Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  It was in the hours between, after he had explained to her what had happened, and before Andrew’s father returned, that Lady Trentham and her son had the brief private talk that had so deepened the impact of the incident in his impressionable young mind.

  “I think it best, Andrew,” said the woman in the shock of realizing her daughter had drowned, “that we tell no one that you and Lindsay were together today.”

  Red-eyed and whimpering, yet struggling to be brave, Andrew looked up into her face with a questioning look and nodded.

  “It would cause too many questions, you see,” she went on. “Of course you didn’t do anything wrong, Andrew. I know that. But there might be talk, you understand. I simply want to protect you, and the family, from any more unpleasantness. We will just say that Lindsay was riding and had an accident, which is the truth. It will be our secret, yours and mine. And we won’t need to talk about this, will we? We’ll just put it behind us and keep it to ourselves.”

  Again Andrew nodded, his eyes wide, the words penetrating deep into his soul. His mother was always in control. He would do as he was told.

  Whatever her reasons were for such cautions, even she could not have said. The poor woman’s brain had nearly ceased to function. She spent the next few days in a stupor of pale shock, which continued through the church service and burial. True to what she had said, they had never spoken of it again.

  Ever after would he and his mother be linked by a secret that could do nothing but increase his guilt over the affair. No doubt she quickly disregarded, or even forgot, the vow of silence she had enjoined on him. And she never knew its effect.

  So many questions had plagued him since. Why had he not gone to Duncan’s cottage, closer than home by half? It might not have done any good, but the thought haunted him. Why hadn’t he tried to dive just once more? Why hadn’t he gone deeper . . . done something different? He had been so frantic, so powerless!

  And ever after that day, like Cruithne, he had been destined to assume a mantle of family elderhood—he could hardly call it chieftainship in this modern day—that should have belonged to another, and that, however long he wore it, he would gladly have relinquished could the personal history of his family be rewritten.

  Did that explain why the old tale had struck such deep root within him as a teenager? Without realizing it, had he shared Cruithne’s pain at the loss of his dear Fidach? These were questions he had never before considered, questions that now deepened all the more this soul-searching season of personal reflection.

  Andrew rose from the spot, drew in a deep breath, and continued his ride back to the Hall.

  If only, he thought, like Cruithne, he might rise above the pain and loss of the past, and, though the younger, yet prove to be a worthy heir to the legacy that fate had cast upon him unsought.

  Five

  The fifty-one members of the Liberal Democratic party gathered a week after Eagon Hamilton’s funeral to elect his successor to party leadership.

  The mood of the gathering was quiet, as befitted the sobriety of the occasion. Discussion between them kept returning, as it had for the last week, to the unbelievable circumstances of their former leader’s death. Yet they all recognized, despite their grief and shock, that they needed to move forward with the business confronting the party.

  Deputy Leader Larne Reardon, looking uncommonly wan, with his suit uncharacteristically rumpled and sparse hair in disarray, presided over the vote.

  The first ballot was taken. Surprisingly Reardon did not come away with a majority. Party secretary Charles Wilcox, from Kent, read the tally:

  “Larne Reardon, twenty-two votes,” he said—

  A few puzzled glances went about the room.

  “Maurice Fraser-Smythe, fourteen,” Wilcox continued. “Edwin St. John, six, Andrew Trentham, five, Sally Lutyens, two, and Charles Wilcox two.”

  The surprised looks and glances, with a few mumbled comments of astonishment, evidenced the fact that each of the twenty-nine who had not voted for Reardon had expected his own vote to be one of very few such cast. But apparently more of their number than anyone could have predicted had chosen to express their admiration for others in their ranks, assuming their vote would make no difference in the outcome. What it had done, in fact, was to prevent the Deputy Leader from achieving a first-ballot majority.

  “To speak truthfully, my friends and colleagues,” said Reardon with a peculiar smile, “I am not surprised at this result.”

