Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  Gradually he became more comfortable with the look and meaning of the strange Scots dialect—aided by a dictionary of the old tongue. He even undertook to learn a few of his favorite poems and passages in the mother tongue in which they had been penned, practicing aloud as he walked. More than once he found himself startled into embarrassed silence by the curious looks cast his way by other morning pedestrians whose approach he had not seen in time to temper his attempted northern soliloquies.

  Fortunately, he thought, BBC’s Kirkham Luddington had not made the discovery that one of London’s hottest news personalities was walking alone along the streets every morning exhibiting a most peculiar form of behavior!

  It was a season for Andrew Trentham of discovery and newness, when life seemed a good and exciting thing.

  Two

  The detectives prowling around with flashlights in the dark and muddy passages and drains beneath the Palace of Westminster had been here before. But with the case still unsolved, pressure was mounting for some kind of break. The underground network was cramped, dank, and smelly. A salamander, maybe rats, might be able to move comfortably in here. But not grown men.

  But they had not just been sent back into the maze through which the thieves had penetrated the Abbey for the fun of it. They had been ordered to find new evidence.

  “I say, what’s this?” said one of the men. He scraped about on his hands and knees. “Bit of a scrap of paper, what?”

  He reached gloved hands toward it, where it lay in the corner, wet and half buried. Two of his colleagues approached for a closer look.

  “Piece of a business card torn in half, I’d say,” remarked one.

  Shining his light upon it, the finder now turned it over from the side on which a few all-but-illegible scribblings had been made. Whistles from all three followed.

  “I’d say we’d best get this to Shepley immediately,” he said.

  Three

  Inspector Shepley of Scotland Yard turned the torn card over in his hand several times. It would be some time before they knew whether any of the three partial prints they had lifted from it matched anything in the computer file. In the meantime, he had to try to extricate some clue from what little was here.

  The personal card of the late Eagon Hamilton! What on earth was it doing near the hatch where the thieves had escaped to the Thames?

  All he had to go on were a few numbers scrawled on the reverse—possibly a partial telephone number—and the cryptic letters . . . l-e-n-c. . . . What came before and after was either torn or too muddied to read.

  It was a long shot, but he would try to trace the number—if it was a telephone number at all. It could be part of an address. It could be anything. Whatever it was, there was no guarantee there was any connection to the UK. It might just as well have been written by someone on the continent.

  Shepley again turned the card over in his palm.

  It wasn’t much. Unfortunately, at this point it was all he had.

  Four

  The late April morning’s sun streamed through a large rectangular window facing northeast from the small top-floor corner flat.

  Patricia Rawlings stood, coffee cup in hand, looking out across the small street separating the long row of genteel Georgian houses from the sloped greenery of Primrose Hill off Regent’s Park. The three-room apartment high in one of the white stone buildings had been a lucky discovery three years ago, and the price reasonable considering the location. She had grown to love this quiet little corner on the western edge of Camden Town, some three and a half miles from the center of London.

  She had arisen rather earlier than usual today, had brewed her two-cup pot of coffee, and now stood enjoying its aroma until it cooled sufficiently to sip.

  She stared out the window with little more on her mind than the vague contentedness that accompanies a brilliant sunny morning. Suddenly her gaze was arrested by a lone figure strolling along the sidewalk across the street. She was jolted instantly more awake by the sight than any anticipation of her coffee had achieved.

  What could he be doing here! she thought, . . . and at this time of the morning?

  Before she could narrow her focus to make sure the walker was in fact who she thought he was, the familiar form had turned into the park and was gone.

  She turned back into the room and sat down. Slowly she began sipping at the cup in her hand.

  The following morning Paddy again arose early—this time, however, by design. She filled and turned on her coffee maker, dressed hurriedly, then pulled a chair up close to the window. A few minutes later she took a seat with mug in hand to observe Primrose Hill and see what she might see.

  An hour later, disappointed, she rose. She had seen no one familiar. Not to be deterred, however, she followed a similar routine the following morning, and the next after that.

  On the fifth day, she was at last rewarded. Prepared this time, Paddy tracked the morning walker carefully with her gaze.

  It was him! The gait was leisurely but unmistakable as he made his way up the hill. He carried no briefcase and was dressed casually. He was obviously not on his way to a breakfast meeting or anything of an official nature.

  She leapt from her chair and was halfway to the door when a pang of hesitation seized her. What would he think to turn around and see her running along the sidewalk after him? It would hardly be a dignified opening to conversation.

  Slowly she returned to the window. She would have to rethink her strategy. Besides, he had already disappeared into the park again.

  Paddy glanced down at her watch. It was six-thirty-five.

  She would be up even earlier tomorrow . . . and ready for the appearance of the honorable gentleman.

  Paddy’s alarm rang the following morning at five-fifteen. By quarter till six she was strolling leisurely along Regent’s Park Road bordering Primrose Hill. Occasionally she wandered onto its side paths, hoping to intersect whatever might be his morning route.

  By six-fifty, growing tired and with a whole day of work still ahead, Paddy gave up the attempt and returned to her flat.

