“The Nationalists are making it difficult for you, though.”
“No more than they did when Eagon was alive,” replied Andrew. “Everyone has his agenda. I don’t suppose anyone can fault them for pursuing theirs aggressively.—But here, Miss Rawlings, I’d like you to meet Duvall McGrath. Mr. McGrath. . . . Patricia Rawlings.”
The two shook hands and exchanged the normal pleasantries.
“Well . . . welcome to England, Miss Rawlings. I hope you enjoy your stay,” said McGrath, turning to go. “—Trentham,” he added with a nod of departure.
“You see what I mean?” said Paddy when he was gone. “The instant I open my mouth, people make assumptions about me, like his thinking I had just arrived from the States.”
“But he meant no disrespect,” replied Andrew. “And besides, you have to be your own person and not worry about what anyone thinks.”
Even as the words fell from his lips, Andrew paused to reflect how ineptly he had been able to heed his own advice. But he would not brood upon that just now. “How long have you been here, by the way?” he asked.
“A few years.”
“What brought you to England?”
“Uh . . . a series of events, actually,” she answered with a sigh. “It’s a long story.”
Andrew detected a change in her disposition. “I hope not too sad a one,” he said.
“I don’t know the ending yet, so I can’t really say.”
A pause intervened.
“How did you get such a good position in such a short time?” asked Andrew.
“Now it’s you who is interviewing me!”
“The British press is hardly known for letting in newcomers,” laughed Andrew. “Especially a woman. And a foreign one at that.”
A sardonic look passed over Paddy’s face. “Just lucky, I guess,” she said.
Andrew saw the expression but did not press further.
“Let’s go over and listen to the music,” he said. He took her elbow and steered her across the lawn, greeting several men and women as they went.
The next words they heard, however, were directed toward her.
“Say, Rawlings,” came an approaching voice, “how’s that investigation—”
Quickly gathering her wits, Paddy interrupted.
“Why, Bert—I haven’t seen you in ages!” she said. She tried to sound confident but was noticeably flustered. “Here, let me introduce you.”
“Mr. Trentham,” she said, turning toward Andrew. “I’d like you to meet my friend Bert Fenton. Mr. Fenton, this is Andrew Trentham, MP from Cumbria.”
The two men shook hands. Paddy did not give them time to speak.
“Mr. Fenton,” she said to Andrew, “works for the Midland Travel Service. Bert, er, Mr. Fenton, I’m sure you know that Mr. Trentham is the new leader of the Liberal Democratic Party.”
“Of course,” replied Fenton. “Everyone in England knows the name Trentham by now.”
“Mr. Trentham,” said Paddy, turning to Andrew again, “would you mind excusing me for a few minutes? There is something I’ve been needing to discuss with Mr. Fenton.”
“Not at all,” said Andrew.
Paddy made her departure with Fenton in tow. They moved quickly away from the musicians and their listeners. She rejoined Andrew ten minutes later.
The remainder of the afternoon passed without incident.
Nine
Since Andrew Trentham’s election as their new leader, his Liberal Democratic colleagues had given him complete loyalty and support in his new role. Given the unpleasant circumstances, the transition in leadership had been remarkably smooth.
Prime Minister Barraclough kept his majority coalition intact with less difficulty than had been anticipated by the editorialists primed for a dogfight over control of the House of Commons. Andrew and the prime minister spent a good deal of time together, discussing the latter’s program.
Trentham’s support in and of itself was sufficient, as Hamilton’s had been, to insure a comfortable majority for the Barraclough’s Labour government. In spite of the noises it was making regarding greater moves toward independence, the Scottish contingent continued to back Barraclough as well.
In the month since his return from Cumbria, following up on the communiqué sent by Dugald MacKinnon to Larne Reardon, Andrew had had two lengthy meetings with the Scottish Nationalist leader. MacKinnon continued to dismiss allegations of Scottish involvement in the Stone’s theft.