  He paused with serious expression. They could tell something momentous was on his mind.

  “I have been somewhat ambivalent about my future since the night I heard about Eagon,” he went on. “You can imagine what a dreadful blow it was. I do not think it is that I am afraid for myself—though perhaps I am. In any event, I have found myself questioning whether leadership of the party is what I really want, at least now. I have my family to consider. I think I am going to require more time to reflect upon my future. And this vote we have taken . . . well, it only confirms the direction I feel I should take.”

  He paused briefly.

  “What I am trying to say,” he resumed, “is that I feel it best for the moment that I withdraw my name from further ballots. I think the Liberal Democratic Party will best be served with one of you at its helm.”

  More vocal expressions of astonishment went round the room, accompanied by no fewer than a half dozen objections and counterarguments that loudly extolled Reardon’s accomplishments and qualifications.

  “I am afraid my mind is quite made up, gentlemen and ladies,” insisted Reardon. “I should have made my announcement before. Perhaps I felt a lingering sense of duty should the vote have been strongly indicative that you felt I was the only one possible. But such is not the case. These of my esteemed colleagues for whom you have cast ballots—any of them will be well capable of filling Eagon’s shoes. At this point, I’m afraid my decision is final. Because I remain acting deputy leader, however, I will continue to preside over this election. Now, with my name no longer under consideration, we will vote again.”

  The room continued in a hubbub of mumbling and astonished comment. But Reardon stood calmly in front of them, waiting, unmoved by their attempts to persuade him to reconsider. Then one by one, as they finally realized he was in earnest, the party members again took their seats and quieted before setting about the suddenly unanticipated and newly unpredictable business before them.

  This time the vote took nearly twice as long.

  Again the MP from Kent read out the results, which came as an equal surprise from the first ballot.

  “Maurice Fraser-Smythe, thirteen,” Wilcox said. “Edwin St. John, seven. Andrew Trentham, nineteen—”

  That most in the room, including the fourteen who had switched their votes in his favor, were taken aback the moment Wilcox, with slight emphasis in his inflection, uttered the word, was more than obvious. Again a low buzz of astonishment spread among them.

  “—Mrs. Lutyens, six,” continued the secretary, “Thomas Parsons, four, and Charles Wilcox, two.”

  “Well,” laughed Reardon, displaying the first sign of humor they had seen from him in more than a week, “this is proving more and more interesting as we go. It looks as if we shall have to do it again.”

  “I must speak up,” now added Secretary Wilcox, still standing beside the deputy leader, “to ask that my name be withdrawn. If you would like me to continue in the capacity of the party’s secretary, I am happy to serve. But more than that I do not feel appropriate.”

  A few nods of acknowledgment followed.

  Thomas Parsons, MP from Wales, now rose from his seat. “While I appreciate the confidence of those who entered my own name,” he said, “I must follow Mr. Wilcox’s lead. My family simply could not take the added strain at this time. I respectfully request that no more votes be cast on my behalf.”

  “Any of those who remain would certainly be capable leaders,” said Reardon, glancing about the room. “Let
us vote again.”

  A third time the room quieted as the members considered their party’s future. Four minutes later, Wilcox announced the results of his latest computations.

  “Maurice Fraser-Smythe, eleven,” Wilcox began, “Edwin St. John, five—”

  The dropping numbers of the others already more than hinted at what was coming.

  “—Mrs. Lutyens, four . . .”

  Wilcox paused for obvious effect, drawing out the word.

  “—and Andrew Trentham, thirty-one!”

  A few cheers and sporadic applause briefly broke out.

  “It looks like that is it—congratulations, Trentham,” said Reardon, beckoning Andrew forward. “It looks as if the new head of our party is a Cumbrian.”

  His mouth open in a half smile of disbelief, Andrew rose to his feet.

  “Get up there, Trentham,” said Edwin St. John beside him. “You’re our man now.”

