Tell Tale

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Will all passengers…”

  Mr. Macpherson stepped onto the plane.

  On arrival in Edinburgh, Arthur took a taxi to the Caledonian Hotel and checked in.

  “Welcome back,” said the desk clerk, as he checked his credit card against the customer’s reservation. He handed him a room key and said, “You’ve been upgraded, Mr. Macpherson.”

  “Thank you,” said Arthur, who was shown up to a small suite on the sixth floor, to be greeted with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, and a handwritten note of welcome from the manager. He gave the bellboy a handsome tip.

  Once he’d unpacked, he called Mr. Buchan and made an appointment to see him later that afternoon. Following a light lunch in the brasserie, Arthur took a stroll along Princes Street and arrived outside the bank with a few minutes to spare.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr. Macpherson,” said Buchan, leaping up from behind his desk when Arthur entered the account manager’s office.

  “It’s nice to see you too,” said Arthur, as the two men shook hands.

  “Can I offer you a tea or coffee?” asked Buchan once his client was seated.

  “No, thank you. I only wanted to check that my bank in Toronto had carried out the transfer, and there hadn’t been any problems.”

  “None that I’m aware of,” said Buchan. “In fact, the transfer couldn’t have gone more smoothly, thanks to Mr. Dunbar, and I’m looking forward to representing you in the future. So can I ask, Mr. Macpherson, is there anything you require at the moment?”

  “A new credit card and some checkbooks.”

  “Can I suggest our gold club card,” said Buchan, “which has a daily credit limit of one thousand pounds, with no security checks, and I’ve already put in an order for some new checkbooks, which should be with us by Monday. Would you like me to forward them on to Ambrose Hall?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Arthur, “as I intend to spend a few days in Edinburgh before I return to Ambrose. So perhaps I can drop in on Monday and pick them up.”

  “Then I’ll put a foot on the pedal and make sure they’re ready for you to collect by then.”

  “And my old NBT card?” asked Arthur.

  “We’ll cancel that when we hand over the new one on Monday. Do you have enough cash to see you through the weekend?”

  “More than enough,” said Arthur.

  * * *

  Arthur left the bank and began walking back down Princes Street. What he hadn’t told Buchan was that he intended to do some shopping before he headed for Ambrose, and even take in a concert or recital. In fact he dropped into four shops on his way back to the hotel, and purchased three suits, six silk shirts, two pairs of Church’s shoes, and an overcoat in the sale. Arthur had done more shopping in three hours than he’d previously managed in three years. As he continued down Princes Street, Arthur stopped to look at the painting in the window of Munro’s, a Peploe of a bowl of fruit that he much admired. But he already had half a dozen of his own. In any case, he decided it might not be wise to enter the gallery where Mr. Macpherson had purchased so many pictures in the past, so he continued on his way back to the hotel.

  After a cold shower and a change of clothes, Arthur made his way down to the hotel dining room, where he enjoyed an Aberdeen Angus steak with all the trimmings, and a bottle of red wine he had read about in one of the color supplements.

  By the time he’d signed the bill—he nearly forgot his name—he was ready for a good night’s sleep. He was passing Scott’s Bar on his way to the lifts when he turned and saw her image in the mirror. She was sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping a glass of champagne. Arthur continued on toward the lifts, and when one opened, he hesitated, turned around, and began walking slowly back toward the bar. Could she really have been that attractive? There was only one way he was going to find out. In any case, someone had probably joined her by now.

  A second look, and he was even more captivated. She must have been about forty, and the elegant green dress that rested just above her knees only convinced Arthur she couldn’t possibly be alone. He strolled up to the bar and took a seat on a stool two places away from her. He ordered a drink, but he didn’t have the nerve to even glance in her direction, and certainly wouldn’t have considered striking up a conversation.

  “Are you here for the conference?” she asked.

  Arthur swung round and stared into those green eyes before murmuring, “What conference?”

  “The garden centers annual conference.”