Meanwhile, Scotland Yard reported that it had apprehended two suspects in the death of Eagon Hamilton, though neither had yet been charged. The Yard had been unable thus far to link the crime with any higher motives. The mystery of the affair deepened.
Patricia Rawlings’ nose twitched when she heard of the arrests. She was certain they had been made merely to quiet public speculation—that Scotland Yard’s real interest, and their ongoing investigation, lay elsewhere.
If she could just get some angle on one of the people on her list.
Deputy Leader Larne Reardon continued to interest her most of all. After their brief encounter, he remained at the top of her list of suspects.
Two stories had run in the tabloids, one in the Star, the other in the Sun, claiming that the murder was political in nature and quoting an interview or two—insignificant and unsubstantiated—alleging that the SNP had ordered the assassination in order to remove the chief roadblock to their cause. No one paid much more attention to the charges than to what was normally printed in the two papers along with monthly reports of the capture of the Loch Ness monster.
It could not be denied, however, that people were talking about the articles.
Ten
Though on many evenings he did not arrive home until eight or nine o’clock, throughout the spring Andrew tried to end his day as he had begun it. This involved an hour or so immersed in the depths of one of the volumes he had borrowed from Duncan MacRanald or in one of the books he gradually accumulated of his own.
Through the afternoon he would find himself anticipating the moment he could put the day’s politics behind him, sit down with a cup of tea and a plate of milk-chocolate Hob Nobs, and lose himself in the history of the land whose future was being thrust onto the front pages of the nation’s interest.
Summer came to England, and for Andrew Trentham, something he had anticipated far more than long, warm days of sunshine—the recess of Parliament!
He had been planning a trip north for some time—farther north than Cumbria and his home at Derwenthwaite. He wanted to understand more deeply this land whose magic and mystique was infiltrating him. More and more he was realizing he could not do this merely from reading books about legendary heroes of the past, nor from long walks memorizing the verses of Burns, nor by visiting the Tartan Shoppe or the Scotch House in Knightsbridge to admire woolens and purchase oatcakes and shortbread.
All these had deepened his affection for things Scottish. But to truly understand these things, he realized, he needed to know the land itself. There was only one place that could happen—in Scotland.
One piece of unfinished business he had to deal with before he left, however. That was Blair.
Her call had been gnawing at him. After the devastation from a few months ago, he found himself wondering if he really wanted to resume their relationship. So much had changed since that fateful luncheon.
Yet it could not be denied that the sound of her voice on the phone had struck chords within him. Whether he loved her or not, he had to see her again. He had to work it through one way or another.
He would try to see her before he left for the north.
Eleven
The week of Parliament’s recess, Paddy sat down at her desk after lunch. She checked her voice mail. She had one message waiting.
It was brief: Call Bert.
Without putting down the receiver, she immediately returned the call.
“Bert . . . it’s Paddy.”
“As I told you at the flowe
r show, I’ve been doing some more computer sleuthing on those names you gave me,” said Fenton, “and I finally have something that might interest you. That fellow Reardon, the MP—he’s booked on a flight out of Gatwick. I don’t suppose there’s anything so strange about it, but I noticed the destination and . . . well, let’s just say I thought you might be interested.”
“I’m listening—where’s he flying off to?”
“Dublin.”
Paddy whistled under her breath.
Without thinking what might be the implications, she asked, “Can you get me on the same flight?”
“For the day after tomorrow? Kind of late notice.”
“I’ve got to get on that flight,” persisted Paddy.
“Let me see . . . hmm—” muttered Fenton, punching in a few words on his computer. “Looks like it’s full. How about the next flight to Dublin . . . there’s another one ninety minutes later, from Heathrow.”
“That won’t do me any good. I’d have lost track of him before I even get there. Bert, it’s got to be the same flight he’s on.”
“I’ll see what I can do—call you back in five minutes.”
Paddy waited anxiously. Four minutes later her extension rang. She grabbed the phone.
