Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  He would sleep well tonight. His brain was already half full of the dreams that would pass through his inner sight before morning.

  Six

  “ . . . the Cumbrian MP was not available for comment upon his arrival in London yesterday. He assured this reporter, however, that a statement would be released today. Kirkham Luddington, BBC 2, reporting live from Westminster.”

  The brief film clip showed Andrew Trentham’s back as he hastened by. The camera then cut again to the reporter, standing in the early morning’s drizzle, on the scene with a full film crew to capture the revelations he was certain would develop as the day unfolded.

  “More tea, sir?”

  Andrew glanced up from the morning news on the television. His housekeeper stood before him with a freshly brewed pot.

  “Oh . . . yes, thank you, Mrs. Threlkeld.”

  She set it down in front of him, then began to clear the breakfast things from the table. The telecast continued its report on the death of the prominent MP Eagon Hamilton, leader of the Liberal Democrats.

  Andrew had been out till after eleven the previous night, involved in meetings and discussions with Larne Reardon, the heir apparent to the party leadership, and with other colleagues and members of the party, trying to piece together a strategy for meeting the immediate circumstances. The press would be on them today no less than if word was leaked about a new Jonathan Dimbleby exposé. It was important they present a united response.

  He and his colleagues had also discussed at length what could possibly have been the cause of Hamilton’s death. Scotland Yard had questioned all his intimates thoroughly. Officially it was still being called a heart attack—though whether the press would believe the lie for another twenty-four hours was doubtful.

  The Yard obviously suspected foul play. Just the fact that they were withholding the body said there was more to the story than they were letting on. A rumor was circulating that Eagon’s corpse had been fished out of the Dee, floating near an abandoned Aberdeen dock, but the Yard would neither confirm nor deny the report.

  Given the mysterious circumstances, it had been an especially difficult call that he and Reardon had made upon Hamilton’s family yesterday. Reardon had been closer to Hamilton than any of them. He was leaving today to accompany Eagon’s widow to Liverpool for a few days.

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. He rose even before Mrs. Threlkeld summoned him.

  “Andrew,” a voice on the other end of the line greeted him. “I wanted to extend my condolences personally.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Trentham respectfully.

  “Britain has lost a great leader. I am extremely sorry.”

  “It is very thoughtful of you to say so, Miles.”

  “Commons won’t be the same without him.”

  “I should think not . . . though on the practical side,” Andrew added pointedly, “it will make your job easier.”

  “I meant no such thing, Andrew. Eagon and I may have had our differences—”

  “Strong differences,” interposed Trentham.

  “True enough,” consented the other. “But I had the utmost respect for him. He was true to his convictions. No one can fault a man for that,” Miles Ramsey went on. “As was your mother—tell her we Conservatives need her here to get our government back.”

  “I’ll convey the message,” laughed Andrew.

  “As to what impact Eagon’s death will have upon my position,” Ramsey added, “the answer to that may rest with you, my young friend, and your colleagues. If we could somehow persuade your party to join us in coalition rather than your Labour brethren . . .”

  His voice trailed off significantly.

  Andrew knew the powerful leader of the opposition Conservative Party was probably right. Suddenly the Liberal Democratic Party was going to be thrust into the limelight as it had never been under Hamilton’s tenure as party leader. The whole balance of national politics could be affected.

  Miles Ramsey knew it. Prime Minister Richard Barraclough of Labour knew it. His own Liberal Democratic colleagues knew it. They had spoken of little else last evening, though Larne Reardon, the deputy leader of the party, had been understandably subdued. Notwithstanding his somber mood, all had deferred to him as though he were already the duly elected head of the party. That vote, however inevitable the outcome, had yet to be taken.

  “We need to talk, Andrew—and soon,” the opposition leader said.

  “It is Reardon you need to speak with, Miles,” replied Andrew. “He will be head of our party soon.”