  For four successive mornings she adhered to the same routine. But all met with identical lack of success. She wondered if he walked in the park on weekends too.

  She would do her best to find out.

  Five

  The morning was a brilliant one, and unseasonably warm for the first weekend of May. Andrew Trentham had been walking through Regent’s Park—his favorite haunt for the last couple of weeks—for twenty or thirty minutes, and was by this time beginning to perspire. He crossed Prince Albert Road, as he had done two or three times lately, and continued across the lawn of Primrose Hill. A bench at its summit was his goal. With his open Burns in front of his face, he had paid only enough attention to the few other early-rising souls present at this hour to keep from bumping into them.

  “Why . . . why, Mr. Trentham—what a surprise seeing you here!”

  The merry voice sounding ten yards in front of him as he rounded a bend in the path momentarily startled him. Andrew glanced up and paused in midstride.

  “Oh . . . hello, Miss Rawlings!” he said with a smile as he recovered from his surprise. He closed the book into one hand and dropped it to his side. “I didn’t know you to be one of the city’s early birds.”

  “Not every day, I confess,” replied Paddy. “But I like to come out when I can. It is such a wonderful time of the day.”

  “I couldn’t agree more!” rejoined Andrew. “It is a recent obsession with me. Getting out early has made this the best spring I’ve had since moving to London.—Which way are you going?”

  “Oh, nowhere in particular. I live just over there.”

  Andrew glanced in the direction of her nod.

  “Well, then, if you don’t mind, I’ll walk along to nowhere with you for a while!” he said, turning and resuming his walk in the opposite direction. Paddy fell into step beside him.

  “Do you enjoy living here along the park?” he asked
.

  “I love it,” replied Paddy. “I don’t suppose it’s all that fashionable. But there’s such a neighborhood feel to it—little shops, Sesame Whole Foods, the bookstore, Odette’s, sidewalk cafes . . . it’s nice.”

  “I live on Hereford Square off Gloucester Road.”

  “South Kensington—now that is fashionable.”

  Andrew laughed. “It’s a pleasant street,” he said, “but a rather busy part of London. You can always hear the traffic from Old Brompton Road. Not that I’m complaining. It’s a good central spot. Convenient and all that.”

  “Out here, it seems that people aren’t quite so much in a hurry. You can get a cappuccino and a roll and read a book on a nice day and almost imagine you’re in some quaint little village.”

  “I’ll have to come up again with my book and do just that.”

  “I’ll treat you to coffee at Cachao.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My favorite little bakery, down at the end of the street a couple of blocks from my place. So what is that you’re reading?” Paddy asked.

  “Robbie Burns, the Scots poet.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about his work.”

  “Nothing in the world like it.”

  “How so?”

  “The way he captures the land, the culture, the mystique, the history of his homeland.”

  “Scotland again!” laughed Paddy. “It seems we get around to it whenever we cross paths.”

  “Scotland’s what I’m interested in these days.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t see your interviewer’s note pad,” laughed Andrew. “But I’ll answer you with another question—have you ever studied genealogy?”

  “Not much.”

  “Neither had I. But recently I’m finding it fascinating to go back into the history of a kingdom, a continent, a nation, a family, and try to find where one’s own roots intertwine with the people and events that have influenced the direction of that land’s past.”

  “What does that have to do with Burns and Scotland?”

  “Burns is the Scottish bard,” replied Andrew. “Scotland is the country whose roots I’m trying to untangle.”

  “What does that have to do with you?” asked Paddy. Almost as the words were out of her mouth a light of revelation dawned on her face, and she added, “Why—you’re not Scots?”

  “I just may be, Miss Rawlings,” answered Andrew seriously. “Somewhere back in my lineage there seems to be some Scottish blood. I’d never given it much thought until recently. Now that I am thinking about it . . . let’s just say I am intrigued.”

  Paddy nodded, taking the information in with a knowing expression.

  “—But that’s off the record,” added Andrew with a laugh. “For now, at least.”

  “You know the rules, Mr. Trentham,” said Paddy with a sly smile. “You have to claim confidentiality beforehand. Otherwise your comments are fair game.”

  “So this is an interview!”

  “No. But the reporter in me always lurks near the surface.”

  “Well,” rejoined Andrew with a crafty expression of his own, “if you want more from me later, I think you’ll honor my request.”

  “Are you saying you will give me a story?”

  Andrew walked a few more steps in silence.

  “If there’s a story, Miss Rawlings,” he said after a moment, “I’ll call you first.”

  “Then I’ll honor your request,” said Paddy. “But you don’t have to be so formal with me—I’m an American, remember? Can’t you just call me Paddy?”

  “I’ll call you Miss Rawlings,” replied Andrew with a smile. “Some American ways are a little too loose even for a new-generation liberal like me. I like to preserve respect, without giving in too soon to informality. But I haven’t forgotten the cappuccino invitation.”

  They walked on for several minutes in silence. When the conversation resumed, the subject of ancestry—either Scots or American—did not come up again between them.

