Tell Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  “That’s what gave you away,” said Arthur.

  “Will we go to jail?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw.

  “Not if you carry out my instructions to the letter,” said Arthur as he stood up. “Is that understood?”

  “I don’t care about going to jail,” said Laidlaw, “but not Morag. It wasn’t her fault.”

  “I’m afraid you’re both in this together,” said Arthur. Mrs. Laidlaw began to shake again. “Now I want to see Mr. Macpherson’s study.”

  The Laidlaws both looked surprised by the request, but quickly led Arthur out of the drawing room and up a wide sweeping staircase to a large comfortable room on the first floor that had been converted to an office.

  Arthur walked across to a desk that overlooked the hills of Arbroath. He was surprised to find not a speck of dust on the furniture, only perpetuating the myth that their master was still alive. The Laidlaws stood a few paces back, as their unwelcome visitor sat down at the desk. A flicker of a smile crossed Arthur’s lips when he spotted the Remington Imperial typewriter on which Mr. Macpherson had written so many letters to him over the years.

  “Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” asked Mrs. Laidlaw, as if she were addressing the master of the house.

  “That would be nice, Morag,” said Arthur. “Milk and one sugar, please.”

  She disappeared, leaving her husband almost standing to attention. Arthur opened the top drawer of the desk to find a stack of used checkbooks, the stubs filled in with Macpherson’s familiar neat hand. He closed the drawer and took out a piece of Ambrose Hall headed notepaper, and slipped it into the typewriter.

  Arthur began to write a letter to himself, and after he’d typed “Yours sincerely,” he pulled the page out and read it, before turning to Laidlaw. “I want you to read this letter carefully and then sign it.”

  Laidlaw couldn’t hide his surprise long before he finished reading the letter. But he took the quill pen from its holder, dipped it in the inkwell, and slowly wrote “S. Macpherson.” Arthur was impressed, and wondered how long it had taken Laidlaw to perfect the forgery, because he’d never spotted it. He took an envelope from the letter rack, placed it in the machine, and typed:

  Mr. A. Dunbar

  Senior Vice President

  The National Bank of Toronto

  He placed the letter in the envelope and sealed it, as Mrs. Laidlaw returned carrying a tray of tea and shortbread biscuits. Arthur took a sip. Just perfect. He placed the cup back on its saucer and set about writing a second letter. When he had finished, he asked Laidlaw to once again add the false signature, but this time he didn’t allow him to read the contents.

  “Post one today,” said Arthur. “And this one a week later,” he added, before passing both envelopes across to Laidlaw. “If the second letter arrives on my desk within a fortnight, I shall return in a few weeks’ time. If it doesn’t, your next visitor will be a police officer.”

  “But how will we survive while you’re away?” asked Laidlaw.

  Arthur opened his briefcase and took out three checkbooks. “Use them sparingly,” he said, “because if I consider you have overstepped the mark, the check will not be cleared. Is that understood?” They both nodded. “And you’ll also need to order some more writing paper and envelopes,” continued Arthur, as he opened the drawer. “And stamps.”

  Arthur was just about to close the drawer when he spotted some documents tucked away in a corner. He pulled out Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, his birth certificate, and a will, and could feel his heart hammering in his chest. The three finds supplied him with a wealth of information that might prove useful in the future, and he finally discovered what the S. stood for. Macpherson’s passport also revealed that he was sixteen years older than Arthur, but given the blurriness of the old photograph he felt he could get away with it. But he would still need to order a replacement before he returned to Toronto. He placed the passport, birth certificate, and the will in his briefcase and locked it. He stood up and began to walk toward the door. The Laidlaws followed obediently in his wake.

  “Mrs. Laidlaw, I want all the dust sheets removed, and the house returned to the state it was in when Mr. Macpherson was still in residence. Spare no expense, just be certain to send me every bill, so I can double-check it,” he added, as they walked downstairs together.

  “By the time you return, Mr. Dunbar, everything will be just as you would expect it,” she promised.