  “That may be so. But Reardon and I have never exactly been political friends, if you know what I mean, any more than Eagon and I were. But you and I understand one another, even if we represent different parties. I am hoping you will be able to use your influence with the party. . . .”

  “Many are more senior than I am, Miles.”

  “Ah, but your star is on the rise, young Trentham. In any event, I hope you will consider me an ally and friend. With you I always know I’ll get a fair hearing.”

  “I appreciate your confidence, Miles,” said Andrew, smiling wanly to himself. “But surely it can wait a few days.”

  “I will not object to that—just not too long.”

  “I’ll be in touch to arrange something after the funeral.”

  Andrew hung up the receiver, reflecting on Ramsey’s words.

  Well, he thought, it’s already begun. The subtle attempt to woo him, this time with flattery and praise—it was sure to come from both sides. And the pressures would get stronger and less subtle as time went on. He may have been young, but he had been around Parliament long enough to realize that politics was a man’s sport, not a boy’s game.

  Andrew returned to his chair, sat down, and took a swallow of tea from the half-empty cup in front of him. Again his attention was drawn to the television set. The BBC reporter Kirkham Luddington was just presenting his biographical portrait of Eagon Hamilton.

  “ . . . outspoken critic of the Conservative government’s policies during the Thatcher and Major eras, and leader of the increasingly influential Liberal Democratic Party—found twenty-four hours ago, reportedly in Aberdeen, dead at age fifty-six.

  “The controversial Northern Irishman, who traveled to Liverpool in 1964 in hopes of seeing the Beatles firsthand, soon made the great western seaport his permanent home. He worked on the docks as a young man and eventually worked his way up to become one of the city’s six MPs. Yet he never lost his Ulster brogue, nor forgot his humble roots, and he became known throughout the United Kingdom as the champion for lost causes. During recent years, a peaceful settlement to the Irish question filled his agenda, an issue which largely frustrated the attempts of Scottish Nationalists to win over Hamilton’s support to their cause. Fighting with dedication against any break between Northern Ireland and the rest of the United Kingdom, Hamilton was on record as saying that, however sympathetic in principle he may have been to the notion of Scottish home rule, he could not allow that sympathy to jeopardize what he was trying to do for his own homeland. Having succeeded in bringing Scottish independence to national attention, the SNP has been carefully monitoring the climate in the Commons—a climate which now seems to have changed dramatically.

  “To repeat—the Honorable Mr. Hamilton, Liberal Democrat Minister in the Labour government, is dead. It remains to be seen what course Hamilton’s successor, likely his deputy and close friend Larne Reardon, will follow, and in which direction he will take the Liberal Democrats.”

  Andrew stood and turned off the set.

  It was time to face the day.

  Seven

  Andrew knew from this morning’s newscast exactly where Kirkham Luddington and his film crew would be positioned. If he took a taxi or limousine straight to the front entrance, there would be no escape. Therefore he opted to try blending in with the busy sidewalk pedestrian traffic along the Victoria Embankment until he was close enough to slip through on
e of the side gates into the Norman Shaw building.

  His party colleagues had given him the assignment of releasing a statement on their behalf today. But he had other things to do first. There were people he needed to talk to, and Inspector Shepley from Scotland Yard had promised to announce something more definite about Hamilton’s death before noon.

  Andrew had decided to call a press conference for half-past one that afternoon—sixty minutes prior to the convening of the House of Commons. He would make the notification as soon as he arrived at the office, hoping it would at least secure him the morning free from the press.

  The streets were busy, crowded, full of blaring horns and the smell of diesel, the rumble of buses, taxis, and trucks. He hurried along quickly, ducked through the gate, and soon was entering his office. There was hardly time to greet his secretary before the telephone on her desk rang.

  “It’s the prime minister, sir,” she said a moment later.

  Andrew smiled. He had known it would be a frenetic day.

