Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  “Where is Mr. Reardon now?” said its owner.

  “With the family. That is all I care to say.”

  “You say Deputy Leader Reardon is considered the front-runner to become the next leader of the Liberal Democratic Party?” shot out someone from the rear.

  “Mr. Reardon is well capable of the leadership necessary to articulate the views we hold.”

  “Will he continue your party’s loyalty to Labour’s coalition?” asked another.

  “That will of course depend, as in the past, on the issues involved.”

  “Do you anticipate a change?”

  “No, but it is not my place at this time to speak for the entire party.”

  “You say you have spoken with the prime minister?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Was policy discussed?”

  “No.”

  “Did you agree to keep his coalition intact?”

  “I repeat—substantive matters were not part of our very brief conversation.”

  “You say Miles Ramsey has also contacted you?” came another voice.

  “I have spoken with the opposition leader as well, yes.”

  “With what result?”

  “He was merely conveying his sympathy over Mr. Hamilton’s death, as was the prime minister.”

  A brief pause came. Andrew took a breath, but the lull was short. Suddenly the gathering erupted again with questions. The most importune of them took him by surprise.

  “What do you know of the report just released by Scotland Yard?” the questioner asked.

  “To what report would you be referring?”

  “The report stating evidence of a knife wound through Mr. Hamilton’s heart?”

  “I did not know you were aware of that report,” rejoined Andrew, doing his best to keep from showing his surprise. He had assumed that Inspector Shepley’s call forty minutes ago would give him at least an hour’s lead time over the bloodhounds. He was not prepared with an answer.

  “We are all aware of it, sir,” the questioner added. “The statement was given out thirty minutes ago. What is your opinion, Mr. Trentham? It was obviously murder!”

  At the word, a heightened buzz spread around the crowd.

  “It is far from conclusive that such is the case at this point,” replied Andrew. “I believe the Yard is also investigating the possibility of suicide.”

  “No one stabs himself in the heart!” laughed one of the outspoken reporters in jest. “Not at that angle. And floating in the river—come on, Mr. Trentham, what are you trying to hide?”

  “I’m hiding nothing,” Andrew shot back testily. “I am merely waiting for all the facts.”

  “Who would want him dead?” shouted a voice.

  “You knew Eagon Hamilton,” put in another voice over the mounting din. “Can you describe his recent mental state?”

  “His recent mental state was perfectly fine,” rejoined Andrew a bit too quickly. He could feel his even temper wearing thin.

  “Then you do subscribe to the murder theory. Whom do you think was responsible?”

  “I subscribe to no such thing.”

  “But the wound obviously rules out natural causes—”

  “The Yard’s report is not so decisive,” rejoined Andrew.

  “What about the rumor that the knife was Scottish, a sgian-dubh?” called out another.

  “I have not heard that,” answered Andrew.

  “Do you think there is some connection between the murder and the unsolved theft of the Stone?”

  “I have no idea. But I really must insist we move on to other matters. Scotland Yard will release the details of Eagon Hamilton’s death in due course as they carry out their investigation. Until then it is pointless to speculate further. Now . . . I will be able to take another question or two.”

  Again hands shot into the air. The sound of a dozen voices erupted around him.

  One, however, stood out from the rest. How could he not give her an opportunity to redeem herself?

  “Yes, Miss Rawlings,” said Andrew, acknowledging the attractive young American.

  An uncommon hush came over the gathering in spite of the traffic behind it. No one wanted to miss a word, however her accent might grate upon their ears.

  “It seems clear,” Paddy said, perhaps trying a bit too hard to sound forceful and confident, “that Eagon Hamilton’s death will place Mr. Reardon in a more controversial limelight than merely as concerns the coalition in Parliament. And the same might be said of you,” she added.

  She paused briefly, seemingly for effect, but in reality to take a steadying breath. She knew she was on display. She was trying her best not to reveal her jittery nerves.

  “—Tell me, Mr. Trentham,” she went on, “what do you think the odds are that the issue of greater sovereignty for Scotland will come up soon for division in the House of Commons?”

  Her emphasis of the word, showing that she was not afraid to poke fun at her previous mistake, struck a positive chord. Most of those present, though half expecting another blunder, were willing to recognize her improved presence of mind.

  Only a second or two did the quiet last. Then could be heard, first from one, then three or four, a sporadic applause, accompanied by a few nods and looks of good-natured surprise—in recognition that she had handled herself well.

  “A very perceptive question, Miss Rawlings,” smiled Andrew, “—as your colleagues are well aware,” he added, glancing around. “You’ve put me on the spot, and they know it!”

  Now laughter broke out in earnest. The American reporter was obviously relieved.

  “But, to answer the question you raise,” Andrew went on, his face again turning grave, “I honestly don’t know.”

  From where she stood, Paddy’s eyes met those of the young Englishman. His penetrating gaze held hers for the briefest instant. The edges of his lip hinted at a smile, as if to add his own private and unspoken Well done for the pluck she had shown.

  “It would seem,” Paddy persisted, “that your rising influence in the party may increase the likelihood of such.”