  Six

  As Andrew Trentham walked back through Regent’s Park, his thoughts were full of the serendipitous conversation with the delightful American journalist Patricia Rawlings.

  Why had he allowed so much time to elapse since their lunch together? His thoughts suddenly flitted to the garden party he was scheduled to attend during the Chelsea Flower Show later this month. He would invite her to accompany him.

  It would be fun. Why not set people to buzzing about something other than his politics for a change? And what a scandal it would be—a respectable English gentleman with a scrappy American journalist.

  Whatever percentage his blood contained from his northern heritage, Andrew thought with a smile, maybe it had been derived from a Scottish rogue!

  When he walked into his flat the telephone was ringing. He quickly strode across the room to answer it.

  “Hello, Andrew,” said a musically accented voice on the line.

  “Blair!” he exclaimed.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, yes . . . I am. I would have to say you are rather the last person I expected to hear from,” replied Andrew. He tried to recover from his shock and keep his voice sounding halfway normal.

  She laughed good-naturedly. “I deserve that,” she said. “Why would you expect to hear from me?”

  The sound of Blair’s voice in his ear, especially her laugh, sent Andrew into a brief whirlwind of enchantment, mingled with a renewal of confusion over what had happened. Her question had been rhetorical, and before Andrew could collect his wits to reply, Blair spoke again.

  “Seeing you last month at Granby’s,” she said, “reminded me of a lot of good times we had together. I’ve been thinking about you ever since. Perhaps I was wrong.”

  Andrew’s brain reeled at the words.

  “I’d really like to get together,” she added. “I want to talk to you.”

  Andrew’s first impulse was to drop everything and rush to her immediately. But something within him spoke a word of caution. If the long walks and hours of reflection and newfound self-awareness had done anything, perhaps they had made him a little more self-protective. If he was suspicious, it was because he was not eager to be hurt again. If, as he had come to realize, he hadn’t really known Blair that well, a brief telephone call wouldn’t change that fact. He would have to give this situation some thought.

  The silence on the phone lasted but two or three seconds. “I’ll ring you,” said Andrew after a moment. “Are you still at your flat?”

  “Actually, no,” Blair replied. “I’ll give you another number.”

  Andrew took it down. They exchanged a few more pleasantries, then hung up.

  He sat down and exhaled deeply. The call had shaken him. Slowly his mind drifted back to Patricia Rawlings and their walk in the park.

  Call from Blair or not, he would still ask the American to the flower show!

  Seven

  The knock on Inspector Shepley’s door sounded urgent. The owner of the hand that made it did not bother to wait for a summons to enter.

  “I think we’ve got a break, Inspector,” he said, walking in.

  “What do you have, Burford?”

  “That card the boys found in the sewer tunnel paid off.”

  “You’ve isolated a phone number?” exclaimed Shepley, rising to his feet.

  “Not only the phone—we’ve traced down the location . . . an exact match on the four letters below the numbers.”

  He handed Shepley the report. The inspector scanned it quickly, then glanced up with wrinkled brow. A look of disbelief spread over his face.

  “I thought you might find the owner of the property interesting,” said Burford.

  “I find it more than interesting . . . and more than coincidental. What’s the connection with Hamilton?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. I just analyze the clues—you figure out what they mean.”

  “Well, I don’t know a
ll of what it means yet,” rejoined Shepley, reaching for his coat and heading for the door. “But I know this much—you’d better pack your bags, Burford. You and I’ve got to catch the next flight to Glasgow.”

  Eight

  Waiters bustled about with drink-laden trays, while people clustered for small talk, spreading in all directions among the hedged pathways and abundantly flowering walkways. Water from two fountains sprayed into the air, then fell back with a pleasant tinkling sound onto ornate ponds where large koi and Japanese carp moved about lazily.

  The sound of tennis balls could be heard from the courts in the distance, rhythmically punctuating the delicate strains of a small four-piece chamber ensemble playing Borodin’s String Quartet No. 2 in D Major. A grand piano and concert harp stood silent to one side, giving hopeful promise of more music later.

  “I’m not very comfortable in situations like this,” said Paddy as they walked onto the expansive lawn. “I never know anyone, and I’m self-conscious about my American tongue. I feel like everyone’s waiting for me to stumble over myself.”

  “You have nothing to worry about,” laughed Andrew. “Your accent is wonderful. Believe it or not, some English actually like Americans. And you’ll probably know more people than you think—the press loves to hang around functions like this.”

  The crowd spreading through the grounds of the eighteenth-century Chelsea estate was well sprinkled with lords and ladies from all segments of the peerage. There was talk, some said, of the King making an appearance.

  “King Charles has quite a green thumb, you know,” Andrew said.

  “Will you introduce me?” asked Paddy excitedly.

  “If he comes, and if we can get close enough, I’ll try,” replied Andrew.

  “I say, Trentham,” said a voice, approaching from one side, “any more news about the Hamilton affair?”

  Andrew turned.

  “Hello, McGrath,” he said, shaking the other’s hand. “No, nothing that I know of.”