  “No,” said Arthur. “I’m on holiday. But is that why you’re here?”

  “Yes, I run a small garden center in Durham. Are you a gardener by any chance?”

  Arthur thought about his flat in Toronto where he’d had a window box, and Ambrose Hall, that couldn’t have been less than a thousand acres.

  “No,” he managed. “Always lived in a city,” he added, as she drained her champagne. “Can I get you another?”

  “Thank you,” she said, allowing the barman to refill her glass. “My name’s Marianne.”

  “I’m Sandy,” he said.

  “And what do you do, Sandy?”

  “I dabble in stocks and shares,” he replied, taking on the persona of Macpherson. “And when you said ‘run,’ does that mean you’re the boss?”

  “I wish,” she said, and by the time Marianne’s glass had been refilled three times, he’d discovered she was divorced, her husband had run away with a woman half his age, no children, and she had planned to go to the Schubert concert at the Usher Hall that night only to find it was sold out. After another drink, he even found out she didn’t consider Brahms to be in the same class as Beethoven. He was already wondering how far the journey was from Edinburgh to Durham.

  “Would you like another drink?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” she replied. “I ought to be getting to bed if I’m still hoping to make the opening session tomorrow morning.”

  “Why don’t we go up to my suite? I have a bottle of champagne, and no one to share it with.” Arthur couldn’t believe what he’d just said, and assumed she’d get up and leave without another word, and might even slap his face. He was just about to apologize, when Marianne said, “That sounds fun.” She slipped off her stool, took his hand and said, “Which floor are you on, Sandy?”

  In the past, Arthur had only dreamed of such a night, or read about it in novels by Harold Robbins. After they’d made love a third time, she said, “I ought to be getting back to my room, Sandy, if I’m not going to fall asleep during the president’s address.”

  “When does the conference end?” asked Arthur, as he sat up and watched her getting dressed.

  “Usually around four.”

  “Why don’t I try to get a couple of tickets for the Schubert concert, and then we could have dinner afterward.”

  “What a lovely idea,” said Marianne. “Shall we meet in reception at seven tomorrow evening?” She giggled. “This evening,” she added, as she bent down and kissed him.

  “See you then,” he said, and by the time the door had closed, Arthur had fallen into a deep contented sleep.

  * * *

  When Arthur woke the following morning, he couldn’t stop thinking about Marianne, and decided to buy her a present and give it to her at dinner that evening. But first he must get two tickets, the best in the house for a show that was obviously sold out, and then ask the desk clerk which he considered was the finest restaurant in Edinburgh.

  Arthur had a long shower, and found himself humming the aria from Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He continued to hum as he put on a new shirt, new suit, and began to think about what sort of present Marianne would appreciate. Mustn’t be over the top, but shouldn’t leave her in any doubt he considered last night so much more than a one-night stand.

  He went to his bedside table to pick up his wallet and watch, but they weren’t there. He opened the drawer, and stared at a copy of Gideon’s Bible. He quickly c
hecked the table on the other side of the bed, and then the bathroom, and finally his new suit that was strewn on the floor. He sat on the end of the bed for some time, unwilling to accept the truth. He didn’t want to believe such a divine creature could be a common thief.

  He reluctantly picked up the phone by the side of the bed and dialed Mr. Buchan’s private number at the Royal Bank of Scotland. He sat there in a daze until he heard a voice he recognized on the other end of the line.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Arthur, “but I’ve lost my credit card.”

  “That’s not a problem,” said Buchan. “Happens all the time. I’ll cancel it immediately and your new one will be ready for collection on Monday morning. If you need some cash in the meantime, just pop in and I’ll arrange it.”

  “No, I’ve got enough to get me through until Monday,” said Arthur, not wanting to admit that his money had also been stolen.