  “That I would not want to say at this time. And my rising influence, as you call it, is nothing more nor less than simply the fact that none of my colleagues want to face any of you today! When the services are over and all this is behind us, Mr. Reardon will speak for the direction of our party.”

  “Eagon Hamilton was no friend of the SNP.”

  “Eagon always acted on what he felt was best for the United Kingdom and its people. Such will continue to be the policy of the Liberal Democratic Party, and that of Mr. Reardon as well.”

  He turned his face away. Paddy knew her brief moment in the spotlight was over. But she was satisfied. That one instant of eye contact, and the smile he had given her, made the whole day worthwhile!

  Again voices clamored for the MP’s attention.

  “Yes . . . Mr. Luddington,” said Andrew, acknowledging the BBC reporter.

  “You mentioned both Mr. Barraclough and Mr. Ramsey,” Luddington said, seizing upon the opening his American colleague had given him. “Have you spoken to Dugald MacKinnon as well?”

  “I have not spoken recently with the Scottish leader,” replied Trentham.

  “There are rumors that the SNP is about to become more aggressive in pursuit of its causes. You must admit, would you not, as Miss Rawlings indicated, that your leader’s unfortunate death changes, if not the SNP’s agenda itself, then certainly its potential timetable, especially given their apparent implication in the theft of the Stone of Scone?”

  Andrew wanted to deny any knowledge of anything to do with the SNP’s plans. He didn’t want questions surrounding Eagon Hamilton’s death further stirred up by this contentious issue. Unfortunately, he could not deny it. He had just read MacKinnon’s letter back in his office, outlining the precise steps by which the SNP intended to bring the matter of Scottish independence to the forefront of national attention now that one of their chief adv
ersaries, Eagon Hamilton, was out of the way.

  “I can see where you’re going with this, Mr. Luddington,” he replied. “However, this seems a highly inappropriate time for any of us to speculate upon the future activities of the SNP. I would suggest you direct your questions to Mr. MacKinnon himself.”

  “What is your position, Mr. Trentham,” persisted Luddington, “on the matter of Scottish independence?”

  “As I tried to indicate to Miss Rawlings, it is too soon to speculate on such things. My position is irrelevant at this point.”

  “I am not asking you to speculate whether the matter will come up for debate. I am asking what is your position on the matter. If the SNP manages to pressure the prime minister to bring it front stage onto the agenda, would you go along with Labour on it?”

  “I can only repeat that it is pointless for me to speculate about things that may or may not come up in the future. That is all the questions for today, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you very much. Good afternoon.”

  The Liberal Democratic spokesman turned quickly and strode toward the Palace.

  Ten

  It was different returning to Derwenthwaite this time. Andrew Trentham had not been to Cumbria so often within such a short time since last summer’s recess.

  The two stressful meetings early that morning, another interview with Scotland Yard, the ride to Liverpool, the funeral, and now this long ride north had exacted their toll. Andrew was spent. By the time Horace pulled the automobile into the tree-lined approach to Derwenthwaite it was well past dark, and rain was coming down steadily.

  The sound of the tires crunching along the gravel drive, and the illumination of the headlights against the large beech and sycamores along either side, warmed Andrew’s spirits as he approached the ancient stone dwelling. Gradually the faint lights of the house appeared, adding yet further to the homey feeling.

  He hurried inside and greeted both his parents. As they entered the drawing room—where a crackling fire waited—there was the tray of tea things approaching in Franny’s two faithful hands. Within moments, the ill effects of the difficult day and the afternoon’s journey had already begun to fade into memory.

  After tea and a scone and forty minutes’ light conversation, Andrew retired to his room. In weariness he undressed, only managing half a page in his Father Brown novel before putting it aside in favor of what his sagging eyelids were telling him.

  He awoke eight and a half hours later to shafts of sunlight blazing through the windows.

  In place of the roar of London streets, he gazed out now upon cold, sunny silence. Above was pure blue, unbroken by a single cloud.

  Andrew dressed and made his way quickly downstairs. Sounds came from the kitchen, but he kept straight for the door and outside. He made his way around the imposing east wall to the expansive gardens and wooded pathways north of the house. The morning air was chilly, yet not so cold as to have frozen the multitudes of droplets left over everywhere from the night’s rain. Given the season, the temperature actually felt pleasant.

  He paused for a moment, breathing deeply of the clean, bright air. He glanced toward the lake, then again left, allowing his eyes to drift across to the pastureland where, in summer, his father grazed a small prized herd of thoroughbred horses. Thence he gazed beyond, toward the hills.

  An involuntary glance back toward the house revealed the form of his mother in an upstairs window. He pretended not to notice. It was what he continually expected to feel somewhere over his shoulder—her watching eyes. He never knew exactly what she was thinking. But he always knew he sat under the unrelenting microscope of her inspection.

  He set out slowly across the wet lawn for a short walk. But he knew his parents would be down before long, and he hadn’t visited with them long the previous evening. And he was ready for a cup of Choicest Blend.

  The thought of morning tea made him unconsciously increase his pace. A minute or two later he walked through the dining room door. His mother and father had only moments before taken their seats.

  “Are you feeling better this morning, Andrew?”