  “I’ll take it inside, Mrs. Blanchard,” he replied, then walked into his inner office, removed his coat, sat down behind his desk, and drew in a deep sigh before picking up the receiver.

  “Prime Minister,” he said, “how good to hear from you.”

  “Good morning, Andrew. Terrible business, this, about Eagon. I wanted to let you know how sorry I am.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your sentiments.”

  “Reardon’s office said I should talk to you. Any more news from the Yard? The press is on me for some kind of statement.”

  “Me too. But I’ve heard nothing this morning.”

  “You still on for this afternoon?”

  “Right.”

  “Would you like me to share the heat with you, field some of the questions? I’d be happy to, Andrew. Eagon was a good friend.”

  “Thank you, Richard,” replied Andrew. “That is a very kind offer, but I think it best if I handle it as planned.”

  The prime minister would like nothing better, thought Andrew to himself, than to share the limelight with him at the press conference, mourning the loss of Eagon Hamilton together, and conveying the unmistakable message that the Labour-Liberal Democrat coalition was as strong as ever.

  It was too soon for all that. Andrew didn’t want to begin accumulating political debts before Eagon was even buried. Neither he nor Reardon nor any of his colleagues had any intention of breaking the coalition, but they had to have time to adjust to the new circumstances.

  “The Scottish Nationalists have already contacted me,” Barraclough went on, “wondering where the LibDems will line up on Scottish issues.”

  “You’d think that after the fiasco with the Stone’s theft,” said Andrew, “they would lay low for a while. Their favorability polls aren’t all that high at the minute.”

  “MacKinnon insists that the Abbey break-in had no connection to their movement. He would like us to think it was the Irish, but I don’t believe that for a second. Any thoughts on it yourself, Andrew?”

  “Nothing more than what I’ve heard in the news.”

  “In any event, Dugald MacKinnon and his Scottish Nationalist friends knew Eagon was the roadblock to much they would like to accomplish. To tell you the truth, I shudder to think where MacKinnon wants to take all this. Devolution seems hardly to have appeased him. I’m sure they’ll be talking to you and Larne Reardon soon enough.”

  “No doubt. I’m surprised we haven’t heard from them already.”

  “There are other matters we have to discuss, Andrew,” added the prime minister.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Miles Ramsey—no discussions until Eagon is buried and our party decides if it wants Larne Reardon to lead it,” replied Andrew firmly. “When the vote is taken, then you can talk to Larne. I am only acting as party spokesman on a temporary basis during his absence.”

  “You’ve already spoken with Ramsey?” The prime minister’s voice was wary.

  “He called to extend his condolences.”

  “He will do his best to lure Reardon into his camp, and he’ll use you to do so if he can. These are tense times, Andrew. We mustn’t let either the Tories or the Scots bring down our coalition.”

  “I shall keep my wits about me.”

  “I suggest you do just that, Andrew. Ramsey may promise you the moon, but let’s face reality—a Conservative-Liberal coalition is impossible to imagine, even if all you Liberal Democrats were reelected. And you would lose the Social Democrats again.”

  “Conservatism isn’t dead yet, Prime Minister,” laughed Andrew. “You might just lose your Labour-led coalition altogether. I’m betting you won’t call for elections quite yet, even though I admit we are sitting a tight wire.”

  “Have it your way, Andrew. But I tell you that you and your colleagues belong with Labour—something Eagon Hamilton understood.”

  “I’m sure we will have many opportunities to discuss these matters in the future, Prime Minister,” replied Trentham. “But I really must try to get my statement prepared.”

  Barraclough laughed heartily.

  “I know when I am being brushed off, Andrew. But yes—I’m sure we shall. In the meantime, I hope that either you or Mrs. Hamilton will let me know if there is anything I can do, or if she would like me to say a few words at the services.”

  Andrew hung up the phone, then began flipping through the stack of calls and messages on his desk.

  Half were marked urgent.

  He stood, walked to the window, and stared outside for several long moments. How suddenly things could change.