  Arthur went downstairs for breakfast, and wasn’t surprised to discover that there was no garden centers conference, and no one called Marianne registered at the hotel. When he left the Caledonian to go for a walk after breakfast, it was back to window shopping and he even spotted the ideal present for Marianne. It didn’t help. And when he passed the Usher Hall on the way back, there was already a queue for returns. At least that was true.

  It was a long weekend of walks around the ancient city, hotel food, and watching B movies in his room that he’d already seen. When he walked past Scott’s Bar on Saturday night and saw an attractive young blonde sitting alone, he just kept on walking.

  By Monday he’d exhausted the hotel menu as well as the films of the week and just wanted to return to Ambrose Hall and begin his new life. The only surprise was that he still couldn’t get Marianne out of his mind.

  5

  BY THE TIME Arthur had packed his bags on Monday morning, he’d decided the loss of a couple of hundred pounds and a watch he’d never cared for, was a fair exchange for the best night he’d ever had in his life.

  He checked his watch. It wasn’t there. Arthur smiled for the first time in days. Once he’d seen Buchan, he would take the first train to Ambrose and try to forget the whole incident, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He was feeling a little better by the time he left the hotel to keep his appointment with Mr. Buchan, and when he walked into the bank, his secretary was standing in the hall waiting to greet him. A gesture, he realized, that was only extended to the most important customers.

  “I hope you had an enjoyable weekend, Mr. Macpherson?” she said, as she accompanied Arthur through to Mr. Buchan’s office.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied politely, as she opened the door and stepped aside to allow him to enter.

  Arthur froze on the spot when he saw Mr. Stratton seated on the right of Mr. Buchan, with a large burly man he didn’t recognize seated on his left.

  “Sit down, Dunbar,” said Stratton, as the door closed behind him.

  Arthur obeyed the manager’s order as if they were back in Toronto, but said nothing.

  “It wasn’t difficult for me to work out what you’ve been up to for the past year,” said Stratton, “and at least we caught up with you before you could do any real damage. We have Chief Inspector Mullins of the Edinburgh city police to thank for that,” he added, revealing who the third person was.

  Arthur still didn’t speak, although he would have liked to ask the policeman how long his sentence was likely to be, but satisfied himself with, “How did you find out?”

  “The watch,” said Chief Inspector Mullins matter-of-factly. “‘To Arthur, from all his colleagues at NBT.’ Once we’d cracked NBT, the rest was easy. And after she’d described you as a nice gentleman with a mid-Atlantic accent, one call to the bank and Mr. Stratton even told us he’d presented you with the Rolex Oyster.”

  “And Marianne, how did you catch her?”

  “She tried to buy a train ticket to Durham with your credit card, but fortunately Mr. Buchan had already canceled it.”

  “And as far as I can tell,” said Stratton, taking over, “you’ve only spent two thousand seven hundred eighty-two dollars of Mr. Macpherson’s money. However, that doesn’t include the seventy three thousand one hundred forty-one dollars the bank will have to return to Mr. Macpherson’s private account, following the abortive exchange rate deal.”

  “And a further forty nine thousand one hundred twenty-four pounds,” said Buchan, “that will have to be charged to NBT after converting the four million pounds back into dollars.”

  “Mr. Buchan has already supplied me with all the share certificates, bonds, and other financial instruments that I will be taking back to Toronto later today, and once I return, Mr. Macpherson’s account will be repaid in full. So with a bit of luck, he will never find out what happened. However,” Stratton continued, “you have cost the National Bank of Toronto one hundred twenty three thousand four hundred sixty-eight dollars, not to mention the irreparable damage you might have caused to the bank’s reputation had this story ever got out. But, thanks to the cooperation of the Edinburgh police, to whom we will be eternally grateful,” continued Stratton, nodding in the chief inspector’s direction, “if you will agree to cover any costs, they will not press charges.”

  “And if I don’t?” said Arthur.

  “As a senior banking officer, in a position of trust,” said Chief Inspector Mullins, “you could be looking at six to eight years in a Scottish prison. I would’nae recommend it, laddie,” he paused, “given the choice.”