“You’re first standby,” said Bert’s voice. “Best I could do. Be at the gate and ready. I got you the advance ticket price.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Don’t ask. But you owe me one.”
“Right,” replied Paddy. Her meager supply of favors was shrinking fast! “Thanks, Bert. Can you arrange for a car for me?”
“No problem. What’s going on anyway, Paddy?”
“Can’t say. I’ll tell you when it’s over . . . if anything comes of it.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. I’ve heard strange things about Reardon.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, just spiritualistic mumbo-jumbo—more wacky than dangerous. Still, I avoid those types.” He paused.
“You know,” added Fenton after a moment, “there is one thing a little strange about the whole deal. Reardon’s also making arrangements to transport a large box.”
Paddy’s ears perked up. “What kind of box?” she asked.
“I don’t know—just a box, a wooden crate . . . like a tiny coffin. But the information on it—at least what’s in the airport’s computer—says Nonscannable, security cleared.”
“What does that mean?”
“That it’s not to be scanned.”
“What’s in it?”
“Doesn’t say. It’s already been cleared through Irish customs on this end. I have the feeling it got through security with high-level help of some kind.”
“Why do you say it’s strange? People ship things all the time.”
“Because its weight is listed at three hundred seventy-five pounds.”
Paddy’s mind sprang alive with possibilities.
“One more thing,” she said. “How good are you with computers, Bert?”
“Pretty good.”
“Can you get me a couple of phone numbers?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Unlisted?”
“Takes a little longer, but no problem.”
Paddy gave him the name.
Now Bert whistled. “High circles, Paddy! I can get them. But I’ll say what I did before . . . I hope you know what you’re doing.”
As Paddy hung up the phone, Bert’s sobering tone made her think perhaps she ought to take one more precaution against Reardon recognizing her.
Twelve
The day following his decision, Andrew picked up his telephone and rang the number Blair had given him.
A man’s voice answered.
Momentarily taken aback, he hesitated.
“I . . . uh, was calling for Blair,” said Andrew.
“Blair?” the man repeated, as if he didn’t know the name.
“I must have rung the wrong—”
Suddenly Blair’s voice interrupted on the line.
“Hello.”
“Blair? . . . Blair, hello! It’s Andrew.”
“Andrew—I wondered if it might be you.”
“I thought I had the wrong number. I didn’t expect anyone else—”
“Just a friend who dropped by.”
“In any event . . . I’ve been thinking about your call,” said Andrew. “I said I’d return it, and . . . here I am. Parliament’s out of session, and . . . I guess I’m ready to get together.”
“Oh, Andrew,” she replied. “You couldn’t have caught me at a worse time. I’m afraid I’m leaving in a few hours. I’m nearly just walking out the door.”
“Where are you going?” asked Andrew.
“Away . . . uh, on business.”
“Out of the country?”
“Not exactly. But I would like to see you, Andrew. We have so much to catch up on. May I call you when I get back?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course,” replied Andrew. “I’m taking some time off this summer. You can reach me in Cumbria—you have the number.”
“I’m so glad you called. I’ll get back to you—I promise.”
The following day Andrew returned to Derwenthwaite.
His plan was to set out for Scotland in a day or two.
Thirteen
At last Paddy settled into her seat on the Aer Lingus plane bound for Dublin.
She had arrived early and kept out of sight. Not that the man she was following would remember her face, but she wanted to take no chances. From a vantage point across the gate area, she had watched her quarry arrive, then board. Fortunately he was on the plane before they began calling the standby names. She had cut her hair, and in its new style she could not help feeling that she stood out like a sore thumb. But no one else seemed to notice.
As Bert had promised, she was first to be called from the standby list. She checked her one bag, then boarded, taking her seat near the rear of the cabin. She did not see Reardon. She was in a middle seat, so would not be overly visible if he chanced to look around or walk along the aisle.
Paddy fastened her seat belt and took out a magazine.