  “As Mr. Macpherson would expect it,” Arthur corrected her.

  “Mr. Macpherson,” she said. “I’ll prepare the master bedroom so it will be just like old times.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like me to do, sir?” asked Laidlaw when Arthur reached the bottom of the staircase.

  “Just be sure to post those two letters, and carry on as if Mr. Macpherson was still alive, because he is,” said Arthur, as Laidlaw opened the front door.

  When Jock saw them coming out of the house with Hamish Laidlaw clutching on to his hat, and no longer holding a gun, he jumped out of the car, ran around, and opened the back door so his fare could climb in.

  “Where to, sir?” said Jock.

  “The station,” Arthur said, as he looked out of the window to acknowledge the Laidlaws waving, as if he were already the master of Ambrose Hall.

  * * *

  During the flight back to Heathrow, Arthur studied Mr. Macpherson’s last will and testament line by line. He had left generous legacies to the Laidlaws, while no other individual was mentioned. The bulk of the estate was to be divided between several local organizations and charities, the two largest amounts being allocated to the Scottish Widows and Orphans Fund, and the Rehabilitation of Young Offenders Trust. Did those simple bequests, Arthur wondered, explain why the young Scot had set sail for Canada, and ended his days as a recluse in a remote part of his homeland?

  Arthur knew the passport and birth certificate could prove useful if he was to go ahead with the deception, but had already decided that when he died, the executors would find the will exactly where Mr. Macpherson had left it.

  On arrival back at Heathrow, Arthur took a train to Paddington and a taxi on to Petty France. Once he’d entered the building, he spent some considerable time filling in a long form, something he was rather good at.

  After double-checking every box, he joined a slow-moving queue, and when he eventually reached the front he handed the document to a young lady seated behind the counter. She studied the application carefully, before asking to see Mr. Macpherson’s old passport, which Arthur handed over immediately. He’d made only one subtle change, 1950 had become 1966, while his own photograph had replaced the original one. She was clearly surprised not to have to make any corrections on his application form, or ask for further information. She smiled up at Arthur and stamped APPROVED.

  “If you come back tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Macpherson,” she said, “you’ll be able to pick up your new passport.”

  Arthur thought about making a fuss as he had a flight booked for Toronto that night, but simply said, “Thank you,” as he didn’t want to be remembered.

  Arthur checked into a nearby hotel, where he spotted a poster advertising a performance of Schubert’s Fifth, to be given at the Festival Hall by the Berlin Philharmonic under their conductor, Simon Rattle.

  He was beginning to think the trip couldn’t have gone much better.

  3

  ARTHUR PICKED UP the phone on his desk and pressed a button that would put him through to the manager’s office.

  “Barbara, it’s Arthur Dunbar.”

  “Welcome back, Arthur. Did you have a nice time in Vancouver?”

  “Couldn’t have been better. In fact I’m considering moving out there when I retire.”

  “We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara. “I’m not sure how the place will survive without you.”

  “I’m sure it will,” said Arthur, “but when are you expecting Mr. Stratton back?”

  “He and his wife flew to Miami on Friday. He
’ll be away for three weeks, so there couldn’t be a better time for us to rob the bank.”

  “And run away together,” laughed Arthur. “Toronto’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde! Still, while I’m the senior officer, could you keep me briefed if anything important arises?”

  “Of course,” said Barbara. “But as you well know, not a lot happens in August while so many customers are away on holiday. But I’ll give you a buzz if anything comes up.”

  * * *

  Arthur checked his post every morning, but it wasn’t until the sixth day that the first of the two letters landed on his desk. Arthur didn’t rest on the seventh day, now he felt confident that the Laidlaws were keeping their side of the bargain. He picked up the phone and pressed another button.

  “Standing orders,” said a voice he recognized.

  “Steve, it’s Arthur Dunbar. I’ve just received a letter from Mr. Macpherson, and he’s instructed the bank to raise Mr. and Mrs. Laidlaw’s monthly allowance.”

  “I wish someone would do that for me,” said Steve.