  Mr. Stratton stood up and walked down from the other end of the table and handed over a check made out to the bank for $123,468. All it needed was a signature.

  “But that would almost clean me out.”

  “Perhaps you should have thought about that in the first place,” said Stratton, handing him a pen.

  Arthur reluctantly signed the check, accepting that the alternative, as Mullins had so subtly pointed out, wasn’t that attractive.

  Stratton retrieved the check and placed it in his wallet. He then turned to the chief inspector and said, “Like you, we will not be pressing charges.”

  Mullins looked disappointed.

  Typical Stratton, thought Arthur. Make sure you cover your own backside, and to hell with everyone else. Arthur even wondered if the board would ever be told what had really happened. But Stratton hadn’t finished. He picked up a carrier bag from under his chair, and emptied a pile of Canadian dollars onto the table in front of Arthur.

  “Your account has been closed,” he said, “and the bank is no longer willing to do business with you in the future.”

  Arthur slowly gathered up the neat cellophane packages, aware that he would even be paying for Stratton’s first-class flight back to Toronto. He dropped the money into the carrier bag.

  “And what about my watch, Chief Inspector?” said Arthur, turning to face Mullins.

  “Mrs. Dawson comes up in front of the magistrate at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, so you can collect it any time after that, but not until she’s been sentenced.” He smiled at Arthur for the first time.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to appear as a witness for the Crown?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  Arthur smiled back. “You suppose correctly, Chief Inspector. I wouldn’t, even if you’d made it a condition.”

  Mullins frowned as Arthur rose from his place, and quietly left the room; no smiles, no handshakes, and certainly no one accompanied him to the front door. He left the bank in a daze and began to make his way slowly back to the hotel, not certain what to do next.

  He’d only gone about a hundred yards along Princes Street, when he spotted a sign on a window in neat black letters, Henderson & Henderson, Attorneys at Law.

  6

  WHEN THE DEFENDANT took her place in the dock, she looked tired and vulnerable.

  A court officer rose and read out the charges. “Marianne Dawson, you come before the court on three charges. One: that you stole a credit card from a M
r. Macpherson, and attempted to use it to purchase a rail ticket to Durham. How do you plead to this charge, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty,” said the defendant, almost in a whisper.

  “The second charge,” continued the officer, “is that you did steal a sum of around two hundred pounds from the said Mr. Macpherson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty,” she repeated.

  “And the third count is that you did steal a Rolex Oyster watch also from the same gentleman. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  Marianne looked up and facing the magistrate said quietly, “Guilty.”

  The chairman of the magistrates stared down into the well of the court and asked, “Is the defendant represented?”

  A tall, distinguished-looking man, dressed in a pinstriped suit, white shirt, and black tie, rose from the bench and said, “I have the privilege of representing Mrs. Dawson.”

  The Justice of the Peace was surprised to find one of Edinburgh’s leading advocates appearing before him on such a minor case.

  “Mr. Henderson, as your client has pleaded guilty to all three charges, I presume you will be offering a plea in mitigation?”

  “I most certainly will, sir,” he said, tugging the lapels of his jacket. “I would like to start by bringing to the attention of the court that Mrs. Dawson has recently experienced a most acrimonious divorce, and despite the family division awarding her maintenance payments, her husband has made no attempt to fulfill his responsibility, even after a court order was issued against him. Until recently,” continued Mr. Henderson, “Mrs. Dawson held a senior management position at the Durham Garden Centre, until it was taken over by Scotsdales, and she was made redundant. I feel sure the Bench will also take into consideration that this is a first offense, other than a parking fine some four years ago. However, Mrs. Dawson is not only extremely remorseful, but determined to pay Mr. Macpherson back every penny she owes him, just as soon as she can find a job. I would finally like to point out that until today, Mrs. Dawson enjoyed an unblemished reputation as an upright citizen, which I hope the Bench will take into consideration before passing sentence.”