  “Much, thank you, Mother—as long as tea is brewing!”

  “The water was poured two minutes ago.”

  “Good! In that case, yes—I feel well rested . . . and glad not to have the sounds of London echoing in my ears for a change.”

  “You’ve always liked the fast-paced life,” commented his mother. “I can’t think how many times I’ve heard you say you couldn’t wait to get back. Your sister, on the other hand, always said—”

  She stopped and said no more.

  Andrew pretended not to notice. “Maybe I’m changing, Mother,” he said.

  “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Blair?” she asked, her voice probing for more information.

  Andrew shrugged. “Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t,” he replied. “All I know is that I find myself thinking about new things these days—more country things than city things.”

  He took a seat. Within a short time the three were enjoying toast, tea, and hearty conversation. Mr. and Lady Trentham were always interested to hear every detail about the public life of their son, and they were especially eager to hear the latest developments in the Eagon Hamilton situation.

  There wasn’t a man who knew him who did not love and admire Harland Trentham. His soft-spoken demeanor and dry wit insured that he was a favorite in any and all company. But in public it was Lady Trentham who had always been out front and in the news, vocal and controversial. Many whispered privately, especially in the early days of their marriage, that she was the one who wore the trousers of the family. But her husband seemed not to mind her forthrightness and drive. He was along for the ride and enjoyed life as he went. He hadn’t realized he was marrying the conservative political version of a feminist. But as that’s how things had turned out, he had made the best of it.

  That Lady Trentham loved him in turn was clear enough, though her husband’s phlegmatic personality did nothing to dissuade her from the opinion that women were more suited to lead anyway, and that the world was lucky it had managed this far with men at the helm. But new days were coming. She had been part of it and had cherished the hope, now gone, that her daughter would take such leadership even higher. Even so, she maintained a lively interest in the London activities of her only son.

  “I see you mentioned in the Times every day, Andrew, my boy,” laughed Mr. Trentham. “Seems like the old days—just as when I saw your mother on the news almost every evening. You won’t need to call us ever again—we can find out all we need to know about our son from the papers!”

  As he spoke, he held up that morning’s edition, pointing to a caption halfway down the page: “Reardon, Trentham both silent on LibDem future.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” groaned Andrew. “I’m well enough aware of it!”

  “Has the Yard made progress in the Hamilton affair?” asked Andrew’s father, marmalading a slice of toast.

  “Not much.”

  “Dreadful business, that,” he said, “—imagine, a knife between the ribs. I didn’t know Hamilton kept such company.”

  “Nor did I,” replied Andrew.

  “Any sign of the weapon?” asked Lady Trentham.

  “Not a trace, Mum. The Yard’s got nothing much to go on. They’re trying to track down two roughs in the East End, but without much success. I’m not sure what the connection is.”

  “Any idea as to motive?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “What do you think, son?” asked his father.

  Andrew was quiet a minute or two before replying.

  “I am puzzled, Dad,” he answered at length. “I thought I knew Eagon Hamilton nearly as well as anyone. Obviously not as well as Larne. But I haven’t the slightest notion who would want him dead. His involvement in Irish affairs always makes one wonder in that direction. But to my knowledge he was highly thought of in both Northern Ireland and Eire. I just don’t know.�
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  Eleven

  By midday, Andrew’s early morning good spirits had begun to give way to reminders of the reflective mood which had driven him out of the city twenty-four hours earlier.

  He walked outside and toward the stables. Within ten minutes he had saddled his favorite gray mare, Hertha, and was cantering away from the house, up the gently rising slope in the opposite direction from the lake.

  It was quarter past two, and he could not have imagined a finer afternoon. The sun shone brilliantly overhead, and the waters of ocean and lakes reflected of the deepest blue.

  In no apparent direction he rode, pausing halfway up the northern slope of Bewaldeth to behold the sea in the distance. It was one of those twice-in-a-year days when you could see almost forever. The haze had been cleared off by last night’s rain, and the horizon seemed magnified in its brilliance.

  Sight of the blue expanse reminded him of a favorite childhood overlook. To him as a boy, the incomprehensibly wonderful fact of being higher than the gulls as they circled in the windy inland eddies in front of the cliff below had never failed to seize him with a special mystery and delight. To fly himself would have been best of all. But to be capable of looking down upon a flying creature had given wings to his own sense of fantasy and wonder. It had filled him with quiet sensations of boyish power and sent his imagination off in a thousand directions at once.

  He smiled as the images refocused themselves on the lenses of his memory. He would visit the overlook again!

  He hoped the gulls were playful today. Watching their aerial games would suit his nostalgic mood.

  Unconsciously he quickened the pace of his mount along the thinly discernible trail winding slightly upward and to the east.

  It was not far. In less than ten minutes he dismounted and tied the mare’s reins to the branch of a tree. The final ascent he would make on foot.

  Andrew walked for only a moment or two, then set off in a run up a slight incline. After some fifty yards he turned all at once onto a track leading to his right and found himself, after another half dozen paces, halting quickly at a clifflike ledge overlooking a small lake. This had been his most cherished vantage point when he was a boy.