Well, she thought, here goes nothing!
Fourteen
The afternoon prior to his scheduled departure for Scotland, Andrew rode out to Duncan MacRanald’s cottage. As the two men talked, gradually Andrew found himself opening his heart and mind to the old shepherd about personal dilemmas he had been wrestling with recently.
“I don’t know, Duncan,” he said, “sometimes I wonder what my mother thinks. She can be so silent. Here I am at the center of what I thought she always wanted for me. Yet from her expressions sometimes, I can’t help but think I still don’t measure up in her eyes to what Lindsay would have been.”
“Yer mither’s a good woman,” replied Duncan, “but a wee bit confused. She has always been a mite hard on ye—an’ yer dear sister.”
“Hard on Lindsay!” exclaimed Andrew.
“Ay—worse’n wi’ yersel.’ The lass couldna please the puir woman whate’er she did. Nae doobt ye were too young at the time t’ see it.”
Andrew sat stunned—not only by what Duncan had said about Lindsay and his mother, but also by the fact that the old man was aware of such things.
“If only I could free myself from the weight of her expectation,” he said after a moment, “and the constant undercurrent of her disapproval.”
“’Tis a burden I’ve seen ye were carryin’—an’ ye bear it well, lad, though the day’ll come when the Lord’ll free ye frae it. We can only pray that yer mither’ll let loose o’ her ain weight in time fer it t’ du her some good in this life. It’ll be lifted from her in the next. But t’ find peace here an’ noo, she’s got t’ let loose o’ it hersel.’
“In truth,” he added, “’tis a severer burden on her shoulders than yer own. Ye’re comin’ t’ feel a peace wi’ who ye be—though ye’re also tryin’ t’ be more a man than ye are noo, which is wh
at matters more. But she’s a woman not at peace wi’ hersel,’ so hoo can she be at peace wi’ those around her? I ache fer her—’tis a sad plight fer a body.”
Andrew had been silent, pondering his words. “But you say God will free me from the weight,” asked Andrew. “And my mother too. What do you mean? How will he do that?”
“I already see it happenin’ in ye,” replied Duncan. “’Tis plain that the good Lord’s at work already. As fer yer mother . . . who’s t’ say but it won’t happen as weel. For her, ’twill simply be a matter o’ laying doon the false expectations she’s been carryin,’ which she’s put on ye and yer dear sister.
“In yer case, though, I dinna think ’tis so much a matter o’ lettin’ go as it is trusting God t’ git inside ye in a deeper way and make himself t’ be yer strength. Don’t git me wrong, lad—I got no doubt ye believe. But belief isna the same as givin’ yer whole heart t’ the Lord t’ make o’ ye what he will. When that day comes, an’ it comes t’ all, ye’ll no more need t’ worry aboot what anyone thinks o’ ye. Ye’ll jist be happy an’ content t’ du God’s will. Ye’ll be a man in the eyes o’ him that made ye then, an’ that’ll be all that matters.”
Andrew took in Duncan’s words thoughtfully. It was silent a minute or two.
“I don’t know, Duncan,” he said at length, “you would think that a man of thirty-seven, especially one in my position, relatively successful in the eyes of the world—wouldn’t you think that by now I should be out from under the shadow of my mother and be secure in who I am. But even now my mum’s at home stewing about this trip to Scotland I’m planning, thinking I ought to be doing social and political functions rather than taking, as she views it, a personal holiday. Why can’t I just laugh it off? But it’s just not so easy.”
“Ah, laddie,” replied Duncan, “none o’ us in this life is ever altogether free o’ the expectations oor mamas and papas put on us—not kings nor queens nor prime ministers, or shepherds like me. Look at puir King Charlie and all the princes afore him—and Victoria’s son the King, God bless him, who ne’er was much his own man. Nay, all of us live wi’ oor parents’ silent expressions inside us. ’Tis what makes us who we be, but sometimes it makes us doobt who we be at the same time.”
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 45