  “I’ll send down a copy of the letter for your files,” said Arthur, ignoring the comment. “And can you make sure that everything is in place for the September payment.”

  “Of course, Mr. Dunbar.”

  The second letter took a little longer to arrive, and Arthur even wondered if the Laidlaws had changed their mind, until the post boy delivered an envelope postmarked Ambrose on Monday morning, leaving him only five working days to complete the next part of his plan. But like a good Boy Scout, Arthur was well prepared.

  He checked his watch. Buchan would still be at his desk for at least another couple of hours, but he needed to make an internal call before he contacted Edinburgh. He picked up the phone, pressed another button, and waited until the head of accounts came on the line.

  “Have you seen a copy of the Macpherson letter, Reg, that I sent down to your office earlier this morning?”

  “Yes I have,” replied Caldercroft, “and I’m sorry, Arthur, because you must be disappointed after all these years.”

  “It was bound to happen at some time,” said Arthur.

  “But sad that it’s just when you’re leaving. Will you get in touch with Mr. Macpherson and try to persuade him to change his mind?”

  “Not much point,” said Arthur. “He hasn’t done so for the past twenty years, so why would he now?”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Caldercroft. “But shouldn’t we wait until Stratton gets back, and see how he wants to play it?”

  “I’m afraid the new banking laws don’t allow us that luxury,” said Arthur. “If a client requests to move his account, we must carry out their wishes within fourteen days, and as you can see, the letter is dated the eleventh.”

  “Perhaps we should call Mr. Stratton in Miami, and alert him to the situation?”

  “You call him if you want to, Reg…”

  “No, no,” said Caldercroft. “You’re in charge during the manager’s absence, so what do you want me to do next?”

  “Gather up all Mr. Macpherson’s bonds, stocks, and any other financial instruments, and courier them to a Mr. Buchan at RBS in Edinburgh, who appears to be the person he’s appointed to take over the account. I’m just about to phone Buchan and find out when it will be convenient to complete the transfer. I’ll keep you briefed.” He put the phone down.

  Arthur took a deep breath and checked over his script one more time before he picked up the phone again and asked the switchboard operator to get him a number in Edinburgh. He waited to be put through.

  “Good morning, Mr. Buchan, my name is Arthur Dunbar, and I’m the senior VP at the National Bank of Toronto.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Dunbar,” said his opposite number. “I’ve been expecting your call. I had a visit from a Mr. Macpherson a couple of weeks ago, and he said you’d be in touch.”

  “Indeed,” said Arthur, “although we will be sorry to lose Mr. Macpherson, a most valued client, but pleased he’ll be moving to our partner bank in Edinburgh. And to that end,” said Arthur, trying to sound pompous, “I have already given instructions to send all the necessary paperwork to you by courier, which I anticipate should be dealt with by the end of the week.”

  “Thank you, said Buchan, “and when will it be convenient for you to transfer Mr. Macpherson’s current account?”

  “Would Thursday morning suit you? Around this time.”

  “That should be fine. I’ll make sure everything is in place to receive the funds on Thursday afternoon, and may I ask roughly how much we should be looking out for?”

  “I can’t be certain of the exact figure,” said Arthur, “because I won’t know the dollar–sterling exchange rate until that morning. But it will certainly be in excess of four million pounds.”

  There was no response, and Arthur even wondered if they’d been cut off. “Are you still there, Mr. Buchan?”

  “Yes, I am, Mr. Dunbar,” Buchan eventually managed. “And I look forward to hearing from you again on Thursday.”

  * * *

  Mr. Stratton returned from his holiday the following Monday, and had only been in his office for a few minutes before he called for the senior vice president.

  “Why didn’t you try and contact me in Miami?” were his first words as Arthur entered the room.

  “As you can see,” said Arthur, placing his own typewritten letter on the desk, “Mr. Macpherson’s instructions couldn’t have been clearer, and as I have no way of contacting him other than by post, there wasn’t a lot I could do.”

