suddenly reached out and took her hands in his.
“Funny,” he said, “I would never have associated these hands with work—of any kind.” She tensed, but did not pull away. “I’m sorry,” he said, almost embarrassed now himself. “I didn’t mean to startle you. But they are lovely hands. I doubt they were meant for menial tasks.” Slowly, almost reluctantly, he loosened his grasp and she let her hands drop to her sides.
She then flitted, with almost too much affectation, to a cupboard where she took out cups and saucers and plates.
“And what of your hands, Mr. Macintyre?” she asked airily. “They do not feel like rough, workingman’s hands, either.”
“No. As I mentioned earlier, I have lately been busying myself in investments and finance, an occupation which develops callouses only where they cannot be observed.”
“I had forgotten.”
Allison set the crockery on the table, and by the time she had cut off two slabs of the kidney pie, the kettle was whistling.
“I’m glad to see that you are joining me,” Logan said casually.
Allison poured the tea and they seated themselves at the old round table nestled in a warm corner of the vast kitchen. Had there been an intelligent mouse perched in the rafters above, a creature who knew the inner motives and designs of the two seated at that table, he might have thought the scene a very incongruous one indeed. Neither fit very well into the environs of a homey country kitchen, despite the fact that it was the kitchen of an ancient castle. Something about that setting, for the moment at least, seem
ed to soften all the rough and selfish edges both had accumulated in their short lives.
They chatted easily for a time about various inoffensive topics—the quality of the food, the castle, the weather, the horses, the countryside. Forgetting herself, Allison even laughed a time or two—a free, easy laugh. In those moments, the contours of her eyes and face seemed to change. A freshness and innocence flashed upon her. She looked as though she could be kind and warm, if only she would let herself be. And the way she tightened up immediately afterward, as if even the sound of laughter coming from her own mouth was too revealing, too threatening, caused Logan to wonder what she was hiding with the veneer of haughty distance she seemed bent on wearing.
“From the way you talk,” Logan observed, “I detect that you have a deep attachment for this country.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well . . .” he hesitated, not wanting to renew the previous tension between them.
“Speak freely, Mr. Macintyre.”
“Until now I’ve sensed you’re not particularly happy with your life here at Stonewycke.”
“You’re very observant.” She sipped her tea as if she expected to be prodded to reveal her inner feelings.
“I see a girl who has everything, and I ask myself, what could possibly be missing that makes you so unhappy?”
“You’re not going to start preaching to me, are you, Mr. Macintyre?”
“Heavens no!” He threw his hands up in mock surprise at such an idea.
“Good,” she said crisply, suddenly reverting to her old self. “I get enough of that already. As if I were some kind of heathen or something.”
“I think I see now,” he said, drawing out the words thoughtfully. “It is the family that is the source of contention.”
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