  Still amazed that his name had even been considered, yet not feeling at liberty to withdraw it without compelling reason, Andrew stumbled forward, the bewildered look on his face gradually giving way to nods of gratitude to those around him.

  “Come on up,” persisted Reardon, extending his hand in congratulations, “the gavel is yours.”

  Andrew took it. Reardon sat down. Shaking his head slowly back and forth as he gazed upon his colleagues, Andrew found himself at a loss for words.

  “I hardly know what to say,” he began. “The only thing that comes to my mind is to ask if you are all sure you want me as your leader and spokesman.”

  Laughter broke out. Slowly it gave way to applause. Gradually the sound grew louder and louder. Andrew stood, still shaking his head, but unable to keep himself from smiling as his colleagues clapped and cheered their rousing endorsement of the results.

  “Yes,” said St. John, standing and walking forward to shake Andrew’s hand. “We do. You are the right man for the job.”

  “Here, here!” added Maurice Fraser-Smythe, rising and coming forward also to extend his personal and enthusiastic congratulation.

  One by one, the rest followed suit. With the vote less than five minutes behind them, already the sentiment seemed strongly confirmed in the minds of all that they had made the right decision.

  “In fact,” said Maurice Fraser-Smythe above the congratulations, “I move that we make the vote unanimous.”

  “Here, here!” came voices from around the room. Another and even louder round of applause followed.

  Six

  The first Patricia Rawlings knew of the unexpected turnabout at the top of the Liberal Democratic Party was from the afternoon’s edition of the Post, which startled all of London.

  “Cumbrian Trentham Named New Leader of Liberal Democrats!” read the headline.

  Her eyes probed the photograph of Andrew Trentham, as if the black-and-white image would tell her something if she stared at it long enough. Slowly a smile spread across her face.

  “You have something to tell me, don’t you, Andrew Trentham?” she said softly to herself. “There’s a story here. I don’t know what it is yet, but I’ll find it. And somehow you, Mr. Trentham, are at the bottom of it.”

  She grabbed a pen and tablet from her desk, and then began to read the article, taking notes as she went, and jotting down the names of the principal players in the unseen drama she was certain lay somewhere between the lines of this news report.

  Twenty minutes later she had been through the article twice, with numerous pauses for thought.

  Her tablet, between doodles and cross-outs, contained several queries to herself, which she now underlined and circled for emphasis:

  What connection Stone and Hamilton?

  Links between SNP and LibDems?

  Why Reardon’s withdrawal?

  Motive for murder—political . . . religious . . . nationalistic . . . other?

  Motive for theft—same?

  What connection Trentham with above?

  At the bottom of the sheet she listed several names. Around them she now drew a little box, as if to highlight that at last her search for a story had some specific leads to follow. She would talk to them all, she said to herself—obviously all except the first . . .

  Eagon Hamilton, former leader LibDem

  Andrew Trentham, new leader LibDem

  Larne Reardon, deputy LibDem

  Dugald MacKinnon, leader SNP

  Baen Ferguson, deputy SNP

  —and she would begin immediately.

  Tucking the tablet into her bag next to her portable tape recorder, Paddy rose and left the office.

  Seven

  Andrew’s telephone was ringing even as he walked into his flat the evening of the balloting.

  “I called to reiterate my congratulations and wish you well,” said a familiar voice as Andrew answered it.

  “That is very gracious of you, Larne,” replied Andrew. He set down his briefcase and threw his coat over the couch. “I must admit I am still stunned by the sudden turn of events.”

  “Within days it will seem quite natural. You’ll see. And I want you to know that you can count on me for anything you need.”

  “I appreciate that, Larne. It means a great deal, coming from you.”

  “I hope I may be able to do some good behind the scenes, as it were. I will help guide you through the political land mines however I am able. I hope you will feel free to turn to me often.”

  “I am happy that the party decided you should continue on as my deputy leader.”