  “You could have held things up, even flown to Scotland to see if you could get him to change his mind, which I would have approved.”

  “That would have been pointless,” said Arthur, “as he had already visited RBS in Edinburgh and instructed a Mr. Buchan to carry out the transfer as expeditiously as possible.”

  “Which I see you did last Thursday.”

  “Yes,” said Arthur. “We just managed to complete the transaction within the time stipulated by the new government regulations.” Stratton pursed his lips. “However, a little coup I thought you would appreciate,” continued Arthur, enjoying himself, “the Toronto end handled the exchange from dollars into pounds sterling, earning the bank some seventy three thousand one hundred forty-one dollars.”

  “A small compensation,” said Stratton begrudgingly.

  “How kind of you to say so, Gerald.”

  * * *

  Arthur spent his last month making sure everything was in apple pie order, no more than his mother would have expected, so by the time Reg Caldercroft moved into his office and took over as the new senior vice president, Arthur had only one responsibility left: preparing a farewell speech for his retirement party.

  “I think I can safely say,” said Mr. Stratton, “that few people have served this bank more conscientiously, and certainly none longer, than Arthur Dunbar. Twenty-nine years, in fact.”

  “Twenty-nine years and seven months,” said Arthur with some feeling, and several of the longer-serving staff stifled a laugh.

  “We’re all going to miss you, Arthur.” The insincere smile returned to the manager’s lips. “And we wish you a long and happy retirement when you leave us to join your family in Vancouver.”

  Loud “hear, hears” followed this statement.

  “And on behalf of the bank,” continued Stratton, “it’s my pleasure to present you with a Rolex Oyster watch, and I hope whenever you look at it, you will be reminded of your time at the bank. Let’s all raise a glass to our senior vice president, Arthur Dunbar.”

  “To Arthur,” said over a hundred voices, as they raised their glasses in the air, which was quickly followed by cries of “speech, speech!” from the guests. They all fell silent when Arthur walked up to the front and took Stratton’s place.

  “I’d like to begin,” said Arthur, “by thanking those people, and in particular Barbara, for organizing such a splendid party, and to all of you for this magnificent gift. And
to you, Gerald,” he said, turning to face the manager, “I must say it will be quite hard to forget who gave me the watch, when engraved on the back is the inscription, ‘To Arthur, from all his colleagues at NBT.’” Everyone laughed and applauded as Arthur strapped the watch on his wrist. “And if any of you should ever find yourself at a loose end in Vancouver, do please look me up.” He didn’t add, but should you do so, you won’t find me.

  Arthur was touched by how warm the applause was when he rejoined the guests.

  “We’ll all miss you,” said Barbara.

  Arthur smiled at the bank’s biggest gem. “And I’ll miss you,” he admitted.

  4

  ARTHUR LEFT THE bank at six o’clock on quarter day. He took the bus back to his small apartment and packed up all his belongings before spending his last night in Toronto.

  The following morning, after handing over the keys to his apartment to the janitor, he took a cab to the airport. He only made one stop on the journey, when he donated four packed suitcases of his past to a grateful volunteer worker at the local Red Cross shop.

  After checking in at the domestic terminal, Arthur boarded the midday flight for Vancouver. On arrival on the west coast, he collected his only suitcase from the carousel, and took a shuttle bus across to the international terminal. He waited in line before purchasing a business-class ticket to London, which he paid for with the last of his Canadian dollars. By the time Arthur boarded the plane he was so exhausted he slept for almost the entire flight.

  When he landed at Heathrow and had passed through Customs, he once again transferred to terminal five and purchased a ticket to Edinburgh, also with cash. Arthur checked the departure board, and although he had an hour to spare, he made his way slowly across to gate 43. He stopped at every lavatory en route, locked himself into a cubicle, ripped out one page of his Canadian passport, tore it into little pieces, and flushed it down the toilet.

  By the time Arthur reached the check-in desk, all he had left of his old passport was the cover. Mr. Dunbar dropped it into the bottom of a waste bin outside McDonald’s.