  Eight

  By ten minutes till one, Andrew had a double-Excedrin migraine and was glad he still had a supply of pills left from his last trip to the States.

  The day’s developments had made him regret a dozen times over that he had ever called a press conference. To back out now, however, would only add more fuel to the fires of speculation.

  He leaned forward at his desk, resting his head in his hands.

  If this was any indication of what leadership of his party was like, he was glad Eagon’s friend was going to inherit the position. Many days like this and he would go mad. Faithful Sarah Blanchard had done her best all afternoon to handle the calls and keep the pressure off him. But there were many he had no choice but to take.

  The call he had just received had topped the day off with the worst possible news he could imagine.

  Scotland Yard was about to issue a statement revealing more details of Eagon’s death. In view of his upcoming press conference, they wanted to give the news to him first. And then, Inspector Shepley had added, they would appreciate his coming over to the Yard for a private and more in-depth interview.

  He picked up his pen, leaned forward, scribbled across the page of notes, then pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. He would have to redraft an entirely new statement in light of the Yard’s disclosure.

  A knock sounded at his office door.

  Andrew glanced up. His secretary held a delivery in her hand.

  “This just came for you from Mr. Reardon’s office,” she said. “They didn’t know whether it could wait for his return, or if you should see it.” She handed him the parcel.

  Larne Reardon’s name was neatly typed on a sealed envelope. He recognized the seal on the corner immediately. It was from Dugald MacKinnon, Scottish Nationalist MP and party leader.

  He had expected this, but not so soon. Richard Barraclough had been right—the Scots wasted no time. He thought they would at least have had the decency to wait until after the funeral.

  Slowly Andrew slit the seal, removed the single sheet inside, and read the brief and relatively straightforward communiqué, then sat staring for some minutes straight ahead.

  If MacKinnon’s words accomplished anything, it was to derail Andrew’s mind even more thoroughly from the press statement he was trying to write.

  Nine

  The press briefing opened to the fading str
ains of Big Ben’s somber strike of the half hour.

  The crowded sidewalk was buzzing as Member of Parliament Andrew Gordon Trentham strode to the front of the crowd, where a bank of microphones was positioned in readiness.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have a statement to give you regarding the death of my colleague and friend, Eagon Hamilton. First of all, I would like to express what I know are the sentiments of all of us in this city and throughout the country—our sympathies and heartfelt condolences to Mrs. Hamilton and her family. Eagon Hamilton was a dedicated public servant whose voice in this nation’s affairs will be sorely missed. I have spoken with both Mr. Barraclough and Mr. Ramsey. I speak for them and their parties as well as the rest of Parliament when I say that we are all shocked at this sudden news, and we grieve the passing of one whom we all considered a friend, as well as a staunch and loyal colleague . . . and loyal Briton.”

  Andrew paused and cleared his throat. Several hands shot into the air immediately. He ignored them and went on.

  “As to the pragmatic matters which such an unfortunate event forces upon us, the fifty-one remaining members of the Liberal Democratic Party will meet as soon as possible to elect a successor. No major changes in the party’s policies are anticipated at this time. Deputy Leader Larne Reardon, who left the city with Mr. Hamilton’s family this morning, is expected to take the reins.

  “A by-election for Mr. Hamilton’s seat in Mossley Hill will be conducted as soon as can be arranged.”

  There was another pause, this one briefer than the first.

  “The funeral will be held on Thursday of this week in Liverpool. Most of Mr. Hamilton’s party colleagues will be in attendance, as well as, I have been informed, both Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Barraclough. Mr. Larne Reardon will be asked to represent the family to the press at that time.

  “That concludes my prepared remarks. Thank you very much.”

  Trentham made no attempt to leave. He knew questions would follow in a frenzy. Therefore he stood and allowed the blitz to come.

  He acknowledged one of the twenty hands that were in the air the next moment.