  “I am honored to do so. By the by, did you hear any more from Scotland Yard while I was out of the city?”

  “Only that they are trying to trace the movements of some East Ender.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. They managed a partial print from some papers they think were Eagon’s—they found them on an embankment upriver from where the body was located.”

  “Hmm, well—that’s . . . uh, good news—that there appears to be progress. What kind of papers?”

  “Inspector Shepley didn’t say.”

  “Have they found the fellow?”

  “Not yet. I think there’s a connection to a pub—O’Faolain’s Green . . . ever heard of it?”

  “Uh . . . no, I haven’t,” replied Reardon.

  “What it has to do with the fellow they’re looking for, I’m not sure.”

  A few more pleasantries followed. Andrew hung up, still shaking his head at the turn of events, and went to change clothes.

  Just one day ago he had been but one of 659 members of the British House of Commons. Now the Liberal Democrats had chosen him as their new leader. At age thirty-seven he would, in the tradition of Paddy Ashdown, become leader of Parliament’s third-largest party. Given the technical aspects of what was required to keep the government’s coalition intact, that position would make him one of the most influential men in the United Kingdom.

  Eight

  Andrew telephoned Derwenthwaite Hall later that same evening.

  “Well, son, it would appear congratulations are in order,” said his father. “I heard of your election on the news.”

  Andrew laughed. “Quite a shocker, eh, Dad?”

  “My money was on you all the way! Was the vote close?”

  “Three ballots,” replied Andrew “Then they made it unanimous.”

  “Well, you have my heartiest congratulations. Imagine . . . my son the leader of his party at the ripe young age of thirty-seven. And Barraclough knows that he needs you to hold on to his government.”

  “He’s already called,” laughed Andrew. “Very gracious and congratulatory as you would expect. As did Miles Ramsey of the opposition. They’re both already trying to win my loyalty.”

  “As I would expect. If Ramsey could turn you, it would put the Tories back in power.”

  “I’ll need time to sort it all out.”

  Father and son continued to chat lightly for several minutes.

  “Ah, here’s your mother,”
said Mr. Trentham. “She’s been storming and ranting ever since the news broke, waiting to talk to you!”

  Andrew could picture his mother doing exactly that. He wondered if this latest twist of his fortunes would heighten her confidence in him.

  “What are you going to do about the Scottish question, Andrew?” his mother asked the moment she had taken the receiver from her husband.

  He could feel her uncertainty across the 340 miles that separated them.

  “You must have been watching the news,” commented Andrew wryly.

  “And reading the papers. You’re everywhere these days. But I want to know how the thing looks to you.”

  “I don’t know, Mum,” sighed Andrew. “The pressures have been mounting from all sides since Eagon’s death. Now it’s bound to get worse.”

  “The Scottish Nationalists?” queried Lady Trentham.

  “This is the chance they have been waiting for to up the stakes toward independence, and they’re throwing everything they have into it.”

  “What I want to know is, do Labour and the SNP stand a chance of passing anything without your support?”

  “If they got every Labour MP, every Scottish Nationalist, and all twenty-four MPs from the minor parties, that would give them exactly the 330 majority needed. No,” Andrew went on, “I would rate the chance of that happening at about one in ten thousand. A coalition like that would provide the perfect opportunity for one man to control government single-handedly. One of those twenty-four would be bound to vote against the coalition, if for no other reason than to be known as the man who toppled the Labour government.”

  “That places you in a powerful position.”

  “Or a vulnerable one,” remarked Andrew. “How would you like to take my place, Mum?”

  The light comment had just slipped out. The moment he said the words, Andrew wished he could retrieve them. He knew well enough who his mother would have put in his place if she could.

  A brief, and for Andrew awkward, silence followed.

  “I don’t think the Liberal Democrats would have me,” replied Lady Trentham after a moment. Thankfully she did not add an allusion to Andrew’s sister.